Changes
Part 1
Crowley sighed, taking the cat into his arms and standing. He'd never noticed how disgusting the air in London was. How thick and polluted and downright dirty it was, getting into the lungs and doing unspeakable things to them. Mortality itched in the back of Crowley's mind and he resolutely ignored it. Going back into the building, he put the cat down and pointed away from him.
"Go on. Back to your owner." The cat merely mewled at him. Crowley sighed and picked it up again. "No," he told it. "On top of everything else, I don't need to look after someone else." He went downstairs to the door of the flat below and rapped on it. An old woman who Crowley vaguely remembered seeing around answered the door, and her eyes widened in delight when she saw the animal in Crowley's arms.
"Oh, Lockheed!" She said, taking the bundle of fur from him arms. "Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were lost," she murmured to the cat. She then looked up at Crowley, beaming. "And thank you, young man."
"She was on the roof," Crowley said by way of explanation, not feeling very comfortable around humans now he didn't have to be mean to them.
"Oh, you old silly," she cooed to the cat, who licked her nose. Crowley was about to turn and go, when the woman spoke to him once more. "You must come in for a cup of tea, dearie," she told him. He would have refused but he'd been dying for a drink of tea all day and didn't have the first clue how to make one when the option of simply willing it into existence had disappeared.
Entering the old woman's rooms, he looked around curiously. Frank Sinatra was crooning softly on the turntable, and the fresh scent of lavender hung in the air. The furnishings were in neutrals, and a few landscapes decorated the walls in dark wooden frames.
"How do you like your tea?" The woman asked as she bustled into the kitchen.
"Uh, sweet, white."
"One sugar?"
He shrugged. "Sure." He had no idea. He supposed it was worth a try.
He followed her into the kitchen, curious about the home of the old woman. More neutrals, a to-do list on the fridge. Nothing terribly fascinating.
"Have you been up to anything interesting today?" She asked, making small talk.
"Not really. Watching TV and thinking," he answered absentmindedly, looking at the herbs in the rack on the wall.
"Your day off work?" She asked, and Crowley smiled without amusement. Yes. His first day off work for six millennia and more.
"I don't work anymore," he told her. "I've got money, I don't see why I should work," he said, somewhat defensively.
"Did you win the lottery?" She asked with interest.
Crowley sighed. Humans were so damned obsessed with money; he wasn't sure he saw the point. "No. It's... old money," he said. And it was. The items he had sold were very old. And there were more where they came from. He was hardly a hoarder, but things had built up over the years.
The woman's eyebrows rose, and she looked slightly guilty. Perhaps she thought he'd inherited it from a dead parent. The itch in his mind grew. His insistence on ignoring it increased in return. "Well, you should put your time into something fulfilling," the woman suggested. "I worked at an Oxfam shop once, and it's more rewarding than you might think. And it certainly passes the time." The kettle boiled and Crowley tried to imagine himself working in a charity shop. Thankfully the mental image eluded him. The woman offered him a cup that he took automatically, then cursed as it burned his hand and adjusted his grip to the handle. Stupid human body. So damn fragile.
"If you want something to do, you could always clear up the garden downstairs," the woman suggested as she returned to her front room and sat on her sofa. "Are you any good with plants, Mr...?"
"Crowley. Anthony Crowley."
"Ah, with an 'h'."
"Yeah," he agreed, wondering if it mattered. It never had to him before.
"My husband never pronounced the 'h' in his name, though it was there." Crowley looked at the cat glumly. The old woman started to talk about name pronunciation, and his mind wandered. It appeared that he wasn't over with the thinking for the night. His thoughts crept to Aziraphale. He wanted to check the angel was all right, to have him come over and hold him until he felt better. That thought made him feel strange. He wanted the angel to hold him. Well, there was no-one else who could, and he needed comforting, and surely an angel was the best sort of being for that. It had nothing to do with wanting the angel with him for always, to do with their being soulmates, being the other half of each other, nothing at all to do with any of that, he told himself. He wasn't convinced. "Don't you think?" The woman asked, and Crowley stared at her blankly.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't listening," he admitted.
