Work Text:
2023AD
He was perfectly capable of sitting in the same room as an archangel without physically assaulting them, Crowley told himself, even if the archangel in question was Gabriel, and he really, really would deserve it.
Crowley paced the upstairs room of the bookshop, restlessly trying to burn off the excess of energy thrumming through his body, attempting to ensure he wouldn’t draw more attention to the bookshop with another accidental miracle. Besides, Aziraphale would be quite displeased if Crowley accidentally discorporated their archangel refugee.
Even if he really did deserve it.
Crowley slammed his hand against the wall, just in time to hear the infuriatingly innocent sound of; “do you want me to rearrange the books again?”
The demon consciously took a deep breath, unreasonably proud of his emotional regulation skills as he responded as calmly as he was going to get.
“Sure, Jim. You go do that.”
The hollowed-out amnesiac of an archangel left the room with far too jovial an attitude, leaving Crowley alone to stew in his own anger.
Shut your stupid mouth and die already.
The words swung round in Crowley’s head like a wrecking ball, only escalating the hatred swirling around directed entirely towards Gabriel, whom they were now protecting. The absurdity of the whole situation made Crowley want to scream. And of course, Aziraphale wasn’t even here at the moment, so there was nobody nearby for him to scream at, leaving him with no vent for the concentrated anger.
He wished he could even blame Aziraphale, and yet it grew impossible when his actions were fueled by the same kindness that made the demon love him. It wasn’t fair, yet Crowley couldn’t imagine the situation turning out any other way.
It was raining outside, and the gentle patter of raindrops against the window did nothing to soothe Crowley’s turmoil of emotions. He continued to pace, occasionally glancing out of the window to check out for Aziraphale’s return and proceeding to fume when there was no sign of the angel.
He could hear Gabriel (or Jim, he supposed he should say) moving downstairs, primarily because the angel didn’t seem to understand the concept of shutting up. Occasionally there would be a loud crash, and Crowley would loudly curse, if only because he knew Aziraphale would be upset at the prospect of his books being damaged.
Maybe if Aziraphale discovered Jim was desecrating his books, it would cause the angel to gain some common sense and stop trusting him, but Crowley somewhat doubted it. For all the angel could be possessive and protective, he was also stupidly, incorrigibly empathetic to a bloody fault.
Shut your stupid mouth-
When Aziraphale returned, Crowley decided, he was going to give him a piece of mind as to why keeping an Archangel in his bookshop was a stupid idea. He knew of course that this resolve would undoubtedly fade the second he felt the angel’s presence, but the decision brought him consolation all the same.
And it wasn’t like Aziraphale was stupid, he just chose to ignore certain pieces of information when it didn’t quite fit his worldview because he was like that. It was endearing in the best of times, although right now was distinctly not the best of times.
-and die already.
Finally, the hum of his Bentley drew close to the bookshop, marking Aziraphale’s return and the end of Crowley’s torment. Just as predicted, the demon didn’t, in fact, yell at Aziraphale, although he allowed himself a few passive-aggressive comments.
In the end, shit hit the fan long before Crowley ever had a chance to air his grievances with Gabriel.
***
“Fuck you!”
Crowley waved an empty bottle at the sky as he yelled, and any passer-by would’ve thought he was insane. They wouldn’t have necessarily been far off the mark, especially the more-religiously inclined who might’ve considered that the crazy man on the street was cursing at God for his poor hand in life.
In reality, Crowley couldn’t say if he was yelling towards Heaven or Alpha Centauri, or somewhere else entirely. The alcohol in his system didn’t allow for that kind of coherent thought, he just knew that the recipients certainly weren’t on Earth.
He smashed the bottle against the ground, staggering away from it without any consideration towards picking it up because he sure as Hell wasn’t good enough for that. He flipped off the sky as he grabbed another bottle from inside the Bentley, slamming the door shut in the process. It was dark out, in a dingy back-street lit only by street lamps and unsnuffed cigarettes where sin was undoubtedly abound, yet surely no worse than the walking sin Crowley represented.
“‘s not fair,” he slurred under his breath. “You hear me - it’s not fair! Where’s my reward?!”
Another swig of alcohol washed down his words.
“6000 bloody years and what? You only have 3 and get a happy ending!”
There were no stars visible past the light-pollution of London, and Crowley didn’t know if that was worse than being able to see clearly the paradise stolen by Gabriel and Beelzebub. Their happy ending, their escape, nevermind who’d been the one to forge it in the fires of Creation.
“Don’t I deserve this? Don’t I deserve him?”
His voice broke because he already knew the answer. God had already given Her answer, and Aziraphale’s absence was only testament to that. He drank again and it wasn’t enough, because he could still think, still knew where he was.
“It’s not fair!”
The bottle slammed against the wall, and the alcohol stung in the cuts made by the broken glass. Even now, Crowley wasn’t quite drunk enough to ignore how childish the motion felt, yet too drunk to even appreciate the catharsis of the motion. But to grab another drink from the Bentley was a task he couldn’t quite muster up the will for, and few bars in the area would even deign to serve him anymore. Leaving London wasn’t even a consideration.
“I fought for our happy ending - please.” A broken sob forced its way out of his throat. “Why do they get this without even trying? Did I not give enough?”
By now, the anger was barely even there. It kept slipping out of his grip, falling into silent loathing that even the alcohol couldn’t drown out. He fell, allowing his legs to stop keeping him upright and allowing his knees to catch him.
“I would give anything.”
His words slipped out like a prayer, and thus were treated exactly like every one before.
Heaven remained silent.