Chapter Text
It was a sparsely populated pub, in a town south of London[1], with dim lighting and an aroma of suffering dulled by cheap alcohol. Really, is there any other kind?
The bartender leaned with the heels of his hands against the bar top as he stared out at the dining room. It was a dining room in name only, since the only things ever consumed in it were chips, alcohol and unwanted feelings. But it was warm, and it had chairs and tables[2]. The bartender sighed, partly from boredom, but mostly from pity, while he idly absorbed the steady stream of word vomit emanating from a lone patron in the dimness. The pub’s owner drew up next to him to take in the view.
“Back again, is ‘e?” she mused.
The bartender nodded. “Been here nearly every night this month.”
“What’s he on about this time?”
“Who the hell knows? Can’t keep his stories straight. One minute he’s talking about the French Revolution, next he’s reciting a Wikipedia on ducks. Went on for three hours about Caligula the other night. And oysters.” He raised his eyebrows. “I actually used to like Caligula, ‘til this one ruined it for me.”
“Why don’t you kick ‘im out? He’s driving out all the other customers!”
“Feel sorry for him. Besides, we make more with him here than if we had a full house. Always orders the really expensive stuff.”
“Odd for a bloke who lives in ‘is car,” Mary observed.
“And,” he added, “he can put away an ungodly amount of liquor. I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“Well, if ‘e starts goin’ on about the end of the world again, I’m callin’ somebody.”
“Come on, Mary,” he said softly, “he’s just had ‘is heart broken. You know what that’s like. And if he’s in here, at least he’s not getting into trouble out there.” He nodded towards the door.
“Oh, you’re such an old softie!” Mary sighed. “Poor thing looks like hell. It’s a shame with how handsome ‘e is.”
“Part of ‘is charm, I think.”
“Oooh!” Mary teased, and then started back towards the kitchen, which was actually more of a closet with a sink and a deep fryer unceremoniously crammed into it.
“S’RIGHT!” bellowed a belligerent voice from out of the dimness, “Part of ‘is CHARM-mah!!” the thin man in dark glasses raised his drink above his head as if offering a toast and tossed the rest of his whiskey down his throat. He shook his head, giving his red hair the appearance of a flickering candle. “I can hhhear... ev’ry word y’ say’ng,” he slurred.
Mary raised an eyebrow at the bartender and he simply shrugged back. He then took out his notepad and wrote down, “hair like a flickering candle,” but then decided it was fairly cliché as far as similes go and crossed it out.
“Six thousand years,” the demon grumbled at the empty seat across the table. “Six thousand! You’d think in all that time, something would... Nah! Nothing’s changed. Nothing ever changes. Nothing ever changes and its always too late. Right Mickey?” He looked up at the bartender who was at that moment placing a fresh tumbler of whiskey in front of him.
“Right you are, love.” The bartender, whose name was not in fact Mickey, but who wasn’t about to correct him at this point, picked up the empty tumbler from in front of Crowley and gave the table a quick wipe. “I know you’re gunna say no, but I have to ask, can I bring you a plate of chips?”
“Nah,” Crowley grumbled. “Can you jussst bring me the bottle?”
“Sorry, mate, I told you already I can’t. Legally.”
“Well, what sort of a place is this that follows all the rulesss?”
“The sort of place that wants to keep it’s license?”
Crowley scoffed, scrunching up his face in an exaggerated look of disgust. “Oh, heaven forfend you should lose your licenssse!” he hissed. “I can get you a license! I’ll get you a license that never expires! It’ll be with you forever and you’ll never ever ever have to get a new one... hhhow does that sound?” he plunked his chin in his palm in a way that struck not-Mickey as cartoonish.
“Already got one a’those. Daughter made it for me when she was six, I keep it behind the bar.” He gestured towards a framed drawing on the wall that read “S-e-R-t-i-F-u-c-K-i-t” in child’s lettering and a colourful sketch of two figures, presumably not-Mickey and his daughter.
Crowley pouted. “Aww, that’sss... b--” he paused to let a bubble of gas escape his throat, “bloody clever.”
“She’s fifteen now. Can’t stand the sight of me. Thinks I’m embarrassing.”
“Nasty little...” Crowley stammered as he tried to come up with something truly devastating, “...bugger,” he settled on, bitterly. Okay, so maybe his insults were a little off lately.
“Nah, she’s a’right. You know how they are. Just gotta give ‘em their space is all. Let ‘em spread their wings.” Not-Mickey stared nostalgically at the drawing for a moment.
Crowley grumbled something that could not be interpreted as words by any stretch.
“Get you anything else, love?”
Crowley waved him away and took a sip. Not-Mickey returned to his post behind the bar and Crowley hunched himself over the glass in his hands and silently stared at it for the next 45 minutes. It was the first time he had not rambled himself hoarse, and the sudden quiet was palpable. He was so still that the bartender thought he might’ve passed out. Mary mentioned impassively that maybe he’d died. That was when Crowley contentiously broke his silence with: “m’NOT. DEAD.” over enunciating the consonants at the end of each word.
When the pub opened the next day, Crowley’s car was no longer in the car park where it had sat for... weeks? Months? No one was quite sure, not even Crowley. He had slept straight through several days here and there. Oddly enough however, a brand new 65” flat screen miraculously appeared on the wall inside the pub, and for the next year, it was the only pub in town that could ever show any football or rugby matches. Every other pub could only ever get cricket. And tennis.
***