Work Text:
Crowley blamed Shakespeare.
It had never even crossed his mind, prior to the early seventeenth century, to conceive of himself writing poetry. Silver-tongued serpent was one thing, and Crowley flattered himself he was decently good at that part of the job description (the occasional ngk aside); poet, however, was something else altogether. And besides, demons most definitely, absolutely, positively, one hundred percent did not ever write poems. It was a ridiculous idea, and anyone who would think of such a thing was ridiculous.
But there came a point when enough of Crowley’s offhand comments had ended up repurposed in Will’s publications, scripts and sonnets circulating in theater circles and lauded by literary critics and the public alike, that he got to thinking.
And one evening, feeling exceptionally maudlin for no particular reason other than that he’d heard someone saying something about oysters earlier in the day, Crowley put pen to paper and started to write.
And once he’d started, as he found over the next two centuries, he could hardly stop.
The products of his creative efforts, Crowley sealed carefully away in a pocket dimension known only to himself. He couldn’t quite bring himself to actually destroy the manuscripts — his own words, his own thoughts, his own heart, somehow spun by his own hand into ink on a page — but that didn’t matter. No one else would ever read them, after all.
In 1793, drunk on crépes and smiles (and possibly a little bit of alcohol as well), Crowley sent a stack of pages to a publishing company.
Not too long after that, the first volume of love poetry by up-and-coming writer Antonio Penn hit the printing press.
~ ~ ~
When a complimentary copy of the book first made its way to his doorstep and Crowley realized in a flash exactly what he’d done, he indulged in a minor panic. He stared at the book in utter horror, caressing its cover with one hand while tearing his hair with the other. At least twelve times in the space of one impromptu solo drinking session, he very nearly snapped his fingers — to revoke publication, to miracle the book out of existence, at the very least to ensure that all its printed copies would meet with some suitably unfixable catastrophe and never reach a reader’s eye.
Every time, he lowered his hand without snapping. He couldn’t quite manage to do it. Someone had read his words, and decided they were worthy of being shared with the world. And if that was the case, then who was Crowley to say no? Could there really be any harm in letting his work stay out there in the world, now that it was already there?
After all, especially with a clever pen name like he’d come up with, no one would ever know it was him.
Crowley slipped the book — his book, his poems, his words, published! — away into a back corner of the pocket dimension, and he kept on writing.
Over the course of the next six decades, Antonio Penn achieved some small success as a poet. He released several more collections of poems. He never reached beyond moderate renown, but his most dedicated readers raved over the emotional depths and subtleties of yearning, passion, and commitment expressed in his work.
When Penn writes in metaphors of “thousands of years” and muses on eternity, one reviewer reflected, one can hardly help but momentarily forget that we are all but mortal.
~ ~ ~
Holy water, the note read, written in the same ink that Crowley used to pour his nonexistent soul into rhymes and free verse.
Fraternizing, the word spun in his head, that one deadly word more deeply entrenched than any other he'd encountered, leaving no space for any competing lines, stanzas, or verses.
I don’t need you, he lied — a silver-tongued serpent spitting words of pain and falsehood, where once he had whispered truth in poetry.
When he returned home from the park, Crowley found his latest work-in-progress, lying half-written and innocent on a desk. He tore the paper to pieces, and burned it, and drowned the ashes in a teakettle, and flung the last remnants of what had once been the fruit of his heart into the pocket dimension, jumbled with books and manuscripts and shattered joys. He slammed the metaphysical door shut on it all with a vengeance, sparing a passing thought to wish pocket dimensions came with locks and keys that could be thrown away.
Then he broke his pen in two, and went to bed.
~ ~ ~
It was one of Aziraphale’s gavotte partners at the club in Portland Place who gifted him his first copy of one of Antonio Penn’s anthologies of poetry.
“If you claim to like reading,” Thomas had said with authority, “you have to try Penn. You’ll love him. Here, I have an extra copy at home. I’ll bring it next time.”
And since Aziraphale didn’t feel like arguing — and besides, he was never going to turn down a book, and he was always looking for new recommendations for reading material, especially these days when he found himself seeking the comfort of refuge in the written word rather more often and definitely more desperately than ever before — he accepted the offer.
After his next visit to the club, Aziraphale took the book from Thomas, brought it to his shop, stuck it on a shelf, practiced some dance steps, and promptly forgot all about it until a month and a half later, when Thomas inquired what he’d thought of Penn.
When he got home that evening, Aziraphale rummaged through shelves until he found the poetry book again and sat down, determined to give at least the first couple pieces a chance — if only to have something to say the next time Thomas asked about it.
Four hours later, he put the book down, wiped his eyes, pulled out some catalogs, and identified sources from which to order the rest of Antonio Penn’s published bibliography. Then he made himself some tea and sat back down to read through the first poem again: this time slower, speaking the words aloud in the empty bookshop, lingering over every syllable and taking the time to feel the rhythms, to feel the meanings, the messages, the emotions… simply to feel.
