Chapter Text
The sound of glass shattering echoes loudly through the bookshop.
Crowley sways and trips over the well-worn rug on the floor. For a moment, he’s in very real danger of falling onto the shards—but he catches himself just in time and manages to stagger to the couch, pulling off his sunglasses and collapsing into the paisley blanket face-first. The dust that’s settled into the blanket’s folds is unpleasantly gritty against his cheek.
His fingers brush against a book lying on the ground, and he picks it up. He blinks blearily once, twice, until the words finally swim into focus.
—
“Angel, you know I only like the funny ones.”
“Indulge me, please. Poor William wouldn’t stop until I promised him I would give it to you. He’s truly very grateful.”
Crowley gives Aziraphale a look, one he knows the angel would be able to recognise even through the dark lenses of his glasses. True to form, Aziraphale pouts at him. Crowley sighs, already knowing that he would say yes to whatever Aziraphale asked, but he isn’t letting this go without a fight.
“Alright, fine. But I’m not keeping it with me.”
“What do you mean?” Aziraphale’s brow furrows.
Crowley wants nothing more than to reach up and smooth the small crease between his eyebrows away with his fingertips. He licks his lips, tries not to get distracted. “Keep it here. With your other books.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale’s worried face relaxes. “Are you certain? Don’t you want to take it with you?”
“Nah. It’ll be better off here with the rest of your collection. ‘Sides, you know me. I move around a lot, it’ll just end up getting lost.”
“That’s true.”
Crowley bites his lip and tries not to laugh as Aziraphale looks down at the brand-new copy of Hamlet in his hands, as though trying not to seem too excited at the thought of adding it to his already overcrowded shelves. “Well, in that case, I’ll keep it safe for you here, shall I?”
“Much obliged, angel.” Crowley allows one corner of his lips to tilt up into a smirk as Aziraphale beams at him. Two birds with one stone. He’s divested of a book at the price of a very pleased Aziraphale, and he’ll take every win he can get.
—
Crowley’s gorge rises at the memory, and he hurls the book across the room with all his strength. Its spine collides against the wall, and it falls to the floor with a muted thud. His vision is blurring again, and he draws a sleeve roughly over his eyes.
Swaying slightly, he gets up and stumbles across the room, kneeling to pick it up. The spine is dented, the pages badly creased from falling face down on the ground, and a wave of remorse overcomes him. He passes a hand over it gently, smoothing out the pages and straightening the spine once more. With trembling hands, he touches the cover, opens it to find a name written in a familiar hand. Anthony J. Crowley, Esq., inked in an elegant copperplate.
Suddenly, he can’t look at it a moment longer. He slams the book shut and presses it against his chest, shivering.
Angel, he thinks, a broken sound escaping his throat despite his best effort to quell the trembling of his lips. How could you leave me like this?
—
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, and his fingers skim lovingly over a leather-bound first edition of The Importance of Being Earnest, and he turns to look at Crowley, his eyes bright. “Everything really is just as it was. Before Armageddon.”
It makes a shudder run involuntarily up Crowley’s back to think of the bookshop consumed by the flames. For a moment, an echo of the panic and fear he had felt that day pulses through him, and he has to take a deep breath before he can speak.
“Sure is. Went over all the books myself. Adam’s even sent you some new ones.”
Aziraphale hums in surprise. “That was very kind of him.”
“Although I do have to say…”
“What?”
“It’s considerably neater now than it used to be.” Crowley’s lips twitch. “Don’t you think so?”
“You sly serpent.” Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow at him haughtily, though he’s clearly fighting a smile. “I’ll have you know it was in perfect order before, even if it didn’t make sense to you.”
Crowley’s face cracks into a grin. Oh, the angel can deny it all he likes, but Crowley knows the layer of dust that gathers on the shelves and windowsills, the used teacups lying about forgotten, wedged indiscriminately in between the teetering stacks of books. Aziraphale is meticulous about a great many things, but the state of cleanliness of the shop is not one of them.
“My point is, he saved you the trouble of straightening your books and dusting.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Either way, I’m very grateful.” He looks up at Crowley through his lashes. “I almost can’t believe we’re here.”
“We made it, didn’t we?” Crowley reaches up and pushes his glasses more securely against his eyes as he watches Aziraphale drinking in the sight of the bookshop, and the joy is radiating from him in waves so palpable that they wash over Crowley and leave him feeling pleasantly warm somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. He snaps his fingers discreetly and pulls a gorgeous bouquet of bright yellow tulips wrapped in light blue crepe paper from the ether.
