Chapter Text
Crowley doesn’t remember going back to his flat. He knows he must have driven there at some point and he managed to get back inside his flat with ease. Shax hadn’t exactly bothered to change the locks. Everything is back in its place because Crowley expects everything to be in its place.
But truth be told, the entire apartment could have been destroyed and Crowley probably wouldn’t have noticed it at first. The first thing he consciously tries to do once he gets inside is collapse into bed and attempts to block everything out.
Everything hurts. Crowley has been through his share of painful experiences. And while yeah, they were uncomfortable and not something he’d willingly do again without a very good reason, there was almost always the idea that it would eventually be over. Whatever was happening would stop and he could get on with his existence.
But this? This doesn’t even compare. There was no stopping. This was his life now, and he would eventually have to accept that. But he knows he hasn’t quite accepted it yet, so he allows himself to wallow. He figures he owes himself that much. Crowley rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillows, willing his mind to just shut down. But that doesn’t happen. Despite his efforts, the memories of the past day continue to flash in his mind. It figures that even his own mind would be a traitor. He growls and attempts to bury his face even deeper into the pillows, in a desperate attempt that maybe the lack of oxygen would cause him to finally pass out. It doesn’t happen, of course.
Crowley’s not sure how long he stays in bed. It could have been days, maybe even weeks. He drifts in and out of consciousness, and what little sleep he does manage is plagued by memories of him and Aziraphale. Sometimes they’re memories of them bickering and fighting, like when they were in St. James Park and Crowley had asked him for holy water, or during the Apocalypse when Crowley had foolishly suggested they go off together for the first time. Other times it’s happier memories. The two of them dining at the Ritz, going to see a play, even though Crowley actually didn’t mind going but he really just went so he could watch Aziraphale’s face light up with joy from the actors and their performances.
Those memories are the most painful to wake up to.
Nevertheless, Crowley does eventually manage to drag himself out of bed. He checks his phone and takes note that he was in bed for about two weeks. “Hmph,” Crowley thinks, that’s barely anything.
He takes stock of himself. At this point, the pain and embarrassment have mostly receded, aside from a lingering ache all over his body. What’s most concerning at this very moment is the fact that it feels like there’s a hole that’s been ripped out of Crowley’s chest. It isn’t painful. He just feels… horrifically empty inside. Like he’s missing an essential part of himself and it’s his fault. If he had a soul, he’d imagine this is what it would feel like to lose it.
It’s different from how it felt when he first Fell, he thinks. But there was a frightening similarity to it. After he had fallen, there was something he felt was missing. He had lost God’s grace, and he lost the inherent goodness that an angel had. He had thought for a very long time that he had lost even the potential to be good. He still isn’t entirely sure about that.
The point is, he had felt for a very long time that something was missing within him. A piece he would never fully recover, no matter how long ago it was. Eventually, he learned to cope with it, to ignore it. He had adapted and eventually, he had even convinced himself he was better off without it. Whether or not that was true hardly even mattered, all that mattered was that Crowley believed it. He had thought, no, he knew as long as he had Aziraphale it wouldn’t matter. Heaven could never compare to him, for Aziraphale was his heaven.
But this? Crowley can’t ever imagine recovering from this. Crowley shakes his head in a futile attempt to get the thought out of his head. He decides he needs to get out of his flat at the very least. He thinks he might try and cause some small-scale terror around the neighborhood to cheer himself up. At the very least it might get him out of his head.
That was until he stepped out onto the pavement and saw his Bentley.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
There, sitting in all of its glory is his Bentley. His currently brightly colored, yellow Bentley. Crowley practically stalks up to the side of the car and snarls at it. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” He places his hand on the hood of the car and concentrates, willing the car to change back to its normal coloring. After a moment it does, the paint shifts to a dark onyx color, only for the yellow to stubbornly pop up once again.
