Forgivable

CHAPTER FIVE: Thousands of Years of Moments

       "A bottle of Glenfiddich 18, please."
       "Sure. How many glasses?"
       "Just the one."
       The bartender raised an eyebrow, but turned to grab the bottle from the shelf. Crowley drummed his fingers on the bar, which was mostly empty in the early afternoon.
       He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed drinking, and had taken to it again. It didn't fill the emptiness, exactly, but it passed the time and helped him sleep. He'd taken to sleeping again, too, and was glad he had - a few hours of mindlessness, when he could get them, were the closest thing to relief he'd felt since the Heavenly elevator doors had closed all those weeks ago.
       When the bartender handed over the bottle, he grabbed it by the neck and snatched up the glass, carrying them over to a table. He fell into a chair, draping an arm over its back and splashing two fingers of scotch into the glass. He tossed them back quickly then poured two more.
       The jukebox was on, playing something folksy with lots of twangy acoustic guitar and angsty voices. He sneered and snapped his fingers, and the music turned suddenly to David Bowie. Starman. The bartender gave the jukebox a surprised look, then shrugged and continued wiping the bar with a stained rag.
       "That's better," Crowley murmured to himself.
       He'd stopped going to the Dirty Donkey - too many memories - and had found this pub in Whitechapel instead. It was tucked away down an alley and didn't get a lot of traffic, which suited him. The windows were dirty and didn't let a lot of light in, and the tables were sticky with grime, which also suited him. In other days, he couldn't have come to a place like this - the angel wouldn't have risked the spotlessness of his coat - but now that he was on his own, he could crawl into whatever dark, dirty hole he wanted. Besides, it felt right - he was a demon, after all. What business did he have in cute little pubs with shining clean mirrors and tasteful paintings?
       No, he didn't miss the ambience of London's finer watering holes. But he'd be lying if he said it didn't feel like something was missing - like there was a space across the table that was supposed to be occupied, a void which followed him across the city, across the country, no matter how far or how fast he drove.
       He didn't notice when the bartender took the empty bottle away, replacing it with a second - nor when folks started drifting in, stopping by for a drink on their way home from work. He sat, letting the darkness of the waning light settle on him as he drained his glass again and again, welcoming the mindlessness that was creeping in.
       When it hovered at the edges - when he was drunk enough to let his thoughts wander unmolested but just sober enough to drive (by his standards, anyway) - he finally stood. Miracling up a handful of hundred-pound notes, he dropped them on the table and stumbled through the door, out into the alley.
       He reached the Bentley and as he stood with his hand on the handle, he was overcome by a wave of hopelessness. What even was the point? Where was he going to go - back to his flat? His empty, stupid flat, nothing in it but dying plants and the looming night?
       When he got in the car and turned it on, he found himself driving west into familiar streets. He hadn't been in Soho in weeks, but as the Bentley rolled closer and closer to the bookshop, familiar shops and street corners appeared, each one a tiny cut in his heart. They'd once stood just there, arguing about Crowley having tempted some teenagers into TP'ing the Royal Albert Hall. At that restaurant, over a three-course meal (three food courses for the angel, three courses of wine for the demon), Aziraphale had talked for hours on end about humans' capacity for love, and Crowley had watched him with delight the whole time - the way his eyes twinkled, the purity of his happiness.
       There were thousands of years of moments together, and so many of them had taken place in these streets. He shouldn't have come back here.
       But he found himself parked outside the bookshop, anyway. Found that he was unfolding himself from the car and walking to the entrance, standing outside it and gazing through the doors' windows.
       The lights were on inside, and as he watched, he saw the naïve little angel that was caretaking it walk slowly across the floor, absorbed with the book in her hands.
