Chapter 1: A Drink After Work
~~Aziraphale~~
Aziraphale stared at the filing cabinet. He'd been back in Heaven for only an hour, and he'd already been given the world's most boring job. How he wished Crowley was there; he'd have made it more interesting. As he looked through the files, he realised that Jim, Gabriel, wasn't the only angel with odd filing systems. There was no reason a miracle couldn't put everything back in its place, but The Metatron had spouted something like, idle hands, you know. They had a point; his hands had spent far more time on his personal devil than they did in prayer over the last few years. Innocent touches, though they were, the point still stood.
His eyes still burned from the unshed tears recalling the look on Crowley's face. He could have told him what The Metatron had said, and maybe he should have. No, Aziraphale couldn't. Someone could have overheard, something could have. The more people who knew, the more danger they were in.
The feel of the folders in his hand was strange. It looked like paper, but it wasn't. It had no smell, no real weight, and the edges would never give him a papercut. It was like they weren't even there. They didn't feel real. Nothing in Heaven quite felt real to someone who had experienced just what things should feel like. He missed the way he had run a hand over a book and felt its history. How had so much time happened in Heaven and yet nothing had a past, and still, nothing moved forward.
Aziraphale felt the tears finally come. He was alone. It might have been better if they just locked him up, tortured him. Anything but leaving him alone with his thoughts. The fragile existence he and Crowley had carved out turned out to be too frail to hold.
The Metatron had been so insistent on him returning to Heaven, but he had refused. At first, the offer was sweet, love bombing him with the idea of more power, freedom to come and go as he liked. But he knew where he wanted to be, and that was with Crowley, so the offer became less sweet. Truths were told and threats were made, and so his future as he saw it with Crowley was made impossible.
And in the end, there was the lie—his lie.
How had Crowley believed that they would put him in charge? After all they had done together, thwarting both Heaven and Hell, no one should have believed it, least of all his closest confidant. But Crowley had always believed in Aziraphale, thinking him far better than he ever was, so of course he would assume Heaven would see his worth as well. They were each other's blind spots. When Aziraphale told him he needed him, how did he not see that it was a plea for help? He didn't know how to get out; he needed saving and Crowley had just walked away.
He wasn't angry with him for it. Communication misunderstandings were their M.O. Going to Heaven and leaving him on Earth was the best thing he could do for Crowley. Wanting a daring rescue was selfish. Crowley would be safe as long as Aziraphale did what he was told. Of course, he would do anything for Crowley's safety; he was long past denying that. Aziraphale gave to everyone—it was his duty, his pleasure—but Crowley let him be selfish and to partake of the things that he enjoyed for himself. This time, Aziraphale needed to be selfless for Crowley. He was worth the sacrifice.
Had he been shelving books in his store for the same amount of time, his fingers would have ached and his back would be stiff, none of that happened here. The satisfying feeling of a day's work, sitting down for a cup of tea, simple things that gave someone fulfilment, they were absent. When the stack of filing was done, another stack appeared and waited. After a while, Aziraphale figured they were just the same ones over and over again. It was hard to tell with names like, In which the human Allister Peter Hancock asked for rain, and, An offering made by the Holy Muhammed Shafi Hassan to be gathered by Friday. It seemed like there could have been easier categories like, Prayers to be Answered and Offerings Made, but he didn't think they would welcome his suggestions. In fact, he remembered just exactly what they thought of suggestions.
Maybe Crowley had been right all along. Heaven and Hell weren't so different.
~~Crowley~~
Crowley had spent most of his existence feeling half-full. The empty part of him being filled only during the small moments spent with Aziraphale. He knew the angel was fond of him but not in the same way he felt. Aziraphale had love in him for everything, Crowley only had enough for one. Aziraphale hadn't had half of himself ripped out; he hadn't fallen. Crowley couldn't fill the empty in Aziraphale because Aziraphale had no empty spaces. He was full, brimming with light, goodness, and the part Crowley liked best, mischief.
