One Fine Year
Chapter One
By bkw
Twenty years after the first failed apocalypse, a second one is taking place again. Crowley searches for a missing Aziraphale and the Winchesters try to defy fate. Good Omens/Supernatural. Post-GO, AU-Season 5. Season 6 spoilers.
This is AU for Season Six (plus spoilers!) as well, concerning Balthazar's character. You'll see soon enough.
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Disclaimer: Good Omens © Pratchet/Gaiman. Supernatural © Eric Kripke.
Warnings: crossover, AU for Supernatural Season 5+, slash (pairings TBA), foul language, descriptive violence, general blasphemy
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1991
A Year After The Apocalypse That Never Was
It was a fine, fine year.
Crowley hadn't remembered a year being as, well, fine as the one they just had. Nothing went wrong. There was silence on either ends of the cosmic phone chain and for once, he didn't have to worry about some mission from Downstairs to appear at an inappropriate time. Normally, he wouldn't have noticed one year being so different form the last, considering he had nearly six thousand to contemplate.
But last year? Last year was definitely something to contemplate. Last year, the world almost ended. Last year, Crowley tried to outwit the Ineffable Plan. Last year, Crowley had been certain it would have been his last.
It hadn't. The end of the world had abruptly been moved to a future date after the Antichrist decided Earth's time wasn't up. Crowley normally would have insisted he get credit for usurping Heaven's grander plans such as that, but he knew he was lucky to be alive for his part in all of that. He was on Hell's Shit-List for what he had done (specially, what he hadn't done).
He wasn't in the doghouse alone, of course. Waylaying the apocalypse needed a bit more than a single demon who had "gone native." Aziraphale personally hated being referred to as a "partner in crime," but Crowley felt it had fit nicely.
They liked Earth. They really, really did. Crowley enjoyed the scenery and the booze while Aziraphale would never want to part with his book collection (or small café shops on street corners). There was the Bentley and movies, culture, music—and ducks. Aziraphale would have insisted on mentioning the existence of ducks as a viable reason for letting Earth stick around.
So when they both received orders to help jumpstart the Apocalypse… well, that didn't appeal to the angel or the demon. They couldn't very well stop it or refuse their orders of bringing forth the Antichrist, so they made plans.
Those plans went awry essentially the minute they attempted to do anything, mind you, but they still tried. And when they realized eleven years later they had messed up (1), both angel and demon had scrambled around London for three days trying to find a way to fix everyone's problems. That hadn't gone too well either.
But at the end of the day (the very last day), Adam the Antichrist-to-be decided enough was enough and stopped the whole mess. Crowley wasn't about to complain, even though Hell was rightfully sore with him over killing a demon to succeed and working with an angel for most of it. Aziraphale got scolded by his superiors Above as well, but miraculously, both survived.
And then… life went on. Amazingly so.
Crowley had never thought being able to wake from unneeded sleep and seeing everything still existing would be as lovely as it turned out to be. Adam fixed everything that had been damaged by either the Horsemen or his own powers. Aziraphale got his bookstore back in Soho and his ducks at the park.
And then, of course, the two got properly smashed and remained smashed for a good week or so, reveling in the occasion of simply being alive.
It was a good start to a good year. Crowley continued to keep his plants back at his own flat and was even nice to them for a week or so out of good cheer. He kept doing his work, of course, with minor misdeeds and creative torment for the locals, but that was mostly out of habit than a dedication to his bosses. The only worry Crowley had was trying not to get killed off up here, because if he did, he would wind up back down there, and he didn't fancy that idea too much.
Aziraphale cheerfully went back to his normal routine as well. Crowley would never admit he appreciated the angel's presence and company during the slower days, when they'd take a walk to the park to feed (or dunk) ducks in the pond, or perhaps had lunch at the Ritz. Then there were the good nights when alcohol was involved. Those were the best nights.
They were… associates(2). Crowley wasn't going to try to deny it any longer. Besides being the only creature on Earth Crowley knew wasn't about to assassinate or smite him (with the Arrangement, and all), Aziraphale wasn't too bad for company, if you could get past the tartan and goody-two-shoes mannerisms. The angel had a decent sense of humor and was intelligent enough for conversation.
Risking everything together to save Earth and escaping alive had also given Crowley a new sense of respect for the angel, but he wasn't about to tell him or anyone else that.
