Work Text:
Some things are fundamental to being a creator.
A complicated, passionate relationship with one's work. Worries about how it will be received and interpreted, even if one is certain they are creating for themself and not the validation of others. Endless frustration in the beginning stages, as they create the crappy, messiest form of what will eventually be their final piece.
And of course, procrastination. It is very common to find a creator doing anything but making the one thing they’ve been talking about and aiming to create non-stop.
Anthony Crowley was no exception.
He was a very accomplished artist, if he did say so himself, with sculpting being his main area of specialty.
The piece he was most known for was a unique, abstract piece called ‘Creation of a Nebula’, which was a 3D sculpture of a nebula, created using all sorts of things from Earth, including old lights, car handles, and other recycled materials. It had been displayed in the Tate Modern, and widely praised in art circles for managing to be both beautiful and make a statement.
Crowley had a very complicated relationship with it.
It was always nice to hear that people were enjoying his work, no matter which their personal favourite was. The thing was, it had been one of his earliest creations, though it hadn’t gained widespread recognition until later on. It was a little frustrating for there to be so little interest in the more traditional sculptures he had created later.
Often, he had tried to make things more in line with ‘Nebula’, but he could never summon the heart, passion, or energy of the original. He had been younger then, and now it felt almost like he was being constantly compared to somebody he no longer was.
His latest commission was a sculpture for a public park in Soho, in memory of a longtime owner and resident who had sadly passed on. It was funded by the local community, and not particularly good money, but Crowley liked the heart of the intent.
All they’d asked for was a sculpture for the local park, something that would look nice in the surroundings. For some reason, all it had taken was one visit to the park for Crowley to be certain that the sculpture should be of an Angel. It just felt right.
Standing in the park that day, with all his certainty, he had thought this project would be easy. Maybe even fun.
Oh, how naive he had been.
Stacks of books were read for inspiration before being hopelessly set aside. Hundreds of sketches were crumpled up and abandoned. One lump of clay after another had been taken, been sculpted into something that initially had potential but eventually proven hideous, and tossed aside. In a particular burst of frustration, Crowley had tossed his latest attempt towards the heavens. It now was stuck to the ceiling.
Nothing felt right.
He knew what a good angel statue looked like. The work of Michelangelo, Berini, Da Vinci, all showed angels which were ethereal, holy, serene. Beautiful in a way that was not quite of this world.
Some of his attempts had looked good. To an average person, they might even have been impressive. But they were wrong.
He just knew that the angels he was creating weren’t his Angel.
Eventually, Crowley decided the best thing he could do was get away for a bit and come back to face his artistic endeavour with fresh eyes.
Perhaps it would be good to reconsider the area where the statue would eventually live. Maybe even find out a bit more about the person it was being made in honour of.
Which is how he came to find himself in Soho, wandering around somewhat aimlessly and trying to get a feel for the neighbourhood.
Despite being a resident of London for almost all of his adult life, Crowley rarely ventured into Soho. The crowded streets, constantly honking car horns, and overall rush of everything was very much not his speed. That wasn’t even considering how hard the roads were to navigate in his beloved vintage Bentley.
Opting to avoid that nightmare today, and bid farewell to his dear Bentley at home, instead taking the tube.
He somewhat regretted it now, it would be nice to have a place he could sit and close off the world to think for five minutes.
Another person pushed past him, while a group of tourists barrelled towards him from the opposite direction. Ugh. Perhaps the statue could be an angel being pulled to Hell by thousands of obnoxious demons, forced together, shoved shoulder to shoulder.
An interesting concept, perhaps a good theme to remember for a different piece. Probably not a good tribute to a beloved bookseller.
Bookseller… that meant that there had to be a bookshop he could duck into somewhere around here.
Cowering as close to the side of the pavement as he could, he pulled out his phone and searched.
Bingo. A.Z. Fell and Co. Antiquarian Bookshop.
Despite his vague search terms, it had been the first result.
With Google Maps as his guiding beacon, he made his way to Whickber Street.
