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It was a nice day. All the days had been nice, in fact there had rather been just seven of them. Not that Crowley would know, he spent four of them thinking he was driving away from Soho. He had, of course, made a wrong turn at one point (Several in fact) and had promptly reached a bar in Soho he and Aziraphale frequented. This was, of course, the Bentley’s doing. Because although Crowley’s hands were undoubtedly on the steering wheel, his mind was set on thinking hard about absolutely nothing. A task which if failed, would turn to fester on soft lips and softer hands. The brush of them gentle and feather-light against the sharp outline of shoulders.
Sighing heavily, he had turned and drove to the rival bar and begun steadily drinking himself away. He had not eloped to the competitor, because he feared the familiar bar keep would give him a look and ask if he had had got himself into a tiff with his partner. Definitely not. Crowley despised how people tended to think he was the problem. Sure, he sauntered like the femme fatale in a James Bond movie. And maybe, he gave off a general air of malice, but he was a demon! It was to be expected. Besides out of the two of them, it had always been Aziraphale who got himself into a spot of trouble. Crowley was the one saving him. Well, no more! Aziraphale can save his own arse now.
And it was especially not, the indignant part of Crowley muttered a little later, because the aforementioned bar was the exact bar he had wandered into on the apocalypse that wasn’t. When his world had seemed to end-in cinders and ashes. That would have fed his conniving feelings with a semblance of hope. And Crowley didn't need hope. In fact, Crowley didn’t need Aziraphale either or anything really. And wasn't that a sad thought.
It was on this day- that Crowley had lost sight of himself enough that the barkeep had begun to realise that it was abit odd this poor sap had not moved from his seat since Wednesday and it was on this day that Crowley was dumped quite unceremoniously on his arse in the alleyway.
His mind weighed heavily against his temple. With how insistence he had been in repressing all memories of how a living corporation should endeavour to work, he was barely away from having two feet in the grave and that was saying alot, considering he was a demon. And yet, when he saw soft yellow hues on the crisp, usually black bentley, something in him just broke.
“He’s gone! Don't you understand! He left us! He doesn't care about you or me or the bookshop or anything!”
Bentley, like all inanimate objects with some sentience, said nothing back.
Crowley will deny it with a vehemence and tonality befitting an honest man, as is expected of the original tempter. He also might with great hesitance allude to the fact that he was extremely drunk at that point and really not in total control of the happenings of his body but the truth of it was that what happened next was a good cry. A terribly loud and broken thing. It was a pretty pathetic sight in all honesty. Merely good in the sense that it was much needed and too long withheld.
Martha Stewart hated- the way only someone at the ripe old age of 70 could hate something, her job. It ended at 1am in the morning and began at 3.30pm the next day. It was at a cheesecake factory. Once, if you had asked her at the age of five years if she would love to work at a cheesecake factory, the answer would have been a very confused but enthused yes. 35 years and a bitter marriage (Though it should be said, that the strong derision of her job had little to do with her marital status and much to do with the obscene hours and few vacation days. The poor marriage on the other hand might have had much to do with the job, though that’s of little importance in regards to current affairs), had transformed it into a very sour no. As such, she was not in a terribly good mood, when no sooner had her petite weathered head touched soft downy feathers, she was awoken by shouting and whining at the very late hour of 3 in the morning. The shouting match that ensued had woken the whole of Mayfair and the outskirts of whom which had not been privy to the shrill shouts of Mrs Stewart were instead graced by a chilling fear that travelled up from the base of their spine all the way to the top. A primal instinctual fear that left them quivering even when they had woken up, wisps of a nightmare they could not remember but cannot forget.