Mostly, it was just Aziraphale that Crowley saw. There were the other humans that Aziraphale kept in contact with, mostly out of politeness. There was that witch and her husband ("Did you hear they're expecting, dear?" "Ngk.") and that insane witch hunter Shadwell still running around. Of course, there was the Antichrist and his trio of followers, the Them, or something ridiculous like that. Adam was a nice boy, Aziraphale insisted, and was doing well.
Crowley couldn't really care less about what happened to the rest of them all now. He believed they should all just be glad they could carry on with their semi-normal lives. He still tempted human souls and Aziraphale did his job in thwarting him or spreading good cheer.
All in all, they had made out alright.
That night, they decided to go to a local tavern for a few drinks. Crowley wasn't prepared to get anything more than tipsy considering they were in public, but after Aziraphale casually mentioned it was nearing the one year anniversary of the Event That Never Happened, it suddenly became necessary to have a little more.
"I must shay, I do believe I am too drunk to shober up," Aziraphale announced, the epitome of un-sober, as they clambered out of their booth.
"Sssssame," Crowley replied, knowing he was most likely hissing, but didn't care. He pushed the doors of the bar forcefully, ignoring the yell of a human trying to enter it on the outside. Oops.
He tried to find the Bentley parked out on the street, but even with his demonic senses, it was tricky searching. He finally spotted it a few cars down and started off in that direction. Aziraphale followed and made a sound of disapproval.
"You're drunk," Aziraphale commented. "Sho, you shouldn't drive." He stumbled and caught his shoulder on the street lamp.
"Sssso, what?" Crowley asked. He swung out into the street, which was strangely devoid of traffic. It wasn't that late. "We've driven in worssse, right?"
"What if we hit pedeshrians?" Aziraphale said, frowning. He latched onto Crowley's arm, as if the demon would be a better walking stick than fumbling around on his own.
"You handle that. That'ssss your job, ssstupid."
"I can't if I'm drunk," the angel complained. Crowley tripped over an uneven part of the pavement and stumbled, dragging the angel with him. He righted himself and hauled Aziraphale up as well, knowing the sod would just drag him down further.
"Yeah," the demon began, trying to remember what he was just arguing, "well, that'sss unfortunate for them."
Aziraphale pouted, which strangely mirrored the lopsided bowtie he was wearing that evening. "That's not nice, dear," he chastised. Crowley let him take his arm again, even though it would have been funny to watch the angel land on his rear.
Crowley chuckled darkly to himself. Of course it wouldn't be nice, he was a demon, after all. Aziraphale had high hopes for every soul he encountered. Crowley wasn't about to miss the chance to cause mayhem, though. It could be said it was in his blood.
"You know, something, dear?" Aziraphale began to say, as they got closer to the Bentley. He hung heavily on Crowley's side, but Crowley didn't shrug him off. Too much effort. "It's terribly boring."
"What isss?"
"This," Aziraphale declared, motioning widely at the empty street.
"It isss empty."
"No, no, not here this, but… there this," Aziraphale replied. Ah, he meant beyond the street, where everything else was.
Crowley fumbled to grab the door handle on the Bentley. "Well, that'sss what happensss when there'sss no Plan," he said, shrugging.
Aziraphale sighed quietly, catching his attention. "I'm just saying," the angel began, "I think…"
"You think what?" Crowley asked, facing the angel completely. Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but someone else called out in the darkness.
"Hey, CRAWLY!"
Turning, Crowley scowled darkly at the shout. His name wasn't Crawly; it hadn't been in… in… what, five thousand years now? It did take a long time for the new name to stick, of course, but still.
And then he remembered that the only people who called him that weren't human. Specifically, demons.
Looking up toward the source of the voice, Crowley could see a rapidly approaching form of a demon walking toward the two of them.
Suddenly, Crowley realized he had better sober up. He did so, just as the demon flew at him.
The solid figure collided with Crowley, sending them both flying backwards onto the pavement. Briefly, Crowley made the vow that if the bastard scratched his car, he'd kill him especially horribly. A fist made contact with Crowley's head and he saw stars.
The demon was flung to the side as Aziraphale thankfully sobered up and came to his defense. Crowley thankfully took the offered hand and got up off the ground.
"What on Earth did you do now, Crowley?" Aziraphale demanded, frowning deeply as they observed the attacking demon struggle to his feet yards away.
"Dunno," Crowley admitted. That wasn't entirely true; he had expected some sort of punishment form Hell for a while now, honestly. Had it really taken them a whole year to send an assassin? No wonder nothing in this universe was ever done on time.
