AN:
Our longest chapter yet, because, while I could have split it up, I thought you deserved a treat! Crowley gets to learn about things like how to have sex in a healthy manner and communication. If you'd like to see that done explicitly, give me a follow on AO3 under TheCortex, because I'm allowed to post adult material there lol

Eagle-eyed Sandman fans may recognize Rob: if you're not one of them, just pretend that he's an OC with better-than-average knowledge of the occult, and a 0% desire to do anything with that knowledge.

No triggers this chapter! Enjoy!

"Satan Below. And they call me the demon." Crowley whistled through his teeth as he passed the phone into Nina's waiting hand.

"Tell me about it. Lindsay's gone from passive-aggressive to aggressive-aggressive, and I've got the bloody receipts to prove it." She glowered forlornly into her shot glass.

"You sure I can't put a curse–"

"No." Nina thrust an accusatory finger in his direction, the other four wrapped around her alcohol like a lifeline. "That's not what I brought you here for."

"Oh, come on," he wheedled, turning to face her and throwing a heel up on the bar of her stool. She unceremoniously pushed his foot off. "One sock that doesn't ever stay up is a classic. Never understood why it's always the left one though." When Nina remained unmoved, Crowley brightened. "Oooh! What about the travelling itch? Or getting stuck with the warm side of the pillow no matter how many times you flip it?"

"If that is your idea of a curse these days, I can see why you're obsolete," she grunted, finally throwing back her shot and staring into the text chain like a woman possessed. "You're benign."

Crowley's immediate response was to bristle. To let the truth of what he was rise from the depths, stinking of brimstone and Hellfire, to swirl around her in a horrifying reminder: You've seen. Don't you remember?

They'd never actually spoken about that day. Nina had simply stepped up to the line as she would for any other friend in need and Crowley had—for the most part—simply allowed her to. Behind all the bravado in her current statement, he could hear the shakiness; the liquid courage was helping, but Nina would never truly see him as something that wasn't dangerous again.

She was just foolhardy enough to run her mouth at him regardless.

That was a trait he could respect in a human. So Crowley shrugged the insult away and rolled the whisky over his tongue before dropping his head back and letting it slide down his throat in a slow burn. "Well, you won't let me hex anyone properly. What do you expect me to do?"

"Convince me to block this number and move on with my life?" Nina said dryly.

One corner of his mouth quirked sardonically. "Either you'll do that on your own or you won't. But I know it isn't this bullshit that's really upsetting you." Crowley waggled his fingers at the accessory, its screen flickering toward darkness. "It's how all your old 'friends' jumped into the gaslighting dogpile, acting like you're the bloody Devil. That's what's getting to you." Nina scowled down at the bartop. "No, really. A couple people you actually liked suddenly decided to threaten you–"

"Yeah, don't need it repeated back to me, thanks. Already got it in writing." She slammed her mobile down, dropping her head into her hands.

"Point is: you lost people you cared about, and they don't even have the good grace to be dead about it. They don't care—they might never have cared—and it's hurting you. It's shit." Behind Nina's hunched back, Crowley motioned for the bartender. He could have used the gesture to refill them both, but she seemed to want an authentic human commiseration experience.

"You are just awful at this. You know that, right?" One dark eye appeared between thumb and forefinger.

"I'm a bloody demon. Who's been barred from retribution, mind you." He grabbed her mobile and waved it in her face. "You have other people you could have gone to, but you picked me. You don't want coddling, you want someone to tell you to pick yourself back up and say fuck that arsehole." Nina made an ineffectual swipe for her phone. Crowley raised it overhead and pushed his glasses up just as she surged toward him again. He didn't know what his eyes were doing, but they stopped Nina so quickly he almost thought time had done so as well. When he spoke, his tone was low, and serious. "Fuck that arsehole. You're better than that. Do better than that."

He dropped his lenses back into place and slid the little black device toward her two full shot glasses.

She downed one immediately. Crowley sipped his liquor at a more sedate pace. When he'd silently finished half of his drink—and was tired of Nina glaring holes into the side of his head—he sighed.

"What now?"

"You never apologised for what you did. With me and Maggie."

He should have expected that non sequitur, honestly.

"Nope," he acknowledged, giving the P an obnoxious, childish pop. "And I'm not going to, either."

