Three years. That's how long it had taken Crowley to muster up the courage to even consider returning to the bookshop after what happened. After Aziraphale left, he'd just… driven. Wherever the Bentley took him, pedal to the floor and tried to forget about it. About the burn of his lips from the kiss, the ache in his heart from the rejection—because it had to be a rejection, right? Aziraphale wouldn't walk away from him if it wasn't that, surely—Crowley just wanted to be alone for a while, and if that meant a freak thunderstorm was reported off the coast of Aberdeen, then so be it. He couldn't be in Soho for a long while.
It took time, obviously. He felt numb after a week of screaming at the God who never listened. Drinking never got him anywhere but out on the curb of a pub with a headache and roll of nausea. He'd eventually decided to go check on his old flat after a few months. Shax had returned ownership to him after her promotion and he had nowhere else to go. As it was, the plants in the back of the Bentley were starting to shiver and quake more often. He'd neglected them in his rage and sorrow and was only just considering properly repotting them back home. If they died—if they dared to—who would he yell at?
It was a step in the right direction, caring for something else even if it was just his plants. Once he was back in his flat, he scowled at the small changes Shax had made—What an ugly ass portrait—and took his time returning things to how they were. Blank cement walls, plants repotted near the windows, order restored and mail discarded. Then, when all was silent, his mind drifted back to that dreaded bookshop. He'd paced all day before growling and punching in that familiar number; heart racing in some small expectation of hearing Aziraphale's voice answer the phone.
Instead, it was that peppy scrivener Muriel. He couldn't respond to her greeting at first, swallowing past the thick lump in his throat being harder than he'd expected. When he did, he made sure to not say a thing about the angel and simply asked about her. She'd been left behind too, he discovered, sending another tendril of anger rolling through him—How could they? She's got no direction, nothing. They just dumped another angel on Earth to get her out of the way—He had to ask about him then, if Aziraphale had contacted her, told her how to run the shop, anything! But no, she'd not heard from Heaven since they put her in charge of the shop. She'd tried contacting them too but no one answered. She'd been put on hold and left to wait for no one.
Crowley had to do something, despite some part of him telling him to leave her be and let her ruin the shop Aziraphale had cared for. He'd considered then that dropping by would be best but the thought of doing so nearly sent him spiralling. He couldn't. So, he just told her a few things to help—Don't sell anything. They can look but not buy the books and I hope you've changed out of that police uniform—then he'd hung up and returned to wallowing.
No, not wallowing. He wouldn't allow it any longer. Aziraphale had left him and he needed to get over it. Azirphale was the problem, not him. The anger reared back up but settled into something less volatile and explosive. It simmered in his gut like Hellfire, making him question the 6,000 years of friendship with the angel and everything he'd done that hurt. All the quips about being a demon, being a bad person, blaming him for terrible things he didn't even do. He soaked in those hateful feelings and let them fester within him before letting out a long breath and feeling ever so slightly better.
Not completely. No, he'd never get over the heartbreak he'd been dealt but again, another small step had been taken. Whether it was in a good or bad direction didn't matter. It helped him get out of his flat and get groceries and proper food, helped him return to a routine of caring for his plants, helped him wake up every morning and not stay in bed feeling sorry for himself. It helped him forget about a certain thermos he still had hidden away and the potential look of despair that would be on Aziraphale's face if he found out he'd used it.
…Would he even care?
Those sorts of thoughts were shoved back, locked away in a tiny lock box in the back of his head in the following days, and eventually, he felt comfortable enough to test it. To test if he was capable of taking one more step—properly getting over the angel who'd abandoned him. The bookshop would be the best way to do it. He would kill two birds with one stone: getting over the angel and checking up on Muriel. He didn't care about the condition of the bookshop anymore now—or so he told himself—but Muriel didn't deserve to be ignored and thrown away like a used tissue. He actually liked her in an… owner looking at a tiny white yappy dog bounding around their ankles kind of way.
So, he'd climbed into the Bentley, jabbing at the tape that started playing and glaring at the radio for trying to play something classical instead of something far louder. He didn't need his own car to remind him of Aziraphale and if it kept pushing its luck, he'd have something to say about it. Thankfully, it followed his wishes for the rest of the ride and he soon pulled up outside of Nina's cafe: Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death. He glanced at the name idly, not yet looking across to the bookshop as he searched within himself to see how he was handling things.
