Chapter Text
What do you wear to mourn when all you ever wear is black?
Crowley had asked himself many times. First scathingly, then with despair, and finally with acceptance of the realization that in order to mourn, he needed to move on. From Hell, from Heaven, from the life he’d been leading for millennia of skirting lines and bending rules and going along as far as he could. No more demon, just… Crowley.
It had been nearly a year after Aziraphale stepped into the lift with Metatron that he’d disappeared. Even when he was in Heaven, Crowley had always been able to feel Aziraphale. If anything, the connection had become stronger once Aziraphale had become Supreme Archangel: the constant reminder, not easily ignored, that he was out there somewhere, even if he was beyond Crowley’s reach. More often than not, it had been maddening, a slow knife twisting inside Crowley’s chest, the injury of knowing that Aziraphale had chosen Heaven, and he was powerless to change it. Despite the pain, the continuous presence was a deep, faint reassurance within Crowley; the comfort, now and then, that Aziraphale’s existence might mean his return.
Until, one day, when Crowley awoke not to the blade between his ribs, but an echoing emptiness where it had once lodged. Aziraphale, his presence, his essence, his goodness, his existence; was gone. For the first time since their separation, Crowley had reached out, panicking, trying to contact Aziraphale. But there was no response, and still he felt nothing. He’d raced to the bookshop, frightening Muriel with his maddened appearance, and demanded that they investigate. But their findings after making contact with Heaven only confirmed what Crowley already dreaded: Aziraphale was not there, nor on Earth, nor anywhere else that anyone knew or could divine. The rumour was, Muriel reported shakily, that he had been wiped from the Book of Life.
Crowley did not have much memory of the next few days. There were vague flashes of things he did not care to clarify; rage and despair and heartbreak and the oh so human responses to them that had forced themselves from the mouth and eyes and limbs of his corporation into the bookshop, now missing the heart of what had made it the only Home he had ever known. His first clear memory was of waking up on a soft old leather sofa tucked in a corner of the shop, covered in blankets. He’d clutched at his chest, feeling an agony he’d never felt before, and laughed a short, derisive bark at the novelty of such a thing after the aeons of his existence. Muriel had peered around a bookcase into the darkened corner, and Crowley felt tears trickle over the bridge of his nose.
The first time Crowley had thought about mourning clothes, it had made him laugh hysterically; the irony of being unable to express his grief in a way the world would recognize, because in a way he’d been mourning since his first day on Earth. But the idea had lodged in his brain like a thorn, niggling at him relentlessly. And slowly, amid the torpor of Crowley’s new existence, the idea took hold.
At first, it had been small things. Turning the underside of his collar into Aziraphale’s favourite tartan, the way he’d once made fun of the angel for doing. Adding a neatly folded, pale-brown pocket square to his blazer, precisely the same shade as Aziraphale’s lovingly preserved waistcoat. Fitting to his sleeves a pair of dazzlingly bright opal cufflinks; white, but with shifting threads of prismatic colour that echoed the swirling nebulae he’d once set in a dark, formless ether, with Aziraphale by his side. He began to move about the city, walking, driving, ceaselessly moving forward, like a shark desperate to breathe. He stopped where things reminded him of the angel: places they’d been, restaurants they’d frequented, trees Aziraphale had paused to admire. Crowley started going back to St. James’s Park, at first merely passing through, then walking slowly, then sitting on the bench, and observing the subtleties of the local spies.
One day, many months later, he’d gone up to the small bedroom above the bookshop for the first time. There, on a coatrack behind the door, hung Aziraphale’s jacket. A second, contingency copy he’d had made after the paintball incident, Aziraphale always keep it neat and ready, just in case. Crowley reached out slowly to lift it from its peg, and found it lighter than expected. Smooth against his fingertips, its lining was a silk darker than the jacket itself, and with just the faintest hint of blue. Unsure exactly what he was doing, Crowley had shrugged off his own jacket, and with a quick whirl of arms, settled Aziraphale’s onto his shoulders over the turtleneck beneath.
He hadn’t expected it to fit. The sleeves, always a little too long for Aziraphale, hung perfectly at his wrists. The angel’s shoulders were a little broader than his, but not so much that it really mattered— though Crowley’s lips twitched at the thought of what Aziraphale would say about tailoring if he could see. Crowley was taller than the angel, but it was a long jacket, and still hit him at mid-thigh. And, somehow, it was as though he could feel Aziraphale in the garment; not the way he’d been able to feel his presence before, but a sense of the shape and warmth and light of him, embedded in the fabric. Crowley turned to look at himself in the mirror, and his heart pounded. The feeling was one thing, but the sight of himself in Aziraphale’s jacket was too much. He had closed his eyes and pressed his hand to his chest. The small miracle had trickled from his splayed fingers into the jacket, turning it coal-black. Maybe someday. But not yet.
Today, Crowley was dressed the same as in that moment, hands thrust deeply into his trouser pockets as he strode out of St. James’s Park. It was early autumn, nearly a year now after Aziraphale’s disappearance, and the first really cool, crisp day of the season. Crowley had spent most of his afternoon in the park, enjoying the antics of the spies and harassing various people about their duck-feeding habits. There was a bag of freeze-dried peas in his jacket pocket, covered in equally freeze-fried wasabi. He had discovered that ducks didn’t care about spice, and that he himself in fact enjoyed it, so having one snack for both of them seemed only reasonable. They were also very good for giving to unsuspecting children.
As the afternoon wore on, despite the golden sunshine, the breeze had begun to nip at Crowley’s unprepared fingers, and he decided it was time to make his escape and go stoke up the fire in his flat (which, of course, never went out— it knew its master was a cold-blooded being), maybe enjoy a glass of whiskey. He cut across the Mall and through Calton Gardens; over Pall Mall and through St. James’s Square itself, where he had parked the Bentley on the far side. But just as he was rounding the final corner and reaching in to find his keys beneath the peas, the sound of laughter drifting from a nearby open window pulled Crowley up short.
Though he felt paralyzed with shock, Crowley still managed somehow to rotate on the spot, and his eyes fixated on the window. Behind the slight ripple of the glass, he could see the outline of the figure from which the familiar laugh had come, and he knew every inch of it. As in a dream, he walked towards the building, with its broad, wooden double-doors, their large glass panes seeming to beckon him in as his eyes flicked up briefly to read the golden, antique letters above the door, which stated: THE LONDON LIBRARY. Heart racing, Crowley pulled open the door and stepped inside, a rush of warm air brushing his face. Behind the reception desk, the figure was facing away from him, reshelving some books. The clothing was different; the grey trousers and striped, earth-toned jumper were nothing Crowley had ever seen him wear, but he was unmistakeable, and would have been even without the same blonde curls bouncing above his head as he reached up to carefully place a book. Even the small, round glasses were the same, Crowley saw as he stared, slack jawed, while the figure turned to face him. The familiar face smiled brightly as he folded his hands on top of the desk and said, in a friendly voice that scorched Crowley to his core,
“Hello there! How can I help?”
Aziraphale.