Chapter Text
It had been a year and a half - five hundred and forty-seven days. He was not counting, but he could feel the time pass in the absence of anything else to do or anywhere else to be. He could feel it on his skin when the temperature changed in the flat, from summer days to winter nights. He could feel it in his bones when he’d sat for too long or stood staring at the long-dead plants for ages. He could feel it in the emptiness he felt when he’d go down to the park or to crowded restaurants to see if he felt better about life. Most of all, he could feel it in the centre of his chest. That was where he felt it the worst of all. He assumed beings like him would be beyond these base human sensations, but he’d manifested these feelings the moment he allowed himself to feel sad. It was like a barrier had been broken the moment his so-called heart did. However, these were not thoughts he liked to dwell on. There were more pressing matters to tend to.
He sighed and pulled his phone out for the seventh time this week, dialling the familiar number. When the call went through, a slightly unsettling voice answered: “What now, Crowley?”
“Have you asked?” He replied, matching the monotone of his former colleague without trying. “Did you check if I can come down and get it done?”
“No. The answer is no. The authorities that be are not prepared to give you your petty demands. This cannot be undone, and who knows when they might need you to remember something important…” Shax grunted. Given the frequency of Crowley's request, this was a speech they’d perfected now after several rounds of practice.
“Yeah, but… they have records of… things. Extra copies of information… surely. You lot wouldn’t need the old stuff. And once it’s done, I’d still be me, just… sort of… with extra storage.” Crowley replied, voice low. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t beg, but he grew increasingly desperate the more aware he was of the state of things - the state of him.
Shax groaned over the phone. “Hell will not erase your memory. You can try asking the lot upstairs, but you and I both know that you’d sooner pull out your own brains through your nose before you make contact with your old flam-“
“Watch what you say next, demon.” Was the growl that reverberated through Shax’s skull. They had to pull away from the speaker a bit.
“That’s the Duke of Hell to you, Crowley. Don’t dial this number again unless you’d like us to cut you off indefinitely. I’d invite you to Hell to talk things through but seems like you’re already in one of your own making.”
The line clicked for several minutes before Crowley put the phone away. He stared at the concrete walls from his desk and took steadying breaths, fully aware of the plumes of smoke rising off him. He pushed off his desk and stood up, heading outside into the winter night. His usual saunter had changed in the last year. How he moved - or did anything – was now a mere shadow of his usual swagger. He still looked like Crowley, dressed in his black clothes, his sunglasses fastened to his face, and his hair styled to perfection – but window dressing hid his true state. He was never a cheery sort, not since the fall, anyway. Even that didn’t compare to the depths in which he’d now got lost. The demon Crowley simply was not someone you’d want to be around now. Not for the danger but the bleakness of him.
He entered the Bentley with a sigh. The car almost sagged empathetically. He stared out through the windscreen before driving – deciding on his destination reluctantly and with a strange surety. The car weaved its way through town, taking this route for only the third time within the last year.
Soho was packed this time of year. Humans flooded the streets and stores to do their holiday shopping. Stores were open late; streets were decorated with lights, and the world seemed abuzz with the festivities. Whickber Street was no different. It was alive, more alive than he felt. So alive that it almost offended him. How dare it be okay and standing - thriving. How dare it not have blown up like his entire world blew up in his face that morning.
He parked in his usual spot, eyes actively avoiding glancing at the bookshop and pub to his left as he got down from the Bentley. He looked into Give Me Death through the glass window and tried to spot its owner. He refused to be served by anyone else. Small talk would most certainly drive him mad. He sighed when he saw her walking back behind the counter, then made his way inside. Once inside, the warmth of the café did not affect him. The cold followed him from outside. He felt it when he came to this side of town – unusually and unnecessarily cold. Nina had said that was what loneliness felt like, but Crowley knew loneliness, he’d felt it for most of his existence, but this wasn’t it. This was worse and endless, with no speck of light and warmth to provide reprieve every now and then.
Nina walked over to him with an amused expression. “Hello, stranger,” she greeted and directed him to a vacant table before he could conjure a greeting.
Crowley raised a brow, followed silently, and sat where he was directed.
“The usual?” Nina asked, studying him intently.
“And what’s that?” Crowley asked without looking at her.
“Big cup – 6 shots of espresso. Extra hot.” She smirked, gesturing to the barista at the counter.
“Mh, suppose that’ll have to do again.” He grunted.
“Funny how you chose tonight to visit.” She said, still staring at him.
“And why’s that?” Crowley asked without any hint of curiosity.
“No reason.” She said with a small shrug. “Are you going to pay the bookshop a visit?”
“What bookshop…” came the silent response.
“Check how it’s going?” Nina asked, ignoring his remark.
“And what, pray tell, would be the purpose of that?” Crowley asked and finally looked up at her.
“Nothing. Honestly, I'm quite understaffed and up to my neck with orders, so I was hoping… an old friend could deliver an order I received from the bookshop. Can’t leave the café, you see.” She explained, watching him, her smile earnest.
He let out a breath through his nose, his lips pursed. “Shouldn’t you be asking this old friend for the favour then? Instead of wasting time here at my table…”
She smirked, “Right, so you can head over after your coffee.” She announced more than asked.
Crowley’s face was flat but thunderous at the same time, and it made Nina snicker a little.
A cup of coffee was shoved in front of him, brimming with the steaming dark liquid he’d sort of asked for. He sighed, picked it up, and tipped the whole thing down in a few gulps, steam and all. When he was finished, a plate piled with a mountain of Eccles cakes was shoved into his hands. “Off you pop, shopkeeper at the bookshop is very stressed doing laps around the store. Must be the festive gift orders.”
Crowley sneered at the offending pastries before him. “Can’t Muriel come pick up her own damn snack order?” He grumbled, knowing full well who the shopkeeper was. Turns out she was also selling the books now. Good. Excellent.
Nina pursed her lips as if trying not to look too sympathetic at the clash of emotions playing on Crowley’s face. “S'pose not.”
Crowley let out a small growl as he stood up. “Remind me not to visit again anytime soon.” He said and made his way out of the café.
“Thank you for your delivery service!” Nina called out, amused and bit her lip, watching him cross the road.
Crowley had to will his feet to keep moving across the road. His eyes refused to fix on his destination, instead looking at the other stores, the road, the people, the sky, or the lights. Maggie’s store was doing better now, filled with some browsers that seemed to keep her on her toes. But the distractions only lasted so long because soon enough, he was facing the double doors of this forsaken shop, its windows covered by blinds. At that moment, he’d decided to give Muriel an earful for making him do this and not sorting her food orders.
After one deep breath… make that 10. He knocked on the door and recoiled his hand as if the door had burned him. It hadn’t, but the memory of walking out through them was fresh - and that burned. He stared at the mountain of pastry, tapping his foot impatiently.
A minute later, the door opened, and Crowley found himself staring at a pair of brown shoes. He figured Muriel had opted out of her ridiculous all-white constable uniform for more practical clothing. “If you have time to answer the door, you can just as well walk across the street to get your own evening snack, Mu-“
The words caught in his throat as he looked up. All six espresso shots suddenly rose from his belly into the gaping hole in his chest. The plate of Eccles cakes wobbled in his hand, prompting some support from the angel across him. “Ooh, careful, I need those for the rest of the night. Depending on how well it goes…” was the sheepish reply that the other managed, only half meeting Crowley's eye. Now four hands held a ridiculous tiny mountain of pastries at the front of the bookshop on a busy street. Three minutes of this moment seemed to stretch forever without a miracle. Two beings were trying and failing to make this exchange of pastry any less awkward. And one very smug café owner watched through her shop window as this unfolded.