Chapter Text
Crowley was fine. Totally fine. Tickety-boo. Everything was fantastic.
That is what someone might say if they had never been anywhere close to the vicinity of Crowley.
No, Crowley was, in fact, not doing good.
It had been approximately three days, four hours, and 37 minutes since Aziraphale stepped onto the elevator, but who’s counting? Sure wasn’t Crowley, who had been in a perpetual state of drunkenness since the dreaded Not A Break-Up. It had only taken fifteen minutes after he drove off in the Bentley to cave. In the time it took to say, “I forgive you,” he made a beeline to the closest liquor store and bought the lot of Talisker.
Three days, four hours, and 37 minutes after Aziraphale left, Crowley was sitting in a small pub where darkness and the stench of alcohol hung thick in the air. Every surface was covered in varying degrees of stickiness and grime, and a single trickle of sunlight cast every dust mote in sharp relief. His head was bowed in a mockery of prayer, his forehead digging into the whiskey glass, and his hands splayed across the table. He forwent drinking from the glass hours ago, preferring to gulp straight from the bottle. However, he stopped forty-five minutes ago—the longest without a drink since The Event That Shall Not Be Named —to lie his head down, shutting his eyes behind the dark glasses.
The scruffy bartender checked his only patron with a glance every five minutes. He was still breathing, or at least what looked like breathing. He’d been silent for the past forty-five minutes, and he’d assume the man-shaped thing had fallen asleep if it weren’t for the occasional clenching of a fist and the angry hiss of “bassstard.”
Poor bloke. The bartender had seen his fair share of nasty break-ups, and this must’ve been a doozy. 1
Suddenly, there was a jolt, and Crowley was upright, eyeing the bartender—at least as close as he could get behind sunglasses— with a prominent red mark under his lank and greasy hair.
“‘Nother bottle,” he slurred.
“No more laddie, I’m cuttin’ yee off.” The bartender surveyed him with steady brown eyes. This man—well, man-shaped thing—shouldn’t be alive after the amount of whiskey he poured. Especially since he’s pretty sure the man-thing arrived drunk. The bartender had few moral qualms, but he drew the line at assisted suicide.
“I sssaid another one,” and with a snap of his fingers, Crowley looked at the man expectantly.
The bartender only gazed sternly. “I said I’m cuttin’ yee off. Yee’ve had enough. Awa yee go.”
Crowley was only mildly surprised that his miracle didn’t work, but they always became sloppy when drunk, and he was a few steps beyond plastered. He bared his teeth and stalked off, the effect ruined by the obvious stumble.
Poor bloke. I hope he gets home okay, the bartender thought. He had half a mind to call the polis to report a heavily intoxicated driver at noon on a Monday. Yet, he didn’t think the man-shaped thing would get past the parking lot. And if he did? Well, it wasn’t his job.
Crowley hissed at the sunlight and then crawled into the Bentley. Her leather seats were a cool balm against his cheek, and a sigh escaped past his lips. If only she could fix the bloody, mangled mess of his heart. He’d considered tearing it out, stopping the pain if just for a moment, but he didn’t want to discorporate himself and end up in Hell. He was suffering enough and didn’t need the bastards down there to make it worse.
Instead, he rummaged around on the floor for a bottle, trying to hear the tell-tale swish of anything. Most of them were empty; it didn’t take long for him to polish off the Talisker. After about five minutes of dwindling hope, his fingers brushed against an oddly heavy bottle. Jackpot. He was glad he didn’t have to miracle alcohol; his miracles were already iffy. Plus, it never tasted right.
Crowley made his way upright in his seat, propped against the wheel and prize in hand, but the cap still on. He was itching to go somewhere, anywhere , but there was nowhere to go. He considered going back to the bookshop but banished that thought before it could take root. No. Absolutely not. He couldn’t bear to go back to the scene of The Event. Every time his mind tried to prod at The Event That Shall Not Be Named , like a tongue at a loose tooth, the pain in his chest amplified. If he went back, he’d certainly discorporate.
Of course, there was his flat. However, he wasn’t sure if Shax had fully vacated, and if she had, was there anyone else living there? And if he showed up now, he didn’t want to deal with anyone asking questions—or worse, pitying him. Plus, it wasn’t really his home. His home was the booksh- no, he didn’t have a home. He was a homeless, drunk demon.
Crowley wracked his mind, but there weren’t any other places for him to go. In the past few centuries, he had put roots down in London, close to him . Even when Crowley got kicked out of his flat, he stuck around for an invitation to live with him. But now, it was just Crowley and his Bentley and the rest of the Earth for eternity.
Crowley’s fingers itched to loosen the cap. Instead, he pushed the clutch and shifted into first gear. He was still decently drunk, and while a pulsing, ravaging pain sang in the chest of his corporation, it was dulled enough for him to not fall to pieces. He just wanted to find a nice, quiet place to get blackout drunk without anyone judging him.
After hours of driving, or, to be more precise, allowing Bentley to navigate while he meandered through a haze of alcohol-induced reverie, Crowley became aware that the aftermath of his perpetual bar crawl had led him to the outskirts of Edinburgh. His forever faithful Bentley had retraced the journey it and Aziraphale had taken just a few days ago. Crowley’s chest throbbed; he hadn’t even noticed because he was more preoccupied with stopping to buy another case of Talisker and going to the loo. 2
But now here was in a place that stunk of Aziraphale. That bastard.
Crowley wondered if there was anywhere that didn’t remind him of Aziraphale. There was Antarctica, but that was too cold. Crowley may be a demon, but he was also a snake demon, and the cold tended to get to him. That ruled out the North Pole and the Siberian wilderness. There was the middle of the Pacific Ocean, but Crowley got seasick (although he was loathe to admit it).