If looks could kill, his car would be six feet under. “I am in no mood for one of your temper tantrums” he hisses out. “He is not coming back, no matter how much you want him to. Now, unless you’d like to be torn apart and your pieces sorted into alphabetical order, I’d suggest you change back at once!” Crowley’s voice was nearly a shout by the end of his sentence, and as soon as the phrase was out of his mouth the car shifted back to its usual black. He felt a pang of regret go through him. He softly says, “I’m sorry, but he’s not coming back. And moping about it isn’t going to do anything. Best we put it behind us the best we can.”
He climbs into the car and begins to drive. He glances in the rearview mirror and winces at the state of his plants that he had left in here. Wilted, dried, and with no sign of life. He waves his hand and the foliage begins to revive itself. He drives without a particular goal in mind, and if he has a few more people yelling at him or more perceived near misses (as if he’d ever allow the Bentley to be hit, even if he’s mad he’s not cruel) than usual, well, it’s not like that’s all that much different than normal. He continues his drive, lost in his thoughts. After a little bit, he glances at the road ahead of him and nearly slams on his brakes. The bookshop. Of course, he’d driven here automatically. He’d been coming here for so long that it was practically muscle memory at this point.
Crowley makes the decision to keep driving. He’s sure that Muriel has everything handled. It’s a bookshop, how difficult it could be?
Before he knows it he’s made a U-turn back towards the bookshop, nearly hitting a cyclist in the process. He’s parked and is less than a dozen steps away from the doors of the bookshop when he stops dead in his tracks. What was he doing? Was he just planning on popping in to see if Muriel had managed to keep the bookshop in one piece? And why did it even matter? It didn’t, that was the problem.
And yet… it still mattered. To him at least. Despite everything. Crowley lets out a sigh of frustration. Frustration at himself and this whole bloody universe. He walks to the door and opens it, stepping inside. Instantly he notices several changes. First of all, it’s bright. Too bright. All of the curtains on the windows are thrown open and there are more than a few lamps that he’s certain he’s never seen before. He had been so used to the rather gloomy look that Aziraphale liked to keep in order to deter humans from entering and God forbid purchasing any of the books he had on his shelves.
“Oh, ‘ello there!” A voice echoes across the shop before Muriel pops into view. They're still wearing that Inspector Constable outfit Crowley had seen them in last. He stifles a sigh and turns toward them. “Yes, hello there,” he drawls out. He keeps his attention on the bookshelves. They’re in the same order that Gabriel had left them. Aziraphale had made it quite clear what a disaster that had been.
Muriel almost instantly recognizes him. Their smile wilts for a moment, but then they're beaming at him. “Oh, Crowley! Didn’t expect you back so soon. What have you been up to?” They ask, all of the words coming together in a rush. “This and that,” he replies vaguely, with a shrug. They look at him oddly, before saying, “I bet you’re checking on how I’m doing for your angel. Well, I can assure you that things here are going splendidly. I’ve even managed to sell quite a few of the books! Of course, it was a lot easier once I tidied things up around here.” They laugh at this.
Crowley has to stop himself from wincing. “Did you now?” He grits out. He clears his throat. “Well, yes. That’s normally what a bookshop owner does, is sell books. Not that the last owner was in any way normal.” He says the last part to himself, almost mumbling. Muriel happily says, “I know, right? He had this place all dusty and just not very pleasant to be in. I think the natural lighting really brightens things up. I don’t know what he was thinking.”
“Well, maybe that’s because he actually knew what he was doing and liked things the way they were!” He snaps out before he could stop himself. Muriel’s expression crumples within an instant, and they look down at the ground, seemingly embarrassed. He sighs. Of course, he had to screw this up too. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” He says. A blatant lie. But they didn’t need to know that. “I’ve just… had a rough couple of weeks.” Understatement of the millennium. But Muriel still doesn’t look convinced.
Before he knows it, he’s asking, “Is there anything you might need help with around here while you’ve got me?” Almost immediately he wants to take it back, and is about to when Muriel responds with, “Oh, I couldn’t ask that of you! I do have one question. I checked what hours Aziraphale had for the shop before, and they’re kind of… confusing? I just don’t understand how he managed to get humans to buy books with the way he worded it. After all, if an angel couldn’t understand it then how could he expect any human to?”