It was an evening no one would have written about. Navy blue skies covered by grey gloomy clouds stretching across the expanse of the sky. The streets eerily quiet and empty. The kind of night that sent even the locals shivering- that was the first night it happened. The people surrounding the area could not sleep that night, though they did not know why. All they could feel was grief. A grief so deep- it settled heavily within their very bones, carving an ache in them that they could not fill. Passerbys with a stronger presense of mind would have lamented tales of the tall stranger with hair red as blood, pale as slain lamb, eyes sallow and beguilingly yellow. A haunted look on a bony face. The devil. But most passerbys did not have such a strong presence of mind. And so, most passerbys were merely filled with dread unexplainable.
Bentley learnt never to do that again. And so, began his attempts at getting Crowley to face the bookshop.
Currently, Crowley was cradling the wine bottle as if it were a babe. Long lithe fingers tightly wrapped around the vintage bottle of wine, holding on to it as if it were a lifeline, as if he were Theseus in the maze, firmly gripping the thread leading him back to home. His long legs clad in their usual tight trousers pressed flush against his chest. It shouldn't have been possible the way he fit in the car's front seat, all curled up the way he was now. Yet, there he laid, defying both logic and biology( To their dismay and exasperation. It was really quite rude of him to ignore them-honestly! Demon or not.).
The distant sound of clinking bottles crescendoed to a sharp clang! As his car suddenly stopped and Crowley was rudely jerked to full consciousness.
Crowley groaned aloud at the sudden disturbance, already mourning the fact he was awake. Crowley curled deeper unto himself (if that was even possible) and tried once again to sleep.
This time, he was interrupted by a honk! Crowley groaned louder, refusing to shift. He knew where he was. Where the Bentley had brought him. Where the Bentley had been bringing him for the past few weeks.
He peeked out the car window. Curiosity has always been his greatest vice. And was greeted by the sight of the bookshop. Not that he was surprised, not only had the Bentley been bringing him here since ngk a while but he could feel it. The very building blocks of this place. This bookshop. This house. His home. Or the closest semblance of one.
Warm light streamed out of the place, a beacon amongst the throngs of noise and haze. It settled in people's soul, only the way an Angel's presense could- the kindness, the warmth. A deeper part of him, he’d rather like to strangle, wonders if he could ever forget.
Trying not to mull over all this, Crowley wriggled deeper into the soft cushion seat, hoping against hope that he would be absorbed into the car seat. The Bentley, however, seemed especially put out by whatever Crowley was trying to do. Classical music blared out of the car speaker.
He knew what the Bentley intended. It annoyed him how Bentley was treating him. Coddling him as if he were a child. He was a demon for someone's sake! He didn't need this. Bentley seemed to disagree.
“Shut up!” Crowley sneered, “SHUT UP!” He asked properly this time.
Yet the car remained unbothered, the throes of classical music seeming to grow louder in defiance.
“Fine! Be like that then'' He growled. Without thinking, he got out of the car and slammed the car door in response.
Crowley scoffed as the Bentley drove away. His gaze turned affixed to the bookshop. He tried not to let the sting of the memories affect him. Resolving instead to push them away. Absent-mindedly, he brought the bottle he was still cradling to his lips, only to find it empty.
He swallowed down a heavy sigh that threatened to escape his lips. Nothing seems to be going his way recently. His potted plants have begun to show signs of leaf rot. His best friend chose literal heaven over him. And his car… his car had decided to leave him.
He turned towards the coffee shop where he knew Nina would be. Maybe some coffee would do him some good. Someone knows, he was too abbreviated to miracle himself another bottle of wine.
He turned towards the bookshop. Or he could just enter. After all he did know where Aziraphale kept all the good stuff and it wasn’t like he would miss it. Nothing lasts forever. Yea, that vintage bottle of Château de Beaucastel isn't gonna last for long if Crowley has any say in it.
So with all the gusto and confidence that a demon who has nothing to lose can muster, Crowley sauntered once more, as he always did into the bookshop
The bell above Aziraphale’s front door trinkled cheerfully as Crowley entered the threshold of Aziraphale’s shop. He eyed the rows of books lining the shop, stacked haphazardly on top of each other. Funny how everything had changed and yet, here it was the bookshop. Still the same as it was yesterday. Still the same as it had been all those years ago. When Aziraphale had first bought the shop and invited Crowley into his bookshop. When he had confessed. His eyes glossed briefly over the entirety of the bookshop and when his eyes glazed over and lingered at a particular spot,then that was his business and his alone.
