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The problem is…
Wait. Was? The problem was? No, definitely still is.
That is to say, the problem. Problem! It was certainly a problem, that’s for sure.
What was it?
It’s everything. That was it. Problem. Everything!
No, wait. Not everything. Not EVERYTHING was a problem.
Humans, for example. Most of them were fine. Fiiiiiiiine. Kept on living their little lives. Pottering about, doing their little jobs, keeping busy. Like little ants. Just running around, getting on with things. Not that ants *couldn't* be a problem of course. Don’t want ants in a kitchen, for example. Getting into the baking cupboard. Raiding the granulated sugar.
Ah, no. Best not start thinking about baked goods. Whole other problem there.
Or maybe it was the same problem, in fact?
Crowley slumped further into his half empty whiskey glass. He was leaning heavily on the sticky wooden table, the elbow of his jacket threatening to become attached as he toyed his fingers around the edge of the glass.
He wasn’t all that drunk, not really. His well worn-in corporation had a higher alcohol tolerance than most humans: he’d had centuries of practice, after all. Despite the last couple of hours of solo day drinking, he certainly wasn’t drunk enough to warrant such self indulgent incoherence. But the weighted blanket of well-wallowed sadness that sat over his shoulders was helping to muffle out more self-preserving attempts at clarity and reason that might usually have cut through Crowley's self pity. He was allowing his inner demons unfiltered access to his inner monologue.
It wasn't his fault. They’d been creeping up on him for days. Ever since… well. Sneaking in and depositing little unasked for observations and recriminations. And then taking advantage of his battered defences to mount a full incursion. They'd been grinding down what little remained of his resilience until he found himself here: half drunk on whiskey, half on sadness, in some random pub off Tottenham Court Road. Surrounded by Londoners who were mostly having a much better Tuesday afternoon than he was.
Although. While it wasn’t the best party he’d ever been to, a small guilty part of him had to acknowledge that it felt oddly satisfying to give in to his demons’ chaotic chatter. There was a relief to it, even as they dragged him further down the spiral. The darkness had some warmth, familiarity. A gravity that felt just a tiny bit good to give into after years, so many years, of resisting.
Ironic really, that a demon would have their own demons. Or appropriate? Meta demons. Nested demons. Demons all the way down.
Crowley allowed himself a tiny, wry smile at himself. This was a distraction too. The demons weren’t really the problem either.
The problem was London.
Fucking London.
A demon cut in: S’not really THE problem, though. The main, heart of the problem. You KNOW it’s not.
No. That was too big, though. Not even his most crazed, cackling demons were quite willing to tackle that head on. Not yet.
THAT would be much less a problem, though, if it weren’t for London.
It wasn’t entirely true either, not really. But there was enough truth that Crowley dipped his toe in the line of thought a bit further.
It’s all these PLACES. Here. In London. So many places. Street corners. Buildings. Park benches. And history. Stuff. Hundreds of years of places where things happened. Or didn’t happen. Or things were said. I said. He said. Or didn’t say.
Mostly didn’t say, to be fair.
Crowley looked around himself, squinting through his sunglasses at the sunshine illuminating the bar in a way that felt entirely inappropriate. Rude, even.
Take this pub, for example. Whassit called? Jack something? Been here 250 years. Used to be called the Bedford Head, before. Was a bank for a bit. Then a pub again. Doesn’t matter. But 175 years ago we walked past this place on the way to the museum. Him. And me. We walked together right there, on that street. Actual feet on that actual paving stone. Or was it cobbles back then? Might have been. Either way right THERE.
Crowley gestured wildly towards the street outside, for the benefit of no one in particular. Miraculously none of the other pub patrons were paying him any heed, ignoring his reverie in favour of chasing their own demons and pint glasses.
How could one cracked paving stone on one nondescript patch of earth carry so much significance? It was maddening.
He stopped to admire some flowers on one of the tables by the window. Right over there. Daisies! White daisies with yellow centres. I miracled one into his button hole, just because. He smiled so brightly at me.
Crowley stopped for just a moment, some residual self preservation instinct kicking in. He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey as a distraction.
Then there’s the theatres. So many theatres. All the plays. Concerts. Shows. The Globe. That place where we did the magic show during the war. Mrs Henderson! She was a class act. Great woman. He nearly discorporated me with that damn magic act. Ridiculous idiot in the green satin cape and little stupid painted on moustache. Couldn’t make it up if I tried. I mean magic. Who even does that?! Especially a being who can do literal actual magic. Fuck sake. And that theatre is still just THERE, waiting to pour all of that… MEMORY at me if I so much as look at it.