Apparently, the demon brought friends, because two more attackers appeared, lunging over the curb toward them. Crowley turned and left Aziraphale to handle the one on the ground, because despite looking like a pansy weakling, Aziraphale was still the Angel of the Eastern Gate. He could handle himself.
As he exchanged blows with the first, Crowley realized something odd about the bodies he was hitting. They were living, breathing bodies. That could have only meant one thing and it made Crowley feel rather ill as he broke the nose in on the demon's face.
They were possessing humans now, like they were back in the bloody first century. Possession was always ridiculous to Crowley, who was glad he had earned himself his own form way back when Adam and Eve were still around with their grandkids. Why would he want to use some human's body that was already used? Hell must have been really in a bind if they weren't too busy to corporate bodies for their agents.
Great. That meant he had to kill the human hosts, too, or at least he would have had to if he had been alone. Crowley decided to aim for knocking the attackers out and let Aziraphale handle the exorcizing. Not that he felt bad for the possessed humans, of course, but the angel would have been upset if Crowley permanently hurt them.
Repeatedly punching the unlucky demon in his grasp, Crowley didn't notice the footsteps behind him, at least not until the first demon who had attacked stepped far too close. Whirling, Crowley brought his arm to defend himself from the incoming blade when—
"Crowley!"
The serpent barely had enough time to look up toward the sound of Aziraphale's shout when he saw the attacking demon behind him fall backwards, the angel having excised the demon flawlessly with a flash of light, having stepped between him and Crowley.
Immediately afterward, Aziraphale fell to the side with the demon's blade embedded in his chest, the one that had undoubtedly been meant for Crowley's back.
The street fell silent with that last assault. Crowley, mind reeling, realized that he should probably do something. Stumbling forward, Crowley ignored the other bodies, focusing solely on the unmoving angel only a few feet away.
"Angel?" Crowley reached down and touched Aziraphale's chest. When he brought his hand back, the red liquid shining on his fingers was mostly definitely not paint. "Oh, bugger it."
It would figure the angel would get himself killed—discorporated—for a demon of all things. Crowley sat back, annoyed. When Aziraphale got himself a new body and got back to England, Crowley knew he was in for a fierce scolding for letting the angel get killed to begin with. As if it were Crowley's fault the forces of Hell bloody well hated him still. Okay, so perhaps it was his fault; to be fair, it was Aziraphale's fault, too.
Gathering himself up, Crowley got back to the Bentley. He felt strange leaving Aziraphale's body just lying there on the asphalt, but it'd dissolve after a few moments anyway. Heaven was always rather keen on cleaning up its messes and a discorporated agent, after the Failed Apocalypse or not, was always handled smoothly. It made Crowley jealous. Even before he was on the Morningstar's shit list, getting a new body was never easy.
He drove all the way to Soho without turning on the radio. He was not in the mood to listen to Freddie Mercury's version of Bach. A good night of drinking and overall not-giving-a-fuck was ruined. Hopefully Aziraphale still had a stash in the cupboard. Crowley had a feeling he'd be helping himself to a shot or two before the angel got back.
The bookshop wasn't all that different than the pre-fire one, minus the majority of the angel's pristine collection. They could collect more, he told the despondent angel before Adam got around to fixing the damages(3). The shelves were slowly being re-shelved (the collection of children's books not withstanding) and soon, Aziraphale might actually be able to open the shop(5). Crowley opened the door without a key and locked it behind him, mostly out of instinct. The empty shop was dreadfully quiet.
Settling in the small kitchen Aziraphale never used, Crowley waited with the pilfered bottle of mid-grade wine. The last time this happened, the Shadwell incident not included, it took about an hour. He took out two glasses ahead of time and put them on the table, one in front of him, and one in the empty seat across from him.
An hour rolled around and Aziraphale hadn't appeared in the store. Crowley thought about unlocking the front door in case the angel ended up somewhere outside.
Nearing two hours, Crowley opened the bottle of wine and poured himself half a glass. After the clock struck three, he poured himself another.
When the first dregs of dawn came and went, leaving Crowley alone with half a bottle of wine and an empty seat across from him yet, Crowley numbly realized that perhaps something had gone wrong.
Heaven might have asked Aziraphale why he had been discorporated after, what was it now, a few hundred years of not being killed? What if that dimwitted angel told them the truth, that he had died for a demon? What if they denied him re-admittance to Earth after that?