       It was wrong. It wasn't hers, it wasn't she who should be there, comfy and content in a little cardigan, reading glasses perched at end of nose, cup of tea sending up a tiny thread of steam. Aziraphale should be there, should be sitting with eyes closed, Schubert record at high volume, conducting the orchestra in his mind as he waved his hands about. Aziraphale should be looking at him disapprovingly, hands on hips, as Crowley grinned back, exasperating him on purpose because he was so damn cute when he was annoyed. Aziraphale should be lovingly turning the pages of some stupid book, caressing it like it was precious, drinking in the written word like a 1945 Château Cheval Blanc.
       But he wasn't.
       And he never would be again.
       Agony rose up inside him. Aziraphale was gone, and he wasn't coming back. It was real.
       He felt something on his face, and reached a hand up to brush it away. It was warm, and wet.
       He was crying. He had never cried before.
       He turned away from the bookshop and got in his car, summoning the blankness, the emptiness, trying with all his might to evict this sense of loss from his chest. He started driving south, an idea of where he was going barely formed in the back of his mind until he turned down a narrow street - mostly empty; it had gotten late - and slid the Bentley to a halt in front of a tall, peak-roofed stone building. The church.
       Before he had time to think about it, Crowley had stumbled out of the car and up the cracked stone pavement. He lifted a fist and pounded on the door.
       A couple walking by on the street behind him looked over, startled, but he ignored them as he paced up and down the walk. Where was the bastard?
       He pounded again at the door, but before he had lowered his fist, the door swung open to reveal the priest - dark hair disheveled, eyes bleary - blinking at him.
       "Oh," he said, his voice thick with sleep. "Hello."
       "Holy Water," Crowley ground out between his teeth. "I need Holy Water."
       Father Harding cocked his head, clearly confused, and cleared his throat. "Holy Water?"
       "Now." He glared at the young man from behind his dark lenses.
       The priest's eyes were more alert now. "If you need a blessing," he said, stepping back, "you can come in, I'd be happy to-"
       "I don't need a blessing and I'm not coming in. I. Need. Holy Water." He reached up and removed his sunglasses, revealing the yellow irises, the snakelike pupils of his eyes.
       Father Harding gasped and recoiled, his own eyes widening, and looked wildly around him as if for some defense against what he now knew to be some kind of evil spirit or demon. "I don't- I can't- God preserve me!" He grasped at the cross hanging around his neck on a thin silver chain.
       Crowley rolled his eyes. "She'll do nothing of the sort. Haven't you noticed She doesn't really do that?" He ground his teeth. "Listen. I'm asking nicely. I'm not going to hurt you. In fact, I want to rid the world of a demon for you."
       "A demon." The priest had regained some of his composure, but he still stood inside the entrance, eyeing him warily; he seemed to believe that Crowley couldn't enter. Fine. Let him believe he was safe, if it kept him from running away.
       "A demon. An agent of Hell. Purged forever from the ranks of the damned. Isn't that something you should want?"
       Father Harding examined him - the black clothes, the yellow, snakelike eyes, the sinuous form. "And the demon in question is... you?"
       "Does it matter?"
       His eyes narrowed slightly. "I do apologize; I've only just woken up, and it's taking me a moment to catch up. But... you're a demon?"
       Crowley nodded.
       "And you want Holy Water?"
       Another nod.
       "And you would use it to... destroy yourself?"
       The demon gritted his teeth and nodded again.
       The priest rubbed at his face and blew out a breath. "I'm sorry. I can't help you."
       Crowley stared at him. "What?"
       "Well, it seems to me that a demon who would think it a good thing to rid the world of a demon is no true demon." He looked around as though worried he would be overheard. "I have to say, I'm compelled once again to offer you counsel, instead. You seem troubled. You want to take your own life, for Heaven's sake."
       "For my sake." This shouldn't have been so hard. Just be a little threatening, take off the glasses. What was wrong with this man? "And I'm not only troubled, I am trouble. Trouble you don't want. Last chance. All I'm asking for is one vial of Holy Water."
       Father Harding swallowed visibly, then shook his head. "I'm so sor-"
       Crowley snapped his fingers, and time stopped.
       He pushed past the priest into the church, and immediately his feet started to burn. He ignored it and started opening doors, looking for the one that led to the rectory.