The bookshop lay in uncomfortable duress for it has never in its entirety been left by its proprietor. Yet as it sat there unattended, it feared it had no other fate. Just as his love for the Bentley granted it sentience, so had Aziraphale for his bookshop. Though it was barely noticeable and can only be identified through how unnaturally hot it can get when a customer lingers for too long or how dust seemed to gather at spots where customers for one reason or another tended to linger. But it's always been there and Crowley could feel it now more than ever. The presence of the bookshop, sense its unease and fear.
“Yea I know. He left me too” He patted the wooden railing in drunken resoluteness. Companionship for the ones left behind, given for whose benefit, he did not know.
Footsteps sounded out from the back of the bookshop dragging Crowley out of his momentary stupor. If Crowley had a heart, which he didn't, it would have burst out by now. Could it be?
“Sorry, we’re closed!” A voice sounded out and his corporation's heart dropped. Hope dashed as quickly as waves against a shoreline. Just for a moment. Just for a moment, he had denied himself the reality that he would recognise Aziraphale' footfalls anywhere. The thumping of feet, unexpectedly light but present all the same. As steady and sure as a soldier. These ones were much too heavy, too rambunctious to belong to him. This one spoke of youth, an eagerness to learn and curiosity. Muriel appeared from around the corner, their arms wrapped around a book, he vaguely remembered tossing to her. His heart fell. What did you expect? He chided. Did you really think he was gonna walk through those doors?
He paused, realising that underneath the notes of distress the bookshop had for the loss of its proprietary owner, the very aura of the bookshop had begun to change. There had always been a strong undercurrent of kindness, warmth, and joy that he was surprised there weren't rainbows shining out of the place. That said, the bookshop also normally generated just enough malice to scare away potential customers. Now, the malice seemed to have dissipated. As if it never really existed. Did it ever exist if its only evidence of existing relied on fallible memory? Crowley mused to himself.
Crowley focused once again on the Angel. Muriel seemed on edge. While once, there might have been fumbling fingers worrying over themselves, now there were thin fingers tensing around the book they held. “Erm…”
Crowley waved them off, as he thought about how wary Aziraphale had been when they first met “‘M’fine. Just here to grab some stuff”
“Oh,” Muriel nodded to themselves. “Of course, take anything you like!”
Crowley raised an eyebrow at them, the tips of his lips quirked upwards. It was a small genuine one, it was one he would have tamped down if he was more of his usual self. But he decided not to comment. If that was what Muriel had been saying, his angel definitely wasn’t gonna be happy. His angel? No, Aziraphale.
Not like it would matter anyway. It wasn’t likely he would come back soon. Bigger things were happening in Heaven, for him to be bothered by something as trivial as books. Crowley thought to himself bitterly.
“You don’t look so well…Anthony” And the manner in which she said his name was so soft, it irked him. He isn’t called by his name often. The humans don’t know it. The demons certainly didn't and even if they did, pretended they didn't. So honestly, it had most often been used by Aziraphale. And always, always, it was said with the same cadence. To hear it come out of another's mouth, made it tainted somehow and it felt alittle as if Crowley has once again lost another part of himself. He found himself echoing in his mind, though he wished he wouldn't, the gentleness of Aziraphale's voice, just the tinge of longing and barely withheld joy.
If he weren't so addled right now, he would have picked it up right away but it took him awhile before he realised. “ How did you know that name?”
“Oh, I read Azirphale’s diary.”
“You read Aziraphale’s diary?”
“Well at first I didn't know it was a diary. I had just thought it was a really sad book.” Muriel replied defensively, in the tone of an Angel who felt they had done wrong.
