Chapter Text
He’ll turn around.
He’ll turn around, and come back. He’ll apologize, and suggest they talk over dinner, to reconcile and then decide where they’re going off to.
Crowley would suggest somewhere far away, like New Zealand. Aziraphale would suggest somewhere touristy, like Venice or Greece.
But it didn’t matter where they went. As long as they went there together.
Aziraphale just needed to turn around—
There!
Crowley watched as the angel turned from the lift, looking back towards the demon. Crowley waited. He’d come back. Now. He’d run across the street, grab Crowley by the arms and—
He turned away.
Crowley watched his angel turn away from him and enter the lift to Heaven. The doors closed. And he was gone.
Well.
That’s that then.
Crowley swallowed, his hand curling into a tight fist as he kept his face straight. People were walking by. The coffee girl was watching him, waving in greeting. The records girl was asleep, across the street.
He got into the car. Ignored the lingering smell of a cologne that wasn’t his. Ignored the pounding, aching, burning in his chest, in his head, in his throat.
The engine roared to life, the radio clicking on.
“And a nightingale sang…in Berkeley square…”
He grit his teeth and quickly clicked off the radio. Silence pounded against the windows.
He pulled off the corner and into the street, driving away from the bookshop.
He had no destination in mind. Nowhere he needed or wanted to go, nowhere he could go. But he had his car, and it knew to drive even while his mind was blank, as he pushed everything far far down so the pain didn’t eat away at him.
He had a lot of practice stuffing down this particularly familiar ache.
Franklin’s Tavern. Royal Mustang Gin.
The Dutch House. White Ice Vodka.
Wiltshire Pub. Monty Vale Rum.
That’s how he’d deal with this, like he dealt with it every time something royally blew up in his face. He’d get properly pissed.
He pulled into the first bar he could find, screeching to a halt in a miraculously empty front parking space, slamming the door behind him and bursting through the entrance of the tavern. It was still early so the place was mostly empty.
“Give me a bottle of something that’ll make me forget my problems.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow, but blissfully didn’t ask. She threw her rag over her shoulder and pulled out a bottle of vodka.
“What is this, breakfast?”
She gave him a withering look, and just when Crowley thought he’d have to jump over the bar himself because she was going to start asking questions, she pulled out a small bottle of absinthe.
“That’ll work,” he muttered. She poured out a small glass, and silently continued wiping down the counter.
Crowley downed the contents and took the bottle himself to pour another glass, full all the way to the top.
“I forgive you,” Crowley muttered into the cup before tipping his head back and swallowing everything. He slammed the glass down with an exaggerated exhale. “I forgive you!”
“Pardon?”
Crowley looked to his left to see an older woman sitting beside him, looking curious and concerned.
“I forgive you,” Crowley said slowly, pouring another full glass. “Means ‘I agree with you but I can’t say that I agree with you.’ Means ‘this is wrong but I’m too damn cowardly to admit I want it too.’ Means…” Crowley paused with the glass to his lips. “Means nothing. Nothing at all.” He emptied the glass, putting it down softly as he stared at the table top. Finally, he felt the edges of his mind begin to blur, felt everything start to slow down.
He just wanted that face to disappear. That expression of pain, of regret, right after he’d… It made Crowley want to throw himself out a window, made him want to crawl into the deepest darkest coldest hole in Hell.
He wanted those three words to fade into a buzz of white noise, rather than replaying over and over and over again with crystal clear clarity.
“It’ll be okay, love,” the woman said with an encouraging smile, reaching over and putting her hand on Crowley’s forearm, stopping him from pouring another drink. “I’ve been around the bend for quite a while ,” she chuckled and Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Whatever happened between you and the missus, you just need to say sorry. Happy wife happy life, and all that!”
Crowley raised a glass in cheers before downing the rest of the contents and stumbling off his stool, taking the bottle with him. He waved away the bartender's complaints about payment. He was a demon, he was evil, he was allowed to steal. He ignored the small voice in his head that told him she’d find her tip jar miraculously filled at the end of the night.
He chugged the rest of the contents as he sauntered out, his steps more uneven than normal. He flung open his car door and sat heavily. The engine kicked on and the Bentley slowly pulled out into the street.
“Happy wife happy life,” he muttered to himself, closing his eyes. He’d done that. That’s all he’d done, since the beginning. Everything had been to make the angel happy–
“Nope. Nope, no no, not thinking about it.” Crowley sat up, grabbed the steering wheel firmly, changed gears and pressed his foot down. The engine roared. He turned the steering wheel but it held firmly in place, slipping in his grasp. He grit his teeth and yanked but the Bentley stayed on its path, barreling down Central London. “Oi! We’re not going back this way!” The wipers clicked on once, the radio suddenly blaring to life.
“Dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at nine—”
Crowley punched the off button on the radio. “Listen here! You’re my car, you hear me! Mine! You’ll listen to me, and I’m telling you that we are not—”
The Bentley slowed, rolling to a pathetic halt just outside Give me Coffee or Give me Death. The engine clicked off, and Crowley sat in silence in the same exact spot he had been in while waiting for the angel to come out of the book shop, to turn around, and run back to him and—
Crowley sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, scratching at his eyes.
“He’s not going to be here,” Crowley murmured into his palms. “He’s not going to be back, he’s not—”
There was a crisp knock at his window, and Crowley’s head shot up so fast his glasses flew off at an angle, hanging crookedly from his right ear. He saw Nina leaning down and peering at him through the glass. He felt sick.
Fixing his shades, Crowley rolled down the window.
“Yes?” he hissed quietly.
“Brought you a drink,” she said amicably, holding out a paper cup with a lid. “Six shots of expresso.”
“Thanks,” Crowley muttered, taking the cup and not drinking it. He contemplated turning it into more alcohol. Tempting. He put the cup in the cup holder.
“So. How’d the talk go with Mr. Fell?” she asked, seeming uncomfortable standing on the sidewalk, leaning over to speak with him through the window. Crowley didn’t offer to alleviate the discomfort by getting out.
“Fine,” he bit out. He didn’t want to do this. He felt prickly all over, like electricity was buzzing under his skin, trying to crawl out through his fingernails.
She nodded. “And you actually did have a conversation, yes?”
“Yes, I did . I did have a conversation and it did not go well, and now I’m trying to just sit in my car where I live and drink myself into a coma so I can forget about any of this until he comes to his senses and returns to his shop, where he’ll say he’s sorry and things will go back to the way they’ve always been. So if you don’t mind —”
“Whoa, hey!” Nina said, waving a hand in front of her face as smoke began to escape the Bentley’s open window. “No no, none of that again! Come on.” She opened his door and grabbed his arm. She pulled him out, quickly retracted her hand with a wince at the heat. “If you cause another lightning storm that messes up my shop–”
“I’m fine!” Crowley said, stumbling backward, his heel slipping on the curb as he fell against the Bentley. “I just said, this happens all the time!”
“God, you’re pissed,” Nina said, looking him up and down as Crowley struggled to stay upright. “It’s not even 7.”
“Never too early for a drink, I always say,” Crowley said, waving off Nina’s offered hand. “In fact, I think everyone should be drinking right now!” Crowley snapped his fingers and a glass of wine appeared in everyone’s hands — shopkeepers, walking pedestrians, mothers with carriages, drivers in cars. Crowley looked around, his head bobbing as cars screeched, people gasping and chattering in alarm. “Whoops. Maybe I shouldn’t have—”
“What’s going on?” The records girl was suddenly by them, holding her own glass of wine.
“He got sloshed and —” Nina indicated the glass in her own hand. “I’m not really sure what’s going on.”
“What’s going on, my human compadres,” Crowley said. “Is that I’m just trying to get drunk in peace and everyone thinks they can butt in and tell me what I’m doing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong!” Crowley put his hands on the Bentley’s hood, leaning forward and trying to keep it all down, keep the smoke and fire in, get that repeating voice of IforgiveyouIforgiveyouIforgiveyou to just shut up! “I’ve done nothing…wrong. I didn’t—I…I…”
“Hey hey,” Maggie said, voice so gentle and sweet that it ached in a way Crowley hated. “Come on, why don’t we–um…” She looked to Nina, who nodded. “Let's get you inside, hm?”
Crowley just shook his head, but didn’t argue as they pulled him off the street and into the coffee shop. Not like he had anywhere else to be right now. They led him through the front end towards the back, into a tiny kitchen that seemed to double as the break room. Flyers and notices were stuck to the mini fridge with magnets shaped like letters. There was a plant on top of it. Really dry with a big brown spot. Not enough light all the way up there. Not properly watered. Probably forgotten about most days.
Crowley watched as Maggie put down her wine glass. He reached out, waving her over. “Give it here, if you’re not gonna drink it.”
“I don’t think you should be drinking any more,” she said with a look of concern.
He waved her concerns away with a buzz of his lips. “Please, I’m barely even tipsy right now. Takes a lot more than this to get me drunk, trust me. I’m trying very hard to be drunk so if you don’t mind.” He raised his eyebrows and flapped his hand some more. Maggie again looked to Nina, who just shrugged. They both gave Crowley their glasses. “Thank you,” he chirped, downing one, then the other quickly. He waved his hands and the glasses disappeared. He stumbled to his feet. “Now. If you’ll excuse me–”
“Hold it,” Nina said, putting her hand on his shoulder with light pressure until he sat back down in the foldable chair. “What happened? Things obviously didn’t go with your–with Mr. Fell. But you said he’d be back? Did Mr. Fell leave?”
Crowley glanced again at the plant on top of the refrigerator. A french speckled pothos. “I thought you were against meddling into other’s affairs,” Crowley challenged with a quirked eyebrow.
