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So, that was it then. 6,000 years gone in a scathing kiss and a bright white lift up to heaven.
Crowley was empty. A shell of whoever he was, could be, had been. None of it mattered anymore. So the Bentley drives and drives and drives. Crowley lets his mind float, wishes he could let his body float. Ignores the sunset, the eventual sunrise, as he sits behind the wheel, Bentley driving most of the way.
He ends up in Scrabster. All the way in fucking Scrabster. Bentley parks at Holborn Head Lighthouse, engine rumbling softly. Crowley gets out, feels the ice chill breeze on him as he looks out at the sea. The ocean. Whatever the fuck all the water out there is.
“Would’ve driven to the Ornkeys, huh?” he mumbles as he strides over to the iron railing and continues to look out. If he squints, he could see St. Margaret’s Hope over on the horizon. Maybe. He can see the horizon at least.
As far north as he possibly could go, without getting onto one of the ferry’s.
Crowley ignores the passing of time, breathes in the salty sea air. Lets the breeze cool him to his core until his teeth are chattering from the cold.
Someone comes out, hands him a cup of tea, “Get in out of the cold?”
Crowley only shrugs them off, accepts the tea, feels it too grow cold.
At some point he catches the Bentley flashing its lights and Crowley sighs, managing to get back into his car. The heater is blasting, and a violin concerto is playing softly.
Bentley is driving again, back down the way they came. Crowley’s mind, his body, still feels numb in the grief that has soaked into him. And then the memory of those moments begin to replay, without permission in his head. The nervousness in his body, the excitement, the hope of Aziraphale - what? Saying yes? Agreeing? Also professing his love to him? Crowley doesn’t allow for a different timeline. He only sees Aziraphale’s excitement, the smile on his face and then the pleading of Crowley coming back to heaven. To return as an angel. To become some utterly soulless drone of heaven, without a decent thought in their head, only doing the work of what? God. A God who wanted to destroy everything after 6,000 years. Of all the work and beauty that was put into this place. A careless God who damned her children, and then kicked her creations out of a garden simply for knowing. A God who created knowledge, and yet hated anyone knowing.
Crowley can feel the rage start to build within him, and suddenly the speed of the Bentley is not doing him any good. Faster, slower, it doesn’t matter, he can’t out run the anger spreading throughout him. He pulls over - a field, a fence, a copse of trees - and he gets out, walking along the drainage ditch, pacing as he grumbles, mumbles.
“I loved you, we could’ve ran away together. Why? Why wasn’t I enough?”
He can feel the static in the air, the crackling in his fingers, the battery acid on his tongue. The sound of thunder, and finally, as the steam and the smoke rolls off of him, and he feels the heat of the red on his face, the lighting comes down, striking a tree, cutting it in half as if an axe, wielded by God, had twained it in two.
His breathing is heavy, the static in his body fading, the electricity dissipating through the air. He lets out a heavy sigh, and plods back to Bentley.
He slides into the driver’s seat, rests his head on the steering wheel. The tears begin to fall down his cheeks, like a gentle rain at the beginning of a restless storm.
He was an hour outside of London when the sound of buzzing and a sudden pressure to the air began to fill the Bentley. Crowley eyed the passenger seat, waiting for the flood of flies to encompass the front seat of the car.
A breath. Another. Nothing came and the buzzing noise disappeared.
~*~
It was a stabbing, right in his solar plexus. A bitter burn that caused tears to come to his eyes. Crowley wanted to scream, but refused. The darkness was all encompassing
And then
Softness, like a feather, on his lips. "I forgive you." The lips kissed him again, "I forgive you." They whispered.
"Aziraphale - don't -"
And then the pecks were just lips pressed together and the tears fell from his eyes. The stabbing burn in his middle starting to fade.
Crowley opened his eyes, to find the closed eyes of Muriel and their lips pressed against his. He backed up on the couch, pulling away, eyes wide.
"Inspector!" She would never lose that name.
Muriel's eyes opened and she sat back, "Was I doing it wrong? More force? It always sounds gentle in the stories I've been reading."
Damn books, Crowley thought
"No, no, just - you're supposed to kiss people when they're awake, not when they're asleep."
His sunglasses were askew. He hadn't meant to nap in the bookshop, hadn't planned on even staying here for long. He had left one of the plants, grabbed it, and insisted on being polite when Muriel had offered a cupperty.
Sleeping in the Bentley was not as restorative as he thought.
"Oh. Well, should I do it again?"
"No, no!" Crowley fixed his glasses as he stood up. The pang hit him again as looked at the spot the last time he was here, the last time he had been…
"Shouldn't have done it in the first place," he mumbled, reaching over to the desk and picking up the plant. A yellow tulip was beginning to bud in the otherwise tall stalks of the mother in law plant leaves.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I just - I'd seen you and Mr. Fell, and I've been reading these novels by Jane Austen–"
At Jane Austen, Crowley hissed. Muriel stepped back, eyes wide, mouth half opened in fright.
The pleasure of frightening an angel coiled up his spine. It had been…far too long since he'd frighten anything that wasn't human.
And then the guilt crept in just as quick. Muriel was still new, it had been months and oh…
"Don't read Austen. She'll give you the wrong ideas." Crowley set the plant back down and walked past Muriel to the back stacks, pulling out a dustier hard cover. He waved his hand as the dust motes floated in front of his face.
"Here, Shakespeare's Sonnets, if you want romance."
Muriel gleamed as she took the book from his hands.
And then an idea passed through his head. And before he could control his mouth, the question was coming out, "Tempt you to a bit of lunch?"
The Wolseley. He certainly couldn't take Muriel to the Ritz. And yet, he had said lunch, they were in the Bentley, and before he or Bentley understood, they were in the area. Nearly pulled up to the Ritz before Crowley pushed the car further, pulling up to the other restaurant.
His mind was racing. Why was he doing this? How did this happen? Didn't he know better?
He opened doors for Muriel and before they knew it, they were sitting in a corner booth at the restaurant.
Muriel shrank into herself, gleaming - that was the word for it, the way her face lit up as she looked at the plush surroundings and bright chandelier's.
Crowley had waved at the wine list, "Bottle of the Les Fouilles, unless," he glanced over his sunglasses at Muriel, who's eyes widened. Crowley sighed and leaned back, "Just the one. And a tea for my-" he looked at Muriel and felt his heart clench, "associate." He finished.
Muriel offered her usual smile to the waiter before looking around the booth one last time. Then her eyes focused on Crowley.
"Is this a date?"
He was sure his eyebrows would climb into his hair.
"No, it's lunch."
"But we're out. Together. For a meal. All the books I've read say this would constitute a date."
"It's lunch. There's no romantic overtones to this. Just lunch."
"Oh." Muriel replied.