Crowley chose not to question how Muriel found the diary in the first place. He also tried his hardest not to care but he could not help the words already forming at the tip of his tongue.
“Where's the diary?” Crowley asked with a bit of a bite. He had always been too curious for his own good.
That's how he found himself, three days later, sprawled across the chair that Aziraphale had used to sit on. He told himself it was to spite Aziraphale, to taint Aziraphale's favourite chair with his demonic presence. But as he sat there, on the plush blue cushion, Crowley knew the only reason he was sprawled on that hard wooden chair was because it reminded him dearly of Aziraphale, even the cushion smelled faintly of his cologne. That and the thought of looking at Aziraphale’s empty seat saddened him.
Crowley read and reread the words, Aziraphale’s words- of endearment, of joy. It should have comforted him, the delight that was evident in Aziraphale’s writing, the joy expressed in the many encounters with Crowley. Yet, all it did was make him feel bitter. What made him feel worse was the fact that despite the clear indication that the feeling was mutual between them, Aziraphale had left. He had left and now, all Crowley had were words.
“You know, he wrote about you alot.”
Crowley would laugh, if he wasn’t worried that he might cry.
"Yes, M’aware. I can read u’know." Sarcasm dripped off every word as he raised the book in a half wave.
"Which is kinda surprising because he's an Angel" Muriel continued, unbothered by Crowley's comment. He did not think Murial understood what sarcasm was. He sighed internally, this would have been the part where Aziraphale said something unintentionally funny back.
"You know you should write down what you're thinking.” Muriel continued undeterred. "It might help! With the amount of brooding you're doing, you sound like you really need it."
Crowley gawked at her comment. “Brooding! I’m a demon! I don’t brood! I don’t. Brood.”
“Oh” Muriel looked downwards, seeming to think about it. “But-”
"And besides, why would I want to do that?" Crowley cut in because he didn’t feel like arguing a moot point with yet another Angel.
"Because it's therapeutic, silly!" Muriel smiled that bright smile that made people feel reassured that life moves on, no matter what one thinks. As he was a demon, however, he felt absolutely nothing. He raised the glass of wine to his lips, pretending that he hadn’t heard what she said but the words ate at him as he drank and drank.
It was a quarter after one when Crowley, drunk as a bat high on nitrous oxide, picked up a pen and having no idea what to write on, wrote in Aziraphales’ diary. The act of writing in the same book Aziraphale used to, with the pen he knew Aziraphale loved to use, somehow made him feel closer to Aziraphale. If he couldn't be with Aziraphale physically, he would take what little he could.
Dear Aziraphale,
I really hope you're happy up there in your shiny fucking castle. I really do, because when I find you…
He paused, he didn't quite know where he was going with that. Any threats made would have been baseless. It wasn’t like he actually wanted to hurt Aziraphale whatever he did. And Aziraphale would know that. He decided he didn't care much as long as he was giving Aziraphale a piece of his mind. So he soldiered on.
Wearing your fancy tartan bow with that fancy little waistcoat.
Again he did not know where he was going. He threw the feather away. Seeing it drift slowly through the air did not have quite the same effect he had expected nor aimed for, however, and he scowled at the feather, willing it to be thrown across the table. He scoffed and went to find himself another bottle of wine.
He opened the wine cabinet carelessly. His heart strings unexpectedly tugged as he eyed the bottle of chateauneuf du pape that they had drunk the day he suggested they take care of the boy. The antichrist. And goodness-evilness-whateverness, that felt like lifetimes ago, though only four years had passed in actuality.
As his hands twirled around the neck of the bottle, he idly wondered if the wine would taste the same way it did then? Would its earthy notes be tinged with the sharp taste of vanilla and tea- forever changed by the touch an Angel? Had a piece of him been sequestered away? A piece of them?
He pushed the thought away and grabbed a different bottle. He clearly was not drunk enough if he was still able to come up with thoughts like those.
It wasn't, a few days before he found the will to write again.
