Chapter Text
Crowley woke up and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head was pounding in the specific way that only occurs after a truly regretful amount of alcohol, or long, body-aching cry. He couldn’t quite recall what state he had been in before passing out, but he had a sinking feeling it might have been both.
The bottles littering the room he caught sight of as he blinked into consciousness confirmed at least one.
Crowley groaned, hand coming up to cover his face, trying to block out the light filtering through the window.
How long had he slept?
He reached out blindly to where he assumed a nightstand would be, feeling around for his phone. His fingertips caught the edge of hard plastic, and he stretched, just a bit, to grab it and bring it close to his face.
He squinted blearily at the screen (which should have lost charge long ago, but by some miracle, was always at a solid 41% charge). The date flashed at him, August 12th.
He tried to do the math, but it occurred to him he wasn’t completely sure when he fell asleep.
July, perhaps? No later than the 24th he was sure.
He had vague memories of crashing a birthday of celebration of some young chap. They had been going on quite a bit about being something called a ‘Leo’. Something about birthdays and stars. It made him think briefly of the witch from Tadfield. Which made him think of him. Which is about when he found the open bar.
Which, he supposes, is how he ended up here.
Where here was, was something he was also trying to remember. Morocco perhaps?
He had left Europe sometime ago, after the incident in Italy.
August 12th. So he had been asleep for about two weeks.
Hmm. He hadn’t planned on waking up for a couple of decades at least.
He tossed his phone carelessly in the direction of the stand, and rolled over to his side, throwing the blanket over his head and essentially cocooning himself in cotton.
He closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
Well, he should have fallen asleep.
Sleep was a human habit that Crowley had excelled at. Better than humans even. Humans bragged about an hour long nap. Crowley could nap for centuries.
He didn’t indulge in such excessive sleep cycles that often. He quite liked being able to enjoy humanity’s other creations. Wine, for one. Plays. Fancy Restaurants. Fast cars. Stuffy booksho-.
Well, anyway.
But there was something to be said about the bliss of unconsciousness. The temptation to forget. To turn off the cacophony of thoughts and feelings, if only temporarily. And Crowley had always been great at temptation.
He currently had more reason than usual (even more than he had for the 14th century, which was quite a lot), to want to forget. To not think. Not feel.
So it should have gone like this: Crowley would lay down, command his brainsleep, and then wake up when he damned well pleased, preferably in fifty years.
What happened, was this: Crowley pulled the covers over himself, commanded his brain sleep, and then laid there most definitely not sleeping, as his brain said no.
What do you mean no?
No thank you?
Crowley growled.
You are my brain, and I. Am. Telling. You. To. Sleep!
Nah.
Crowley let out a feral scream and ripped away his blankets, sitting upright in the bed.
Fine. There was more than one way to get unconscious.
Crowley stumbled off the bed, fumbling for an empty bottle nearby on the ground.
He picked it up, staring at it in concentration.
Fill. He thought.
It sat in his hand. Empty.
Fill! He commanded.
He gave the bottle an extra harsh glare.
The glass glared back.
He threw the bottle in frustration at the wall, watching in petty satisfaction as it shattered loudly.
He stared at the sharp broken pieces, anger and confusion swirling in his mind.
“Everything okay in there?” asked an anxious voice accompanied by an insistent knocking. “Hello? I’m going to go get the front desk-”
Crowley waved a hand in the direction of the door, ending the knocking and questions. The neighbor, who suddenly remembered an urgent appointment she couldn’t be late for, hurried away from Crowley’s door.
Huh. So his miracles still worked.
He stared at another bottle that sat on the hotel desk. It remained frustratingly empty.
Crowley snorted. Guess he was going to have to do this the old fashioned way.
Crowley sauntered (wobbled) out of his room, trying to remember how he originally got to this hotel, and finding only vague recollections of the hideous orange wallpaper.
It didn’t really matter. The one thing that most hotels had in common, was a bar, or at least close proximity to a bar. They were well aware of who most of their clientele were.
Sure enough downstairs in the hotel lobby there were signs pointing to hotel dining options.
Crowley followed the signs, indeed interested in a liquid meal.
He was lead to an outdoor courtyard. Greenery draped along the stone walls. The center of the courtyard had several tables, a few were occupied with families enjoying a decadent breakfast spread.
Ah, so it was morning.
Crowley worried for a fraction of a second that they wouldn’t serve alcohol this early, but the twinkle of lights caught his attention and he turned to see a bar tucked in the opposite corner, string lights hanging above it. A bartender stood cleaning a glass. (As was previously stated, hotels knew their clientele)
Crowley smirked.
Bingo.
He strolled over, the bartender eyeing him warily as Crowley draped himself in a stool, legs spread wide, one arm resting on the back of the seat, the other placed ever so casually on the bar, fingers tapping impatiently.
“Scotch. Double. Topshelf” demanded Crowley, not looking at the bartender, instead keeping his eye line to a distant invisible spot, in a way that screamed ‘cool indifference’.
‘Ah. English. That explains it then.’ thought the bartender as he grabbed a bottle and poured the liquid into the glass.
He placed it on a napkin near Crowley’s tapping fingers, and Crowley grabbed it, waving obligingly without ever looking at him.
He raised the glass to his lips, quickly downing what was definitely supposed to be a sipping Scotch.
Crowley choked.
