Chapter 37 — Exile of the Light

Just a stone's throw outside of DC sat Highpoint Aviation, a private airstrip for the upper crust, serving foreign dignitaries and travelling US politicians galore, a bastion for those travelling under sensitive matters. But tonight, Ronnie saw none of that. The strip had been cleared in its entirety, save one jet, white and sleek on the runway.

The sun hovered just over the horizon, painting the world in shades of ever-fading orange. It was well past eight. The plane would not leave without her, of course, but she'd been under the assumption that they were moving on a relatively rigid time frame.

So where was Crowley?

"Just one more bit of business to attend to, love," the former-demon had told her back at her apartment. "I'll catch a cab and meet you there." He'd refused to answer any questions, practically pushing her out the door.

What if he doesn't come? she wondered suddenly. What if he changed his mind? She wished she was still seeing visions of Crowley, but their close proximity seemed to have erased her view of him. She sighed heavily, sinking down onto the curb outside the airstrip's administration office. Her back smarted from the movement, dry and irritated from the extensive Enochian warding she'd had tattooed there yesterday, while Crowley met with his quote-un-quote friend.

The friend was clearly very powerful, if he had the capability to get them out of the country unnoticed, and on such comically short notice. Not to mention, he had provided security. A tall African man who had identified himself as Dembe had been sent to watch over her. She doubted that he would be much match against Dean, or any of his demons, but two guns were better than one, at least.

She put her head in her hands and wished Juliet was with her, but she'd remained behind with Crowley. She just couldn't take the waiting, not much longer. Her feet were growing colder by the minute. After her achingly long tattoo session, she'd gone to her parents' house, had dinner with Mom, Dad, and Matt. She'd never felt so heartbroken, not in her entire life. The idea that it could be the last time that she would ever see any of them, it destroyed her.

I only said I would give him the summer, she reminded herself. Anything could happen in three months. Sam and Cas would surely figure out how to save Dean in that length of time. Or end him, if it came down to it. If the Supernatural books had taught her anything, it was that a determined Winchester could accomplish just about anything.

She told her family that she was going to London, for some kind of program for vets and active duty military with PTSD. She had seen her mother's eyes glaze over with tears, the tight draw of Dad's mouth, Matt's quiet, "You...you have PTSD?"

No, luckily, she hadn't shown any signs of PTSD, but there was time for that yet. But she couldn't tell them that. She had to sit there and lie through her teeth to the people she loved most in the world. She just wanted to tell them the truth, but she couldn't, not if she wanted to keep them safe. They had no means by which to contact her, she told them that they wouldn't be permitted internet or phone access during the program.

"Not even letters?" Mom had asked shakily.

"Not even letters," Ronnie confirmed.

I hate this. I hate all of it.

It was late before she'd managed to pull herself away from her family. She gave them all the longest hugs she could, telling them all how much she loved each of them, but it wasn't enough. No goodbye would be satisfactory, because she didn't want to say goodbye. Not when there was no guarantee that she would ever come back.

Afterwards, she'd done something terribly out-of-character: she'd gone to the bar, where Dale was waiting for her.

"You, drinking?" he asked, eyeing her IPA. "Where are the other Three Horsemen?"

Embedded in a couple of angels, she thought, but instead she said, "I don't know, but for the first time in my life, I actually want a drink." She lifted the beer, grimacing. "This tastes awful. And I don't feel better."

Dale snagged the IPA and ordered her a margarita. "Something a little more your speed. Now tell me what's got you so worked up? Is your little lightning incident still getting to you?"

Ronnie just snorted; sad to think that in the past month, she'd been caught up in so many disasters, that the fact that she had literally been hit by lightning had faded far to the back of her mind.

"No. Not that."

"Then maybe those three weeks you disappeared?" he asked, not looking at her as he took a deep drink of his beer.