Dear Aziraphale,
I wish I could say I understand why you did what you did. But I don’t, you nasty bugger. You took everything we had and took a massive dump on it. I hope you rot in Heaven! You can shove your forgiveness right up a welsh arse, you
Crowley put down his pen, feeling his ongoing direction will only lead to a tirade of curse words, barely forming coherent sentences. He found, he didn't care much and that Aziraphale quite deserved those words so he wrote them down anyway. Promptly after though, he saw fit to destroy them, Aziraphale had not actually deserved those words. So he placed aside the diary and decided to wallow in some well-deserved self pity. Promptly after that though, he decided feelings sucked and decided to drink away the deep ache instead.
It was on a particularly drunken night that Crowley found himself behind Aziraphales desk again, his hand clasped around a pen. When and how did he get here? He did not know. Neither, did he really care. The pen already dipped in ink, the words Dear Aziraphale already written.
I wish I could say I understand why you did what you did. And the truth is…
Crowley paused, the words were at the tip of his tongue, at the inch of his fingers, but the lump in his throat made it yet impossible to write down his thoughts. To write it would make it real. To think it would have been sacrilege.
He placed the pen down. It was all he could do. His hands itched. He reached towards another bottle of wine.
The thought implanted would not take leave and so Crowley gave in. Tears leaked out from the corner of his eyes and he could not find it in himself to hold them back. He had neither the will nor strength. So instead he cried.
A slight woosh and he could feel it. He was hit first, by the smell. You would think that if you spent months in a place as clean and sterile a place as Heaven, that the earthly smells would fade. But in actuality, the smell of dusty old parchment paper, the sweet hint of vanilla cream, a blend unique to Aziraphale, was so intricately representative of Aziraphale’s essence that it had been imbued into it. It was fainter now but still, there. Then he felt it. The complete, unadulterated love. For what, he did not know, but he could very well guess.
"Hello my dear boy." The familiar endearment caused him to freeze up. A part of him did not know whether to fight or flee. He still could, he reasoned. A quick pop and he could disappear. But Crowley could never run away from Aziraphale, turning away from the opportunity just to be near.
He turned or at least he thought he did. But he must have, because one second, he was facing the desk and the next he was facing Aziraphale.
In all honesty, he should have expected it-should’ve been prepared for it. But when he was greeted by violet hues on a face as familiar as his own, A face he could’ve- has in fact drawn with his eyes closed, he shuddered.
He pictured it a number of times- what he would say. In fact he pictured it going any number of ways. Most of them shouting uncouth words. Yet when he opened his mouth, all that came out was.
“I know why you did what you did. I do. I understand. So you can leave. But I won’t forgive you.”
Tears welled up, once again. And a part of Crowley was unnerved by the amount of tears he was able to shed. He pushed the urge to cry as hard as he could, away. Away from him, away from his heart and far far away from Aziraphales’ prying eyes.
But when Aziraphale didn't leave, he couldn't help but continue, “You can’t ask me too. I just…I had hoped that after these four years, that it would have changed.”
For me to be worth it. For you to have chosen me. For you to have. To have… Funny how even in the safety of his own mind, such a thought was hard to fathom. Such a thought, difficult to utter. To even think it, would have given it weight. Would have given it far more value than his bleeding heart could ever afford. But as he looked at Aziraphale’s own tear-stained cheeks, the semblance of tears forming at the corners of his eyes. The thought formed on its own and echoed in his mind. To have loved me enough. The weight of the truth, his heaviest burden. At first, he had told himself to push aside these naive feelings for Aziraphale. Afterall, feeling such things would only endanger him. From the nine circles of hell, from the saintly gates of heaven, from demons, devils, angels and God. But in recent times, it has mostly been from Aziraphale. Because he knew, deep down, in the dark recesses of the thing that barely qualifies as a heart, that at the end of the day, Aziraphale would have chosen the world over him. And that would have broken him.
