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All You Need is Love
Crowley opened his eyes to a gentle tapping sound on his windshield. He’d slept in the Bentley again. The previous night had just been too painful to be in the bookshop without Aziraphale. Some nights he could do it, and other nights, well– the opposite was true. Crowley focused his eyes and straightened his dark glasses that he’d also fallen asleep wearing. By the time he had fully gained consciousness, the source of the tapping was gone, but there was a white envelope tucked under his windshield wiper.
“Ah for fuck’s sake, a ticket?” Crowley cursed, sitting up in the backseat and awkwardly stretching his long legs under the front passenger seat. He reached an arm over and unlocked the door easiest to stumble out of and walked around to the front of the car to snatch the envelope from the windshield. It was freezing outside, Crowley realized with a shiver. He clutched the envelope as he slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door against the cold wind.
Crowley pushed his glasses up on top of his head and adjusted the envelope in front of his face to find a position that he could best make out the words written in gold on the envelope.
The Messrs. Fell & Crowley
A.Z. Fell & Co.
XX Whickber Street
London, UK
Crowley adjusted the envelope again, hardly believing the names written on the envelope. “Messrs?” He grumbled, ripping the envelope open, the thick paper tearing between his name and Aziraphale’s humanized pseudonym. Crowley didn’t notice this, but if he had, it would have been unlikely he’d have gone any further in his exploration. He stared at the square of thick paper in his hands, and observed the wine-red and light-pink colored peonies printed all over it. In gold, Crowley could make out the names of… Pulsifer and Device? What was this? Crowley didn’t know, so with an exasperated sigh, he pushed himself out of the car and into Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death.
Nina looked up from the register where she was checking out a customer. She gave a thin-lipped smile in Crowley’s direction as he sidled in line behind the person in front of him. “Hello Mr. Crowley,” Nina said when he arrived at the counter.
“What is this?” Crowley thrust the envelope at her, standing stock straight and staring as Nina examined the paper.
“It looks like a wedding invitation,” Nina said, turning the card over. “I don’t know these people. An-ath-ema Device? And Newton Puls-if-fer,” she sounded it out. “It looks like you have a party to go to, Mr. Crowley.”
“A wedding?!” Crowley spluttered, grabbing the paper back from her, holding it at arms-length, as though it would start leaking Holy Water at any moment. “Me? Why would I ever go to a wedding? And you said Pulsifer and Device?”
Nina nodded, “Whoever they are.”
“Oh I know who they are,” Crowley snarled. “But I’ll be damned, well… I’ll be… I’m not going.”
Nina shrugged, “Suit yourself, but there’s a number on the back to call with your regrets.”
“I don’t regret a thing, Nina. I’m just not going,” Crowley yelled, throwing his arms out to either side, as if made of rubber, nearly hitting a woman behind him.
The woman yelped, “Well I don’t give a bloody damn if you’re not going,” she snapped. “But you call them, young man, you tell them you’re not coming. A wedding is expensive and you need to tell them not to plan on you being there!”
Crowley spun around to face her, “Kindly mind your business, I am neither young nor a…” he said through gritted teeth.
“Well I would if you weren’t yelling it up and down. I’m just trying to get a coffee,” the woman interrupted, not backing down.
“Rosalie, Crowley was just leaving, I have your coffee ready for you already,” Nina said, looking at Crowley with an expression that said, ‘if-you-don’t-leave-my-shop-and-stop-assaulting-my-customers-I’ll-personally-deliver-you-to-Hell’s-doorstep’. Crowley shrunk and skulked away, but not before insisting that Nina write the phone number down in bigger, clearer numbers so he could think about calling with his… regrets.
Back in his car, Crowley stared at the phone number, written larger across the back of the pinky, flowery paper. He took his phone and started to dial three times, losing the nerve until he saw Rosalie come out of the shop, pointing at her eyes and then back at Crowley’s. Crowley sneered and dialed the number.
It rang twice and was picked up by Anathema, “Hello?” Her voice was clear on the phone. “This is Anathema.”
“It’s Crowley,” Crowley grumbled in response.
“Sorry, who? I didn’t quite-”
“Crowley, it’s Crowley,” Crowley repeated, “I got your wed-ding in-vit-at-ion.” Crowley enunciated each syllable of the words.
“Oh yes!” Anathema said, “Hi Crowley, I am so glad you got it! Newt and I wanted to make sure you and Aziraphale would be coming to our wedding. Newt had said he called Aziraphale to invite you both to his stag party but no one has called back. It’s so good to hear from you!”
Crowley froze. Of course no one had called back. The phone line linked to Aziraphale went no where, and Crowley certainly wasn’t checking messages like some answering service.
“Crowley? Did I lose you?” Ananthema called out, “Will you be able to go to the stag party? I’ll let Newt know, it’s next weekend. And…the wedding?” Her voice sounded hopeful.
“I- I-” Crowley stammered, a lump forming thick in his throat, “Stag party? With me and Aziraphale? He’s, uh, well… He’s…gone, I mean, he can’t go, but… I… maybe… I guess I can- go to the stag party.”
“And the wedding?” Anathema encouraged. “That’s not ‘till February, the weekend before Valentine’s Day, so it’ll be romantic and-”
“Fine, just, fine, shut up,” Crowley hissed, “Fine, I’ll go. Sorry, don’t shut up. It’s, um,” he choked, “It’ll just be me.”
“Oh,” Anathema said, sounding a little confused and a little bit more disappointed, “I mean, wonderful. It will be lovely to see you, and I will tell Newt you will see him next weekend. I’ll text you details. Is this number okay?”