"Yeah," she murmured. "I'm going to London tomorrow. PTSD treatment. Some doctor there is starting a program. My SO enrolled me, and...I have to do something with my summer. So I guess I'm going on holiday."

"You sure it's something you want to do?" Dale asked.

"It's better than sitting around with my thumb up my ass for three months. I'll go insane sitting at home."

"Even with your new pal there?"

She glanced at him. "Come again?"

"Your brother called me a couple days ago. Said you came back with some new roommate. He's a Brit, is he the one who told you about the program?"

Matt had told Dale; she should've known. Her little brother had always liked Dale, her whole family did, if her parents' repeated encouragement to go out with him was any indication. Dale was handsome, there was no getting around that. The tall jock type, with muscles that proved military service. He had baby blue eyes and close cropped brown hair. Under normal circumstances, she would've happily obliged her parents, but she didn't want to get into any kind of relationship until her time in the Navy was well behind her.

Not that any of that mattered now. As soon as that plane took off, the Navy was behind her, America was behind her. Everything she ever was or had would be behind her, including Dale.

So this was goodbye. Another one. She was already sick of them.

"Yeah, yeah. Crowley told me about it."

"He going with you? Thought you were his crash pad while he was looking for a place."

"He got a place. He's good to go," she gave Dale a weak smile. "I'm sorry I just vanished, Dale. It wasn't good of me. That's why this time, I'm—"

"Saying goodbye?" he filled in.

Ronnie nodded. The bartender placed a pink-red margarita down in front of her. Ronnie took a sip, groaned, and put it back down, and Dale just started laughing.

They stayed out until well past midnight, their conversation going from one subject to another with ease. Hopes and dreams, war stories, and when the liquor had finally lowered her walls, her unit.

"I pray for them every night," she whispered, when final call neared and she'd had far too many of the margaritas. Her head was pounding, but pleasantly fuzzy. She didn't know whether she liked it or not, but she begged forgiveness for her lack of sense either way. "I say each of their names. Their family's names."

Dale just watched her, face grave. He reached over and placed a hand over hers.

"Did you know...I had to be the ones to tell the families. It's not that unusual for a chaplain, but I knew their families. Usually it would've been the SO, but Frank...Frank died just like the rest." She ran a hand through her hair, trying to keep her voice steady. "There wasn't enough of him to pack into a fucking coffin, after everything was said and done. His wife and kids, I gave them flags and dog-tags. There was nothing else."

"Jesus, Ronnie."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to unload all of this on you," she apologized quickly.

"Have you talked to anyone about this?" he asked gently, hand still warm on hers.

She thought for a moment. Had she? When she'd been Crowley's captive, he'd asked a few times, during their long-winded conversations, but she'd refused to speak about it. And naturally she'd been prodded repeatedly during her psych eval at Bethesda, but even then, she'd been rattling off more of a debriefing than the nitty-gritty of it.

"No. Just you," she admitted.

Dale gently worked his fingers through hers, and Ronnie didn't know why, but she thought of yesterday, when she'd put her hand up to Crowley's, the heat of his palm against hers. She suddenly found herself wishing for her apartment. For Crowley's company.

"I'm so sorry, Ronnie."

"Me too." She carefully removed her hand from his, rising from her bar-stool on uneven legs. "Uh, any chance you can drive me home in the Cruiser, any chance at all? Or did you drive here?"

"Nah, I took a cab. I got you."

They drove home in relative silence. Once in the parking garage of Ronnie's apartment complex, Dale looked over at her. "So, this is the last time I'm gonna see you for awhile, huh?" his eyes were so sad, and so blue, and she felt like the biggest asshole in the world.

"I'm gonna miss you, Dale," she told him.

"I'll miss you too, Ronnie. More than you know." He reached out to her and put a hand to her cheek. He leaned forward—

"I'll let you know as soon as I'm back," she said quickly, kissing his cheek and jumping out of her car. She made her way to the stairs of her apartment complex, cheeks blazing red, and not just because of the alcohol.

