Chapter Text
“You fucking bastard Azir–”
The Universe shifts – he must know, he helped Her create it.
He blinks.
His hand bleeds.
He’s drunk.
He’s naked.
He doesn’t remember why.
He feels nothing. Except oh, his hand does bleed, and it seems he has done something to the bathroom mirror, and every broken little fragment of it has a mini-Crowley inside, all of them naked and surprised and strangely wet-eyed and full of absence of understanding and so pathetic.
He said something just before.
He doesn’t remember what.
You fucking bastard who?
He sobers up, puts on his robe, and goes downstairs. Timelines and strings of matter feel wobbly on his tongue, but maybe it’s just the bad quality of wine he’s stolen from the basement. Nothing differs this evening from any other evening of his existence – except that, well, he hasn’t really got a habit of crying when drunk, and attacking inanimate objects, and hurting himself with pieces of inanimate objects, and also shouting something… something…
“Hey, Crowley,” Muriel says. “You alright?”
They’re reading a book, tucked in their chair as they always are, and nothing about that differs from any other evening of their existence, but timelines and strings of matter feel spicy on his skin, and his head hurts and he doesn’t–
“Yeah, all good,” he says. “Broke your mirror.”
“Why?”
“Demon.”
“Alright,” they say – it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. “Do you mind cleaning now?”
“Done already.”
“Okay. You sure you’re alright?”
“Yep, tickety-... yeah, I’m alright. Listen, do we know someone called Azir? Or maybe– no, I think it was Azir or something. Rings any bells?”
“No,” they say, at last putting their book away. They look worried, which is stupid, the whole conversation is stupid, Crowley should just– “No, I don’t think we do. Sorry for being insistent, but are you sure you don’t need help? Your hand bleeds.”
“Mirror battles,” he says. “Okey-dockey angel, gotta go, see you.”
“See you, Crowley,” they say. He can see they’re worried now, but he’s said he’s alright three times already, so they go back to reading their book.
Two minutes in, Crowley comes back.
“You know,” he says, his back glued to the door frame. “I do feel strange.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Anything I can help you with?”
“I haven’t been drinking excessively, have I?” he asks.
“Crowley, are you… No,” they say. “You’ve borrowed – well, stolen, as you like to call it, but it was bought by you and for you anyway – but yes, you've stolen a wine bottle and went upstairs, and unless you won a couple of vodka bottles in the mirror battle, I don't think you’ve–”
“No, I mean the last few days. Have I been drinking? I don’t have… I don’t have a coherent enough set of memories of those couple of days, to be honest.”
“Oh,” they say. “Well, every Saturday since we've stopped the Apocalypse, we've been having wine at this little cafe you like, what was the name? Doesn't matter. Nothing much as far as I know. Unless you've been drinking at yours, which I have neither knowledge of nor control over, of course, but every time I saw you here for the last few years, you were almost sober, so–”
“We didn't stop the Apocalypse,” he says.
“What? Of course we did!”
They look really worried now, but somehow this thought catches his mind, and it tingles, and he knows the thing they said is simply wrong.
“We failed,” he says, tasting those words. “I failed with the boy, you didn't accept the Agreement. We did not do anything to stop the Apocalypse.”
“But it…”
“It stopped,” he says. He knows it’s true. “It wasn't us.”
“Well, they say the most important thing is that it stopped, and–”
“No,” he says. “I mean, yes, it stopped, good, awesome, fantastic, gold star to whoever did that. But it wasn't us. It was the boy, or something… something else, something stopped it, and I… where was I at the moment?”
“Drinking?”
“I was there,” he says. “When it stopped. I found the new boy, or the original boy, I mean, the boy I’ve lost eleven years before that, and I was there. And Beelzebub and Gabriel, and his father. Why was I–”
“You've been through a lot of stress,” they say, eyes full of worry.
“No,” he says, sharply, running around in circles – rustling carpets, fluttering pages, waves and waves of demonic energy with no place to drain it. “Was I there or not? I remember it. I remember it now, but it's like… it's wrong, the timeline, and why would I show them… and I didn’t remember it before, but now when I think about it, I do, it's like a colorful picture thing, the dalei… daleifo…”
“Kaleidoscope?”
“No,” he says.
They sigh.
“You’ve been through a lot, Crowley.”
“No,” he says. “I haven't, that's the thing. I haven’t… I haven't done much those eleven years at all, have I?”
“I… I don't know,” they say.
“Because you said no to the Agreement,” he says, tasting these words to check if they sound true.