Nina's laugh was rough and incredulous. "Wow. You really are a knob. I don't know what Mr. Fell sees in you."

"Been saying that since the day we met." Crowley refused to feel the sting in the words, opting to steal her untouched shot and drain it without looking at her. "And, joke's on you—he doesn't."

"Oh, not this again."

"No. You fucking listen." A plume of smoke came out through his nostrils that he was quick to wave away. "I understand you're trying to– help." The taste of that word was worse than Nina's liquor. He chased the flavour away with a long swallow of his own, studying his distorted reflection in the remaining amber liquid. "But you don't understand six thousand years. You can't. Your brain's just not made for it. So when I say I've known Aziraphale a long time, will you just fucking– trust me when I say that if he decided this whole thing was stupid and he was going to come back, he would've already?"

"Everyone on that street sees the way he looks at you, Crowley. Something—"

"Okay, then riddle me this, Batman," he snapped, half-turning back to Nina, just in time to see the bartender give him a nasty look. He gritted his teeth, but obligingly lowered his voice. "When's the last time you saw him, hmm?" Her lips parted, but Crowley barrelled on. "I can tell you, if you don't remember. Because it was the same day I did. Right after I poured my bloody heart out to him, too. Which, thanks." Nina winced. "So don't fucking tell me what he supposedly feels about me when he tossed me aside the second a better offer came 'round."

A long beat of silence met his outburst. Crowley's lungs billowed like he couldn't get enough air, frazzled enough that he couldn't get the message to his corporation that he didn't need oxygen at all.

Finally, Nina put her hand on his shoulder and used it to lever herself to her feet. "I am either too drunk or too sober for this conversation, and I don't know which."

Crowley huffed out a breath that could have been a distant relative of a laugh. Nina's tolerance was higher than most humans', and she'd taken in a great deal more than she should have in his efforts to get her to talk. "Need a lift home?"

"No way. If I puke on your seats you'll dunno, sic a Hellhound or something on me."

He was opening his mouth to deny that very thing when a voice that sounded entirely too much like Aziraphale's rang between his ears: Well, I would always know the stain was there.

"Yeah. Well." Crowley cleared his throat, then laid his fingers over hers in a delicate touch; he'd always been better with blessings than he wanted to admit. "Get home safe."

Nina looked at him oddly; his responding grin was his most unconvincingly titillating. She rolled her eyes. "You're not coming, then?"

"Nah. Been a while since I got liquored up in public, and I think I'm going to need it. Muriel and I are going to the zoo this weekend." Crowley took a dramatic swig of whisky.

"Oh, yeah. Enjoy that."

Crowley waved her away, and with it, topped off his glass.

"Where'd your friend disappear to?"

Crowley—very cool, very suave, definitely not startled at all—nearly jumped off the stool as the voice interrupted his tempestuous thoughts. He spared a glance over his shoulder at the voice's owner—a dark-haired man, holding a cup of something light and frothy, his free hand tucked casually in a trouser pocket left exposed by the tails of a buttoned shirt pulled free from his waistband, but almost hidden by the light jumper over it all.

"You know, kids these days. Gotta get them home before their bedtime."

Shit. Was he… flirting? Why was he flirting?

"In that case, is this seat taken?"

The man's face was open and honest, and Crowley had the craziest sensation that if he declined, if he said no, then his companion would remain courteous and just… leave. He showed no signs of impatience as Crowley bit at his lower lip in indecision, only gazed at him with an amorous curiosity that Crowley could feel fluttering against his sternum.

"All yours," he said finally.

The stranger slid onto the stool with a tentative smile. "So, which is the one that broke your heart?"

Crowley choked, and couldn't even blame it on his drink. "Sa– Fuck, you go right for the jugular, don't you?"

He got a shit-eating grin in response, but there was a melancholy to it that Crowley didn't want to examine too closely. "You didn't strike me as the type to do small talk."

"Well spotted," Crowley had to admit, raising his whisky in a salute.

"Besides, I've been around a while. I know the look of a bloke in his cups about his feelings." Crowley had had thousands of years to perfect conveying sarcasm without the use of his eyes, and every bit of his expertise shine through when he made a show of looking over the man who might pass for forty with the right lighting. The other man chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. I'm older than I look." His foot nudged against Crowley's. "Here about a breakup?"

