Chapter Text
The Bentley completed the block for the third time.
Crowley barely noticed.
London moved around him in soft blurs of headlights and rain-slick pavement, strangers crossing streets, buses sighing at stops. The city continued with the terrible indifference of something that had survived plagues, wars, floods, kings.
The bookshop windows disappeared behind him again. He kept driving.
Not fast.
That was the strange part.
Usually, when things became unbearable, Crowley drove like he wanted God Himself to flinch. Ninety miles per hour through central London. Music loud enough to split the atmosphere apart. Movement as distraction. Velocity as prayer.
Now the Bentley crawled through Soho with careful, almost human restraint.
Left turn. Traffic light. Pedestrian crossing.
His hands stayed fixed at ten and two.
Aziraphale had kissed him.
Crowley still could not fit the fact inside his head properly. It moved around in there like broken glass, impossible to hold directly.
Not revulsion.
Not fear.
Not even hesitation, really. Just—
Aziraphale had returned the kiss.
And still, he had said those damned words.
“I forgive you.”
That was when Crowley knew it was inevitable.
Not the kiss. Not Heaven. Not even the separation.
The tragedy of them.
“Don’t bother,” he answered bitterly, leaving the room before he could somehow make things even worse.
The Bentley completed the block for the third time before Crowley realized where he was.
He barked out something meant to be a laugh. It sounded more like a wounded thing. Ugly in the silence of the car.
The moment replayed in his head over and over and over.
That kiss. The trembling hands on his coat.
The way Aziraphale had looked at him for one impossible, miraculous second like he wanted—
No.
Crowley tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“I forgive you.”
The words curdled inside him.
He stopped at a red light and suddenly realized he was still breathing.
The light changed.
He drove another block.
And another.
And another.
As if eventually the universe might reset itself if he circled the bookshop enough times.
As if the angel might still be there when he came back around.
The first morning felt almost embarrassingly normal.
The sun rose over Soho. People opened their shops. Delivery trucks blocked the street exactly where they shouldn’t. Someone yelled at a cyclist. London continued existing with offensive persistence.
And the bookshop remained closed.
Crowley stood across the street for nearly an hour before the sign finally flipped.
Not Aziraphale's hand.
Muriel beamed at the empty sidewalk with the unearned joy of someone who still believed the universe was fundamentally kind.
They fussed with the door sign for a moment before disappearing back inside, clearly delighted by the simple act of opening a shop.
Crowley stared too long.
Then he crossed the street toward Nina’s café before he could do something humiliating. Like walk into the bookshop. Like ask questions he knew won't be answered.
Nina took one look at him and winced.
“Oh, you look awful.”
“hmm”
“HMMM.” She wiped down the counter. “6 shots of espresso?”
“And whiskey.”
“It’s nine in the morning.”
Crowley slid his sunglasses slightly down his nose just enough to look at her properly.
“And yet.”
Nina stared at him another second.
Then, with the exhausted resignation of someone who had already survived one apocalypse and refused to survive another before noon, she turned toward the espresso machine.
By the fourth sip Crowley could almost stop thinking.
Outside the café window, Muriel appeared briefly in the bookshop doorway holding what looked like a feather duster with enormous importance.
Crowley looked away first.
The bottle of whiskey was placed with a thud on the table. “It went that badly?” Nina asked carefully.
Crowley laughed.
Wrong choice.
The sound tore out of him sharp and ugly enough that the couple near the window glanced over nervously.
Nina’s expression softened immediately.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
Crowley threw back the whiskey.
“Yeah.”
The pub opened at eleven.
Crowley was there at eleven-oh-three.
By one in the afternoon, he had established himself in the darkest corner booth with three empty glasses and the determined posture of someone attempting chemical warfare against memory itself.
It did not work.
Nothing worked.
Not the whiskey. Not the scotch. Not the bourbon someone bought him because apparently heartbreak made him look approachable.
Every thought still curved back toward the bookshop.
Toward Aziraphale.
Toward the kiss.
Satan, the kiss.
Crowley pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars.
He should never have done it. No. Worse.
He should have done it centuries ago.
The realization settled like poison in his chest.
Because Aziraphale had kissed him back. For one terrible, radiant moment Crowley had held the entire universe in his hands.
And then the angel had destroyed it with three words.
“I forgive you.”
As if this— whatever they were— had only ever been a mistake Crowley needed absolution for.
By late afternoon Crowley had stopped speaking entirely.
People still drifted in and out around him. The pub grew louder. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed too hard near the bar.
Through the window across the street, Crowley could still see the bookshop.
Muriel moved around inside cheerfully rearranging stacks of books with all the catastrophic innocence of a puppy wandering through a graveyard.
Once, the door opened.
Crowley sat upright instantly.
A stranger exited carrying a paperback.
His stomach dropped so violently he almost felt human for a second.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
By midnight he was drunk enough that standing became theoretical.
The bartender offered to call him a cab. Crowley glared until the man reconsidered.
Somehow he made it back to the Bentley.