It wasn't bad yet. His heart had fluttered briefly just being on the same street as the shop but he was taking his time. It won't bother me, he told himself as he lowered his gaze to the steering wheel, tightening his hands on it until his knuckles turned white. I won't. It's just a stupid shop once owned by an idiot angel who left me. He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes before relaxing and finally turning to look at the shop. The pang in his heart wasn't as bad as he expected, though he knew it would undoubtedly be worse once he stepped inside. So, he wouldn't. Not yet. Instead, he would get a coffee. That would help.
He got out of the Bentley and shoved his hands into his pockets as he stepped into Nina's cafe, surprising her. She'd just put down a cup at a table with two customers and her gaze shifted past him to the bookshop through the window ever so briefly before greeting him.
"Hey."
"Hey," he grunted back as she moved back behind the counter.
"Espresso?"
"Yeah, thanks," he said as she nodded and he couldn't help but be grateful that she was acting normal and not making a big deal of him suddenly turning up.
His order was done far too quickly and for a moment he just stood there and sipped at the drink instead of chugging it down as usual. Nina noticed his hovering as she dried some glasses and finally questioned him.
"Trying to get the nerve to go in?"
He turned to her, lifting his lip in a grimace. "No."
"It's fine. I get it," she said with a shrug. "It was like that with Lindsay too. Places we'd visit, the flat, little things, you know? Takes time."
He grunted, finally downing his drink and glancing at her briefly. "Thanks… for the coffee."
She cracked a hint of a smile as he headed out, silently wishing him luck as he stalked his way across the street. He was standing in front of the shop before he knew it and ground his teeth before forcing his hand to reach up and push the door open. As expected, being back there again was like a punch in the gut. His heart clenched at the smell of old books and ink, catching on the spot where he'd grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels and shoved every ounce of feelings he could into the man. Then, his gaze snapped toward movement off to his right.
For a split second, he felt his heart tear again. Aziraphale was moving in front of one of the shelves, placing books in their proper place as he carefully balanced a stack in his arms. His blue eyes skimmed titles and authors to ensure they were all put in exactly the right order as the sunlight caught on his white-blonde hair and lit up his soft smile. Then, Crowley blinked and the illusion was ripped away to reveal someone he didn't know.
Their hair was more of a pure white, trimmed exceedingly short as the longer portion on top draped over the left side of the face, unlike Aziraphale's short curls. They weren't wearing a tartan bowtie, khaki waistcoat, and jacket with matching slacks. Instead, they had on a pair of white jeans with tears in the legs and a cream turtleneck sweater; gold piercings, and a chain trailing down their right ear. It was their eyes though, that had caused the mixup in Crowley's mind. They were like his, like Aziraphale's: a frightening shade of blue that made his mouth feel like cotton when they latched onto his.
"Ah! Mr. Crowley!"
Crowley forced himself to turn away from the newcomer to face Muriel, hastily walking toward her and grabbing her wrist as he pulled her toward a back room. "I need to talk to you and it's just Crowley."
"Right, course, Mr—" She cleared her throat once they were in the backroom. "Sorry, Crowley, sir."
He ignored the "sir" bit, peering out from the door at this other figure and muttering under his breath.
"Definitely an angel." He whipped back around to Muriel as she smiled up at him happily. "Did they send an angel to spy on you?"
"Oh, no. They're a friend of Mr. Fell's. Azirapahle's, that is."
"Azriaphale doesn't have friends," Crowley half spat, that ever-simmering anger in him flaring at the thought of him being friends with any angel.
Muriel blinked, confused. "But the letter said they were."
"Letter? What letter?"
"The letter from Mr. Fell," Muriel explained before suddenly covering her mouth. "Oh… Oh, I probably shouldn't have said that. He said not to tell anyone."
Crowley grabbed her by her shoulders firmly, leaning down to peer at her with his serpentine-yellow eyes over his sunglasses. "Muriel, what the hell is going on? Who is that? Why are they here?"
"They're Nithael, a 7th class sci—"
"I don't care about their rank, Muriel. I want to know who sent them and why?"
Muriel opened her mouth but it was someone else who answered.
"To help."
Crowley turned to face Nithael who was standing in the doorway, holding back his anger at their interruption and overhearing them. Nithael pulled the door open the rest of the way and pointed back into the shop where a customer was now roaming the shelves. Muriel perked up and eagerly passed Crowley with a chirp at the sight.
"Oh! A customer!"
"Don't sell anything!" Crowley reminded her as she bustled off to deal with them, then he faced Nithael as they stared back at him silently.