He opened his mouth to say something short and pithy; Not mine, perhaps, or even a snarled, None of your fucking business.

Why in all the Nine Circles his tongue then shaped the words, "Can't break up if you're not together," and let them fall out from between his teeth would be a mystery left unsolved until the end of Time.

"Ah. I might know a bit about that, too." The other man quaffed whatever was in his cup in solidarity. "Seems like you know someone, eh?"

"Known him… forever. Thought we were finally on the same page, and it turns out we weren't even reading the same book."

And wouldn't Aziraphale be tickled at that fucking metaphor? Crowley scowled at the wood grain under his clenched hands.

"You set a person as your guiding star for your entire existence, and then something happens to knock the world off its axis. What do you do when North isn't North anymore?" The question was quiet, more contemplative than morose, but the underlying emotion could slice Crowley to the quick, if he cared to listen for it.

Which, he didn't. Not least of all, his personal coping mechanisms—diving headfirst into the darkest parts of his nature, fucking half of the planet in grief and bitterness, and then crawling into bed to wallow in the depths of a depression that most humans would never reach—wasn't an option for most mortals.

Strangely, though, he suspected if he shared those little details, he'd be met with a shocking lack of judgement.

This man was… captivating. Charming. Almost boyishly handsome, boldly inquisitive, whip-crack smart and so effortlessly funny.

Crowley had never met an easier person to talk to.

He was almost looking forward to it, the moment that the stranger paused, then huffed out a breath and shoved his beer away. "Look, I keep some really excellent brandy upstairs. Wanna be drunk and lonely together?"

Swirling the whisky in his glass, Crowley studied his suitor from behind his glasses. He had broad, open features with lips made for kissing, that would look incredible parted in pleasure. The deep umber eyes sparkled with mirth underneath his own obvious heartbreak, and his straight, dark hair was begging to have Crowley's fingers tangled in it and pulled. Strong, square fingers tapped nervously on the bar as Crowley raked his eyes over thick forearms, down to where muscled thighs complimented a trim waist with the faintest hint of padding.

He gave a more blatant once-over, then nodded, almost to himself. Draining the rest of his glass, Crowley slammed it down, hissing through the burn. "Yeah, alright. You'll do."

"That's goddamn right." Two stools screeched in unison as they stood. Crowley was nearly a head taller than his companion, but the way those big brown eyes were looking at him—like he was about to be devoured—made him feel as if the other man were the one to loom. One eyebrow rose as a large hand grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged him along. "'You'll do.' Mate, you're gonna be in for the time of your life."

Crowley snorted inelegantly. "I've had a pretty long life."

Those gorgeous lips curled into a challenging grin over one large shoulder. "That so? Think you can keep up then, old man?"

So. He'd gone and snagged himself a brat.

One fanged canine caught on his lower lip when he returned the grin. "Guess you're about to find out."

Anticipation coiled low in his abdomen as he followed the meandering path down the hall, through a side door, and up stairs that belied their age with ominous creaks. Every so often, the man in front of him threw him smouldering glances and appreciative murmurs, never once letting go of where he'd hooked two fingers around one of Crowley's buttons. Crowley let the heat spark in his groin, in his smile, in the way he let himself look but not yet touch; he might have bedded more mortals than he could count in his impotent rage, but this time… This time it might even be fun.

"So hi, hello, my name is Rob, and this is my humble abode," Rob said as his keys jingled in the lock. He threw the door to his flat open with a flair that immediately sent Crowley back to that night in 1941. The panic spiral was interrupted before it could take root by Rob yanking him inside. "I wasn't expecting company, so spare any judgement until we're at least two brandies in." Crowley stepped over the threshold as Rob threw his jumper across the back of the couch and shouted "Make yourself at home!" before disappearing through a doorway that, presumably, led to the kitchen.

Hands jammed in his pockets, Crowley prowled the room. His eyes had, of course, landed first on the overstuffed bookshelves, heavy with thick tomes and slender paperbacks and everything in between, all wedged in every which way, and even from the entryway he could feel the age on them. His blessed heart squeezed and Crowley forced his attention to the rest of the flat, where collectables and trinkets and knick-knacks formed an eclectic timeline of interests. He whistled between his teeth, rocking up on the balls of his feet as he approached a custom-built cabinet, preserving documents so old that their pages couldn't be exposed to oxygen without crumbling.