Rain drizzled softly across the windshield as he collapsed into the driver’s seat, limbs heavy and uncooperative.
The car smelled like old leather, cigarette smoke, and the ghost of Aziraphale’s coat.
That nearly undid him.
Crowley curled sideways awkwardly against the door, glasses still on, one hand clenched in the fabric of his own sleeve like he was holding onto someone.
Outside, Soho lights blurred gold against the wet glass.
Across the street, the bookshop windows remained dark.
Crowley stared at them unblinking until morning.
Soho, end of 2023.
Crowley is deep enough into the spiral that bartenders have stopped asking questions.
Different pub now. Nina’s café iss not an option anymore. Too many memories there.
Sticky floors. Neon beer signs. Football playing muted overhead while exhausted Londoners drink through another freezing night.
Crowley barely registers any of it. He sits alone in the corner booth with whiskey he can no longer taste properly and sunglasses he has not removed in days.
Someone at the bar feeds coins into the jukebox.
At first Crowley ignores the music automatically.
Modern songs blur together lately. Too polished. Too detached. Humans kept trying to make heartbreak sound empowering now.
Then the voice cuts through the noise. Raw. Drunk. Yearning.
Crowley stills. The song is in Spanish. That means nothing, of course. Crowley speaks every language on Earth. Still, something about hearing longing wrapped in Puerto Rican slang hits differently.
The entire pub keeps talking through it.
Only Crowley listens.
Aquí no existe el pecado y equivocarse es bonito.
Los errores son placeres igual que to' tus besito' (1)
Crowley slowly looks up.
Oh, that’s unpleasant. The singer sounds genuinely haunted. Not poetic haunted. Not theatrical. Real.
Like someone trying to party hard enough to outrun memory and failing spectacularly.
Crowley knows that feeling intimately.
The next line lands like a punch.
No hace falta nadie aquí,
solamente tu y yo.(1)
Ah. Right then.
That.
Crowley stares into his whiskey while something ugly twists beneath his ribs.
The bartender wanders over eventually.
“You alright there?”
Crowley points vaguely toward the speakers.
“Who,” he asks carefully, “is this miserable bastard, attempting to sing?”
The bartender laughs.
“Bad Bunny?.”
Crowley considers this.
"…that cannot possibly be his real name.”
“Nah.”
The song continues. Crowley listens to the rest in complete silence.
By closing time he has: emptied the bottle, stolen the bartender’s lighter, and miracles himself to Puerto Rico.
Rome, 1638
Gregorio Allegri first noticed the strange Englishman because he spoke about another person the way men usually spoke about God.
Not openly. Not romantically. Worse: tenderly.
The little courtyard behind the Vatican gardens glowed gold beneath the late afternoon sun. Fountains murmured softly against old stone while priests and composers drifted through shaded walkways discussing scripture, politics, and music with equal exhaustion.
Aziraphale sat beneath an orange tree with a cup of tea balanced carefully in one hand.
Allegri had initially mistaken him for minor clergy. Until the man started talking.
“…well, he does pretend otherwise,” Aziraphale was saying with visible fondness. “But he’s actually rather thoughtful, and nice, when he wishes to be.”
The younger priest beside him laughed. “Your friend sounds exhausting.”
“Oh, he is not my, well..” the blond man agreed immediately. “He’s completely maddening, honestly.”
And yet he smiled while saying it. Not polite affection o amusement. Something warmer. Older.
Allegri slowed unconsciously while passing nearby.
“He asks questions constantly,” Aziraphale continued. “About morality. About humanity. About whether goodness matters if no one notices it.”
“That sounds surprisingly philosophical.”
“Yes, well.” Aziraphale stirred his tea absently. “He likes pretending his cynicism is not entwined with intelligence.”
The priest grinned. “And what does he look like?”
Aziraphale blinked once. Then something unexpectedly soft crossed his face.
Ah. Allegri stopped walking entirely.
“He’s…” Aziraphale hesitated. Searching. Not because the answer was difficult. Because it mattered too much.
"Very beautiful,” he said quietly.
The words settled strangely in the warm Roman air.
Not lustful. Not boastful. Reverent.
Aziraphale smiled faintly into his teacup, seemingly unaware of what his own expression was doing.
"He has these extraordinary eyes,” he continued softly. “And even though,he carries himself as though the world has disappointed him personally. Which kind of has one or twice. He's still so terribly caring about humanity.”
The priest laughed. Aziraphale did not.
“I think he’s lonely,” he said instead.
And there it was. That ache.
Sudden and enormous enough that Allegri felt it from halfway across the courtyard.
Not romantic exactly. Not in the earthly sense.
Something stranger.
Like grief softened carefully by centuries of affection.
“And of course he's infuriating,” Aziraphale added quickly, as though correcting himself. “Terribly infuriating. He lies constantly. Drinks alarming amounts of alcohol. Causes problems almost recreationally.”
“But you care for him anyway.”
Aziraphale looked genuinely startled by the observation. Then slowly smiled.