…Or worse?
Crowley couldn't exactly just ring bloody Metatron up for a sit-rep, of course, and it wasn't like Aziraphale had cell phone service in heaven(6). All he could do was wait and see.
When the clock struck noon, Crowley left the bookshop and went home. He stayed by the phone for the remainder of the day, just in case.
It never rang.
xxx
(1) Temporarily misplaced the Antichrist.
(2) After six thousand years of fighting, arranging, not-fighting and have dinners at the Ritz, it became quite impossible to call them anything but at least associates.
(3) Not that Crowley actually intended to be involved in helping, however (4).
(4) He refused to acknowledge the fact that he would most likely be guilt tripped into helping anyway.
(5) And not sell a single one.
(6) Or carried a phone around constantly down here, either.
0000
Crowley was beginning to panic.
Demons didn't panic, or at least, they would never admit to it. It was undignified to say the least, but more than that, there wasn't much that could panic them. With the Apocalypse becoming a distant unpleasant memory and the Host agreeing to a temporary treaty of peace, it wasn't like the agents of hell had much to do lately. There was no Plan anymore, at least none that Crowley knew of. It was almost unnerving to walk about the day realizing that none of what he was seeing should have been there anymore. The End was supposed to have happened, and yet, it didn't.
It was rather disorientating.
It was especially disorientating when Aziraphale failed to show up in over two weeks.
The first week was one thing. Crowley was pissed that the angel (or his superiors, who were equally aggravating) was late. He was probably doing it on purpose, even. It wasn't like Crowley needed the angel, anyway. They had done their job, even if it had amounted to them doing their best to not do their jobs to the letter.
He thought back to the other times the angel or himself lost a body. It happened every so often, especially before the Arrangement and killing each other (though always a rare thing) was fair game. Even afterwards, accidents took them by surprise just the same as the natives (1). Just last year, Aziraphale had apparently had to body hop for quite some time before Adam gave him back his old body. Perhaps that's what this was too. Just a mix-up.
Crowley waited impatiently for the angel to appear, in whatever form possible. He had been eying a suspiciously close-by pigeon one afternoon when he realized that he had a rather powerful source to go to outside of Heaven and Hell that might know what had happened. Not much could happen on the island without its most powerful resident noticing, it seemed.
Pulling up to the suburban neighborhood in the oddly quiet Bentley, Crowley spotted his target outside in the front yard, playing with his dog. It was almost flawlessly innocent.
"'Lo, Crowley," Adam said, not looking up when Crowley walked up to the fence line. The dog barked at him, but a look from Adam quieted the ex-hell-beast.
Crowley decided not to waste anyone's time. "Where is Aziraphale?" he asked.
Adam looked up. He was a year older, with that god-like face and golden locks that shimmered in the afternoon light. "Why don't you know?" he asked right back, frowning in a way that the ex-Anti-Christ certainly shouldn't have frowned like.
"Because I'm not exactly in Heaven's list of people to tell where angels are," Crowley bit out, terse. "Can you… can you sense anything?"
He personally had no idea what sort of power the Antichrist had left at his disposal, if anything. The boy seemed human, but that had been the point (and the cause of everyone's initial fumbling around twelve years ago).
Adam shrugged. "Nope," he said simply. "It's not like those guys of yours or his ever talk to me anymore. I guess they figure I'm not playin' their games." Adam paused and then gave Crowley a strange look. "Which I'm not."
Smart kid, staying out of that mess. Crowley exhaled heavily and looked away. "…That much I guess is good," he muttered. He wouldn't be able to handle another Apocalypse alone, at any matter.
"You're his friend, right?" Adam asked suddenly, causing Crowley to look up in surprise.
The demon suddenly felt defensive. "We're…" he began, hesitating. "Associates. We have an Arrangement and I can't do anything unless he's back." So there.
"Maybe you should see Anathema," Adam suggested wisely, almost too wisely for his t-shirt and grass-stained kneed appearance.
Crowley didn't look at the boy. He glared out at the air, as if he could summon a familiar angel right there on the pavement.
Adam sighed quietly. "Good luck, Crowley," he said, sounding honest.
Crowley left the boy standing by the gate and went back to the Bentley.
xxx
(1) It wasn't as though Crowley knew the damn volcano was going to blow, but he had a sneaking suspicion Aziraphale might have, since he left Pompeii earlier that week for "errands"…
0000
A month later, Crowley started to honestly worry.