“What the hell is this?” He demanded, finally looking at the bartender.
The man shuddered at the sudden change in demeanor. He couldn’t see the patron’s eyes behind his shades, but he was suddenly sure that if he could, he would be haunted with nightmares at what he saw.
“Sir?”
“What.” Crowley said, dangerously slow, putting special emphasis on the ‘t’ sound. “Did you. Give me.”
“S-scotch Sir, it’s what you ordered”.
“That,” Crowley pointed angrily at the empty glass, “Was not Scotch. That, was water!”
“S-sir, that was our best bottle of Scotch!”
Crowley smiled with too many sharp teeth.
“Well then, maybe you should get a better bottle then!” He gritted out behind closed teeth.
The man simply floundered uselessly in response.
Crowley sighed. “Fine. A bottle of the house red.”
The bartender rushed to get a wine glass.
“Bottle” Crowley growled.
The man nodded, taking an unopened bottle and uncorking it before shakily placing it in front of the demon.
Crowley grabbed it and took a swig.
He spat.
What the hell?
He held the bottle away from him and tipped it, watching deep red liquid spill out and stain the ground.
He took another drink. Water rushed down his throat.
Crowley sputtered, eyeing the bottle disbelieving.
“Give me a shot” Crowley demanded desperately.
“W-which one?”
“Any!” he cried out.
Drink after drink he ordered, slowly going through every bottle in the bar, and every sip was the same. Gin, wine, beer, pink fruity cocktail. The second it passed his lips, it was just water.
Nighttime had fallen before Crowley finally gave up, shakily leaving behind a very confused and traumatized bartender.
The demon walked out of the hotel in a confused daze. He walked directionless, passing storefronts and vendors, people subconsciously giving him a wide berth as they walked by.
Maybe it’s this place. He thought. Maybe this place is messing with some of my miracles, and I just need to go somewhere else. Deep down he knew this wasn’t true. There was nothing special about this city. Running away wouldn’t help.
But damn if he wasn’t going to try.
Crowley stopped on the sidewalk and threw his arm out, hailing a cab that miraculously (figures) happened to be driving by.
Crowley piled into the back, slamming the door shut after him.
“Where to?” asked the portly driver, glancing at the demon in the rear view mirror.
“Anywhere but here” muttered Crowley, gazing out the car window.
“Rrright. Only, I do need an actual destination.” Apologized the driver. “Can’t exactly put ‘Anywhere but here’ in the GPS, now can I?”
Crowley resisted the urge to bang his head against the window.
“I don’t know. Where would you go?”
“Me?”
“Sure. Let’s say you could go anywhere your little heart desired. Where would that be?”
“Hmm. Suppose I’d always wanted to go to the coast, have myself a bit of a beach day.”
“Sure. Great. Let’s go there.”
“Really? Don’t know if I can feasibly take you there. A bit far innit? And the wife worries if I’m not back by a certain time. You know how it is-”
Crowley’s loud sigh interrupted the driver.
“I will pay you, an extraordinary amount of money, to take me to the coast. Okay?”
“You got it boss.” nodded the driver, now thoroughly convinced.
“Wonderful. Let’s go.”
“…”
“Why aren’t we going”
“Waiting for you to buckle up.”
“What?”
The driver pointedly eyed the buckle by Crowley.
“Can’t go until you’re buckled”
“I’m not ‘buckling up’.”
“Right, only I got a citation the other month ‘cause I was driving around without seatbelts, and if you get too many citations they can revoke your license, and then I wouldn’t be able to drive, and it’s my livelihood I got to think about right?”
Crowley was incredulous. He had never worn a seat belt in his entire existence. Even Azi- even he had eventually given up on trying to have Crowley install them in the Bentley. He had had quite the tiff about it when there was the big safety campaign about seat belts in the 90’s. He only shut up about it when Crowley had shrugged and said ‘Hmm, I guess if I get seat belts I could go even faster. Evens out then doesn’t it?’. With the threat of Crowley driving even faster than his normal speed demon self, he never brought it up again.
Crowley always did go too fast.
For the very first time, Crowley reached over his shoulder to grab the seat belt, crossing over his body and buckling in with an audible click.
The driver beamed at him.
The demon rolled his eyes and gestured for the driver to get a move on.
The driver changed the gear to drive and the car rolled forward.
Before it stopped suddenly, throwing Crowley forward (the seat belt catching him before he could hit the seat in front, much to his dismay). It gave a might sputter, and then died.
“Huh” the driver scratched his head. “That’s weird.”
Crowley tried three more cabs, two ubers, and what he thinks may have been a very interesting looking motorbike. All of the vehicles only made it a few feet before suddenly stopping and refusing to move at all.
Now Crowley sat in the driver’s seat of a rental (a shining black new Camaro) that had refused to even tun on when he turned the key in the ignition, banging his fists on the steering wheel and screaming in frustration. Finally out of energy, he thumped his head his head where his hands grasped the wheel and groaned.
He knew, deep down, what this was. He knew when he couldn’t sleep. He knew at the bar. And he knew when he couldn’t find a taxi that could take him away.
He knew, because deep down, it was him doing this. Somewhere deep inside Crowley was a part of himself that said enough.
Enough.
It’s time.
No more running away.
Crowley sighed, long and hard.
“Fine.” He breathed, resigned.
“Fine. Let’s go home”
The car roared to life.