Since Aziraphale left, Crowley felt all the way empty. He was—how did the humans phrase it—out of spoons. After Aziraphale went up that blasted lift, Crowley had gotten into the Bentley and just drove. It was hours, driving aimlessly, until he arrived right back where he started. He hadn't planned on ever coming back, but his best plans had always included Aziraphale, so there he was. He sat in his car the whole first twenty-four hours just staring at the bookshop. As if he could will him back, but his will meant nothing. Not to the universe, and clearly not to Aziraphale.
He had one line in the sand, and Aziraphale ignored it.
Crowley replayed the moment in his head when Aziraphale had said, I need you, but had that been true? Aziraphale may have thought so at the time, but was it just another manipulation Crowley had succeeded in? Making Aziraphale feel like he needed Crowley in any way felt ridiculous now. He had only ever wanted to give the angel something in return for the trust he'd placed in him. In all his temptations to the angel, he'd never meant any harm. Anything he gave the angel had always been for pleasure. And Crowley found his pleasure in watching Azirphale's.
He didn't need Crowley, not like Crowley needed him. Aziraphale could have a happy existence in Heaven, he was adaptable, but Crowley needed Aziraphale to feel anything. At least, anything good.
He used to like causing mischief, perhaps that would bring him some pleasure. He could throw himself into a project, take down eBay—did anyone use eBay anymore?—or Grindr; that felt more poetic. No, something simpler was needed, a classic. Crowley considered glueing some coins on the ground, but people rarely picked up spare change anymore. They couldn't be bothered, and the ones who would would surely need them, and that felt overly cruel.
No, he was a retired demon. There was no precedent for it; no demon had ever gotten out of Hell, not alive anyway. He didn't have hobbies; the thought made him retch. But he had always enjoyed getting drunk. But even Crowley understood that drinking alone, especially with heartbreak, could be a very dangerous thing.
"Well, this ought to be interesting," Crowley said, and he exited the Bentley and ambled his way into the bookshop.
"Mr. Crowley," Muriel started, looking surprised, and then happy to see him. "I didn't know if you were coming back."
"I probably shouldn't have," Crowley muttered, his eyes trying to avoid looking at anything that would remind him of Aziraphale, which was everything.
"Oh, no. I am very happy that you did. You see, The Metatron told me to look after the bookshop, but I don't know exactly how to do that."
Crowley found his way over to where he knew Aziraphale kept their stash. Sherry for the angel and whiskey for him. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and spun back around to face Muriel.
"It's easy," Crowley stated, "You keep the closed sign facing out, and under no circumstances do you sell a single book. Not ever."
Crowley knew his firm statement hit home when Muriel's eyes grew big with fear, and they nodded like a bobblehead.
"Good, now that that's settled, join me for a drink."
"I can make some tea," they said, smiling.
"No tea. Sit." Crowley nodded toward the chair as he poured two generous helpings into the crystal glasses.
He handed one to Muriel, who took it and cupped it in their two hands and looked down at it dubiously.
"Cheers," Crowley said, raising his glass and downing it with a few gulps and no intermission.
He poured another, feeling the burn in his throat subside and wanting to chase it again. It was something he could feel, something that didn't feel awful. On his third glass, he spared a glance at Muriel, who was still holding their first serving. They had leaned over and sniffed it, wrinkling their nose.
"Give me that," Crowley hissed when he realised he didn't have a drinking buddy more than an extra side table to hold his drinks.
Once he had finished both drinks, Crowley felt appropriately numb; he stood and stumbled as he tried to make sense of how his legs worked.
"Well, that was fun," Crowley slurred at his quiet, sober companion.
"Was it? Oh, good. What was that?"
"Whis … whishk, whishkey," Crowley slurred.
"I don't think I like whishkey as much as tea. It smells off."
Crowley put a hand on their shoulder. "It is very on," he stated, and he made his way sloppily to the door.
"Goodnight, Mr. Crowley."
Crowley lifted a hand up over his shoulder as a parting wave, but the action made him stumble into the doorframe. He made his way to the Bentley and spilled into the driver's seat. His head fell back, and he passed out as the Bentley revved to life and drove him home.