Crowley and 'Bub inna Pub

Set after Good Omens Season 2. Rated PG.

Crowley loathes Beelzebub.

Hates them.

Despises.

Is repulsed in every way by their very being.

He isn't jealous. Not even a bit.

At least, that's what he tells himself, driving the Bentley over raindark streets to meet them for drinks.

"Beelzebub and Gabriel are together and we are not," Crowley says aloud to himself in the car, just to taste how bitter it is in his mouth. He doesn't cry because demons don't do that. He turns Freddie up louder instead.

"How did this thing with Gabriel come to pass, Beelzebub, really?" Crowley asks them when they've settled into the booth across from him in the pub. "Tell me it's a long con. Tell me this a very elaborate trick you're playing."

"Tell you it all endzz with me cracking 'is pretty head open like an egg and scooping all heaven's secretzzzz out with my evil li'l hands?" Beelzebub says, cocking their bowler hat at an even jauntier angle, rubbing their hands together fly-ishly and looking left and right as though hoping not to be overheard. They look impish as f*ck. And quite cute but Crowley would never ever say that or even think such a thing. "You've guessed my plan, yezzz?"

"Yeah, mate, knew it the whole time," Crowley nods into his pint.

"No, mate, ya didn't," Beelzebub says, "because I really love 'im. Gotcha."

Crowley stammers.

"That's the real con, innit?" they say and knock back their drink. Smells like sulfur, whatever it is. "I actually love 'im. Gabe's not what you'd think, Crowley, not underneath."

"Oh, I've seen what he's got underneath and it's very nice, I'll grant you," Crowley's eyebrows dance. Did they just call him Gabe?

Beelzebub actually laughs. Crowley is more thrown off by that than their confession of true love somehow. Their laugh is light and real and charming. Crowley hasn't heard it in 6,000 years. It's nice.

"Gabriel tried to burn Aziraphale out of existence with hell fire, you know," Crowley growls, feeling as low as a snake suddenly. Full of hate towards both of them. Finishes his drink.

"Yes, but 'e didn't burn, did 'e?" Beelzebub is just as quick and as ancient as Crowley. They don't miss much. "And you? You didn't boil in the bath full of holy water, now did ya? Funny ol' world, innit?"

"Ach," says Crowley.

"Nobody looked too hard at tha', did they?" Beelzebub has a point.

They order another round.

"When Gabriel needed help, you helped 'im," Beeze looks at him, then their stare goes insectile and all seeing. "You hate 'im. But you and your angel helped 'im. I owe Azzzziraphale. That izz why I agreed to thizzzzz. We don't get drinkzzz, Crowley. You and I are not friendzzz."

Beelzebub is being scary again, touch of the old times, and Crowley is more comfortable with that. He knows where he stands with them when they act all Monarch of Hell at him. The giggly Beelzebub from a minute ago was actually more disturbing.

"How'd you do it?" Crowley wants to know, finally asking what he came here to ask them. If he slouched any further he'd slither out of the booth onto the floor into a puddle of misery. "How'd you tempt him away from heaven, Beeze?"

"Didn't," they say. "Gabriel was ready to leave heaven long before I fell for 'im."

"Oh," says Crowley in a small voice.

"Yours will come 'round," Beelzebub says with something that might be sympathy if it were coming from someone else. "All angels do, eventually. Creatures such as us? Got all the time in the world, don't we?"

"Not mine. 's too good," Crowley's starting to get a little slurred and sad. He miracles another pint rather than wait for the server.

"That's not what I hear," Beelzebub shouldn't be passing on any intel, doesn't want anyone to know they still have connections. They're out of the demon business, but Crowley did help Gabriel.

Crowley perks up significantly at mention of heavenly gossip. They see he's dying for news of Aziraphale but won't ask. Beelzebub could torture him a little and make him beg. They consider it for old times' sake.

"Aziraphale is in trouble," they decide to say. "Told people what to do. Tried to make too many changes. Tried to smooth out some wrinkles."

"Oof, they hate that," Crowley says, worried. "Lovers of the status quo, ol' heaven."

"Yezzzzz," Beelzebub agrees.

"Is he alright?" Crowley hates the desperate edge he hears in his voice. Tries to drown it.

"For now," Beelzebub nods.

As the evening wears on, they both get proper drunk and proceed to have a surprisingly decent pub night for two beings who don't like each other much. Beelzebub beats Crowley at darts. He's far too loose wristed for the game. He's much better at something like American billiards where 50% of it is about how sexy you can look bending over the table.

At the end of the evening, Beeze doesn't turn into a swarm of flies and vanish. Instead, Gabriel comes to pick them up. He strides into the pub, not naked or wearing an ivory suit, but in a forest green button down shirt and jeans. He looks handsome and happy and Crowley would like to set him on fire. He has the nerve to kiss Beelzebub hello. Crowley snarls at that.

Then, Gabriel insists on settling their tab and while he's waiting for the barkeep and smiling too much, he says to the demon, "You look worried, Anthony."

"Aw, piss off, Gabe" Crowley gives him the snake eyes over the tops of his lenses.

"Look, it's simple. If Aziraphale falls, you'll be there to catch him, alright?" Gabriel palms Crowley's boney shoulder with his big baseball mit of a hand. "Nothing to worry about."

And then, with a tipsy Beeze tucked under his big muscly arm, Crowley's ex least favorite angel leaves. The thin dark duke sobers himself up with a wave of his lovely hand and then heads back to London where nothing but plants wait for him.