Chapter Text
A shock of hostile cold jolts Crowley awake. He lets out a strained groan, entire body aching with a pain that challenges the aftermath of his couple-hundred-thousand-mile-long fall from Heaven. For a moment, Crowley humours the idea that God simply made him Fall again. But Crowley isn’t in Hell.
Well. He’s almost certain this isn’t Hell. Whatever this is seems to be an unassuming bathroom, of which Crowley is unceremoniously sprawled on the floor. Which explains the rude awakening, he supposes, his squished cheek now imprinted with the tile markings. Unsurprisingly, he feels like he just got the ever-living shit knocked out of him. His mind is foggy, head reeling, and his vision seems considerably worse for a reason Crowley can’t be bothered to ruminate on. He also can’t quite place where he just fell from. Crowley considers just laying there for the rest of eternity.
Crowley’s legs are much more shaky than he anticipated, and nearly give out as he hoists himself up, gripping the sink as a lifeline of sorts. His hand slips on a smear of blood staining the porcelain basin, and glances upward to find a blurry face grimacing at him. Crowley freezes. The face belongs to him. But it isn’t his, not really. His hair is a lighter orange with scattered spots withering into greys, and he seems older, wrinkles beginning to comfortably settle in. That’s when he sees them. Or more accurately, doesn’t see them. He abruptly leans forward and wills his vision to focus, ignoring the blood streaked across his fingertip as he pries his eyelids apart. Not a speck of yellow stares back at him. Instead, brown irises stubbornly return his glower, his snake-eye slit replaced with a circular pupil.
Crowley gapes.
“Angel?!” He whips around, still unsteady and untrusting of his new vessel. He’s met with silence, which he promptly fills with a hefty string of curses.
A pair of glasses lies near his foot. They aren’t his typical black ones, they’re closer to Aziraphale’s reading glasses (which he certainly does not need and only uses since it looks, in his words, pretty). Regardless, Crowley shoves them on, one lens cracked. A small dribble of blood runs from his left ear, a shaky hand reaching up to prod its trail. Then, he remembers.
Do you want me to put everything back the way it was?
…What do you want, Crowley?...
…I believe we’ve come to a decision.
He is not supposed to be here. As far as he knows, he’s not supposed to even exist. That is, unless Aziraphale’s decision was different from his? But Crowley is fairly sure that he was as explicit as he could be, mind you; he isn’t sure he could get more direct than ‘Yeah, we’re doomed, pull the plug, God, and let us take one for the team!’ To add onto that, Crowley doesn’t even know if God Herself is even sticking around. Crowley finds himself struggling to breathe, forgetting to exhale on every other wheeze. He needs to calm down. And make a list of what he does know, like humans do.
1. He’s alive, and somewhat breathing. That’s good.
2. If he's alive, Aziraphale likely is too.
2. He’s lost his regular vessel, and now inhabits a far more human-presenting version.
Well. There are two things that Crowley knows, for sure. He doesn’t even want to start thinking about what he doesn’t. He stares at his own reflection for a second longer, before he adds…
3. He utterly loathes this new vessel.
Crowley lets out an involuntary snarl as he turns weakly, making a beeline out of the room. His knees are still shaky, as if they want nothing more than to buckle at a moment’s notice. Crowley tries not to stumble too often as he staggers down the hall. He almost knows his way around the house, despite never having been there before. It’s uncanny, similar to the wretched moments Hell would plant information into his mind (which he could easily have learned through conventional methods). Crowley cringes as his body turns him right, then left, left again, then back to right as he navigates the many rooms, all of which contain intricately embossed wallpaper, conscientiously aligned photoframes, plush velvet drapes, and well-fed bookshelves.
Crowley pays little to no attention to it, blindly following his intrinsic compass as he opens a heavy oak door.