“Oh,” he said softly. Like the realization had only just occurred to him.
“Yes. I suppose I do.”
Allegri would later struggle to explain what moved him so deeply about the conversation.
Not the mysterious friend. Not even the visible devotion.
The contradiction of it.
The way the blond man spoke about this person like: a sinner, a disaster, a source of endless frustration— and somehow also like something unique and sacred.
Years later, while composing the aching ascending pleas of Miserere mei, Deus, Allegri would remember the strange Englishman beneath the orange trees speaking about someone flawed and difficult with the quiet reverence of prayer.
As though love itself might simply mean: seeing clearly, and adoring anyway.
Paris 1884
“Forgive me,” the painter began carefully, “but you have an extraordinary profile.”
Crowley turned slowly toward him.
Ah. There it was.
That familiar artistic expression: fascination moments away from becoming obsession.
Normally Crowley would have smiled politely, accepted the compliment, and vanished before the human started trying to immortalize him in oils or poetry again.
Then— Aziraphale shifted beside him. A tiny movement. Barely perceptible.
But Crowley felt it immediately.
Not anger. Not even irritation.
Jealousy.
Oh.
Oh, now that was interesting.
Crowley glanced sideways over the rim of his champagne glass just in time to catch Aziraphale carefully pretending not to look at Sargent while visibly disapproving with every fiber of his celestial being.
The angel’s mouth had gone tight. One gloved hand curled faintly around his wineglass stem. His shoulders held the rigid politeness of someone enduring something profoundly unreasonable.
Crowley nearly smiled.
Well. That simply would not do.
“Extraordinary?” Crowley repeated lazily, turning his full attention back toward the painter.
Sargent visibly forgot how breathing worked for a moment.
Aziraphale noticed. Unfortunately, this only encouraged Crowley further.
“Hmm,” Crowley continued thoughtfully. “You know, you’re not the first artist to say so.”
The painter laughed nervously.
“I imagine not.”
“Oh, constantly,” Crowley sighed dramatically. “Sketches. Portraits. One unfortunate sculptor in Florence had what can only be described as a religious experience.”
Aziraphale choked violently on his wine.
Crowley did not look at him. Mostly because he knew exactly what expression he would find.
“This profile, though…” Sargent gestured vaguely, clearly attempting professionalism and failing catastrophically. “The structure is remarkable.”
Crowley tilted his head slightly, allowing the salon lights to catch the sharp line of his jaw.
Across the room, several aristocrats immediately lost track of their conversations.
Including, rather satisfyingly, Aziraphale.
“Is it?” Crowley asked innocently.
The painter stared. Aziraphale stared harder.
“Yes,” Sargent answered faintly.
Crowley smiled slowly. Dangerously.
“Well,” he drawled, “if you’re very fortunate, perhaps I’ll allow you to paint it someday.”
Beside him, Aziraphale made a tiny scandalized noise.
Oh, this was delightful.
Sargent blinked rapidly.
“I— truly?”
“Mm. Private sitting, perhaps.” Crowley took a slow sip of champagne. “To properly immortalize my perfect profile.”
The silence that followed was exquisite.
Aziraphale looked moments away from committing an act of biblical violence.
“Crowley,” he said tightly.
Crowley finally turned toward him.
“Yes, angel?”
Aziraphale smiled. To human eyes, it probably appeared pleasant.
Crowley, who had witnessed the Fall of Rome and several plagues firsthand, recognized righteous danger when he saw it.
“You cannot seriously be considering posing for a scandalous portrait.”
Crowley widened his eyes innocently.
"Scandalous? Angel, honestly. The man said nothing improper.”
“You’re wearing black satin and diamonds in a Parisian salon.”
“And?”
“And you’re enjoying this.”
“Well now I definitely am.”
Sargent stood between them clutching his sketchbook with the increasingly alarmed expression of a man realizing he had accidentally wandered into the middle of a marital dispute between entities beyond human comprehension.
Unfortunately for him, he was correct. Aziraphale drew himself up with as much dignity as someone could manage while being visibly jealous in nineteenth-century evening wear.
“I hardly see why your profile requires immortalizing.”
Crowley stared at him.
Then slowly smiled.
Not flirtatious this time.
Something softer. More dangerous.
Because suddenly he understood.
Aziraphale had been looking at that profile for decades. Centuries. And apparently did not care for the idea of someone else doing the same.
The realization slithered pleasantly through Crowley’s chest.
“I see,” he said quietly.
Aziraphale immediately looked alarmed.
Crowley’s grin turned positively serpentine.
“Angel,” he purred, “are you jealous?”
“I most certainly am not.”
“Mm.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
“And yet,” Crowley said, stepping slightly closer, “you look exactly like a man contemplating murder over some brushes, Angel.”
They agreed that the lady would pose for him, with his companion as chaperone.
Sargent spent the rest of the next evening attempting to sketch Madame X’s profile.
Unfortunately, the truly interesting thing in the room kept turning out to be the man pretending not to adore her. So his focus changed to present her through his eyes.
It was scandalous.