And oh, how Aziraphale did feel.
~ ~ ~
Penn was, of course, far from the first love poet whose works Aziraphale had read… and, indeed, far from the first whose poetry had touched his heart, or perhaps even (as Aziraphale approached admitting to himself only when he was feeling especially excessively drunk or sentimental, and even then never quite crossed the line into acknowledgement) in whom he could see some aspect of his own feelings.
Still, he was not sure he had ever encountered an author whose words resonated quite so deeply. Joy lined with heartache, heartache with love, impossible longing, improbable connection, the simultaneous depth and simplicity of it all, the timbre of true, heartfelt dedication (there was also the occasional limerick complaining about horses, against which the fellow seemed to carry quite a grudge, and wasn’t that something Aziraphale would have liked to share with someone who wasn’t Thomas)…
Not being a poet himself, Aziraphale couldn’t really find the words to express what it was about Penn’s work that struck him so intimately. All he knew was that, when he was by himself (as he usually was), drowning (as he too often did) in awareness of loss and loneliness, he would take up one of Penn’s books, open to a page of choice or chance, and lose himself in the joint comfort and catharsis of the lines.
Whoever was the author’s beloved, the inspiration for so many of those poems, Aziraphale wondered if they knew. He liked to imagine that they did, that the adoration was reciprocated. That the two of them would find a way to be with each other, to be happy.
Someone ought to be happy, after all.
As for Aziraphale, he held the poetry to his core, leaned into the words that seemed to speak his own heart, and wrapped them around himself like the gentle arms of the friend he no longer had.
~ ~ ~
He tried, several times, to figure out who Antonio Penn was. It wasn’t hard to guess that the name on the book covers was almost certainly a pseudonym, but that didn’t mean there was no way of tracing the poet’s true identity and finding him to request an autograph. (Aziraphale had had no difficulty tracking down the Brontë sisters or Charles Dodgson.) Aziraphale asked around, and tapped some of his sources, though he didn’t have much luck. No one seemed to know exactly who or where Penn actually was — even the company that published his writing.
Elusiveness notwithstanding, given enough time, Aziraphale could almost certainly have managed to locate the poet one way or another. He had his ways, and he knew people. He had experience in this sort of thing.
No, the real difficulty was time. Penn had been writing at least since the ‘90s, which meant he had to be getting on in years; an old man now at best, and Aziraphale had discovered his work late. Still, the last published anthology was dated only a couple years back, so perhaps that meant…
When fifteen more years had come and gone and, despite Aziraphale’s regular check-ins, Antonio Penn released no more poetry, Aziraphale had to accept that this was one author from whom he was never going to get an autograph.
It was a shame, really; he thought he would rather have liked to meet this Antonio. Of course, you could never really tell who a person was from their writing, no matter how authentic it might feel, as Aziraphale was well aware (goodness knew, he’d met more than his share of immensely talented artists who were also truly terrible people). Still, he couldn’t help but feel that they would have gotten on. And he did wish he could have at least given the fellow a blessing or something. It would have been the least he could do.
Ah, well. Humans’ time on Earth was limited, but at least their works could last.
Penn’s writings were given a treasured place in Aziraphale’s back room, hidden away where there was no danger of any customer ever finding them. Side by side with the Buggre Alle This Bible, but rather more frequently read.
~ ~ ~
“Anthony?” Aziraphale repeated disbelievingly, blinking. The Nazis’ faces and guns faded into irrelevant background, his head whirling with Crowley, Crowley, Crowley… he’s here… he came… he…
“You don’t like it?” Crowley asked.
“No, no!” Aziraphale said hastily, correcting courses before his reaction could be misinterpreted further. “I’ll get used to it.” He would. There was really no reason to be so wrongfooted by the coincidence; it was, after all, a very common sort of name. And there was no reason Crowley shouldn’t have chosen it for himself. Aziraphale shook himself off, trying to settle his thoughts. “What’s the J stand for?”
If Aziraphale had been a poet, he might have written a plethora of verses about that day, that rescue, that reunion. About that moment when Anthony J. (just a J, really) Crowley gave into his hands a bag of books… and with it a realization, a certainty, a truth, more vivid and powerful than any collection of words and rhymes of even the most talented writer.
On second thought, no: even if Aziraphale had been a poet, he would never have dared put this particular realization to writing.
He could never express it to anyone, least of all to the subject of the realization. But even if he never said it, Aziraphale would always know.
Later that night, when Crowley had finally driven off — another parting, reluctant as ever, but this time a parting that at least came with the comfort and promise of a choked see you around, angel — Aziraphale took out Antonio Penn’s first book, and looked at one of the poems that spoke of long, deep, unspeakable, unstoppable, unshakeable love. He dabbed at his eyes. He chuckled, softly.
“You and me both,” Aziraphale whispered to the pages, and sighed.