Chapter Text
Most people, upon hearing the name RMS Laetitia, think about the famous sinking. The storm, the collision, the rush to save as many as possible, and the lives nevertheless lost. The maritime disaster that changed the course of history; that is how she is remembered, after all.
When Crowley thought of the Laetitia, he could barely see how the ship from his memories was the same as the one from the sinking. For him, the Laetitia was something else entirely.
The Laetitia was stolen moments in the storage room. Crew parties and laughter, both friendly and cruel. The Laetitia was standing on deck, or in the lookout tower, staring out into the night, pretending to see stars. Hushed whispers, stolen glances, careful touches, and, for reasons only Crowley knew, books.
Books being stolen, read, and discreetly returned. The sound of a turning page, or the scratching of a pen, blue eyes more focused on its movements than Crowley ever saw them on anything else. Books, with writing that hurt Crowley’s head, but that he made sure to read anyway, just to be able to tell Aziraphale that he had.
Crowley was never able to connect those memories with what they said was left of the Laetitia at the bottom of the sea. She existed in darkness now, withering away, thousands of feet below the surface. For some people, that was what they pictured when they recollected the Laetitia. It didn’t matter what stories they heard from those who had travelled on her, passengers or crew, those who’d been there that night and those who hadn’t.
Then again, whenever anyone asked Crowley about his time aboard the ship, he always answered the same thing: “Eh. Just another ship, really.”