He didn't trust them at all and their eyes unsettled him. He shifted his gaze off to the side to try and help calm the stirring in his gut at the sight but Nithael stepped away and went back over to another stack of books. He bristled slightly in annoyance at being ignored and stormed after them, leaning against the shelf as they put up another book.
"Why are you here?" He demanded and they glanced at him silently, as though to say they'd already told him. "Don't give me that. There's no way you were sent down here to help. What can you do from Earth? Spy on people? On Muriel? On me? What?"
Nithael considered his question for a moment before shrugging.
"You don't know?" Crowley accused in disbelief. "You're joking. You had to have a purpose. Why would they send you otherwise? Or have they just decided that this bookshop is where they throw away useless angels now?"
Nithael paused halfway through pushing a book into place and turned to him with sharp, cold eyes; something Crowley didn't expect.
"She's not useless."
Crowley was stiff with a roll of guilt swimming through his stomach as those chilly blue eyes turned back to the bookshelf. I didn't mean… Dammit. His yellow eyes shifted toward Muriel as she laughed at something the customer said, softening.
"I know," he muttered as he looked back at Nithael. "Which is why I don't trust you. I've seen what angels do to each other. What Heaven does to them. I won't let you do the same."
"Okay," Nithael replied simply, putting up the final book and moving to grab more.
It annoyed Crowley how nonchalant they were being as well as how they ignored him. Once the customer had gone, Muriel came over and seemed to sense that he was displeased as Nithael moved to a different shelf further away.
"Sorry, they're not very talkative, really," Muriel explained before smiling. "They're a great listener though! They learn really fast too. They already figured out how Mr. Fell organized everything and they handle all the paperwork for rent and book orders and things while I deal with the customers. They're still very new to things here so I'm trying to help show them but—"
"Hold on," Crowley stopped her, stunned. "They organize everything? They handle the money? The business?"
Muriel nodded, unsure what was wrong. "Yes. Mr. Fell suggested it in his letter."
"Why? This doesn't make any sense. Let me see the letter."
Muriel hesitated for a minute before nodding and going to get the letter. She brought it back and handed it to him, leaving him to read over what it said as she fidgeted uneasily. The letter was annoying with all its apologies, making Crowley crinkle the paper in his tight grip. The amount of trust Aziraphale held for this… this nobody angel was grating on his nerves too. Had he really abandoned him and just replaced him once in Heaven? He hadn't even been there long! The thought made his blood boil and he stuffed the letter back into Muriel's hands as he dragged a hand through his crimson hair and began to pace.
Why? Over and over again he questioned why Aziraphale had done this. It had definitely been his writing so he was the one who had suddenly sent Nithael down to do his job on Earth. To what ends though? There had to be more to it than what was said in Muriel's letter but Nithael was hardly going to explain. Crowley was lucky to get three words from them, much less get answers as to what Aziraphale's big plan was.
Or was it Heaven's big plan? He wouldn't know. Crowley never understood what Heaven was thinking. Not in the beginning and not now. So, sure. Maybe Aziraphale was acting on his own but Crowley felt as though he didn't know the angel anymore. Not after what happened, what he'd said. So, maybe this was just him doing Heaven's bidding? Lying and claiming it would get Nithael in trouble or maybe using Nithael as a scapegoat or sacrifice for a "greater good" or some other bullshit?
Crowley didn't know and he hated not knowing. He felt like he should know. If this was Aziraphale acting on his own, then why wasn't he given a letter? Why was he being kept out of it all while some newbie angel was given his full trust after only a few years or so? A hint of jealousy wound its way around his heart, squeezing tight like a python. His gaze shifted to Nithael, narrowing in distaste as he made up his mind.
He stormed over to them again, grabbing their wrist before they could put a book on the shelf. He needed their full attention, needed them to understand what he was about to say and feel his full intent. Their blue eyes met his and he but harshly into his tongue when their face flickered into the image of his for half a second.
"You listen here," he said lowly, voice a near growl as he stared them down. "I don't care what that letter says or what you were told. I'm not letting you do whatever you want here, understand? Armageddon 2.0 or whatever it is that Heaven's planning? Not gonna happen. I won't let it and I sure as Hell won't let you meddle in my life here. Got it?"
Nithael stared back evenly, eyes eventually glancing at their captive wrist and he clenched his teeth for a moment before letting them go. He ignored the slice of guilt for his actions toward them, should they actually be a decent angel—Hell forbid—and turned away to storm over to the door.
"I mean it!" He called over his shoulder, giving them one final glare. "I'll be watching you, angel."