Turning onto the road, he felt different somehow. The pavements were just as busy, the traffic still continually slow and constant, but it all seemed to bother him less. It was as calm and straightforward as walking down the street he lived on.
Was he sure he had never been here before?
Then he spotted it. The bookshop.
It wasn’t anything special really. An interesting corner building, architecture standard to the local area. There was nothing that should particularly interest Crowley. He didn’t care much for old books.
Yet… He felt almost in awe. It was how he had felt as a university student, seeing some of the most incredible sculptures. The sense of carefree ease he had felt hanging out in dodgy areas with his teenage mates. The delectable pleasure of drinking a nice glass of red wine as an adult.
Walking up to the bookshop felt like approaching your front door after coming back from a long day, and thinking, ‘Ah, finally.’
Crowley had never been here before. He had to get in there right this second.
A sign on the door brought him to a screeching halt.
Back in 15 Minutes.
Fuck.
Now what was he to do?
Desperate to escape the crowds of people, but unable to bring himself to go too far from the strange beckoning of the bookshop, he took the next best option and slipped into the record shop next door.
The difference was startling. Where the streets had been intrusively crowded, the shop was so empty that it felt suffocating.
Old fashioned music played, crackling from a record player somewhere. Crowley was distantly aware of a light bell ringing as the door closed behind him, but was momentarily distracted by a Velvet Underground vinyl. Bebop.
He frowned. What on Earth had possessed him to think that? Was it something someone had said to him once?
“Hello!”
Crowley jumped.
A woman had popped up behind the counter, out of what felt like nowhere. She wore a cheerful cardigan, and her hair was tied up with a bright ribbon. As she beamed at him with a smile that was reminiscent of the sun coming out after a furiously rainy day.
Crowley felt a little guilty that he had only entered her shop to kill time, and had no intention of buying anything.
He gave a subdued nod. “Good morning.”
“Welcome, I’m Maggie. Is there anything I can help you with?” She asked a little too eagerly.
Crowley was halfway to saying ‘No, thanks,’ out of habit before he remembered that there was actually something she might be able to help him with.
“Er, yes. I’m wondering if you could tell me about the man next door, the one who passed on. For the sculpture,” he added awkwardly. “I’m the sculptor who was commissioned, you see. I thought it would be good to have some extra information about him.”
“Oh yes!” she nodded in recognition, “Nina - she’s the owner of the coffee shop across the street, really lovely person - talked about that. She said you were really keen to make it an angel.”
“Yeah,” said Crowley awkwardly. “It just felt right. Not that I knew him or anything.”
“Oh it’s absolutely perfect, he really was an angel of a human being. So kind - he often would pop around here with cake. And gosh, the number of times he forgave my rent for next to nothing.”
“That must be rare in this area,” Crowley commented before considering how rude his words might come across.
Fortunately, Maggie didn’t seem to take any offence. “Definitely. I don’t know what I’ll do now he’s gone.” After a pause, she asked, “Are you wanting a picture of him, to base your statue on?”
“Oh no,” Crowley held up a hand, “I’m not trying to do a direct recreation of him. It’s more just a statue of a general angel. To honour such a wonderful person.”
“Ah,” Maggie nodded, “that makes sense. Are you planning to do something more abstract, like ‘Temptation of Eden’?”
The mention of one of his works distracted Crowley from whatever he had been about to say. ‘Temptation’ featured shattered glass panes, mended back together with gold using kintsugi. A serpent trailed around the edge, eating its own tail, and an apple was engraved in the centre. It had not been much of a hit with the public. None of the cheer and optimism of ‘Nebula’, the critics had complained. Nevertheless, it was one of Crowley’s personal favourites.
Seeing Crowley’s expression, Maggie blushed and explained, “After they hired you, Nina and I spent some time looking at your past works. You’re very good.”
“Thank you,” said Crowley, smiling slightly. Then, because he couldn’t resist, “Which is your favourite?”
“I love ‘Job’s kids’,” said Maggie, “not only is a statue of a child and a goat together really cute, the pun is so clever.”