The woman's lips curved into a smile. "Thinking about your gentleman friend?" She asked, and Crowley stared at her. How in the hell did she know? "Don't worry, dear," she said, reaching over to pat his knee. "I know some people don't understand, but I do. Love is love, no matter who it's with." Love. he thought to himself. He swallowed thickly and tried to add that to the list of things not to think about. It turned out it was much harder to ignore than his newfound mortality. Probably because he'd been thinking about it since before time began, a traitorous part of him whispered gleefully. He stared at her. He looked at the cat and wanted to go home. The thought of his angel once again wandered into his mind at the thought of 'home'. He scowled at it. "Oh dear, you aren't having problems with him, are you? He seems like such a nice young man."
"You have no idea," he murmured, and finished his tea. "Er, thanks for the tea. I really should get off to bed."
"Alright, Anthony," she smiled, and stood to let him out. "Oh, I haven't introduced myself! I'm Rosemary, but everyone just calls me Rose. You should come down more often. It's nice to have someone to chat to."
"Yeah," muttered Crowley, and stroked the cat one last time. It purred its appreciation. He left, and made his way to his own flat, feeling strange. Opening the door, he made his way to the fridge, and looked around for something that was immediately edible. Not seeing anything else, he picked up a couple of carrots and put on MTV2 as the background music to his thoughts. Why hadn't he told Aziraphale yet? He was the only other being on this planet that he could tell, that he trusted, that he even liked. And yet the thought of telling him what had happened terrified him. Maybe because that would make it real in his mind and he would go crazy. It wasn't so much being human that he minded. It was the mortality and the weakness and that promise in Hastur's voice as he left. He would be completely at the mercy of the demon and that wasn't a place he wished to be. It made him feel sick. God, he wanted to speak to the angel. But he didn't dare pick up the phone and he wasn't even sure why. Sighing, he closed his eyes, and was asleep within a minute.
When he woke up, he felt terrible. His face was stuck to the leather of his sofa, for a start.
"Ow." He said, and pushed himself up onto his arms. "Ow," he repeated as agony raced down his neck and spine. He supposed that was what he got for sleeping somewhere so unsuitable. Standing gingerly he stretched and heard something pop. He moaned, and made his way to the bathroom. Climbing into the shower, he found it utterly delicious, the heat over his skin and the pressure of the water on his shoulders and back. He then went into the bedroom, looking through his wardrobe for something to wear. Finding some jeans that were deliciously tight and pulling on a t-shirt that oh-so-ironically declared him to be a fallen angel, he looked at himself in the mirror. He supposed he should be glad that the united idiocy of Heaven and Hell had let him keep his old body. As humans went, he looked good. He smiled somewhat flippantly, and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes were still strange to him, though. He wondered if he'd ever get used to them. 6000+ years would get you rather used to a feature, he mused, and looked out of the window. The sky stretched endlessly blue, broken only by a tiny wisp of cloud miles up. It was a nice day, Crowley mused, and wondered what to do in it. He supposed he should probably do something - he couldn't really just sit around here for the rest of his life. He shuddered at the thought and ignored it once more. He could go to see Aziraphale, he mused, and the thought gladdened him. That's what he would do. What he'd say when he got there he had no idea, but it was a start.
The journey was easier this time because it didn't involve going near the centre of London, so there wasn't as much traffic. Pulling up outside the angel's shop, he saw there were no lights on. Well, that was hardly a surprise. Aziraphale did whatever he could to keep customers out of his shop. Of course, the option of just opening the door and going in was gone, so he'd have to try knocking. And then maybe picking the lock. He knocked, and got no answer - not that he'd really been expecting one. He pursed his lips. He knew how to pick a lock, but had absolutely nothing with him that he could use. He sighed, and turned to see the woman from the shop next door poking her head around the door.
"You after Mr. Phale?"
He didn't miss the undertone. "Hmm. Yeah," he admitted. Guilty as charged on both accounts.
"He's gone to Manchester on some sort of business. A book fair, I think he said."
"Oh," Crowley said, feeling a little glum.
"Why don't you come in? I can make us tea." Again the offer of caffeine-in-a-cup worked and he entered the shop with her. She had a good figure, and badly bleached hair. She smiled at him in a way he supposed was enticing.