“Thought the bookshop could use a touch of something more celebratory,” he says, nonchalantly handing them to Aziraphale.
“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s eyes shine as he takes the flowers from Crowley, admiring them for a long moment. “These are lovely.”
“Hmph.” Crowley snaps his fingers again, and a tall glass vase appears on Aziraphale’s desk, already filled with water. “Come on, angel. We’re going to be late for our dinner reservations.”
“Not with your driving, we won’t,” Aziraphale retorts, but Crowley can see him smiling as he carefully arranges the tulips in the vase. Everything’s alright now, he reminds himself, everything’s just the way it was.
—
Aziraphale’s choicest wine selections are sitting in storage, just as they always have. Crowley can’t bring himself to touch them. He’s been drinking some sort of swill he’d purchased at the nearest off-licence instead, too worn out to miracle them into anything resembling quality whiskey, but it hardly matters at this point—he’s too drunk to taste anything beyond the heat of the alcohol as it scrapes its way down his throat.
Crowley wonders occasionally how long it’s been. He stares at the empty bottles lying scattered on the floor, the glittering shards of broken glass, and lifts another bottle to his lips. He drinks as deeply as he can, his eyes watering with the burn. He slouches in an armchair and wonders what he’s still doing here in this bookshop full of nothing but books and echoes. Every blessed millimetre of it reminds him of the angel. Hell, if he closes his eyes and just breathes, the smell of vanilla and lavender and old books filling his lungs, he can almost pretend that nothing has happened. Any moment now, Aziraphale is going to emerge from the backroom with two bottles of wine for Crowley to choose from, do you feel like merlot or cabernet sauvignon today?
Being here is intolerable. He thought the bookshop would ease his misery, but the ringing silence only amplifies the white noise of his grief. And yet he stays, haunting the place like a spectre, and he waits, hoping against hope that Aziraphale might suddenly turn up once more, smiling and apologising for keeping Crowley waiting for so long.
He’s rifled carefully through the contents of Aziraphale’s desk, carefully gone through each nook and cranny, though it filled him with shame to invade the angel’s privacy. The backroom, the small kitchen, even the ridiculously old word processor Aziraphale still has for keeping track of his taxes. Crowley's done everything short of reading every blessed book in the shop to find some sort of hint for what’s happened to Aziraphale.
But there is nothing but this terrible desolation, a gaping chasm in the world where Aziraphale had been torn out like a page ripped from a book. Even the fire was better than this, Crowley thinks drearily, better than this horrible purgatory of not knowing, suspended between unyielding hope and overwhelming despair.
The bottle slides from Crowley’s fingers and lands with a loud clatter against the wood of the floor. He curls in on himself, his shoulders shaking. Angel, please. Please. I am actually begging you. Please come back.
—
“Crowley, will you please just tell me what all this is about?”
For once, Crowley’s actually concentrating on the road, if only to get them to the South Downs as fast as he could. There’s only a small window of time for them to see the meteor shower tonight—he’s been planning this for months, a surprise for the angel, and he isn’t about to miss it because a few pedestrians dared to cross the street on their way there. Stop lights turn green, cars miraculously move out of the way. But even with demonic intervention, he knows they aren’t going to make it, and he’s growing more and more incensed by the second.
“Crowley, even for you, we’re going too fast—”
And that’s what does it. Crowley hits the brakes so hard the Bentley’s wheels screech in protest as he pulls up abruptly by the roadside, narrowly escaping at least two collisions, first with a sedan and then with a ten-wheeler truck, which honks at him angrily. He ignores the driver who’s shouting obscenities at him and punches a hole into one of the truck’s spare tires for good measure.
“Too fast, is it, angel?”
Crowley regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. For a moment, he’s afraid to look at Aziraphale. His hands clench hard around the steering wheel. Neither of them speaks for an interminable minute, and Crowley wonders if it would be at all possible for him to step out of the car and directly into the oncoming traffic instead.
At last, Aziraphale’s voice breaks the silence. “Crowley—”
“No, angel, forget it,” Crowley interrupts. “Just a stupid thing, really.” He’s already put the car back into gear, making the most obnoxious U-turn he can manage before Aziraphale can react.
“What are you doing?”
“On second thought, think I’ll call our plans off for today.”
