Chapter Text
But you, my dear, are an ocean.
And oceans are ancient
And can survive everything,
Even the wrath of weather and planets.
-- Nikita Gill
In the aftermath of Aziraphale’s stunning defection, Crowley tries to be done. Done with the angel, done with London, done with humanity. All of it. He tells himself that he no longer sees the point in giving two fucks about anything. Not if the things you are busy giving two fucks about are just going to go trample your fucking heart like it’s nothing.
Oh Crowley. Nothing lasts forever.
His traitorous heart tries to tell him he’s not in any way, shape, or form done with the angel or with the life he’s built for himself here on earth. In Crowley’s point of view, though, his traitorous heart can just go fuck the fuck off.
He is the boss of that particular organ from here on out.
#
He lets himself into the old apartment in Mayfair with a wave of the hand; just like Heaven, no one ever changes the passcodes. The door swings silently open to an apartment that is almost exactly the way he left it, and yet feels entirely foreign. Not that it was ever welcoming, exactly; he took a point of pride in making it as inhospitable as possible for 99.99999% of the celestial and earthly entities around him.
He’d been comfortable enough there; it had been serviceable, a home of a sort. As far as a demon like him could make a home. It wasn’t one of his particular talents.
But now? Now it just feels wrong.
It isn’t necessarily that Shax had occupied it for the last few years. Creativity, like sarcasm, is not her strong point. His furniture is still largely in place, although she’s changed the bedding to something made from lurid red satin, and she’s hung exactly one piece of art—some kind of weird collage made from a bunch of decapitated Barbie dolls. After standing before it for a solid hour without moving a muscle, hands clasped behind his back, Crowley decides he liked it. It’s grim.
Unfortunately, though, the rest of the place leaves him dissatisfied. If it isn’t Shax, his inner voice points out, then the change must be in him. He’s not surprised; if he knew anything in the moments when he watched Aziraphale follow the Metatron onto the elevator like an obedient puppy born and bred to the leash, it was that his foundations were shifting beneath his feet. He marvels a bit at the lack of rage he feels. Instead, something inside him feels like this was inevitable.
It was always going to go this way.
His destiny has always been to be alone.
There’s an odd peace in that sentiment. When one meets the fate they’ve feared their whole life, when the worst is over, what’s left? Apparently, for this former darling of Hell, what’s left is… well, not a lot. Perhaps he’s numb. He’ll sort through that when and only when it becomes unavoidable.
For now, though, he is no longer the flash bastard who enjoyed stark concrete and brutalism. Inside him, there is an almost irresistible pull, like the powerful tide creeping up on the shoreline, chipping away everything it finds and urging it inexorably away. Follow me, it whispers. Leave this place.
It takes him all of about two days to decide to do just that.
A few hours later, he’s packed his few remaining belongings into his car, shoved the rest of the furnishings and décor away into a pocket of reality where they’ll be safe, and headed south.
#
He comes to a stop in the South Downs, in a small town near Devil’s Dyke, and quietly buys himself a coffee. Six shots. Nothing else. He uses a minor miracle to make sure no one talks to him as he (fails to) enjoy it at a corner table and considers his options.
South Downs. He and the angel had bandied the place around as an idea for the last year. Someday, perhaps, they’d get a little weekend cottage here. Take holidays. Grow flowers and keep bees. Be domestic.
The angel is no longer interested in the South Downs. Or in Crowley. Or in anything but himself and his own pathetic need to be loved, by people who are not Crowley, and by people who most definitely do not love him, but try telling the angel that. He’d been telling the angel that in one way or another for the last six millennia. He never listens. He never did.
Screw him, Crowley thinks. He doesn’t need a partner. And nothing said he couldn’t just… move out here by himself. And without the angel to muck things up with his fussiness and overly particular tastes, he’s free to find somewhere suited to just him.
He doesn’t mess with estate agents and local politics and ridiculous things like permits. Instead, he just… concentrates. Wills it into being. His home. His pied-à-terre. A place to lick his wounds and be on Crowley’s side and Crowley’s alone for the foreseeable future.
He takes his time with this one. Who the Hell cares if anyone notices him doing a miracle? What does it matter now? Eyes closed, he calls it into being. Shapes it down to the very nails in the floorboards. Carves out each of the few rooms he’ll need. Kitchen, of course. Bedroom. Small living room. Back patio, facing the water. No office. No library. Sends the bits of furniture he wants to it, leaves the rest where it is. Certainly no wrestling statue in this one, and the eagle he stole from the church can just rot in his storage dimension forever.
In a fit of fancy, he builds a spiral stair into the corner of the kitchen, up to a strange little crow’s nest where he can bask in the sun, scan the horizon for ships and whales when the mood strikes him. He carves out a substantial wine cellar.
The garden he leaves for later. He’ll figure that out in person.
Satisfied, he opens his eyes, momentarily surprised to find himself still in the coffee shop. A shiny new piece of paper sits in front of him—a deed, certifying the cabin is his, has always been his, will always be his. Copies are miraculously filed in every necessary agency. No one will ever need to bother him there. All he wants now is some peace and quiet, and he’ll be blessed if he’s not going to get it.
With one last gulp of his coffee, he heads off to the car and reroutes his way towards the coast, to his new home.
#
The cottage is small, weathered looking, inconspicuous. Dark gray shingles and black shutters that appear to have seen wind and salt for decades, despite having been breathed into existence that day. He stops on the front walk to conjure himself up a fence and a solid gate, the better to keep any passers-by out, and then takes a deep breath. The first deep breath, he realizes, that he’s taken in over forty-eight hours. The salty air fills his lungs, and he feels it swirl through him like a baptism. His limbs tingle. His fingers twitch. Something behind his eyes burns and a pressure builds in his head that is almost more than he can bear. It hurts, it wants release; it wants to howl itself into the world and be admired in its desperation, to carve its pain across the landscape and blight the very sun from the sky.
And then he exhales, and suddenly, the feeling is gone. Quiet lingers in its place. Not pleasant, not painful, just neutral. An empty quiet, waiting to see with what he will fill it.
He reaches for the doorknob.
Behind him, a light breeze sweeps over the porch. A porch which does not have a comfy swing on it. A porch that does not have a cheery bell or a tartan welcome mat. A porch that does not welcome as much as it contains.
Crowley straightens his shoulders and steps decisively inside.