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Crowley glanced at his overly complicated watch. Four pm. He floundered a hand out, searching for the rocks glass he’d left on the side table last night. The first weeks after Aziraphale left had been rough. The days when he had bothered waking, he’d drank from the moment he woke until whenever he fell back asleep. By now though he’d forced himself to cut back, telling himself he’d at least stop day drinking, try to be better company for Muriel who now than the bookshop where he seemed to be squatting indefinitely. It wasn’t even five o’clock but at this point of winter, he reasoned it was already dark out, making it practically night time and thus acceptable to start drinking.
He looked over at the bar cart and remembered he’d depleted the last of Aziraphale’s selection of liquors the night before. He knew there were still several vintage bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape tucked away somewhere in the bookshop, but he wouldn’t touch those, still holding out hope that he and Aziraphale might one day share them upon the supreme archangel’s return.
He needed more alcohol and he needed to get out of this bloody bookshop where the ingrained scent and every dusty nicknack reminded him of the angel who’d abandoned him. Yet for those exact same reasons, despite the pain they caused him, the bookshop still had a hold on him. Never mind the fact that Shax was still occupying his Mayfair flat, he wouldn’t have wanted to go there anyway- too lonely. At least here he had the distraction of Muriel’s constant chatter and incessantly positive energy, someone to look after him and occasionally tuck an Aziraphale-scented tartan blanket around him when he lay listlessly on the sofa for hours.
He peeled himself up off of said sofa. “C’mon, ang- Muriel, we’re going to the pub.”
Though Muriel was an angel, it now felt disloyal to use the epithet that had become a term of endearment for anyone but his angel. No, not “my” angel anymore. Though who’s to say if he ever even had been , Crowley thought bitterly.
“You’ll like the pub. Lots of good people-watching,” Crowley urged when he noticed Muriel glance at the sign still turned to “open” on the front door.
“Well, I do like watching people,” Muriel agreed. “Humans are so fascinating. Did you know they have two completely different games, both called football?” They continued sharing their learnings as Crowley ushered them out the door. “One is played with your feet,” they shuffled their feet, mimicking dribbling a ball, “but the other one apparently doesn’t even use your feet. Although I suppose running uses your feet…” they rambled on.
“Yup. And I’m sure you can watch some of the feet-football in the pub if you like.” Crowley strode on, leading Muriel across the street before they got sidetracked with another conversation.
Entering the Dirty Donkey, Crowley made a path straight to the bar, Muriel following close behind.
“Large Talisker,” he growled. “Please,” he added reluctantly.
“Anything for you?” the bartender asked, turning to Muriel as he started pouring Crowley’s drink.
“Um, a cuppertea?” Muriel asked, naming the first regular human beverage they could think of.
Mishearing them over the racket of the pub, the bartender set to making a Long Island iced tea.
Crowley and Muriel took their drinks and found a secluded corner where Crowley could sprawl as he sulked.
“This cuppertea is cold,” Muriel observed, setting their glass down gingerly.
“You’re probably not gonna want to drink that,” Crowley warned, sipping his own whiskey. Considering Muriel had yet to try any human food or drink, starting with such a strong cocktail seemed a bit like throwing them into the deep end.
“No no, I was just going to look at it.” They smiled slightly, taking in their surroundings of the pub, observing all the humans crammed into the room with them.
“Well,” Crowley eyed the tall glass, “if you’re not going to drink it, no use letting it go to waste.” He lifted the glass to his lips and downed the whole drink as easily as if it were just six shots of espresso. The sweet, boozy cocktail certainly went down more easily than the punishing burn of neat whiskey. He was seemingly inspired to then work his way through an assortment of cocktails containing each of the many liquors it included. He made his way through cosmopolitans, margaritas, and aviations.
Several rounds later, Crowley stumbled as he went to stand to order another.
“You just sit right there, let me go get it for you,” Muriel offered, meaning to be helpful. However, apart from knowing that wine was typically used in communion, they weren’t familiar enough with the effects of alcohol to realise that they probably were only helping to make matters worse.
“What would you like me to order for you, Mr Crowley?”
“Easy, Ozzy. Told you, jus’ Crowley’s fine.” Muriel, who was even less familiar with so-called “bebop” than Aziraphale had been, looked perplexed at the reference but Crowley carried on. “Uhh, twomojitos and, uhhh, somuchwine,” he slurred.
As Crowley had so far been ordering two drinks at every round, giving the appearance of one for him and the other for the angel — then promptly finishing off both himself — Muriel assumed these were the names of two drinks, one for Crowley and one “for Muriel.”
“Can do!” Muriel said, as they headed for the bar.
They waited patiently to get the bartender’s attention.
“What can I get you?”
“Ello ello ello! Could I please get a twomojitos and some muchwine?”
The bartender eyed the angel warily. Apart from the way he thought this young person was slurring, they seemed surprisingly clear eyed and chipper. “How ‘muchwine’ have you had, eh?”
“Oh I haven’t had anything to drink. I’m just here to keep Mr Crowley — er, just Crowley, I mean,” they proudly corrected themself, “company.”
“You’re telling me your friend has drunk all…” the bartender looked back at the tab Crowley had racked up this evening, “twelve of these drinks himself over the last two hours!? Christ, get your friend home before he has a bad time and before I get ratted out for over serving a customer.”
Just then, Crowley swaggered up to the bar, wondering where his drinks were. He assumed Muriel was perhaps too small or just too polite to fight their way through the crowd along the bar to get the bartender’s attention. He rested an elbow on Muriel’s shoulder, grinning goofily.
“Heyyy Muriel! Did you get the wine? I’ll take white and reddd. All the colours. All the colours!”
He was far from sober yet, to the bartender’s amazement, far from the state he’d have expected of someone who’d had that much to drink in that short a period.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I cannot in good faith serve you any more tonight,” the bartender addressed Crowley.
“Nahhhh, no no no. Imma just… Imma jus’ sssober up and then we can do this all over again,” Crowley assured the bartender.
Being a regular human bartender, unfamiliar with the alcohol-purging abilities of demons, he assumed Crowley meant by means of a good night's sleep before coming back tomorrow.
A slightly pained expression crossed Crowley’s face and the bartender worried for a moment that Crowley was going to vomit onto the countertop. Then, just as suddenly, Crowley’s posture straightened from the unsteady slump, if not to perfect posture, at least to his normal, affectedly-cool slouch. The demon sighed and shook his head, clearing it.
“Right. So, how about those two mojitos, a pinot grigio, and a Malbec?” He spoke completely clearly, as the bartender looked at him in astonishment.