0000
If the angel was really dead, where did that leave him? Crowley thought absently as he drove around London without a clear destination in mind.
They had in fact screwed the Apocalypse up. It hadn't been them to decide not to do it, but Adam wasn't really going to be a target for either Heaven or Hell, considering he was still very much the Antichrist and had Antichrist powers. Crowley had thought Aziraphale and himself had gotten off remarkably easy for their part in the whole mess. They hadn't heard a word either way for punishment. The only time they had actually been accused of anything had been the night Aziraphale got himself killed.
Nearly a year after the angel left, Crowley was still alone. He had closed up Aziraphale's shop for him, storing the books, because he had thought the angel would come back eventually and he'd never forgive Crowley for mistreating or throwing the books away.
But Aziraphale hadn't come back. Not yet. Maybe… not ever.
England felt colder, emptier. Crowley stopped going out. He stopped doing anything until one day, he took the Bentley out and just drove.
Crowley almost couldn't believe this was happening. It didn't seem… fair. If this was Heaven's punishment, why now? Why the wait? Was Crowley's turn next? Was this part of the punishment, to keep Crowley waiting?
…Aziraphale hadn't told him what he had been trying to say that night either.
Crowley would never find out what he meant to say.
Fist slowly clenching over the steering wheel, Crowley did something he never thought he would do. He never thought he would do it specifically because he had no reason to leave England. The Ritz was there. So was St. James' park. And Soho. And Tadfield. And—
Aziraphale was there.
Or at least, he had been. Not anymore.
He headed for the Chunnel and he never looked back.
0000
Spain, 1993
He found an angel one day, long after he left England. He went to France for a while and then to Spain, wandering without a real purpose. He found the angel—not his angel, of course—on Death's door in a section of a park he had been hoping would be deserted. He wasn't in the mood to deal with any living creature that day.
A half-dead angel, he supposed, was not really living. At least, not for long.
"You're Crawly," the angel stated quite firmly when Crowley made it down the incline from the main road. He had only spotted the being among the fallen trees because he sensed the waning power.
"Crowley," Crowley immediately corrected. He gazed down at the wretched creature curiously. "You look a bit banged up there."
"Yes," the angel replied absently. His wings unfurled, the unfamiliar angel coughed up blood. A gaping hole in his chest, unhealed and painfully obvious, was the cause of that. It had been made with a weapon that Crowley was certain did not belong to a demon.
Angels fighting angels. So that's what this world was coming to?
"What's your name?" Crowley asked, not sure why he was asking.
"What good is it to you?" the angel challenged. He managed to curl to the side, his vessel spent. A wry smile appeared on his face. "Serpent in the garden. Never thought I'd actually meet you."
It was nice to know his reputation preceded him. "It's a pleasure," Crowley replied droll. He made a motion to turn around to go back to the Bentley. "So, if you're content with dying, I'll be on my way."
A faint cough. And then… "Heard interesting stories… about you…" the angel coughed out, "…and the angel."
Freezing, Crowley slowly turned around, fixing the half-dead angel with a piercing glare behind his shades. "What angel?" he demanded, not caring if he sounded interested.
"The Principality," the angel on the ground said, offering a weak, bloody grin. "Aziraphale."
Crowley did his best not to curse.
"…And?" he challenged, now turning around completely, moving slightly closer. If he had a heart beat, it would have increased beating at that point.
Instead of answering, the angel chuckled. "You've been here for a long time, haven't you?" he asked.
Crowley's gold eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Longer than you can even imagine," he said, his voice lower than he had wanted it to be.
Almost mimicking him, the angel's eyes narrowed, as if he were examining Crowley as an interesting specimen. "…Aziraphale spoke kindly of you," he stated. "For a demon."
If he had a heart, it would have clenched. "He's dead now," Crowley growled.
He had half the mind to walk away when—
"…What? No…" the angel in front of him began. His eyes narrowed in surprise, unguarded for once. "He…"
Crowley stared at the angel, part of his mind stumbling gracelessly on its ass.
"…He's not dead?" he managed to say, forcefully keeping his expression neutral.
"We thought he was with you," the angel said, chuckling again. He arched an eyebrow at Crowley. "Rumor says he Fell. Metatron never said a word about it either way, though."