Behind him, the clink of glass pulled his attention to Rob, holding what was, admittedly, a bottle of very good brandy, and two snifters. He made a questioning motion with his full hand and Crowley graciously held the glass while Rob poured for both of them. The poor man had barely placed the bottle on the coffee table before Crowley made a satisfied sound and held out a request for more.

Rob looked horrified. "That is not how you're supposed to drink this stuff. I thought you were a man of culture."

"Oh well, no one is right all the time." Crowley jerked his empty cup toward Rob's full one. "You're behind now. On with it."

"Absolutely not." Rob brought the alcohol to his lips but breathed in deep, obviously savouring it while aggressively holding eye contact. "I didn't spend an abominable amount of money on this bottle to pound it down like a cheap beer." He sounded so scandalised at the notion that Crowley very nearly smiled.

When he finally partook, Rob tipped his head back to expose his stubbled throat, eyes fluttering closed as his Adam's apple bobbed with a deep swallow. His hand dropped away, and the sigh of sheer self-indulgence that escaped was both everything and nothing like Aziraphale's surprised gasp of pleasure the first time he'd tried sushi.

Oddly, Crowley felt fonder of him for it.

Which was why, when Rob was halfway through his brandy, Crowley threaded his thumbs through his belt loops, cocked his head, and suggested, "Say, Rob, what are your thoughts on skipping the 'drunk' part of the evening and diving straight into the part where we're lonely together?"

Rob, glass halfway to his drink-stained mouth, eyes visibly dilating, stared at him like there was nothing he'd like more. He blinked furiously a few times, then gulped his last few mouthfuls, breath catching sharp and needy when he was done. "Don't need to ask me twice."

"So, what was that about culture?" Crowley grinned at Rob's resulting growl.

He was prepared for Rob to drop his empty glass on the table without so much as a second glance. He was prepared for the way those wicked brown eyes flicked over his lithe form in appreciation.

He was not prepared for Rob to step boldly into his space and crowd him against the wall, strong arms pinned to either side of his narrow shoulders and brandy-tinged breath tickling at his neck. Rob wasn't a tall man, but Crowley's casual slouch brought them almost eye-to-eye as he pressed in, bringing their chests close enough to brush. Rob's presence was huge and towering and solid, and Crowley was apparently into that. From the fiery glint in Rob's eye, he could see it too.

Just as he'd thought about downstairs, Crowley slid his hands into Rob's hair and used the grip to tug his head back. Rob's pleasure rumbled up from behind his breastbone, a masculine groan that went straight to Crowley's cock. He straightened, capitalising on his extra inches of height to force Rob to look up at him. Rob pulled against the hold and shivered.

"Mm, been a while since I picked up a Dom at a bar," Rob murmured, twisting his head back and forth in Crowley's grasp, apparently content just to feel the sting in his scalp."If we're doing that then… Nothing that belongs in the toilet, keep marks to the T-shirt area. Superficial wounds are fine, but since I have work tomorrow I'd take it as a kindness if you left them off my arse. Pain and bodily fluids stay off the face. Safeword is 'glory.'" When Crowley didn't respond, Rob winked. "Told ya, mate. Time of your life."

"Bedroom. Now," Crowley decided, backing Rob toward the only other door in the flat, still guiding him by the hair.

"What's your name, then? I only call gents 'Sir' who've earned it."

"Don't you think 'Sir' has a certain ring to it?"

"Come on, stranger," Rob purred against his neck, his five o'clock shadow a pleasant scrape against the sensitive skin under Crowley's ear. "Give me something to scream while you're inside me."

Satan Below, the man could be a demon himself. "That's a– mm. A very compelling argument." Rob had begun nipping down his throat, someplace he so rarely allowed another's touch that the intensity nearly made his knees buckle.

"But…?"

Crowley clenched his teeth. "I'd rather not."

Rob bumped into the doorframe. "God's wounds, sometimes you people drive me mental."

He was more than likely supposed to be insulted by that, but he was still caught on Rob's choice of blasphemy. "'God's wounds'?"

"Ah, ah, no. This isn't about me." Rob jabbed a finger into his belly. "This is about your lot."

