Chapter Text
By the time it occurred to Crowley to pull over and get his head together, the Bentley was already floating several metres above the tarmac. With their last quarrel replaying over and over in his mind, he hadn’t been watching the road. He blinked at the roofs and treetops out the side window, narrowly avoided a collision with a pigeon, and almost dropped the car on top of pedestrians, then shrugged: less traffic up here, and no stoplights to speak of. If only he knew where to go. If only he knew what he could’ve said differently…
His old flat seemed the safest choice. Crowley paused reality just long enough to find a parking place, then brought the plants up in the lift. Even studiously avoiding his own reflection in the gleaming inox interior, he could feel his face reddening with anger… or was it shame? He opened his front door with an upward snap of the fingers, and recoiled.
Shax had only redecorated a little… you didn’t get the idea that she’d spent any more time there than he used to. But the whole place smelt of her ambition, and he had to open all the windows (including several that hadn’t been there before) to clear the air. She did always try her ‘uprightest’, you had to give her that. Duke of Hell, might suit her? Crowley tried not to think about her prospective underlings as he arranged his plants under their lamps, the only lights in the whole place he could be arsed to turn on.
Shax had enlarged the wardrobe, but she hadn’t left much in it that looked at all comfortable. Crowley left her smart suits, heels, and … other things … for a very different day, took off his own dark glasses, and miracled himself a fuzzy jumper and leggings. Once back in the salon, he snapped-on the heating element hidden within the sofa. Had he been wrong to take such a stand? But he’d only said what they’d basically already agreed on for ages. Or so he’d thought. Soon Crowley would run out of things to do; that moment was, as they say, a-gettin’ closer. But not yet. He pulled a bottle of plonk out of literally nowhere, then thought twice about it and stocked up a few more. But if he was right, then why…? No.
His stereo was still there, gathering dust. Crowley finally sat down and waved a vague hand. The speakers began to play something classical that he didn’t know the name of, but recognised immediately. And that’s all it took.
Crowley grasped at his hair until it stood on end, then dragged his hands down his sweat- and tear-stained face. The noise he made was inhuman… if only in pitch, modulation, and endurance. Had this been a normal flat, the neighbours would definitely have worried about the new air-raid sirens. But demonic building codes being more solid than London ones, the place was well-insulated against electric shocks, sonic booms, earthquakes, and probably even damp weather.
Eventually his voice gave out, so Crowley had a swig of wine to take the edge off reality. But reality was persistent, so he had the rest of the bottle.
All the permutations of Aziraphale’s face haunted him. “But I need you” … And yet which of them had been the one to leave?! “I … forgive you.” It really was unfair. Well, demons didn’t need to forgive. That’ll show the angel. If he ever-- Crowley began to sob again, still using his corporation because it hurt more.
During some of the quieter bits, he thought he heard an echo of his own lament. It couldn’t be his plants, the poor things were hiding.
Okay, that was just weird. There was definitely some sort of crying coming from elsewhere in the flat. Crowley wiped his face on his sleeve and flung himself upright, despite the protests of his corporation’s spine.
The slightly unfamiliar layout threw him at first: a bit of rearrangement Shax must’ve done? Then he found the balcony. Couldn’t you just see her leaning on the railing, surveying London, and plotting?! At first Crowley did the same. Well, plotting was a bit beyond him at the moment, but he looked to see what the view was, and almost broke down again. Yes, the balcony faced towards Whickber street, with an excellent view of both Give Me Coffee… and A.Z. Fell and Co.
Crowley was distracted yet again from despair by a gentle stabbing in his ankles. He looked down to find his shins being attacked by an odd cloud. What in the Heav--?! But he didn’t much fancy swearing by either Upstairs or Down now, so what the fuck?! Crowley closed his eyes, shook his head, took a deep breath, but didn’t feel quite ready to will himself sober just yet. He leant down and had another look. Ah.
The cloud stared back at him with eyes very much like his own. Then it meowed loudly, headbutted his leg a few times, and began purring furiously. It didn’t seem likely that an enormous --or at least enormously hairy-- white cat could have climbed up (or even down) to this balcony from anywhere… but neither was it the unlikeliest thing that had happened in the past twenty four hours. Not even close.
Crowley hovered a hand over the cat, scanning in vain for a microchip. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it.” Crowley scooped up the creature and brought it inside, then snapped the kitchen light on to get a better look, both at arms’ length and close-up. Once examined for fleas and sexed as female, the cat was allowed to explore whilst Crowley miracled her some…. What do cats eat, anyway?! It’s not really a saucer of milk, is it?! He pulled out his mobile. The internet told him no, and after a few tries he managed a water bowl and a container of appropriate crunchy bits.
The cat came running, but took a detour in the corner of the kitchen to--
“NO! Oh I KNEW I forgot something!” Crowley grabbed the cat and placed her in the sink while he miracled a litter tray.
While the still indignant creature was licking her fur and attempting to regain her composure enough to do her business, the box around her changed several times, each more high-tech than the last. No sooner was Crowley satisfied, but the scratching sound inside the box reminded him of something and he sprinted off to the other room. There’d either need to be little grates to protect the soil, or else the plant room would have to be off-limits to the cat entirely. Since he’d seen something in his earlier search about some plants being toxic to cats, the second option might be the best. But he did like looking at them… Aha! With a few waves of Crowley’s long hands, greenhouse-like walls formed to separate the plants, their watering system, their window, and their lamps from the rest of the room. That’s more like it!
The retired demon draped himself angularly in the kitchen doorway, watching as the cat sniffed and hesitated, then fished out one pellet with her claws and tasted it. It evidently passed muster, so much so that she ate up the rest in a flash, purring mightily.
It occurred to Crowley that he’d hardly thought of Aziraphale since the cat had gone after his ankles. He picked her up and she let him hoist her to eye-level, only making a curious “mrrrrp?!” Crowley looked into the yellow slitted eyes with his own, and did his best Serious Demonic Interrogation. “OI, CAT. I NEED TO KNOW. YOU’RE NOT AN ANGEL IN DISGUISE, ARE YOU? OR A DEMON. ANYONE??”
The cat only purred louder.
He smelt her fur and found no indication of anything supernatural: just dust, a whiff of London... and rather a lot of positive emotions, mostly aimed at him. She certainly seemed to be a normal human cat. A normal Earthly cat, whatever. “WHAT’S YOUR NAME, THEN? HAVE YOU GOT A NAME ALREADY? No? Would you like one? Hmmm?”
Dropping the act, Crowley brought the cat closer, where she climbed easily onto his shoulders and settled there, like a warm collar. He scritched her head with one hand and smoothed her tail with the other. “Let’s see,” he murmeled through some names… “Oh I know! Agrat! Agrat bat Mahlat, dancing on the roof… I think that suits you, what do you think?”
“Mrrrrao,” said Agrat, agreeably.