His Bentley sits impatiently in the garage, as if she was waiting for him to take her on a walk after being cooped up all-day. Crowley lets out a relieved laugh at the sight of the familiar sleek black silhouette, running a quick hand across the hood. He’s surprised there isn’t a single scratch on her, considering she just recently flew to the Centre of the Universe at a speed well beyond that of light. How the human vessel kept her in such great shape, he had no idea. Neither did he know how she got back to Earth on her own. Crowley dismisses the thoughts. He has to keep moving.
“Oh, I’ve missed you,” Crowley utters. “Okay, love, go time. Take us to Angel.” He gives the leathered wheel a quick pat of encouragement, anticipating the engine’s purr at his touch.
He waits expectantly. Blinks.
“...hullo?”
Once again, he is returned with radio silence.
“For fuck’s sake,” He practically gripes.
Crowley refuses to give up. He reaches into the glove compartment to rummage for a proper set of glasses and finds nothing but napkins and a loose pen or two. Figures. Well, it’s not like he needs his glasses any longer, but still. Some more familiarity would be really appreciated.
Crowley almost never explicitly uses his keys to start her up, only once or twice in a century when either of them were in a particularly pissy mood. But even then, he could at least hear her discontent, virtually feeling it at times. Now, the Bentley feels like an empty carcass. He knew he’d lost his miracle account, but stripping it away from the Bentley too? Well, that’s just low, even for God.
In the rear-view mirror, he spots a half-closed door leading outside. Crowley pointedly refuses to look at his non-serpentine eyes before making the painful decision to abandon the Bentley. He settles on walking until he finds something that’ll explain this mess.
Crowley slips outside and squints as the near-blinding sunlight spills over him. The moment he steps out of the flat, his internal compass throws in the towel. How convenient.
Crowley heads off in a direction. It doesn't quite matter which one, any will do at this point. He wills his feet to move just as fast as his mind races, refusing to let himself linger on any one thought for too long. He can’t handle any of his questions just yet. All he had to do was put one foot in front of the other. After a few minutes, he unwillingly slows. His bones start to ache again and breath becomes shallow. His hips hurt like Hell, even from only walking half a kilometer, and his body stubbornly refuses to listen as he demands it to push forward. Crowley feels fragile, bending over to catch his breath. Back in 1924, Crowley ran an entire marathon out of boredom, and definitely not due to a lost bet, without much of a struggle. Now, he’s doubled over and wheezing loud enough for a few humans to pause and stare at him.
It’s humiliating. The vessel is a load of bull.
Crowley considers giving up. Maybe laying on that tiled floor wasn’t that terrible of an idea. At this rate, he’d expect this vessel to discorporate on its own in a couple of years. But like his own body, Crowley’s stubborn streak had always got the best of him. Hissing through his teeth, he forces himself to stand up straight, ignoring the shooting pains running up his back. The roads are busy, milling with humans too preoccupied with their own mundane lives to notice him any longer. He’s gently nudged by déjà vu, standing there in the streets and watching them spill into and pour out of buildings. Crowley stiffens as he spots a familiar intersection. Despite his somewhat patchy memory (which he partially attributes to the recent blow to his head), he knows where he is. He had nearly been written up by an officious traffic warden before Aziraphale miracled the ticket into combustion in 2007. Yes, he recalls, it was only a few blocks over from their pond and its ducks.
Which means he’s only a couple of kilometers from their bookshop.
His feet pick up without another thought. The streets become a blur of acquainted shapes and turns. Crowley finds Wicker Street in just under a half hour (he notices the road sign is off by a few letters, the wankers). Almost all of the shops have been replaced or entirely removed, yet it had some life returned to it. The alleyway he inhabited: revamped with brightly-coloured murals substituting the filth he laid in. The coffee shop: converted into a spunky-looking thrift store. Ms. Sandwich’s apartment complex…well, actually, it was still there, somehow.
At the corner of Wicker Street stands a freshly painted, pale blue bookshop, its pillars and nameplate gone. Not unlike the street, it has drastically changed. A considerable amount of time must have passed since they left Earth, no doubt. Crowley realizes he was standing rather daftly in front of the entrance for a few minutes. He hesitates only a second longer. What good does standing around do for them?