Had that been cruel of her? Or had she done the right thing? Her muddled brain wasn't sure, but she knew she wanted a shower, and to enjoy her last night in her bed, and to see Crowley. Badly. She wanted to see him badly.

He was on the couch, flicking through the channels, his feet up on the coffee table and devoid of shoes. His coat and tie were abandoned on the arm of the sofa. Juliet, who had been her silent shadow all day, immediately bounded over to him. She settled herself in his lap, causing the couch to dip dramatically under her weight. Crowley smiled and settled his hand on her head. "There's a girl." He glanced up at Ronnie, pine-green eyes narrowed. "You're drunk."

Ronnie slammed the door shut and nodded resolutely. "I am."

"Thought that wasn't your style."

"It's not."

"So begs the question...why?"

She made her way to the couch, navigating around Juliet to sit next to Crowley. She felt a tongue on her hand, and she rubbed the hellhound's muzzle. "Because my life is ruined. And I didn't want to think about it."

"Ruined?" Crowley mulled over the word. "Over, yes. Ruined? That's up to you."

She just shook her head. "I don't really want to talk about it. But did you find your friend?"

Crowley nodded. "A private jet will be waiting for us at Highpoint Aviation tomorrow. It departs at eight for Stockholm. Your, or rather our, new home. My friend will provide us with all we need."

"Why?" she asked.

Crowley's brows furrowed. "What do you mean, why?"

"Why is he helping us?"

"Truthfully? He probably thinks having a prophet in his debt would be handy. But there is that faint possibility that he's having one of those strokes of kindness of his. He's never been afraid to use his infinitely deep pockets to help a man in need. Apparently that extends to demons as well."

"You're not a demon anymore," Ronnie said.

"Don't remind me." He turned off the TV and looked at Ronnie, expression inscrutable. "You'll need to pack tomorrow. If you've changed your mind about any of this, you don't have long to back out."

"It's not like I really have a choice."

"There's always a choice, love. Even if the only other choice is die."

"I don't wanna die," she told him. "I know that much. But that's all up to God."

Crowley just scoffed at that, unsurprisingly. "Isn't that a bloody comfort."

Ronnie didn't feel like arguing. She felt her eyes slip shut. She wanted to shower, but she had no energy left in her. She moved her hand up to Juliet's head, side-by-side with Crowley's.

"You're falling asleep."

"Mhmm." Her head fell to his shoulder, and he didn't shake her off. Crowley murmured something, but Ronnie was already too far gone to hear it.

She'd woken up today with a pounding headache, fat tongue, and crick in her neck. Crowley was in the kitchen making scrambled eggs and toast, and made no mention of the night before. In the sober light of day, she felt no need to address it, either.

"Ms. Whitaker?"

Ronnie lifted her head from her hands, shaken out of her recollections by the voice. She turned, and saw a man in a smart three-piece suit and a fedora striding towards her. Crowley followed shortly behind him, hair ruffled and eyes dark. She couldn't make out his expression, but something had obviously happened, and she didn't like it.

Dembe offered her a large hand, and helped her to her feet. The newcomer took off his hat and bowed his bald head to her. "I'm Raymond Reddington. I'm sure Mr. Crowley's told you all about me."

Mr. Crowley? She almost laughed at that. "Veronica Whitaker. Are you Crowley's mysterious friend?"

Reddington took her hand in his and kissed it lightly. "A pleasure. And yes, I believe that's me. Though I'm sure Mr. Crowley has plenty of mysterious friends."

"Not anymore," Crowley coughed, standing next to Reddington.

She tilted her head. "You smell like gasoline," she told Crowley.

Crowley sighed heavily. "Yes. That last bit of business may have been arson."

"What!?"

"A favor for me," Reddington supplied swiftly. "No one was harmed. Merely insurance fraud, I assure you."

