Chapter Text
So, that’s it, then.
The door to the heavenly lift closes, and just like that Aziraphale has gone, leaving Crowley behind. Crowley who has been stupid enough to pour his heart out to the angel, stupid enough to believe that it would change the other’s mind. Stupid enough to think that maybe, just maybe, his feelings were reciprocated.
Well, no such luck. He should have known better, really. What a fool he has been.
Turning away from the now-gone lift, he gets in the Bentley. He feels utterly worn out, as if the weight of every single year of his six-thousand millennia is finally crashing down on him. He turns on the engine and sure enough, of all songs it’s this stupid one that starts to play on the radio.
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square…
Crowley doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settles for neither and angrily turns off the radio instead. The silence engulfs him as he starts to drive. He has no idea where he’s going. He just knows that he wants to get away from here. The streets of Soho hold too many memories that he doesn’t want to deal with tonight.
Also, he needs a drink. Or, more accurately, lots of drinks. Crowley has always found that the best way to deal with one’s feelings is to drown them in whisky.
He drives for a while, a bit above the speed limit but more out of habit than because he really feels like it. He doesn’t feel much like anything, actually. He feels… numb. Hollow. Like something – or someone – has gone missing from his soul and left it empty. Which is, of course, exactly what happened.
Crowley shakes his head, refusing to follow that train of thoughts. He focuses on his surroundings instead. He’s reached a part of London he’s not overly familiar with. Step one of the plan has worked. Now for step two… He looks around until he spots what he was searching for: an old – one might even say derelict – pub, almost empty except for the few regulars nursing their drinks at the bar. Exactly what Crowley needs.
He hits the brakes, making the tyres screech and parking the Bentley right in front of the door. He walks in and strides towards the counter. The bartender doesn’t even look up at him when he reaches the bar.
“What can I get ya?” she asks while polishing the wooden counter with a cloth in the manner of bartenders in every story.
“A large glass of.... Actually, no, screw that. Give me a bottle of your best whisky. No need to bother with a glass.”
The bartender raises an eyebrow at that but she doesn’t ask questions. She simply hands him a bottle of Talisker. Crowley wordlessly grabs it and heads towards a small table in a dark corner of the room.
As soon as he sits down, he starts drinking straight out of the bottle. The alcohol burns his throat as he does. It feels good. Whisky is always a safe bet. Perfect for forgetting everything that happened today. Crowley lets himself sink in the comfort the alcohol offers him.
He’s already downed half of the bottle when he notices a stranger entering the pub. He wouldn’t normally care, but even in his inebriated state he can sense that the man is not human, which is enough to warrant his attention. The stranger is not a demon nor an angel, but something else. Crowley has met a few of those during his time on Earth, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this particular one. Although it’s hard to tell when his mind is so foggy. Maybe he ought to sober up, just to be safe, but he doesn’t think the being – whatever he is – could really harm him. He’s a demon, after all. And he doesn’t care much about being safe, anyway. So he keeps on drinking.
Still, he must admit he’s a bit curious. He watches from afar as the stranger leans on the counter and orders a large whisky. The man is wearing a cream-coloured blazer and round sunglasses not unlike Crowley’s own, and the demon briefly wonders what he’s hiding behind them.
As if sensing he’s being watched, the stranger raises his head and his eyes meet Crowley’s. He cocks his head to the side, a look of curiosity on his face. Then, drink in hand, he heads for the demon’s table.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks, smiling.
He then proceeds to sit down without waiting for an answer. Crowley scowls at him.
“What do you want?”
The stranger takes a sip of his drink before answering.
“I thought we could keep each other company, given that we’re the only non-humans here. I’m the Corinthian, by the way.”
Crowley raises an eyebrow at that. He’s heard about the Corinthian. Definitely not the best company to have, but then, neither is he. Especially considering the mood he’s in tonight.
“A nightmare, are you. What are you doing here?”
The Corinthian shrugs. “I’m just passing by. I didn’t really have any plans before, but I think I might have one now.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s that new plan?”
The nightmare flashes a seductive smile at his companion. “Well, as luck would have it, I’ve just met a charming demon who seems to be as lonely as I am tonight.”
Crowley chokes on his whisky. He certainly wasn’t expecting that.
“Are you serious?” he asks once he manages to breathe again.
“Oh yes,” the Corinthian whispers in a low voice that sends a shiver down the demon’s spine.
The nightmare leans in and gently brushes his fingers against his companion’s. Oh, this is a bad idea, Crowley thinks. He’s drunk, for a start. And he doesn’t know the Corinthian, although he knows his reputation, which makes it even worse. And what would Aziraphale think–
Aziraphale is gone, remember? his traitorous mind reminds him. He has abandoned you.
Crowley closes his eyes, the still-fresh memory hurting more than he’d care to admit. His angel has gone, leaving him all alone. So why would he care if Crowley ended up in bed with a nightmare, uh? Why would anyone care, for that matter. The truth is, there is no one left to care about what Crowley does or doesn’t. He’s never felt so alone.
So when the Corinthian slowly cups his face in his hands, the demon leans into the touch. This is a bad idea but at least the nightmare is warm and solid and there, and right now that’s all that matters. Crowley simply doesn’t want to feel lonely tonight. Hell, he just wants to feel something. He wants to fill the void left behind by Aziraphale’s departure, be it with alcohol… or with someone else.
And the Corinthian’s hands are so warm. His touch gives him something to focus on, it grounds him into the present, and if this is a bad idea then why does it feel so good? Maybe this is exactly what he needs. A presence, a distraction. An occasion to stop thinking and to simply feel.
Crowley realises that he actually wants this very much. Well, fuck, he thinks.
Throwing caution to the wind, he grabs the Corinthian’s collar and kisses him desperately. Much like he kissed Aziraphale earlier, but the feeling is not the same at all. Where Aziraphale’s lips were soft and sweet, the Corinthian’s are hot and demanding. Where Aziraphale tasted of sugar and of home, the Corinthian tastes of whisky and danger. And where Aziraphale stood frozen and unresponsive, the Corinthian takes the lead of the kiss.
The nightmare clearly has more experience in this field, so Crowley lets him. He lets out a whimper as his companion pulls him closer and deepens the kiss. It is fierce and wild and passionate and when they finally pull apart, the demon is gasping for air.
The Corinthian is breathless too. He grins, and it’s a both scary and sexy sight to behold. He gets up and offers his hand to his companion, who gives him a questioning look.
“They have rooms upstairs,” the nightmare whispers sweetly.
Now this is definitely a bad idea, but Crowley’s too far gone to turn back now. He gulps down the last of his whisky and takes the Corinthian’s offered hand.
“Alright, then, lead the way.”