The predictable jingle of a bell marks Crowley’s entrance. It is the only thing that hasn't changed. The store feels considerably smaller, Aziraphale’s expansion miracles presumably lost, with fewer shelves resting several inches below the ceiling. It feels humble and quiet. Despite the changes, he nearly feels safe. Maybe safe isn’t the right word. Comfortable. Whatever, Crowley isn’t very worried about the semantics at this point.
“Anthony, dear boy!” A voice booms. Crowley goes rigid at the dreadfully recognizable voice. He didn’t even need to look; he knows who it belongs to.
The Metatron sits behind the till all too casually, glasses slipping down his wizened nose. Despite the horrible sight, Crowley is at least marginally grateful he donned his human vessel over the giant head form. What he’s doing in Aziraphale’s bookshop again is anyone’s guess, as is the use of Anthony, and not to mention the Metatron’s very existence. Crowley wrestles with himself to lunge at him, grab something as a weapon, or even scream at the man who entirely stripped his life away from him. He wants him to live through the suffering Crowley endured because of him, the gut-wrenching effects of abandonment leaving him to puke his stomach contents made entirely of alcohol, the nights wasted walloping in Ms. Sandwich’s flat, bawling into her dirty rags, and the cold fist of rejection after laying his heart bare for the first time. He opens his mouth, yet no words come out. Fear’s grip is so tight on Crowley’s throat he feels strangled.
“Lovely to see your face again, old friend. How’s the new position been treating y-”
“What are you doing here?!” Crowley cuts the elderly man off, voice rushing back to him and spilling out in a snarl.
But the Metatron doesn’t return the aggression. No, shockingly, his almost friendly demeanor only shifts to a puzzled look. He could smite Crowley right there, wipe him out of existence like he was supposed to be in the first place. Instead, the Metatron pauses his crossword puzzle. And gently sets his pencil down.
“...whatever do you mean?”
Crowley splutters.
“What on Earth is going on here? What have you done?”
“Are you alright, son?”
The Metatron starts to round the desk’s corner, dreadfully. Crowley hisses, grabbing a nearby book and holding it in front of him like Aziraphale would with that blasted sword.
“Take one more step, and– ” Crowley hadn’t quite thought this out. “and this book goes flying.”
It seems to do the job, at least. The two men fall still in a stand-off, the older one raising his hands in defeat.
“...relax, Anthony, please. Are you ill?” The Metatron asks.
“Shut it. Is he here?”
“Is who here?”
“Wh- Aziraphale, you idiot, who else?”
The Metatron stares, bereft of recognition.
“…I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’m terribly sorry. Listen, why don’t you kindly set that book down, Anthony…” The Metatron stammers, hands only just quivering.
Crowley stops listening to the man mid-way. He feels the world crashing in on him for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour. It didn’t help much that the older vessel could barely stand after the walk, stamina crashing and legs finally quitting the rotten job.
Aziraphale is gone. How was he erased, but not Crowley? Was this God’s final punishment for asking a fucking question?
The Metatron’s voice becomes a background hum as the room blurs, staying still for several minutes. His ears ring in a high-pitched discordant drone, aching relentlessly as the blood that split from his left ear begins to dry. At some point, Crowley realizes he’s now sitting, the legs of the chair digging into the wooden floor. He feels the Metatron’s hand on his shoulder, much too gentle. He flinches at the touch. Crowley can only just mutter a ‘Ger’off me’, but didn’t have it in him to pull away, staring at a blank patch on the wall.
He sits there for some time. He wouldn’t even put up a fight to the Metatron’s smiting any longer. At some point, the Metatron had hovered around him worriedly and set a once-warm cup of tea beside him that now cools untouched. A horribly upbeat melody (one Aziraphale would consider bebop) lingers from a radio to taunt him.
The cheerful notes are interrupted by the sudden ring of the bell.