“Oh, but—”
“Don’t worry about it, all right?” Crowley takes a deep breath and focuses in a way he rarely does when he’s driving, and in an instant they’re speeding down Soho. He takes another breath and forces the next words out through his teeth. “S’not like we had anything special on tonight.” He pulls up in front of the bookshop, and the passenger side door opens of its own accord. He turns his face toward the angel, enough to give the impression that he’s looking at Aziraphale even though his eyes are firmly fixed on the dashboard. He doesn’t want to see the disappointment in Aziraphale’s face.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. Out of the corner of Crowley’s eye, he sees Aziraphale’s hand make an aborted movement, as though he had been about to reach out for Crowley but stopped himself at the last moment. His throat tightens. Nothing new, he reminds himself, but it stings more than he cares to admit every time.
“We’ll have dinner sometime this week.”
“If that’s what you want,” Aziraphale says at last, and he steps out of the Bentley. “Call me, please. And mind how you go.”
—
It hits Crowley hard, the memory of the last time he had seen Aziraphale, its weight slamming into him with unprecedented force, leaving him gasping for breath. In all his eons of existence, he has never felt anything like this. Another bottle shatters into pieces. Crowley buries his face in his hands. I’m sorry, angel, he thinks wildly, his throat raw and aching, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so so sorry, please angel, please. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, I’ll never cancel plans with you again, just please, come back. Come back to me.
Suddenly, Crowley sees the flicker of movement in his periphery, and before he can stop himself, hope flares in the pit of his stomach, bright and scorching, just for a split second, before he catches himself. He sinks down onto the couch and rubs at his eyes wearily. Maybe this is his corporation’s hard limit—too much alcohol and he starts hallucinating.
He opens his eyes, and he sees a silhouette towering above him.
Demon.
Instinct kicks in, and Crowley’s on his feet before he can think.
He reaches for his power, wrapping restraints tightly around the shadow where it stands, but it breaks free of the curse easily and throws him hard against a bookshelf. Crowley’s stunned, but only for a moment—in the next, he’s contained the shadow in a thick layer of demonic energy, freezing it in place. It takes Crowley more effort than he thought with his mind sodden with whiskey, and he staggers, almost losing his footing.
The moment of weakness costs him his chance—his hold over the demon is broken as the energy fades and dissipates, and suddenly an unseen hand is dragging Crowley bodily across the bookshop. He can’t move, can’t think, his corporation a wreck with weeks of drinking without pause, and he struggles fruitlessly against the force that’s pulling him back on his feet, shoving him hard onto the couch, rendering his limbs immovable. In a final bid to break free, Crowley tries to concentrate on shifting into his serpent form, but it’s impossible with his mind caught in a haze of alcohol and grief.
“Will you stop fighting and listen to me for a moment, you bloody idiot?”
The odd note of frustration in the voice makes Crowley snap to attention. There was something eerie about that voice, something almost… familiar. Crowley tenses as the demon lifts its glamour, revealing its corporeal form to Crowley—a male-shaped corporation, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit with a red tie.
The demon reaches up and pulls off his dark sunglasses, uncovering the sharp yellow-gold of his slitted eyes.
Crowley’s jaw drops. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Anthony J. Crowley,” the demon drawls.
Impossible. “Is Hell playing some kind of prank on me?” Crowley demands, still struggling to break free.
“Do you think there are other demons in Hell who have some semblance of a sense of humour, or fashion? This suit is Hugo Boss, thank you very much. From the 2019 Fall/Winter Collection.” The demon sighs and snaps his fingers.
Suddenly, Crowley’s mind is miraculously clear. He blinks for a moment in surprise, his tongue uncomfortably dry in his mouth after being sobered up unexpectedly. He eyes the other demon warily—he has to admit, it’s a compelling argument. “What’s going on here?”
The demon is wincing, and he rubs at one arm. “You’re stronger than I thought you’d be.”
“What’re you trying to say?” To Crowley’s annoyance, the demon gives him a sweeping look from head to toe.
“You’re all skin and bones,” he says abruptly, examining Crowley closely. “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror at all lately?”
This infuriates Crowley more than anything, and he bares his fangs in a snarl. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been through —”
“Don’t I, though?” The demon—Crowley?—rubs at his eyes in an uncannily familiar movement. “Look, let’s start over, shall we? I think we got off on the wrong foot here. I’m Anthony J. Crowley. You can call me Anthony, if you like. You can be Crowley.” He snaps his fingers once more, and the bonds holding Crowley in place unravel and release him.
This Crowley’s definitely not him, Crowley thinks somewhere in the back of his mind as he rubs the circulation back into his hands. For one thing, this one was weirdly polite. “Anthony,” Crowley repeats cautiously. “If this isn’t a trap or a joke, are you going to explain at all?”
Anthony exhales sharply. “Certainly. I suppose we’ll begin with… your Aziraphale being gone.”