“Fine, thanks,” Crowley said, working to swallow back his emotions, “Yeah, ‘s fine.” Crowley hung up the phone without another word. He threw the phone and the invitation on the passenger seat and rubbed at his face, unsuccessfully pushing the tears back in his eyes and a sob back in his throat. He cleared his throat several times, still trying to clear his emotions that he wasn’t even supposed to have, and stared out the window, gripping the steering wheel. “A stag party and a wedding. I can see why they’d want him to go, but me- I’m… I’m not exactly a harbinger of joy and bliss,” he spat, turning on his car and maneuvering it out of the parallel parking job he’d done three weeks ago. There was nowhere to go. There was nowhere to be. There was noone waiting for him or wondering where he was. So he started the drive to Tadfield.
***
The following week, as Anathema had explained, Crowley was to drive to a place near Oxford in which they were supposed to drive rage buggies. Well, that sounded doable. The Bentley had been a rage…buggie for 91 years. Crowley pulled up to the location and saw Newton Pulsifer and several other men around his age. Crowley felt practically ancient and extremely out of place. Which, to be fair, he was both. Newt waved in his direction, “Crowley!” He called, “Good to see you, mate!” Crowley noticed Newt did not look around for Aziraphale. Anathema must have told him he wouldn’t be coming.
Crowley nodded, “Good to… be seen, I guess,” he said, his hands in his pockets as he sauntered over. “‘Ello,” he said nodding to each of the other men in turn. None of them could be any older than, twenty-seven. Each greeted him in turn. Crowley immediately forgot each of their names, but was told he would be paired with a orange-redheaded man named Colin. Colin stepped forward to identify himself and offered his hand, congenially. Crowley grimaced and shook the man’s hand.
“Well, if we’re all ready,” Newt said, “Let’s go!” The men, and Crowley, made their way toward what was obviously a track. Crowley kept quiet, walking a pace behind Colin, while the men hooted and hollered the whole way.
The ride was incredible. Crowley found it was well and acceptable to do at least 90 in his buggie. Or at least, it felt like 90. He couldn’t be sure. There was no speedometer. Colin, for his part, gripped the ‘oh-shit’ handle and made a face like if a grimace and a smile had a baby. Crowley was reminded of Aziraphale’s fear while riding shotgun in the Bentley, and slowed down by a hair, to Colin’s obvious relief.
Afterwards, the men and Crowley, high on adrenaline, were to make their way to a pub nearby for drinks and pub food. Once inside, Crowley was immediately warmed on the outside by the yellow light of the pub and the heat of many mens’ bodies inside. He felt cold inside. He was alone, very alone, though he had his “mates”.
“A pint, Crowley?” Newt asked, holding out a large, sweating glass in Crowley’s direction. Crowley made move to decline but before he could, he was holding the glass. He picked up a few napkins from the bar and wrapped them around the glass to protect his fingers from the cold. “Thanks,” he said, taking a sip. It wasn’t wine, and it wasn’t even good beer, but when at a stag, Crowley supposed.
The men and Crowley each found a seat at the bar, in a line, quickly also finding themselves pissed drunk and swaying. Even Crowley found himself unable to resist the fun of singing songs in a pub with people who were just having a bit of fun, not hurting anyone or anything, besides their own livers.
“Ah, fucking hell, who put this on, my wife just left!” A man’s voice could be heard as the opening chorus of horns began to “All You Need is Love” by the Beatles. The feeling was back, Crowley was reminded that, yes, without his love, he was alone. He didn’t need to eat, drink, sleep, or even breathe. And all he had was his sorrow and his grief. He had nothing.
Newt, who was seated to his left, slapped him on the back. “Good on, mate,” he said, “Thanks for comin’. Anathema is so happy you’re coming to the wedding and so’m I.” Newt smiled genuinely at Crowley and, through gritted teeth, Crowley gave a slight nod of affirmation and turned a corner of his lips up.
“There’s nothin' you can do that can't be done. Nothin' you can sing that can't be sung. Nothin' you can say, but you can learn how to play the game. It's easy. Nothin' you can make that can't be made. No one you can save that can't be saved. Nothin' you can do, but you can learn how to be you in time. It's easy. All you need is love.”
Crowley sipped his beer, his sixth, and listened to the words, his feelings mixed between his grief, and the surprising warmth he felt for Newt. He observed the men as they stood up to wrap their arms around each other in a line, and sway to the song, sing-screaming the lyrics as other men stood and joined in, apparently all knowing every word to the song. Crowley had forgotten the impact the Beatles had had on, well, everything. He realized he knew every word to the song. How had that happened? Crowley swigged back the rest of his beer, grimaced, and set it on the bar, nodding at the bartender and slicing his hand across his neck to indicate he was finished. He stood and walked over to the line and joined the end next to Colin, swaying along.
“All you need is love…All you need is love… All you need is love, love…Love is all you need.”
When the song ended, he slapped Colin on the back and made his way over to do the same for Newt. “Right, well- thank you ‘fer this”, Crowley slurred, “‘S about time I sobered up and got some rest, but I’ll see you in…” He faltered.
“Feb’rary,” Newt supplied, drunk. “Yeah, mate, I’ll see-you then”, he smiled, waving. “You good? You got a ride?”
“I’m a demon, what good- er… what would I be if I didn’t raise a little hell?” Crowley grinned wickedly. Newt looked worried. “Yes, ‘m fine. I’m fine, I’ll be fine.”
Out of sight, Crowley miracled himself sober, and sauntered back to his car to find a place to weather the storm, though, it was beautiful, cold, clear evening. Some storms aren’t on the outside.