"Milk, one sugar," he muttered, and she smiled, disappearing off into a kitchenette in the back. He wandered around the shop, looking at the fascinating wares of the store. Picking up one DVD, he stared. Did people really do those sorts of things to one another in the name of pleasure? They really were more imaginative than Hell. Putting it down, he wandered again, past the bizarrely shaped "Love Toys" section to where magazines lay stacked up on a shelf. Many of them were shrink-wrapped, but he picked up one that wasn't and flicked through it. Its pages were filled with pretty boys doing things to each other. The rush of blood to his groin might have been pleasant in other circumstances, i.e. not when he was waiting for the female owner of the shop to bring him a cup of tea.
"Go away," he muttered, but made the mistake of looking back down at the magazine. He groaned.
"If you like it that much you can keep it," the woman said, two mugs of tea in her hands and a wide grin on her face. Her eyes were fixed on his groin. "Wow, you are a big boy, aren't you?"
Crowley snatched a mug from her and glared. She merely chuckled and wandered over to the cash desk and sat on the stool behind it.
"Trust me, hon, it's not the first time I've seen that happen. It won't be the last either. No need to be embarrassed."
"I'm not," he said truthfully. More irritated by lack of control and overwhelmed by hormones.
"Really? That's probably the first time anyone's said that. If Mr. Phale so much as looks into the window he blushes." Crowley grinned. Well, yes. He would. The woman leaned forward on her elbows. "I'm Cynthia, by the way."
"Anthony Crowley."
"That's a nice name." He shrugged. "So, Anthony, what's going on with you and Mr. Phale?"
He blinked. "Sorry?"
"I think you know exactly what I mean." He had a sneaking suspicion. "I see you 'round there all the time, you know, and he doesn't get too many other visitors. And he's pretty cute," she added with a grin.
"Yeah," Crowley said, and then sighed at himself.
"You don't need to be to be embarrassed or anything, you know."
Well, there was need for something. Aziraphale was still an angel, after all. The reason he had kept his hands off of him for the last six thousand years still stood. A human should no more touch an angel than a demon should. But that didn't stop the way he felt. Or the way Aziraphale felt, for that matter. He knew he cared for him. He had to - they were made for each other, quite literally. God really did have a sense of humour and it was a cruel one.
"Is everything okay?" Cynthia asked, concern on her face.
Crowley sighed and leaned on the counter. What could he tell her? He suddenly had the great urge to tell her everything. She seemed to be pretty well versed in the tangled and twisted labyrinths of love, so maybe she could give him some advise.
"Me and-" What was he calling himself these days? He shrugged. "Azira-" The woman didn't bat an eyelid so he supposed it must be right. "We... Y' know, like each other. But we can't really do anything about it because of his family. They're... very religious." Never a truer word had been told.
Cynthia tutted. "I hate people like that, you know. Not religious people per say - my girlfriend goes to the Synagogue every week - but the sort of people who try to dictate who can love who." She shook her head. "I don't think God would make it forbidden for anyone to love anyone. That's what it's all about, right?" Crowley supposed it was. But that didn't change the fact that Aziraphale was something of a special case. "It's in the Bible or something, isn't it?" She asked. "Love is one of the seven heavenly virtues - like the sins in Se7en only, you know, not a sin. The opposite." Cynthia's theology left a lot to be desired. But still, she was right. While love wasn't actually one of the Seven Cardinal Virtues, it was pretty high in Heaven's agenda. Crowley supposed the best answer would be to wait until Aziraphale got back from Manchester. Cynthia was looking at him curiously.
"Yeah?"
"Have you ever shagged a bloke, then?"
Crowley's eyebrow rose. "No." Sex with humans was the realm of the incubi and succubae, and they got really pissed off if you encroached on their territory.
"Want some pointers, then?" She asked, and Crowley stared at her. She grinned and hopped off the stool and emerged from behind the cash desk with a carrier bag and started to fill it. "I've watched the two of you for far too long to not do anything now I know you're star-crossed lovers," she told him. After she'd got as much stuff in the bag as she thought relevant, she thrust the bag at him. "Here. On the house. Take this home, get some pointers, then take Azira out to dinner and seduce him. Screw the family, right?"
'It isn't that simple' Crowley wanted to say, but instead just took the bag. Looking behind him, Cynthia saw she had a customer - a nervous looking middle-aged man in a dirty Mac, and smiled at Crowley. "Come back and tell me what happens, okay?"
