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Crowley stands before dusty windows, his eyes following the people walking the sidewalks without really registering anything about them. The air in the bookshop is warm and heavy, lonely in its stagnation, and Muriel is nowhere to be found.
She had left days ago, informing Crowley only in passing of her reports to be given to heaven.
Not that Crowley had listened-
Not that Crowley had done much of anything as of late, as of awhile, as of enough that the women across the street keep stopping by to worry over him, as of-
The air around him is suddenly cold, and there would be a faint shimmer to it, Crowley knows, if he were to look out of the corner of his eyes-
But he does not, and he does not acknowledge the change, and he does not move-
Even when he feels the ghost of familiar fingertips trail over his shoulders-
Even when he wants to whirl around and grab-
He does not.
He is still, and he watches a bird drop down to pick at some crumbs along the street.
He is no better than that bird.
He is no better than the two women hoping pitifully, uselessly, next door.
He is no better than the witch and Pulsifer, or the crazed man and his landlady.
He is no better than a human in his pathetic wanting, and so he does not ruin the moment with the pleas, the begging, or the wrath that eats at his tongue. He pretends he does not notice the shift, the presence, that carefully circles him-
Just as he has done numerous times before-
Just as he had done since their last meeting with the Metatron-
And his company will be none the wiser, will believe in their poorly crafted attempt at stealth, and will maybe visit him again next week-
But Aziraphale will only find Crowley in the same wilted state as the week before.
How long has it been now?
How many heavenly calls has Crowley declined?
How many letters lay unopened in the spare room Muriel had forced him into, how many letters littered the floor?
Crowley was growing tired of Soho, and waiting, and he knows that soon his time in this city will come to an end.
He had debated once again becoming the serpent of Eden, slithering now through wooded grass and dirt instead of the holy alternative-
Wonders if Aziraphale would be able to find him then, wonders if the angel would still hide if he couldn’t.
He wonders how long it would take for Aziraphale to stop looking when it got hard to find him.
Wonders how long he himself would be able to stand that, wonders if he could really leave the last place they were truly an us-
The bookshop still hasn’t sold any books-
No thanks to its real owner-
And Crowley had dusted the collection even as his own plants wilted just miles away.
There was hardly anything he did outside of the shop now.
All of this Aziraphale knows, sees, and does nothing more than mail about. Crowley was no longer worth a face to face, and that thought alone has the demon pushing his glasses back up higher on his nose, and walking away from the figure he knows was beside him.
Has him leaving Aziraphale in the lobby they had last kissed in and stalking up the stairs to the room he’d borrowed.
The room he was once again thinking about leaving.
He almost thinks he hears a sigh when he closes the door, almost hopes Aziraphale will knock-
But the angel will never admit to his watching, and Crowley will never call him on it.
It is all they have left, and the envelopes scatter around his feet when he walks over them.
Sleep is fitful, unpleasant, but it is a welcome distraction.
He thinks he will leave in the morning, travel the world again, slither through desert sands, and humid jungles-
Hide himself away from the only angel he had ever made the choice of pursuing, the only angel to be just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.
The only angel just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.