“I’m glad somebody else likes it,” said Crowley. “The client thought it was ‘irreverent’. I had to fight him for it.”
“Tragic!” Maggie shook her head disapprovingly. “Some people just don’t want to have fun. Mind you, Nina’s favourite of yours is ‘The Antichrist’, and I have to admit that one gives me the creeps.”
Crowley understood this. A statue of a baby with horns and hooves for feet was not to everyone’s taste.
“Would you like some tea?” Maggie asked, interrupting his thoughts, and Crowley found himself unable to refuse.
Morning sunlight streamed through the windows of Crowley’s studio as he entered, with a confidence he had not held prior.
Continued visits to Whickber Street had been rejuvenating. Aside from Maggie, he had also met the girl she frequently swooned over, Nina.
Blunt, tired, and taking no nonsense, she was nothing like Crowley had expected, but he liked her. They talked a lot about Soho, about art, about the most annoying locals (he had once had the displeasure of meeting Mr Brown of Brown’s Marvellous Carpets, and he hoped their paths never crossed again), and of course, Mr Fell.
He sounded quite interesting indeed. Charming, generous, occasionally a bit obnoxious. A blessing to the local queer community, the bane of UK rare book enthusiasts, and the star of many internet memes, he seemed quite a character.
Crowley found himself sorry they’d never had the opportunity to meet.
He’d tried asking the inheritor of the bookshop, Muriel, about him, but had only gotten a series of evasive and confusing answers from them. Most frustratingly, they had never let him enter the bookshop. Thwarting his every attempt with a series of excuses, it eventually got to the point that Crowley was sure they closed the shop every time he was in the area. He had resigned himself to never seeing the inside of the mysteriously alluring building, but that didn’t stop him being annoyed by it.
Still, the frustration almost drove him artistically. The last few weeks had proven to be far more successful than his tumultuous first ones. Where he had been scraping the figurative bottom of the barrel for ideas, he now found himself abounding in them. The statue had turned from a block of stone, to a figure, to a figure with wings, and was slowly beginning to resemble an angel.
Now, the only problem facing him… was the face.
He just couldn’t picture it. Every sketch he tried, every attempt in clay… it just looked wrong.
Maybe the angel just shouldn’t have a face. It could be a commentary on… something.
At that moment, the clay that had long ago become part of the ceiling to him fell down. Right on the Angel's head.
“Oi!” Crowley yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Groaning, he grabbed a cloth and moved to wipe the trail of gunk off the statue’s head.
While cleaning, he found himself pausing, cupping where the Angel’s cheek would be.
Fuck it. His Angel would be looking up. Towards the heavens, toward where he had been unceremoniously hit in the face with a ball of Crowley’s clay.
As he got out his chisel and began shaping the head, Crowley considered what expression his Angel might have.
Maybe it was time to try a different technique.
What did he imagine his Angel was like?
He thought about all the things he had considered an angel to be. Ethereal. Strong. Pensive. He thought about the late bookseller. A person who had been kind, cheerful, generous. Who had been a bit stuck up and a bit dramatic. He had all the beautiful three dimensionality of being human.
That was what had been missing from his ideas.
Trimming down the head, Crowley set to work on the expression.
His Angel would definitely have laugh lines, from an eternity of smiles, laughter, always looking on the bright side of things.
Mental images flashed through his head, blurry, disconnected. Meetups through the ages, drinking together, talking, irritation and affection blurred into one.
Focusing, he tried to imagine his Angel’s eyes. Bright, twinkling, a window to his true feelings. Crowley wasn’t sure how he was so certain, but he felt confident that his Angel was a terrible liar. Worried, mischievous, content, whatever emotion he was feeling, it was clear in his eyes.
Even though Crowley had done his best to give his Angel all the best human qualities, he still seemed to have an ethereal quality. He was still holy, had faith in his God and fellow angels and belief that they would always make the right choices.
For some reason, this made Crowley feel rather bitter.
Still, the expression of his Angel wasn’t entirely happy. There was a wistful element there. A twinge of regret.
