Depending on how you look at it, it's been a year or two since Aziraphale exited Earth and returned to Heaven to be their Supreme Archangel.
Crowley doesn't know all of the logistics following that day because after the deeds in the bookshop between Heaven, Hell, and all of Humanity, the not-angel-not-demon fled SoHo, bordered a plane, landed in a random city in all of America, then discovered one of the dingiest bars the country can offer and ran a tab through the roof before converting and diving into extensive shuteye in a motel. Then, he awoke and decisively returned to the UK and arranged for himself to live in the new country. Don't fret: Bentley and the Plants came, too; they just had to be expressly registered, shipped, and all of that, according to some website he visited on his phone.
And now, as it is with all of the pompous documentation and the nine out of the way with the snap of a finger, Anthony Jophiel Crowley is an American citizen.
The United States of America is so different than the United Kingdom. Thus far, the statement hasn't portrayed inadequacy because before all of this transpired, Crowley, ever the star-studded creator even when he's glum and intoxicated off of his rocker, scheduled beforehand to have all of his ducks in a row. Speaking of ducks, on one warm day, he sat at his bench in St. James' Park with Muriel. It was really supposed to be a private moment between him and the adorable quackers as he fed them peas and conducted research and Googled synonyms like Moving from the UK to the USA and How to Get Over a Broken Heart, but they desired to come along, and Crowley's yet to ascertain how to tell them no when need be.
("Mr. Crowley, what is this?" questions Muriel as they hold Crowley's phone with a perplexed facial expression as they rotate the foreign contraption in their hand. The screen catches a sunlight glare that dimly shines on their face, and they squint against the light.
Crowley's hair has grown. It reminds him of 1601, and he's aiming to grow it longer than when he had it during 3004 and 4004 BC. As always, it's lusciously red and wavy and now comfortably sits just over his shoulders. He has a middle-part that horizontally runs ear-to-ear, and the top-half is in a split ponytail. In his hand is a black, hardback notebook that contains his To-Do Lists, reminders, other essentials, and, especially, private entries. The notebook is password-protected, and he knows such a thing exists because he caught the remainder of a teen commercial about such a product. Moreover, as any sane person would do, he ordered one. Or two.
On the bench, he's classically slumped with his pen inking in, below, and above the blue lines. Unsurprisingly, his sunglasses are on, and behind them, he aggressively squints at the paper in the vein of his vision miraculously clearing. The words on the paper continuously shift through the ROYGBIV spectrum, and the blue-dyed line shades itself. Plus, with absolutely no thanks to the sun, the paper is heated, equating to darkening in pigment and lighting in the shade. It all sucks, and if someone saw his notebook, they'd assume it was a child's scribble.
Sighing in aggravation, he pauses his task, turns his head, and regards Muriel. Their face is overlayed in greens and blues as they press the home-screen on the phone and gasp as the screen comes to life. Crowley warmly smiles at their newly-found Earth discovery, then answers, "It's called a phone, One. Many Humans have it to talk or text their family and friends, browse the web, shop, or play video games. Stuff like that, yeah."
Muriel brightly beams while shaking their head and expresses, "I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds exciting!"
"I can get you one before I leave, One," offers Crowley. He's extensively been on Earth for many, many millennia and has acclimated to London's currency. His phone is one of his possessions that isn't funded or paid for by Hell, though if he does need it to be, he and Shax's neutral ground surrounding his Downstairs finance can compensate for it.
Muriel squeals and wraps their arms around the retired angel-demon for a squeezing embrace. "Oh, Mr. Crowley, you're magnificent. Thank you! When you leave, I'll still be able to communicate with you."
After some beats, Crowley wraps his arms around the younger woman with his notebook and pen strongly clutched in his hand to prevent the materials from escaping in the wind. "Ngk, One. I'm not nice. But, I'll do anything for you," he contradicts himself and the nickname he's given them.
"What was your class in Heaven again, Muriel?" quizzes Crowley, though he already knows the answer.
"Oh, uh," they pause to gather their thoughts. It's been a juncture since they've had to recount the identification, so, eventually recollecting, they answer, "I was — am — the 37th Scrivener, or, as you know, no-one," they respond with an assured, toothy beam.
"No, that's not correct," contests Crowley as he removes his glasses for the Inspector-Constable to witness his eyes. "You're not no-one; you're Muriel. You're my One."
Muriel is timid yet comfortable with Crowley and his snake-inspired eyes. This isn't the first time they've seen them, but the occurrences are sporadic. They've never seen anything like it, and they're intrigued. They declare, "Your One? I'm sorry, Mr. Crowley, but I don't understand the phrase. Upstairs, Michael, Gabriel, and others have always told me that I'm the 37th Scrivener and I'm No-One."
"We're not Upstairs; we're not Downstairs. Right now, at this moment, we're Crowley and Muriel. You're not thirty-seventh anything; you're number one — or One, for short," describes the redhead with finality. He's at his last whim with Heaven's mistreatment of fellow angels and cherubs.
The scrivener silently nods and smiles, graciously accepting the compliment and nickname.
Muriel lifts their head from the nap of Crowley's neck and considers him, their eyes roaming from his hair to his face and tattoos. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me on Earth, Mr. Crowley. When you leave for the America place you speak of, please don't forget about me," they plead with tearful eyes.