"Aziraphale… he didn't Fall." Aziraphale was like, the exact opposite of Falling material. Then again, what classified as Falling-worthy nowadays? Perhaps Aziraphale's involvement in the Incident had caught up to him. Crowley hadn't heard of anything from his people, however.
Crouching, the demon leaned closer to the angel, eyes narrowed behind the dark glasses. "What else do you know?"
"Not… much," the angel admitted, blood bubbled up on his lip.
"Why'd you get shanked by one of your own?" Crowley demanded instead. He felt uneasy standing in front of a wounded angel he knew he should have been killing. He blamed his stayed hand on curiosity. "You aren't Fallen."
That made the angel laugh again, even though it pained him to do so. "Getting there," he replied. He let himself drop down completely, eyes closing. "I doomed myself."
"How?" Crowley asked, now honestly intrigued.
"…You two… caused this didn't you?" the angel challenged, that bastard-grin on his face the same, but his voice far sharper. "Well, you're not stopping it this time, demon. Even if Aziraphale was around to help you."
The angel's wheezy laugh made Crowley's stomach churn, as if he had actually eaten something.
"Nothing can stop this now," the angel said, eyes falling closed again.
…This time?
Crowley clenched his fists. "What do you know about Aziraphale?" he demanded, not caring if the angel in front of him was dying or not.
"He's gone," the angel replied, sounding far weaker. "He never came to us."
"…That's…" Crowley began, unable to say anything more.
Where had the angel gone? Crowley couldn't believe it. If he hadn't gotten back to Heaven, that meant he never got a new body. And if he hadn't died literally on Earth by that demon's hands, he couldn't be in Purgatory. Angels didn't go anywhere else.
…Where was Aziraphale?
Turning slightly, the unfamiliar angel on the ground waved a weak hand, catching Crowley's stiff attention.
"If something happened to him… because of what you both… did…" the angel managed to get out, his words like an avalanche, "You're next, d-demon."
Crowley kept his expression neutral, despite the surge of realized fear. "I figured," he said bluntly.
He had always expected retribution from his people. He had never imagined Aziraphale's bosses turning on him first… but maybe it had been Hell to get to the angel. If it was Hell… well, then Crowley could expect his half of the punishment soon.
He couldn't say he was very surprised. He almost felt relieved.
Turning away, Crowley decided to leave the topic and the angel there on the hillside. If things happened, they happened. He wouldn't go down without a fight. He had taken on a Duke of Hell—almost Satan himself—and he had nothing to lose.
Nothing to lose at all.
He got a few yards away when he heard the angel move again. He glanced back at the poor bastard.
"My name," the angel rasped. He tilted his head, offering a weak interpretation of a smirk. "It's Balthazar."
Crowley didn't reply. He nodded and went back to the Bentley, which insisted on crooning out Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in a manner that seemed more akin to Bohemian Rhapsody than the work of a German-Austrian composer.
He didn't think twice about forgetting to mention the injured angel when he ran into a demon in the next town, a fellow he had known back in France during the more eventful 18th century, who had also picked up the trail of an injured angel. He doubted Balthazar would survive his injuries anyway. It didn't make sense to send an executioner to a dead man, truly.
He never did go back to England.
0000
Portugal, 1995
He met Anathema Device-Pulsifer browsing through an open-aired clothing shop on the coast of Portugal one day, a year later.
"It's been awhile, hasn't it?" Anathema asked absently as Crowley drank a rich espresso he was sure Aziraphale would have loved. It tasted bitter to him.
"Yeah. A few years," he agreed, not looking at her. He gazed out at the boardwalk before them. He could see her two toddlers swarming their hapless father, Newt. My, it had been a while, hadn't it?
"Newt and I decided to take a holiday for a bit," Anathema continued, holding up a skirt appreciatively. "The children are a bit young for sight-seeing, I'm afraid, but the weather will do them good."
Crowley took a drink. He miracled himself up a stronger mix that mysteriously tasted more like gin than it did coffee.
"You're going to get a promotion soon," Anathema told him suddenly. She smiled gently at the rich cotton fibers in the shawl she had picked up. "I recommend you take it, Crowley."
Blinking behind his sunglasses, Crowley took in that bit of information. "Promotion?" he questioned out loud, part of his mind not quite following. He was pretty sure that Hell wanted nothing to do with him(1). And if they did, it certainly wasn't to give him a promotion.