For hours, Crowley worked, chiselling away and adjusting the most minute of details. The sunbeams poured into the studio as the sun set, slowly flooding his workspace with light and making him squint in discomfort, but he didn’t dare move to close the blind and break the trance that he was in.
Eventually, he felt a sense of completion, and he stepped back and looked at his Angel properly for the first time.
Staring at the figure, Crowley felt as if he’d been slapped in the face. He felt as if he was staring at the face of someone he knew, someone he loved. He was certain he’d never met anyone who looked remotely like the statue. He had gone out of his way to make sure it wasn’t based on anyone.
Yet, he felt himself overcome with a sense of loss, staring at the familiar stranger he had brought to existence with his hands. Somehow, he felt like he was missing something, something very important to him, and illogically he found himself crushed with the pain of that emptiness, missing someone he had never met.
It didn’t make any sense. But that didn’t stop the crushing pain.
He stood in front of the statue, wishing he could understand. Wishing things were different.
There was a part of Aziraphale that still viciously hated the decision, if he was being honest with himself.
It had been necessary, Heaven had argued. If Crowley wasn’t willing to join them, then who knows what he might get up to left unattended, brokenhearted and angry. Causing trouble was his ‘thing’, they couldn’t risk him interfering with something this important.
Their original plans had been something far more sinister, but Aziraphale would not stand for that. As Head Archangel, his authority had overruled them. It was quite an adjustment, being in charge.
Not that it felt like it. If Aziraphale had been given the choice, he would have left Crowley in peace. He didn’t understand how Heaven could be willing to restore angelhood to him one minute, and condemning his existence the next.
So, Aziraphale had done what he could for his demon. Taken steps that were necessary without inflicting punishment on him.
Crowley had always loved humanity. If his fate was to be rewritten in the book of life, then he deserved to be among them. Living a peaceful life.
Something like what Crowley had always wanted for the two of them.
He would be an artist, Aziraphale had felt quite certain. Still living in Mayfair, still wearing all black, still dramatic as ever. But he would get a chance to feed that creative flame that was always at his core, which Aziraphale had witnessed, so long ago, back when they were both angels and things were different.
He knew it was for the best. That if he didn’t save Crowley now, someone else would do something.
That didn’t stop it from being crushingly painful.
Crowley was always in his thoughts, even when Aziraphale just wanted to push through, think of anything else. Thinking of Crowley just reminded him of the fact their most precious memories were now only held by one.
Sometimes, when things were quiet, and Aziraphale found himself alone, in the isolating and desolate upper spaces of Heaven, he would do more than think. Would check the files, see what Crowley was up to.
Admire his beautiful artwork.
It was strange, Aziraphale could swear that some of them were reminiscent of the truth. Of Crowley’s experiences as a demon. It was probably just a coincidence, but still.
An angel could dream.
He wasn't supposed to return to Earth. The existence of Mr Fell, beloved and beloathed Soho Bookseller, had not been rewritten in the fabric of life itself, and the chances of someone recognising him were far too high. Better to avoid all the fuss.
Yet, he found himself drawn back to his old streets. His bookshop. His neighbours. His home.
He had loved this community so much. He still did, really.
It was only after wandering through the park near Whickber Street that he realised how much he had been loved in return.
There was a statue there, one which he had never seen before. A statue of an angel.
A smile bloomed across his face. How lovely.
Stepping closer, his face slowly fell as he took in the appearance of the statue. It was familiar. A little too familiar. Almost like looking in a mirror. Had to be a coincidence of course, but it still was unsettling.
Then he saw the inscription.
In memory of Mr Fell, beloved Soho Resident and very occasional bookseller.
His eyes brimmed with tears. He would never have expected this. He felt terrible, like a cheat, who didn't deserve the affection and grief of such kind, well intended people.
“Are you alright?” A familiar voice broke through to him, sounding concerned.
Oh no. Not now. Aziraphale couldn't take this. He wasn't strong enough.
Unfortunately a part of him couldn't resist, could never resist when it came to Crowley. He could back away. Take a direct portal to Heaven and never see him again.