He searched his brain for any other place, but his list ended there. In 6000 years, there were a lot of places one could visit. Well, two could visit.
With that thought, Crowley angrily swerved onto a side road, jolting control from the Bentley and causing a symphony of horns to erupt behind him. Several insults slipped from his lips, but he wasn’t in the mood to curse out anyone. That was another thing that Aziraphale had taken from Crowley: his anger.
Ever since he’d Fallen, a low-grade fury boiled under his surface. Anger at Her for casting him out, for Falling, for being a demon, at humans for being so awful, and the list went on. But now, where the anger should be, there was nothing. Just a gaping hole. He tried to reach for it, but there was nothing.
The pavement under the wheels transitioned into gravel, and the Bentley honked her horn in annoyance.
“You’ll be fine, just some pebbles.”
Crowley looked up, trying to figure out where he was. To his left was a dense forest where moonlight leaked through the canopy. To his left was a graveyard. It dawned on him that he must have been driving for hours, as the sun had already set. He also realized that the pulsing in his chest had grown more insistent; he had started to sober up.
He decided to pull the Bentley to the side of the road, depressing the clutch and turning on the handbrake. Once he was sure the Bentley wasn’t going anywhere—she had been more active after Aziraphale’s little trip—he pulled out the three-quarters-full bottle of Talisker and screwed off the cap. He took a large swig. And another. And another.
Several bottles later, he was once again on the precipice of being blackout drunk. A hazy twilight had settled over his body, masking most of the pain. Yet, it was still there. A black hole was at the center of his being, and he couldn’t fill it. A sound between a howl and a choke erupted from his throat, and he slammed his fists against the steering wheel. He just wanted this to end. He couldn’t face an eternity of this pain. He was an ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail.
Suddenly chuckling at the irony of the situation, Crowley stumbled out of the Bentley, two more bottles in hand. Before him lay a graveyard—a perfect place to get so drunk he couldn’t remember his own name.
Crowley meandered between the graves, taking little notice of his surroundings unless it was to pause for a swig or to curse because he tripped over his feet. Suddenly, he felt a chill run down his spine.
He was greeted by the looming statue of Gabriel. Crowley felt the unopened bottle of Talisker slip from his fingers onto the damp grass with a thud. He hadn’t even noticed he was in the same graveyard that Wee Morag died in. The Bentley was going to be scrapped for taking him here.
As Crowley picked up the bottle and swayed, Gabriel looked at him with that smug, self-assured expression. That smirk had not faltered for centuries and would not falter until the Second Coming. Of course, he was satisfied. He had gotten everything he wanted. He was the Supreme Archangel, a paragon of celestial virtue, and was allowed to bask in Her divine love. He never had to worry about Falling or leaving Her good graces. He never had to look behind his shoulder in fear of being caught—at least, until he fell in love with Beelzebub. Yet, he was allowed to run away. Allowed to fly off to Alpha Centauri with his beloved and never look back.
That was supposed to be them . Crowley and Aziraphale, together, away from Heaven and Hell. Safe and together.
Together.
His mind repeated that word over and over again. Just the two of them.
But instead, it was Gabriel and Beelzebub.
That bastard.
Crowley's anguished howl reverberated through the graveyard as he hurled the bottle at the statue, its contents erupting into a spray of glass and whiskey. Yet, Gabriel simpered, perfect, and radiant, his face untouched.
With a primal roar, Crowley seized the other bottle, flinging it harder than the first. Smoke began to whip around his body, and the the air crackled with lightning. With a clap of thunder, he miracled the bottles from his Bentley to his feet.
In a relentless barrage, he flung the bottles with a force that seemed to defy the laws of physics. The sound of shattering glass echoed like a battle cry, a symphony of chaos that drowned out any thought beyond fury.
“ You! ”
Smash.
“ Fucking!”
Smash.
“ Bastard! ”
Smash.
Bottle after bottle, he hurled his frustration at the stoic statue of Gabriel. After a few minutes, he didn’t know who he was yelling at; he just wanted this agony to end. With a final scream and bottle, Crowley crumpled to his knees. And the heavens opened. Rain fell in sheets, washing away the remnants of shattered glass and the echoes of his anguished cries. Glass dug into his knees, and tiny cuts peppered his face, but he hardly noticed. Physical pain paled in comparison to losing Aziraphale.
After Aziraphale had left, Crowley hadn’t cried. Sure, the tears sprung to his eyes, and a lump formed in his throat, but he couldn’t get farther than that. At first, he thought that this was another one of the punishments for Falling. Yet, as he touched his face, he realized the rivulets under his eyes were warm, and salt was on his lips.
The rain muffled Crowley’s sobs. He remained as immobile as the Gabriel statue, the only sign of life the rhythmic heaving of his shoulders. He knelt for hours as the rain gradually subsided to a mere drizzle. Eventually, he surrendered to exhaustion, closing his eyes and sinking into the wet mud, allowing sleep to envelop him.
And the statue of Gabriel stood unmoved.
~♡~
Footnotes
1. The bartender was not far off, however, “a doozy” was underselling it. As soon as the words, “I forgive you,” left Aziraphale’s lips, it was as if Crowley had his heart forcibly removed, set on fire, hurled into a pit of cacti, set on fire again, run over by a parade of lorries, and then pecked to bits by a feral flock of chickens. Multiple times. return to text
2. Crowley didn’t even need to go to the bathroom, being a demon and all. However, it’s something he thought his body should probably do once in a century—or after copious amounts of drinking—and so it complied. return to text