Crowley spat the word “memory” at himself like it was a blessing. There was just so much of it pouring out of him. He hadn’t realised how much of it had filled him up until He left and it had apparently started oozing from his pores. He worried he would drown in it.
He couldn’t quell the tide, despite the risk of sinking.
Like the way He rescued the photo from Furfur. So quick I didn’t even see it, and then later, after I’ve been full on panicking for like an hour, just casually reveals he’s saved my existence. Over wine, and candle light in his hair.
Stupid white curly silky hair.
Change of subject again required. A flash of crimson caught his eye.
And buses! Even the damned buses. Rendezvous no 5 or whatever it was, back in the days of godfathering Warlock. Big red fuckers everywhere you look. No escape.
Crowley glared through the window as one of the offending vehicles passed by. A wave of his hand and the poor unsuspecting driver would be suffering a minor bout of stomach trouble in two to four hours time (long enough that hopefully he’d have finished his shift).
And it’s not like it’s just Soho either. We’ve both been around way too long, too much… time. Here. Westminster. Remember watching the Abbey go up. He was so excited to see something so beautiful on that old site. About how clever humans were, and how their devotion to God could inspire such transcendent beauty. He used to go back every second Thursday like clockwork to check on progress.
Suddenly more wistful, caught in the stream, Crowley’s eyes glazed over, seeing only ghosts.
Remember Greenwich at dusk, watching the tall masts of the ships coming and going in the shadow of the Palace? It’s not there any more, but we knew it well. Or walking along the river bank, or taking a boat out to Richmond on a misty morning. The green-blue-brown of the Thames reflected in your stupid sparkly eyes.
That little café in Chelsea, where young women wore scandalously short skirts and the young men forsook the suits and ties of their fathers back in the sixties. It's turned into one of those dreadful American chain coffee places now. But You always enjoyed the fish and chips.
An inner demon tried to conjure an image of a smile with a perfect cupid’s bow, of lips pressing down to bite into a ketchup covered chip, held daintily on the end of a silver fork.
Enough.
Crowley stood abruptly, physically shaking himself to dispel the image. He pushed his glass away and strode out of the door and into the bright, busy street. Heading nowhere in particular, letting his feet carry him, he kept his head down, scowling at passersby. But the memories didn't stop coming.
St James’s Park, feeding ducks. The smell of the blossom in the trees in spring, the sound of Pelican wings beating. The squeals of children and in recent years squarks of bright green parakeets. Sunlight on a pale jacket.
Frost fairs on the river in the snow. Carol singers and colourful market stalls that seemed to have sprung from nowhere. Hot wine mulled with spices, steaming in cold hands.
Leafing through boxes of secondhand books on the Southbank, in the cool shade of Waterloo Bridge. Most of it absolute junk (sometimes whole tables full of Harry Potter, for goodness sake), but of course it had to be checked, just in case a rare first edition of something interesting snuck in. Deft fingers stroking the spines and carefully turning pages.
The memory was everywhere. Baked into the fabric of the place, then and now irreparably entangled - the past unrelentingly present in this current, maddening hive of London now. It seeped out of every crack and seam in the city, creating little islands of warmth and quiet within the ever present chaos and noise of the city that seemed to live and breathe around them. If you weren't careful you could step into them without warning and be teleported to a Then, without any say in the matter.
Crowley suddenly felt completely, miraculously sober.
I should get out of here. How’s Berlin this time of year? Or Atlanta?
Yes, he should leave, find some other place. Somewhere less haunted, less full of this imprisoning memory. But the inner demons had an unbreakable grip, and looking up, he realised his feet had inevitably led him straight back to the beating heart of it.
His eyes saw new burgundy paint on fresh plasterwork alongside the slightly chipped and dulled reality of the present. Bright white columns and a warmly-lit shop: now no longer lit with the same brilliance, but still strangely comforting in its presence.
Without looking he could see the inviting sofa that He never sat on. Made comfy with blankets and cushions and always available to lounge on. He could smell the smell of paper and dust, and recall the clutter that seemed to grow and spread, items rarely removed but often added to. There was the faintest whiff of smoke and ash that Crowley could never quite manage to pretend he’d not noticed.
Fuck sake.
He knew he wasn't going anywhere. Unlikely as it seemed, this place that embodied all of humanity in its concrete and brick and paving stones and trees and parks had also come to embody him; his past and his present. His heart may be broken, but the piece that had been lost could still be found here on every corner.
He couldn't look away, let alone leave. It was home.