He internally sighs. Of course, it has to deal with Aziraphale. That doesn’t mean he can’t bullshit his way through it. “Oh, you know. Humans are so random, so he would make his hours just as random. In an attempt to fit in, you see?” After Muriel nods, he adds, “So really, keep your hours however you want. But the more random and inconsistent the better. It makes the humans feel at ease.” Muriel takes that information in. “Of course! That makes so much more sense. I have noticed that humans are more random than I thought they’d be.”
Crowley doesn’t stay much longer after that. After making an admittedly feeble excuse that satisfies Muriel he makes his way to the shop door. As soon as he opens it, however, he immediately slams it shut again. He closes his eyes and counts to ten. Of fucking course, this happens.
He knows Aziraphale saw him. He looked him right in the eye. Well, as much as he could while he was wearing his sunglasses. There isn’t much Crowley can do to deny that. At the thought of this, anger wells up in his chest. He can’t believe the nerve of him. Anger begins to pour throughout his veins, hot like molten lava. The pain that had dulled suddenly appears again with a vengeance, lighting every nerve on fire. There are feelings other than anger that spring up in his mind. He’s certainly confused, and frighteningly sad. And as much as he hates to admit it, there’s the smallest part of him that’s hopeful for what's to come. Almost instantly he squashes that part as best he can. Taking a deep breath, he throws the door open and strolls casually out the door.
“Well, you’ve certainly got a lot of nerve showing up here again. I don’t know why you’d think that I would want to see you and Hell, you sure didn’t mind giving up your bookshop when the idea of becoming an Archangel was on the table.” Crowley doesn’t even register half of the things he’s saying, but he doesn’t care. He needs to keep speaking because if he stops he won’t be able to start again. As he’s speaking he begins to actually take in his former friend’s appearance. His rant slowly crawls to a stop.
“Aziraphale. What happened?” Crowley’s voice is flat and purposefully devoid of emotion. He still feels concern in every inch of his being.
There are a number of things wrong with his friend. The first thing he notices was that his clothes looked ragged, in a way that his friend would normally be appalled to be seen wearing. He’s wearing his normal attire, but his waistcoat is torn in multiple places, and is that blood on his trousers? He takes in Aziraphale’s face and is shocked at how it looks. His upper lip is split and there’s blood on his forehead. More concerning than that is the fact it looks like he’s aged almost 10 years. How the hell an immortal being manages to do that Crowley doesn’t know. His face looks weathered and the normal prim and proper expression that Aziraphale has is nowhere to be seen. This looks like a man who has quite literally lost everything. The next thing Crowley realizes is his friend’s eyes are red and puffy, as though he had just spent the better portion of the day crying. And to Crowley’s slowly growing horror, he watches them well up with tears again.
When Aziraphale speaks, it’s soft, almost hesitant. It’s like he’s afraid of Crowley. “Heaven, they… they didn’t take too kindly to someone suggesting they hold off on the Second Coming.” Aziraphale sniffles and wipes at his eyes. “I’d hate to be a bother, but is there somewhere we can go more private? I’m assuming that my bookshop is no longer available for a chat where we won’t be overheard.”
Within a moment Crowley is nodding his head. The anger he felt is still there, bubbling under the surface. But at this point in time there are more pressing matters. “Ah, yeah, sure. My flat alright?” He asks. Aziraphale doesn’t respond. Crowley hesitantly takes his hand. While Azirapahle doesn’t put up a fight he’s slightly disturbed by how passive he is. He walks Aziraphale over to the Bentley and they both get in. The drive to his flat is awkward, and neither talk. Crowley even tries to drive somewhat normally. Of course, he still speeds and swerves, but not as much as he normally does. And Aziraphale just stares out the window, never really changing his expression.
When they walk into the flat there’s a moment of trepidation, about what all of this means. Crowley clears his throat. “Do you, uh, wanna talk about what happened?” Aziraphale looks at him. “Not particularly, but I don’t suppose I have another option.”
They both settle onto one of the more comfortable couches in the living room. Aziraphale takes a deep breath and begins to explain what happened to him.