How ironic, that it had been the very first thing he toasted when the supposed last day had not come to pass. How ironic that it was the first thing toasted when that day also indicated something else for the both of them- a chance. A chance at their own side.
It was as if he had heard the unspoken words because Aziraphale started, “My dear boy” His voice was small, a feat shocking in the quiet room, shocking for what he said next. “I do love you.”
Crowley turned away. “I forgive you” He bit out the words, intending to mock Aziraphale. But his tone was too soft, too earnest, so much so that it only came out small and sad.
Aziraphale took a shaky breath and somehow that was too much. Crowley turned away.
But Aziraphale, having found the courage, refused to be deterred.
“I do. I love you more than the world,”Aziraphale paused, his whole body quivering. Crowley hated it so, a large part of him itched to run, to move, to do something to stop him from shaking so. Memories of a different time of blood running through his fingers, the bitter smell of iron in the air. But that had passed, both alive but changed. This too will pass and this, too, will change them. ”But, I couldn’t. I can’t” He corrected, "I still can't."
And that perfectly summed it up, didn't it. At the end of the day, Aziraphale cant. Couldn't. Wouldn't allow himself. No matter how much he adored Crowley. No matter how much he wanted to be selfish. To allow himself this small respite. An Angel, to the end. Always others before himself.
A small part of Crowley hated himself. For he knew even then when he made Aziraphale choose between him or the world. What the decision would be. He knew. Aziraphale had told him. First, when Aziraphale rejected him at the bandstand and again, when he had chosen Gabriel. And yet, out of some semblance of self preservation or self-destruction (he wasn't entirely sure), he had made that choice anyway. To make Aziraphale choose. Him or the world. He had to hear it. He needed to. He always knew he was a masochist.
He knew it all and yet he hoped. Because, at the end of the day, Crowley was also an optimist. He hoped and he waited. And now, he would pay the price. The wound reopened, scabbed over, picked and prodded over and over again until it began to bleed afresh. That was what this whole thing was. What it felt like. Love. He hated it. Despised it. If Cupid had been real, he would have stabbed him, held his head underwater till the bubbles stopped forming. But most of all, he would have begged. Begged him to take these feelings away. To choose anyone. Anyone but him.
But he wasn't and Crowley only had himself to blame for going around, loving someone he shouldn't have.
"Go away, Aziraphale. I don’t want to hear it.”Crowley's voice cracked and whatever resolve he had when Aziraphale first left broke. Because back then, there had been hope. Hope that Aziraphale would turn around, would change his mind. Whatever hope he had died the moment Aziraphale had gone into the elevator without a second glance. The distance between the bookshop and the elevator akin to a chasm. Aziraphale didn't care and even if he did, It wasn't enough. Crowley was never enough. Not for Her, and not for Aziraphale. So whatever, Aziraphale came down here for, he didn't care. He wouldn't. Not anymore. And so he uttered one more time when Azirphale didn't seem to have left.
"Please." And the hollowness of just that one word, seemed to carve him out and leave him empty.
Aziraphale hesitated. He had never heard Crowley sound that way. In all his 6000 years of knowing him, never. He decided very quickly that he hated hearing Crowley this way. And he especially hated how he had been the one to make Crowley sound that way. So although he had come back to Earth, had risked his life and pride, to ask Crowley to choose them, the side of good, just one last time.
He did not. Yes, he had been greedy. Of all his sins, that was perhaps his greatest. But he would not allow himself to needle Crowley anymore. And so instead he steeled himself. Because despite everything, he was also a warrior, a principality, the Angel of the Eastern Gate. And She would be damned, if a warrior did not have resolve. The next phase of the plan he would have to carry out alone.
He allowed himself, however, one last glance. Indigo eyes mapped over a sharp outline and blazing red hair. A small eternity memorising what he already knew. A small eternity that could never be enough, that could never quench the thirst. Before he turned around and without another word, left.
And Crowley, after two long months, was left, once again, alone. Too angry to question why Aziraphale had chosen to come at all.