Crowley shifts his eyes away and scrutinizes the ducklings peacefully munching on peas. For so long, he's held the front of being someone he's not — a Demon memorialized beside Satan and his long-lost brother, Lucifer, or an Angel alongside his sister and brother, Michael and Gabriel. If he's faithful to himself, he's never been a Demon; he's never been an Angel. At heart, and as straightforward as it can be: He's a florist/gardener who's fond of animals and science. One of his grandest moments was constructing his Stars that he once could see before peacefully asking Her questions and being vehemently disciplined for doing so. Following his Fall, his vision wasn't the only forte impaired; his body was, too. He's no full-blooded Human, nor is he an Angel or Demon: Now and until the end of eternity, he's a red-bellied snake, and being a reptile attracts various complications, especially in human-form.
All because he asked questions. But, uncannily, Muriel, behind Aziraphale and his Stars, is the best thing Heaven's ever blessed him with.
Returning to the present, the man shifts his eyes to suppose the younger woman who remains in his proximity with their arms around his neck. They don't know any better, of course, and it continues to slip the mind of the retired, high-ranking angel-demon to educate them on personal space. It's yet to be a personal concern, but if he leaves Muriel with the bookshop and infrequent customers, they must comprehend the dos and don'ts with Humans. Or, perhaps there is an alternative.
"Muriel," begins Crowley with his arm around the woman's waist, "why don't you come with me?"
The Inspector-Constable lifts their head once more with a frown and tries to reason, "Is that wise, Mr. Crowley? The Metatron advised that I resume shop in the Supreme Archangel's bookshop."
Crowley scowls at the mention of their bosses — Heaven's new ruler and the floating, giant headmind. As a confession, the reason he's departing from London is to escape all of the heart-aching memories and recollections that he and Aziraphale shared throughout thousands of years. For instance, this bench, which he and Muriel are presently occupying, was their bench, and lingering any longer in his heartbroken phase may result in him doing something dreadfully drastic.
He badmouths as his emotions rise in a jumbled arrangement. "In all of the thousands and whatever years that Aziraphale and I have been on Earth and he's owned the bookshop, his only customers have been myself, Gabriel — Jim, James, or whatever — and the additional rulers of Heaven and Hell. Quite frankly, it's only still operating because of Heaven since it's an Embassy. He only has the bookshop so that he can sit and read the books, not the customers," he says, then pauses and produces an ultimatum since his speech isn't being met by the younger woman: "How about this: We close the bookshop and advise Maggie and Nina to oversee the premises against theft, vandalism, and the lot."
After some beats, the scrivener nods their head in like-mindedness. Then, they toothly beam and articulate, "OK, Mr. Crowley, then it's a plan: You and I will go to live at the America place you speak of. Oh, this is exciting! I've only been on Earth for such a short amount of time, and I'm now going to see more of the planet. Thank you so much, Mr. Crowley."
"Always, One. You deserve it.")
Crowley opens his yellow eyes to the air's cool sensation on his body in his blackened bedroom. He and Muriel live in a luxury, spacious two-bedroom condo in northern Dallas, Texas, that easily puts his Mayfair flat to shame. They haven't been Texans — or Americans — for long, yet they can already guarantee that the go big or go home phrase definitely lives accurately to its meaning in the state. Expectedly, his body is stiff and requires deep-stretching before his day begins. The snake rolls to his back, outstretches his left hand, and caresses the cold, barren pillow that he wishes was fulfilled by a certain blonde, curly-haired angel.
The redhead rolls to the side of the bed and extends his arms upwards to decompress his spine and shoulders. It's one of many tedious steps to his morning stretches, but it all feels remarkable in the end result. He's found a fundamental stretching video on the YouTube application, so he grabs his remote to turn on his enormous, mounted, black-and-white color-filtered television to access the video through the device. There's a yoga mat neatly wedged between his bed and nightstand, and he retrieves the item, opens it on the floor, and endeavors to continue his morning routine. Or, at least, he would if not for the interruption of a door knock.
"Mr. Crowley?" timidly names Muriel on the other side of the door. Over the years, Crowley has comprehended their reserved speech manner, thus perfecting his retainment of their speech-vibration. On strenuous days, the woman would supportively join and aid the angel-demon with his stretches and flexibility exercises to decrease significant stiffness and immobility; this morning, however, hadn't called for it, so the redhead hoped to independently execute the training himself.
The not-angel-not-demon racks a hand through his hair. Unlike him, Muriel doesn't have hardship with their hearing, so he answers in a standard volume, "I've told you, One, to just call me Crowley. What do you need?"
"Oh, uh, please don't be mad. But, well, we have visitors," nervously informs Muriel.
Gradually, Crowley cautiously treks to the door and opens it. He peers down at Muriel, who's attempting to look at everything that's not him. "Visitors with an s?" he questions with an underlining tone of dismay that's not directed toward them. Sure, they've slightly expanded their horizon and are oriented with few Humans, but it's not to an extent that they'd invite them to their home. Muriel has grasped the layout of texting and now warmly communicates with another young woman from the state of Colorado.
Muriel frowns in displeasure, their hands shaking by their sides as they occasionally turn and peer down the hallway. The door is somewhat away, so the technique is undoubtedly a nervous gesture. Though not examining for anything, Crowley humors them by glimpsing over their head and then meets their eyes once more. They reply, "Um, yes? I think the good thing is that we know them, or at least you do."
Yeah, they've completely lost him. Crowley moves to step out of the door and Muriel, ever the sweetheart, automatically wraps their arm around his body so that he can bear his weight on them. Once they're finally at the buzzing door, Crowley unleashes the deadbolt and opens it.
This... is most astonishing.
On the threshold stands Nina, Maggie, Anathema, and teenaged Warlock, Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale.
Crowley remains stunned and motionless. Muriel repositions their hold around his waist and notifies their friend once again, "They told me they know you."
From the doorway, Nina, with a handful of travel bags, sounds, "Ah, Mr. Six Shots of Expresso. So, this is where you've gone now that your boyfriend left? Right on you; it's nice."