"My lot," Crowley repeated, eyebrow creeping toward his hairline in bemusement.

"Yeah, you know. Ancient, unknowable cosmic entities?" When Crowley just gaped at him, Rob's expression turned roguish. "What, did you think I couldn't tell?" Crowley's mouth closed, opened on a reply, then closed again. The twinkle of mischief in Rob's eye became a full-blown star. "Alright then, keep your secrets."

Crowley, stunned, only blinked.

Did he just—

He did, the brat. Rob smirked knowingly through his slitted eyes, teeth bared in a smile that invited Crowley in on the joke. When was the last time he'd gotten to joke?

Eight hundred and fifty-five days ago, his brain helpfully chirped as he stared.

And their conversation at the door– "Wait. You invited me in. You think I'm a bloody vampire?"

"I dunno what you are, mate. Never met a vampire—that I know of—but on the off chance I was gonna be turned into a blood smoothie, I figured that was best done behind closed doors."

Eight hundred and fifty-five days he'd gone without laughter—Heaven, he'd barely even smiled since the day Aziraphale had pointedly walked toward his higher calling—but it was bubbling up in him now, a strange churning in his gut that fluttered through his chest and spilled from his lips in gasps. Huge, wheezing breaths wracked his entire body and forced him to drop his hands from Rob's hair so that he could brace them on his knees and wipe wetness from behind his glasses. Satan, Rob must think him a lunatic.

Rob rubbed a large hand over his back as his amusement subsided into absent chuckles. When Crowley glanced up at his face, Rob was positively beaming.

"Mother of fuck. You are a treasure, Robert, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

"Eh, cheering up moody goth twinks who have power beyond mortal comprehension is kinda my thing." That hint of self-deprecation he'd seen down in the bar crept around the edges of the otherwise light-hearted comment, shrugged away with a half-forced smile. And while that description didn't not apply to any of Crowley's former associates, he had the feeling that the being who commanded Rob's heart wasn't one of his. "Do… d'you wanna talk about yours?"

Aziraphale. Crowley swallowed, thick. He'd done a lot of unsavoury things over the past two years to avoid thinking about him, but now that he was being asked directly…

Crowley glanced away, even though Rob couldn't see it past his dark lenses. There was nothing to say other than the simple truth. "He's… an angel."

Rob nodded as if he understood, and Heaven, maybe he did. Stepping closer, Rob's eyes searched for his behind the blackened glass. "And these…?"

"Stay on," Crowley snapped, defensive.

"Not a problem," Rob agreed easily. He bit at his lower lip before visibly steeling himself. Crowley had half a moment to wonder what kind of supernatural creatures he kept company with that made him so nervous before Rob reached up a hand to cup his cheek. Crowley's eyes darted back; Rob was looking at him with a strange expression, so soft and open. His thumb traced Crowley's temple, just below the arm of his glasses. "Now, normally I'm not one to push boundaries, but. Are these because of something you think I'll be afraid of, or because you think I'll judge you?"

What was it about this man that compelled him to honesty? "Neither."

Rob nodded. That, apparently, was that.

"Well then," he replied, mood shifting back to Cheeky Bastard. "Since you have the most grabbable hair, my lovely, I don't make any promises about what happens in the throes of passion, but other than that I think negotiation can be over now, yeah?"

Crowley awkwardly cleared his throat. "Anthony."

Rob glanced him up and down, unimpressed. "And without even bursting into flame. Well done, you."

Laughing despite himself, he shoved Rob through the doorway. "You have no idea."

The bedroom was just as messy as Rob had made it out to be, but Crowley paid no attention to it as the man himself moved back into reach. "Can I kiss you, Anthony?"

That deep voice was liquid sin as it poured over Crowley's ear. He barely contained an embarrassing noise at the sound of his name—a name no one had called him in almost a century—falling from those sensual lips. "That's what we're here for, isn't it?"

"Maybe I just want to hear you say it." Rob swayed into him, palms smoothing up his chest until they gripped his shoulders. "I bet you are fantastic at dirty talk."

Crowley slid his hands into Rob's back pockets to urge him closer. "And you don't ever shut up, do you?"

To anyone else that might have been cutting, but Rob just blinked up at him coyly. "Only if you make me."

This human was definitely going to be fun, he thought as he lowered his head and finally brought their mouths together.