But Aziraphale didn't want that. Not for all the awkwardness in the world.
“Oh, yes,” he said, trying to inject a false cheer into his voice which didn't quite hit. “Just very moved. By the statue.”
“Ah. I understand.”
Aziraphale could no longer resist. He looked away from the statue and turned towards the man who was speaking to him.
Crowley looked back, a concern faintly visible in the eyes which were hidden behind the dark lenses. His hair was longer than it had been in a while, tied up in a messy bun. He was wearing all black, unsurprisingly. To protect against the cold, he had fingerless gloves, a dark scarf, and a double buttoned overcoat. It was strange, seeing him in winter wear. Crowley had never really bothered with it before, it wasn't like unearthly beings were affected by temperature.
It suited him.
“Was a very kind gesture from the community, really. He must have been quite an amazing guy.”
Aziraphale felt a sting of guilt. “Or they're just particularly kind people.”
“Ehh,” said Crowley, “you don't put up a statue for just anyone. That's why I took the job, even though the money wasn't the best. It just felt right somehow.”
It took a moment for the words to catch up to Aziraphale. “You made this?”
“Yep,” Crowley popped the P, awkwardly looking at the statue. “Just wanted to see how it was doing.”
“But…” Aziraphale stared up at the statue. Crowley wasn't meant to know him. He clearly didn't recognise him. Yet, the face of the statue was undeniably his own. “How did you do it?”
“It was a battle at first,” said Crowley. “I just couldn't get it quite right, even though it felt like I tried everything under the sun.”
“Oh?”
“So,” he continued thoughtfully, “I came down here, learned a bit more about this beloved Mr Fell. It was strange, I got a real sense of deja vu.”
Aziraphale made no comment, he was too busy trying to wrestle with the impossibility of what Crowley was saying.
“After that, I went back to my studio, and it all just clicked into place.”
The knots in Aziraphale’s stomach began to untwine themselves.
“So, you based it on this Bookseller?” He attempted to keep his voice even.
“Oh not at all,” said Crowley nonchalantly. “Though it's funny, a lot of people have said there's a strong resemblance. All I did was think of him as my Angel, and then it all slotted into place. It was like sculpting someone I already knew. Very strange really.”
Oh, Aziraphale couldn't take this. It was too painful. He had to get out of there. He couldn’t bring himself to leave.
“Well,” he said, trying not to cry, “you did a wonderful job, Crowley.”
“Thanks,” Crowley gave him a lopsided grin that felt so familiar it hurt. Then, his face folded into a confused frown, “How do you know my name?”
“Oh… I'm familiar with your work.”
“Ah,” Crowley nodded. “‘Creation of a Nebula’?”
“No actually - well yes, I love all your works - but Nebula’s not my favourite.” He took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice even. “I just… I really loved ‘To The World’.”
There was a pause as Crowley contemplated this, until realisation and surprise spread across his features.
“Oh, that old piece of glasswork! I didn't even realise anyone knew about that.”
“I always thought it was beautiful,” said Aziraphale, smiling sadly.
The piece in question was a sculpture of two wine glasses, clinking together, and as the liquids spilled out they formed the shape of the Earth. As soon as Aziraphale had seen it, he had adored it, even if it made him hurt.
“Anyway,” Crowley's voice brought him back to the present, “I've got to head off. Maybe I'll see you around some time?”
Aziraphale smiled, “Yes, possibly.” Reality cruelly caught up to him. “Unlikely though, I don't live here anymore.”
“Shame,” said Crowley. “Well, you never know. It’s a small world.”
“You have no idea,” Aziraphale laughed bitterly. He shook his head, trying to push the tidal wave of feelings away. “Make sure you take care, okay?” He told Crowley, earnestly.
Nodding back at him, Crowley grinned, “You too. Ciao.”
Then he sauntered away, in a typically Crowley fashion.
Leaving Aziraphale stood alone, in front of his statue. Feeling just how much he had lost. Wondering what might have been if he had made other choices.
Wishing things were different.