“You don’t have to tell us anything if you don’t want to–”
“I don’t want to.”
“But you’re obviously not doing well,” Nina said, crossing her arms uncomfortably. She looked about as eager to have this conversation as Crowley felt. “No matter your methods, you were in a way trying to help us,” Nina conceded, waving her hand between herself and Maggie, who smiled. “So it's only fair to return the favor, I guess.”
“I don’t need help,” Crowley said slowly. “I don’t need anything. I’m fine.”
The two of them looked at each other again, something passing unspoken between them. He didn’t understand why they didn’t just get together. They clearly liked each other. Why did humans have to make everything so complicated?
“Mr. Crowley,” Maggie said carefully. “You were saying Mr. Fell would come back and things would go back to normal. Does this kind of thing happen a lot between you two?”
“You need to water it,” Crowley said.
“What?”
He pointed to the pothos. “It needs water.” The two women stared at him expectantly. Crowley sighed and shrugged. “We fight sometimes. Known each other for centuries, so it happens. Had a bad fight once in 1862. Didn’t talk to each other for…hmm, 80 years?” Crowley just shrugged again, that buzzing under his skin hot and angry. “It's fine. It’ll pass.”
The two women were quiet for a moment. “Ok,” Nina said. “So you’re just gonna wait around until he comes back? Do you have any way of contacting him?”
“Ehhh, I’ll just fuff around, keep myself busy. Maybe sleep in my car for a few months.”
“You’re really living in your car?” Maggie asked.
“Yup . Quit my job, bosses were paying for the apartment, so. But the Bentley’s all mine.”
“You shouldn’t be living in your car. Why don’t you just get another place?”
“Living situations are complicated. I hate materializing money cause it messes with the economy and there’s paperwork and blah blah blah. Finding the space to just make my own place takes a lot too, its a big ol’ mess and I don’t like doing big miracles if I can help it cause then the Up and Down just get involved–”
“I’m not even going to pretend like I understood any of that,” Nina cut in. “Why don’t you just get a job, since you’ve apparently been unemployed for a while.”
Crowley scoffed. “A job?”
“Yeah!” Maggie chimed in. “You’ll be able to actually afford your own place, it’ll keep you busy while you wait for Mr. Fell to come back.”
Crowley shook his head. “I’m not getting a job, demons don’t get jobs.”
“Why not?” Nina said sternly. “What else are you going to be doing, other than stumbling around drunk through the streets.”
Crowley didn’t say anything.
“I’ve got an idea,” Maggie said, smiling. “Why don’t you work for us?”
“What?” Crowley and Nina both.
“Nina, you mentioned you needed some more help around the shop. And while I can’t afford to pay you full-time, I do need an extra pair of hands.”
“I don’t know about–”
“I’m not really–I mean there’s no–” Crowley stumbled out as Nina tried just as awkwardly to argue. “My resume isn't exactly, er, brushed up.”
“It's fine by me, if it's fine by Nina,” Maggie said with a proud grin. One glance and Nina sighed.
“Yeah, alright angel.”
Crowley flinched.
“Wonderful!”
“I didn’t actually agree to this,” Crowley tried. He’d never had a human job, not really. He was always too busy with his demonic temptations and assignments. And then lately, it had been plays and restaurants and picnics and– “Ugk, right, sure. Fine.”
“Great,” Nina said, crossing her arms. “Great. Well, now that that’s all settled, why don’t you actually start today. Its been busy and I'll need help closing up soon.”
Crowley groaned loudly. "I've been kind of having a shit day, so I'd actually like to stay drunk off my ass, if its all the same to you."
Nina rolled her eyes and went back out to her shop. Maggie gave Crowley one last encouraging before also leaving him alone.
He sat there for a while, letting his mind sit in blissful fog. He told himself he could just walk out, back to the bar, back to his Bentley, to wallow and mope and drink. But he'd get bored of the self-pity eventually. And at least this way, he'd keep busy while he waited.
He closed his eyes and grit his teeth. He felt the alcohol pouring out of his system. He smacked his mouth in disgust. That was never fun. He stood up and stretched, before striding the few steps to the mini fridge, picking up the potted plant and carrying it over to the sink. He carefully maneuvering the leaves around the faucet and turned the water on. “There.”
Satisfied, Crowley went out to the café proper. He ignored the table where they’d sat earlier that week. He ignored the window as best he couldn’t, so he wouldn’t stare at every stranger passing by, hoping to see a cloud of white hair. Nina spotted him quickly and waved him over towards the counter, where a long line of customers stood.
Right.
This was good. This would be a distraction for a while, something to occupy himself until Aziraphale realized what a stupid decision he made. And he would realize, eventually. Crowley honestly didn’t think the angel would last all that long up there. Such a nightmare, heaven was. He’ll be back. He’ll come back, he’ll apologize, and suggest they talk over dinner. Just like every time before.
Crowley could be patient. He could always wait for his angel.