“I’m not going to sit here and talk to you about this —”
“Listen, Crowley,” Anthony cuts across him, his voice urgent now. “He’s only gone, do you hear me? He’s not dead, just gone. My Aziraphale is—” His voice breaks for a moment, but he clears his throat and continues. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that your Aziraphale just isn’t here, do you understand? He’s somewhere else. In another universe, for lack of a better word.”
“What are you on about?” Crowley can’t process this. Aziraphale’s just… elsewhere? Despite himself, hope is beginning to unfold in his chest.
“I don’t know what happened,” Anthony says. The lines around his eyes tighten. “But the Aziraphales in the different universes have somehow gotten displaced. I know that doesn’t make any sense at all,” he adds quickly as Crowley opens his mouth to protest. “But I’m telling you, it’s true. Look at us. Aren’t we both Crowley? And yet we aren’t quite the same.”
Crowley takes another look at Anthony, sizing him up. The physical differences between them are immediately obvious. Anthony’s much more broad-shouldered, lean but muscled, with his dark hair carefully slicked back. He has a few inches on Crowley, and—though Crowley hates to admit it—he’s just this side of intimidating at first glance.
But the eyes… the eyes are the same.
“Did Hell brand you?” Crowley asks brusquely.
Anthony nods. “Serpent sigil like yours,” he says, gesturing to the side of his face. “On my back. Much bigger, though.”
That space between the base of his wings… the burn must have been terrible. Crowley winces at the thought. “That’s got to hurt.”
“It did.” Anthony lifts and drops a shoulder half-heartedly. “So did yours, I imagine.”
Crowley shrugs, and realises that he had just mirrored Anthony’s exact same gesture. His eyes flick suspiciously toward Anthony, who’s watching him with a weary sort of look on his face, and suddenly he knows they must be thinking the same thing. Because they are the same, yet not quite the same.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking of asking next, you better be prepared to answer it yourself,” Anthony warns.
Heat suffuses Crowley’s face suddenly as Anthony raises an eyebrow at him. “W-what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, if I were you, I’d have some very specific questions in mind. I’d ask about why you Fell first. And then maybe I’d ask about the… state of affairs, as it were, between you and your angel, how it all started.” Anthony drops an eyelid lazily at Crowley, who immediately begins to protest. “Relax. I’m not going to ask, and I think you wouldn’t either.”
“What makes you think you know me so well?” Crowley says sharply.
“For obvious reasons, I don’t think either of are interested in talking about Falling. As for the other thing, well…” Anthony’s mouth tilts up into a knowing smirk. “I’d be happy to answer that, but do you really want to know?”
There’s suddenly too much compassion in Anthony’s face for Crowley’s liking, and that is not a rabbit hole that he wants to fall into right now.
“Alright,” Crowley says at last, deciding he’d rather navigate them into safer waters for now. “Let’s say for the sake of argument that you and I, we really are both Crowley, except you’re from some other universe, or whatever. What does this have to do with—” He can’t bring himself to say the angel’s name out loud, but Anthony nods as though he understands.
“We have to put things back the way they were.” Anthony takes a step toward Crowley. “Find all the Aziraphales, return them to where they’re supposed to be.”
It sounds utterly ridiculous, but if there’s even the slightest chance that Crowley might see Aziraphale again… “How do we do that, exactly?”
“Same way I got here.” Anthony extends a hand to Crowley. “You’ll need your wings out.”
“Are we flying there?” Crowley says, alarmed.
“No, you idiot,” Anthony retorts. “It just makes things easier. Trust me.”
“Trust another demon? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Yeah, well.” Anthony’s lips curve into the same insouciant smirk Crowley’s seen so many times on his own face. It’s annoying beyond belief. “We’re all out of options, I’m afraid. Besides, you could at least try and trust yourself.”
“Very funny.” Crowley takes his hand. Anthony takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes. His wings unfurl from the ether, and to Crowley’s surprise, the feathers are a pearly grey. He hesitates for a moment before pulling out his own wings, letting out a little sigh of relief. It’s been a while since he’s had a proper stretch.
Anthony stares at them curiously. “Those… don’t look half bad,” he admits grudgingly. “You could do with a little more grooming, though.”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “Let’s go.”
“You ready, then?” The corners of Anthony’s lips twitch, as though he’s holding back a laugh. It would be infuriating if Crowley wasn’t so impatient to get the show on the road.
“I’ve got no idea what the fuck is happening, but sure, I’m ready.” Aziraphale, he thinks, wherever you are, I’m coming for you.
Anthony grins and grips Crowley’s hand tightly. “Here we go.”