"I'm not sure of the details, but that's the general idea I got," Anathema replied. Crowley didn't remember her being an actual psychic, but she seemed to understand his disbelief. "I'm sure you'll get a message from you bosses soon enough, so it'll be explained to you then."
Crowley stared out unblinkingly at the distant ocean. "Great." He couldn't see anything good coming out of this. Not one bit.
Then, a small, blaringly obvious thought crossed Crowley's mind. He didn't think it was normal to consider it, but damned if he didn't.
"…I don't suppose…" he started awkwardly, catching Anathema's attention. "You've heard about…?"
A sad look crossed the witch's face as she held the colorful shawl closer to her chest. "I haven't seen or heard a word about Aziraphale. I'm sorry," she said, quietly. "I am, Crowley."
He didn't want or deserve sympathy. He was a demon. This wasn't his concern anymore. "Ngh." He got up and left without a goodbye to her or anyone else.
He wasn't in a good mood after that. On the way to the parking lot along the boardwalk, Crowley released a whole cloud of balloons tethered to a kiosk, just as a family of small children reached there with out-stretched arms. He then, in a moment of particular irritation, set fire to the bag of miniature Bibles a minister was attempting to hand out to the sinful public.
It didn't make him feel better, but apparently it made him look good to some people.
To his surprise and dislike, Anathema's gift of prophecy did in fact stem a bit further than just her ancestor's writings. When he got back into the Bentley and started heading further south, a brick with a parchment tied to it fell from the ceiling and pegged him in the forehead. After nearly crashing into a side barrier, Crowley managed to pick the brick and note up to read it.
A NOTICE OF PROMOTION
TO CRAWLY.
FOR HIS UNDYING EFFORTS TO THWART GOOD INTENTIONS.
PLEASE REPORT TO THE CROSSROADS DIVISION FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
SINCERELY,
THE MANAGEMENT
Crossroads? He wasn't a crossroads demon. He had never hung out with their crowd, either. They always came across as sleazy insurance salesmen; hell, he had been the one to invent that technique(2). Their department was corrupt as, well… you know.
Then again, he was the origin of the crossroads, wasn't he? He had been the original Tempter. He had been the one to cause Adam (the original one, mind you) and Eve to make the first Sin. Temptation and soul-selling deals weren't all that different. They went hand in hand.
And he was the Master of Temptation, wasn't he?
"Okay."
Chucking the brick out the window, Crowley sped up and headed South.
He was alright with this.
xxx
(1) And by "sure", we mean that he knew if he ever set foot in Hell again, they would create a new Crowley Level in his honor with just his flavors of torture, just for him.
(2) By "invent," Crowley means he appropriated it from the humans, who are just overly clever when it comes to creating methods and professions that annoy the living heck out of everyone else.
0000
United States, 1997
How he got to America of all places, he didn't know. He had been working the new job for several years by that point. He just sort of… moved.
At first, it was a pain to be working as a crossroads demon. He had to listen to all sorts of sob stories, selfish stories and completely insane ones, too. Then again, having a job was better than being knocked off for not doing his last one. There wasn't a single whisper of an ulterior motive bringing Crowley back into the fold. He wasn't forgiven, but hopefully, his involvement was just unimportant now.
Sooner or later, his superiors saw he was actually pretty decent at his job. He got a lot of souls—a lot of them. Crowley didn't know what it was. Maybe the modern age just made the concept of a soul worth less than other material things. Morons. He got promotion after promotion for that, most likely because he was so damn cold about it.
Most demons wouldn't have batted an eyelash at the cries of the soon-to-be damned for mercy. Crowley, being a demon, didn't grant mercy either.
However, he knew that if this had been England, and he had been doing this job while in the close proximity with an angel who most definitely wouldn't have approved of the buying and damnation of souls, he wouldn't have gotten any of those promotions. Not because he couldn't get the job done, mind you. It just would have been difficult to get around the angelic intervention, Arrangement or no.
The day he rose to the very top and embraced the newfound title as King of the Crossroad Demons was the day Crowley realized he had stopped looking for Aziraphale entirely.
0000
2008
Lucifer was released from the Cage.
Crowley's newly built empire started to crumble. He turned to the Winchesters, the most infamous humans known to Hell or Heaven, because in the end, no one was going to win if Lucifer succeeded. But deep in his un-beating heart, Crowley realized that there was no real hope of winning, because in the end, all of it was fighting fate.
Again.
And then, one day, an impossible thing happened:
He ran into an angel.
.
End Chapter One.
.