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“Thank you,” says Gabriel, “for your years of service.”
Not content with a lofty tone, he’s also taken to sitting on a floating cloud.
“Much obliged,” says Aziraphale. “…Listen, it’s a Monday, so I really should be getting back to the shop-”
“As a reward,” Gabriel interrupts, “we’ve captured your nemesis, Crawley.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale corrects absent-mindedly. “…Crowley?”
Two angels drag Crowley, bound and gagged, to Aziraphale’s feet.
Gabriel hands over a vial of holy water and cheerily claps him on the back. “Hit him with your best shot.”
Aziraphale wishes it was Crowley in his place. Crowley would think of something. Crowley always thinks of something.
Crowley looks at him, and it doesn’t look pleading, or hopeful. It looks like an apology, or a reassurance. Like he’s already lost faith.
Aziraphale thinks, desperately.
“I can make it a dunk tank, if you’d prefer,” Gabriel offers.
“The thing is-” says Aziraphale, “-the thing is, Crowley’s a terrible demon. Truly incompetent.”
There’s a muffled sound of indignation.
“Does nothing but good. All by accident.”
“So, Gabriel says, gaze darkening, “every time you mentioned thwarting Crowley’s plans, that was…”
“…fibbing?”
“You understand,” Gabriel says, “there will be consequences-”
And that is all Crowley hears, before he falls a second time. This time he’s pushed.
His face hits the earth. He turns over, catching his breath, sees the glint of the sun and the hills and burrows of the clouds, wills himself up, up, anywhere but here.
Nobody listens.
The bookshop stays empty for 5 days.
On the sixth, Sandalphon is inside, messing around with the collection.
The books don’t just belong to Aziraphale. They are Aziraphale, a microcosm of a man a little more curious than angelic.
Crowley sits and watches as Sandalphon cheerfully tries to sell someone the collected works of William Shakespeare and several hundred locusts crawl from the pages onto his arms.
I’m keeping it on hold for you. Come back soon.
He spends his days keeping the bookshop safe, nights trawling through his religious texts, trying to find a way to communicate, contacting demons with information, trying to locate Aziraphale. He even tries his hand at goodness, clinging to the hope that a fall can be reversed.
And, when none of that works, he drinks.
He drinks a little too much one night. Rushing to the store 10 minutes after opening, he decides then and there that if Sandalphon sold anything while he was gone, he is going to be discorporated in a truly painful way.
But he doesn’t see Sandalphon.
He only sees Aziraphale, standing at his desk. And Crowley must move without realising it, because suddenly Aziraphale sees him too.
“Crowley,” he says softly. “It’s so good to see you.”
Crowley wraps his arms around him.
Aziraphale tenses for a second before returning the hug.
Crowley stays there for a minute before pulling back, swiping a sleeve across his face.
“How are you here?”
“Sandalphon had quite the breakdown. Something about Sophie’s Choice containing a hornet’s nest and a live eel. No one really wanted this post after that. So they’re giving me a second chance.”
Crowley notices Aziraphale’s been scattering the papers that Sandalphon had carefully filed.
“He insisted on tidying those up no matter how many ants came out of them. But all the books are still there. Apart from The Picture of Dorian Gray. A young woman was very insistent on buying it, regardless of how many newts or baby alligators crawled from the pages. You would’ve liked her.”
“She sounds quite unwise and extremely stubborn,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sure I would have.”
“Oh,” says Crowley, “and Sandalphon wanted to incinerate one a Mills and Boone novel. The King and the Courtier or some such thing. Apparently it would encourage iniquity.”
Aziraphale frowns. “It was for researching iniquity.”
“I assumed,” said Crowley, “so I hid it under the dresser.”
Aziraphale beams at him.
“Thank you, Crowley, truly. I’m in your debt.”
“Not that much debt. Smutty novels are a dime a dozen-”
“Not for that,” says Aziraphale, in a voice that says I know what you’re trying to do, “for everything.”
Crowley shifts uncomfortably. “Buy me lunch. And we’ll call it even.”
“Lunch it is. I haven’t had sushi in at least a century-” he flushes and stops himself, “-but wherever you want to go, of course.”
“I could go for sushi.” Crowley says. “All those eels and newts made me peckish.”
Aziraphale makes a face. “…There not still here, are they?”
“No. I don’t think so. A couple might be.” He’s already making his way towards the door.
“Crowley-”
“You love all living things, remember, Angel?”
And, right now, Aziraphale thinks he might.