Chapter Text
There had been so many different faces, in Heaven. Crowley hadn’t kept track of them all. He’d been busy, what with the creation of the universe, and then, of course, there was that whole thing with Lucifer and the great deal of them that were cast down to Hell. He’d therefore never bothered to remember their faces, or the names that went with them.
So, when Beburos comes calling, it takes Crowley a long moment to place him. His pale, freckled skin and shaved head. And when he does, he near chokes on his tongue.
“It can’t be happening already can it?” Crowley asks, exclaims, half to himself. “You—You can’t be here to start the end of the world two-point-oh now, surely?”
The not-quite archangel glances around them, at the early-summer beach-goers and the families pulling blankets and buckets and spades from the boots of their cars.
“Why not now?” Beburos asks.
Crowley makes a face. “You know what I mean. ‘The Second Coming’, ‘The Last Judgement’. The actual end of time. Are you really here to kick-start it already?”
A seagull squawks overhead, giggling children run over to the sand and the rocks and the sea, chatter and tinny music and life surrounds them, changing, ever constant. Beburos looks out of place in his white suit, that militant posture.
Then again, so does Crowley; all in black on a rare sunny day in England. At Lilstock Beach with the Bentley against his back.
“No. I’m not.” Beburos looks at Crowley, blond lashes white in the sun. “If I were ready to do my job, well, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve sought you out, haven’t I? I need help with something; your name travels.”
”Travels, eh?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Right. Good to know I’m popular enough to make Heaven’s water-fountain gossip.” Beburos frowns, Crowley waves the expression away.
“Look, whatever it is you want from me, no, ‘fraid not, can’t do it. You’ll be receiving no advice, no help, no labour from me, thank you very much. There are surely a million angels Up There that are just desperate to assist dear old, almost-archangel, on the cusp of promotion, Beburos with bringing about the destruction of life as we know it. Godspeed, and all that.”
The angel is watching him with open curiosity and shoots a hand out to grasp Crowley’s arm the moment he tries to slink away and into the Bentley. Crowley looks down at the offending appendage, scandalised. He opens his mouth to really let him have it, whatever it may be, but—
“Listen,” Beburos says, quick, something like desperation colouring his tone, “You’re the only—person—I could think of that might be able to help with this.”
Crowley’s lip curls. “Didn’t think your lot would allow that. Me being a demon and all.”
The hand on Crowley’s arm falls away. “They may not allow it, but it hasn’t stopped some of us in the past, has it? Or one angel in particular.”
There’s an anger stirring in Crowley’s gut that he tries to smother. It seems to come out in the harshness of his voice, anyway, “You don’t mention him. Do not talk about him.”
Beburos concedes easily with a small dip of his head. A kid wails as his mother tries to strap him into his car seat, somewhere to their right. Beburos squints unhappily. “Maybe we can chat elsewhere? Somewhere quieter?”
“Not trying to get me in a dark alley to finish me off with some holy water?” Crowley asks, half serious. The angel just looks at him expectantly. “Yeah. Right. Why don’t you—get in the car, yeah?”
And Crowley finally gets into the Bentley, shutting the door and exhaling deeply with both hands on the wheel as Beburos moves around to the passenger side.
An angel. A high-standing angel. An angel that is destined to bring about the end of the world, here at a beach car park with the main goal of getting help. From Crowley. You couldn’t write it. Or, well, you could. But who would even want to? Not Crowley, certainly. He’s been happy enough driving around the country, periodically stopping off at places that pique his interest, keep him busy, distracted. Resolutely not alone. He’s something of a social butterfly, these days, you know.
“This is nice,” Beburos says as he clambers in, adjusting to the new environment. “I’ve never been in a car before.”
“The Bentley isn’t just a car. But yes. She is ‘nice’.” With a haughty sniff, Crowley pulls out of the parking spot and toward a place he knows will be quiet enough to chat.