He nodded and watched her try to make the man comfortable before shaking his head and leaving. He glared at the parking ticket that had been slapped on his windscreen, and tore it off, wiping at the mark it had left. He threw the bag and the ticket onto the passenger seat as he got in. Driving back to his flat he wondered about love's importance in Heaven. Did that mean that he could show his love for Aziraphale without the angel Falling? That he could have done at any point during the past six thousand years? During the last millennia they'd managed to get drunk and kiss each other about once a century, but one or the other had run away, fearing for the other. God, Aziraphale was a bloody wonderful kisser, though. A smile played over Crowley's lips as he pulled into the garage and then made his way up to his flat. Sitting on his couch, he wondered what Cynthia had given him. Opening the bag, he pulled out a few magazines filled with pretty boys touching each other, a couple of DVDs and a copy of the Karma Sutra. He chuckled softly as he wondered whether Aziraphale had a first edition of that book.
Standing he strolled into his kitchen and made himself a sandwich. He ate it slowly as he watched the - very depressing - news. He looked at the phone and sighed. He wanted to speak to Aziraphale - now more than ever since he couldn't. He sighed and flicked through the impressive range of channels on his TV, and found there was nothing on any of them. It was amazing, he mused, that you could have over a hundred channels and not find a single thing worth watching. Lying back on his couch, his eyes closed, but he forced himself to sit up before he fell asleep. It was only just past midday. There must be something to do. What did humans do for fun? Well, they worked, but Crowley had no intention of doing that. His eyes wandered to his bookshelf. He had read all the books that lay there, and he hadn't bought any new books in centuries. If there were any good ones, he had just borrowed them from Aziraphale. Wandering over to his bookshelf, he saw with amusement that a copy of the Bible had mysteriously appeared. He picked it up and wandered back to his sofa. It was nothing if not a classic, he supposed, and he had a staring role in the first chapter.
He'd gotten as far as the Book of Job when he noticed he was hungry. He stood, stretched, feeling absolutely stiff, and staggered into the kitchen, trying to will feeling back into his left leg. He opened the fridge, looked inside, and decided he wasn't quite brave enough to try cooking yet. He gave the microwave a suspicious look. Remembering there was a takeaway a few minutes walk away, he decided to try it. Pulling on a pair of boots, he picked up a jacket and left the flat.
As he stepped outside, he shuddered in the cool summer breeze and pulled his jacket a little tighter around him. He crossed the road and made his way to the takeaway. As he did, he passed a row of shops, and stopped. In the window of one, behind a display of cat food, he saw a snake. She looked right back at him. Putting a hand on the window, he looked at her. She was beautiful. He'd always loved snakes, and felt sort of guilty for their bad reputation. Walking into the shop, he went over to look at the snake more closely. She was a grey-purple corn snake, only a baby and tiny.
He turned to see a shop assistant flicking through Dog Owners Monthly.
"How much for the snake and everything it needs?" He asked, deciding on impulse to buy her.
The shop assistant blinked at him. "Well, for that snake, it'll need about a-"
"I said how much?"
"Um. The snake's £125, and there'll be..." The shop assistant caught Crowley's irritated look, and finished quickly. "About £400, all told. And an extra £50 if you want it delivered."
"And can I get it all delivered today?"
"Sure."
"Do it," Crowley told him, and handed over his Visa.
"Okay, can I just check you know how to look after snakes?"
"Yes."
"Okay, and your address?" Crowley told him, and then signed for his snake.
"It'll be there within half an hour, then," the shop assistant told him, and he nodded. Just before he left, he noticed the takeaway menus on the counter and took one of each and went back to his flat. Sitting on the sofa and half-watching television, he ignored his stomach's insistence that it wanted feeding and waited for his snake. A ring at the intercom asked him to come down to help bring the stuff up to his flat, and he went down and brought the snake and the heating system up.
As the shop assistant set up the cage, Crowley took the snake out of her box. She looked up at him, and he down at her. There was something comforting about the tiny animal in his hands, and something infinitely familiar. He smiled.
"Okay, there we go. You'll need to feed her once or twice a week, you can get the mice from us if you like," the shop assistant said. Crowley put the snake into her new home and watched her explore for a moment. "What are you going to call her?"
Watching her for a minute, a snake-like smile curved Crowley's lips. "Eve."