She still didn't like it, but it's not like she could claim to be the epitome of morality anymore, given her new travelling companion was pseudo-Satan, at least formerly. "And any other favors he owes you?"

"None at all," Reddington assured her with a pleasant smile, putting his fedora back on. "You both are home free. If you need anything, Mr. Crowley knows how to contact me. The two of you will want for nothing."

That's not how life works. Ronnie smiled as best as she could, but she knew it rang false. "Thank you so much."

"You're very welcome, my dear." Reddington clasped Crowley on the shoulder. "Dembe will accompany you to Stockholm to make sure you get to your new abode safely. I wish you both happy travels."

Reddington gave them both a little dip of a bow, and departed. Ronnie met Crowley's eyes. "We're going to end up paying for this for the rest of our lives, aren't we?"

"Maybe so. But at the very least, we have a 'rest of our lives', now. Whatever Raymond may ask of us, it's far better than death, wouldn't you agree?" Crowley asked, straightening his tie and trying to compose himself.

"Depends on what he asks," Ronnie said lowly. "Are we going, now?"

Crowley nodded. He grabbed one of Ronnie's duffel bags, while Dembe shouldered another, leaving her with her military pack, which was stuffed full with books, notebooks, her Bible, family pictures, and other keepsakes. "Said all your goodbyes then?" Crowley asked her. "Might be your last time on American soil."

She pursed her lips, turning to look back at the glow of the DC skyline in the distance. A red aura surrounded the black silhouettes, and she could name some, even from here: the Capitol building, the Washington Monument, the Old Post Office Pavilion. She'd grown up here, and she'd always dreamed of serving her God, and serving her country. And she'd been blessed to do so for seven years. But she was giving it all up too soon. The Navy, her life. DC, her home. Her family, her heart. All gone. Her God was all that she had left.

A tear slipped down her cheek. It soon turned into a flow. She was surprised when Crowley set his hand on her shoulder. He didn't say anything, but the touch let her know that at the very least, she wasn't alone. Even if her only friend was now the former King of Hell.

"We need to go," he said quietly, after a few minutes had passed.

"I know," she managed, wiping her arm across her eyes. She turned away from the city in the distance, focusing on the plane ahead, the new life ahead. You know why you're doing this. You have to. It's to keep them safe. It's worth it. No matter how much it hurts, it's worth it.

She strode ahead of Crowley and Dembe, her walk brisk, shoulders straight, eyes determined, if not red-rimmed.

No matter what, it's worth it.

Crowley watched Veronica bee-line for the plane, her pack over her shoulder and her red hair streaming like a flaming banner in the fading light of the sun.

"Are you going to tell her?" Dembe asked shortly, once Ronnie was out of earshot.

"I suspect she'd kill me if I did, and I do enjoy life and its infinite mysteries, so let's say...not," Crowley replied, trying to force down the ever-irritating worm of guilt crawling through his chest. "If she was smart, she'd thank me."

"If she was a demon, she would thank you," Dembe responded, moving to catch up with Veronica, not so much as lending a glance towards Crowley.

"I did what I had to do!" Crowley snapped at Dembe's back. Crowley cursed, adjusting his grip on Veronica's duffel bag, the one she had stuffed with both of their clothing. Someday she would know, there was no avoiding that, but so be it. This was the only way to truly keep her and her family safe. Veronica wanted to disappear, but to hurt as few people as possible in the process.

That wasn't how disappearing worked.

He had burned her apartment, but only after Raymond had so graciously brought him a cadaver that relatively fit Veronica's dimensions. Dental records had been switched, courtesy of some of Raymond's remaining friends at Bethesda Naval Hospital. Crowley had burned it all, with the body inside. Her friends, her family, fellow soldiers...they would all think her dead.

She would never forgive him, when she inevitably found out, but that didn't matter. He did what he had to in order to keep her, and by extension himself, safe.

No matter what happened, it was worth it.