“Are you still mad about that? I said I’m sorry, I'm sorry I did, but you’re a demon, and I don't really know you…”
“You know me for 6000 years,” he says.
The words land there, in the silence of the bookshop. They land wrong.
“Well, yes,” they say.
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
The more he thinks about it, the truer it becomes – pictures and memories flooding his brain, but his first feeling must be the right one, he felt it was wrong, he felt the tiny movement of quarks in the center of everything, moving, changing, fleeting, everything arranging themselves a little bit too hurriedly, working around, tidying his memories, organizing and classifying, but he didn’t always remember that, he couldn’t have always remembered that–
“You’ve been on Earth for 6000 years,” he says, tasting these words.
“Yes,” they say. They look very, very, very worried.
“No,” he says. “It’s not right.”
“But it is?”
“Why wouldn't you accept the Agreement then?”
“Because I’m an angel! Listen, Crowley… I’m glad there's no Apocalypse – just between us, of course – but I work for Heaven, I can’t trust you, I don’t know you!”
“You don't know me after 6000 years here?”
“You’re a demon!”
“Yeah,” he says. This sentence feels right. Muriel says it, and no bozons rush around, tidying everything about this fact, hurriedly making him believe. It’s true. He’s a demon. He wasn’t always one, but he's been one long enough that it matters. It's a fact so long-established, the Universe grew comfortable around it, the timeline grew its roots and bones and fingers into it.
The other ones were fresh.
They smelt of ozon.
“Something is wrong,” he says.
Muriel looks at him. “Yes, I can see that.”
“Not with me! You pathetic angel,” he snaps. “Sorry,” he says immediately. “No offence.”
“None taken.”
“I was there when the Universe was created,” he says carefully.
They look at him as children look at their elderly when their eyes get all glossy and they start talking about long forgotten days, naming long forgotten people and places, playing with long forgotten pets and joining long forgotten conversations.
“I was there,” he says. “And I was there when it grew and changed – always, since the moment time was born, since all the moments before. I know when something is wrong, I can feel it.”
“Okay,” they say. “I can’t object to that, Crowley. It’s true, you were there, I wasn't. I’m just a simple scrivener, but it doesn't mean that…”
“You’re not,” he says, even though this fact doesn't feel salty.
“What?”
“You’re not a scrivener. You’re a principality, you’ve been on Earth for 6000 years.”
“Oh,” they say. “Well, yes.”
“How can you be all these things at once?”
“I didn’t say that,” they say. “Sorry, you might have gotten me wrong–”
“Don’t gaslight me,” he says sharply. “I came up with gaslighting –” and this is also true “– so don’t you dare gaslight me. You said you are a simple scrivener, and you've never been that. How’s that so?”
“I really couldn’t have said that, Crowley,” they look suddenly so tired. “We both know I've been on Earth since the Beginning.”
“Since when exactly?” he asks, because he's not sure, and the things he's not sure about feel spicy.
“Since Adam and Eve, Crowley! They’ve been cast out, you know that,” they look like they're about to start crying. “They’ve been cast out, let me remind you, because of the original sin,” that is also true, thinks Crowley, “and I've been chosen to go to Earth to guide them to Good. And you've been chosen–”
“Yeah, yeah, I know this part,” well, of course he knows, of course he remembers, but it doesn’t mean he can trust the things he remembers now.
“We met in Jerusalem,” they say.
He remembers that too – dust and gold, salt and sand, starless nights and restless travelers, and after leaving, it’ll be so long till he’ll come back again – even though he’s sure he didn't remember it a few seconds before, and the rush of quarks sprinting, ruining, changing, repairing is so strong he almost needs to sit down.
“We didn’t,” he says. “We met in this bookshop,” he tries, and it feels weird. He can almost see this in his mind – in the same way one sees the memories of one’s dreams, not really pictures and not really sounds, but the knowledge of the past and the things it keeps – they couldn’t have possibly met in this bookshop, it's simply not true, it’s simply–
“This is my bookshop,” Muriel says. “You’ve been here when I opened it. We already knew each other.”
This is what he remembers. But it's wrong, he knows, as birds know where the North Pole is, even if they don’t know a thing about North or South or Poles or anything else.
“I wouldn't invite a demon to the bookshop opening if I never knew them before, wouldn't I?”
“You wouldn't,” he agrees. The silence is thick. “I’m not delirious,” he says. It sounds pathetic. It feels right.
“Of course not, you're just tired.”
“I’m not tired!” he almost cries, suddenly getting angry, not understanding why, and Muriel certainly does not deserve to be an anchor of his anger, but everything is wrong, and he feels it, and it aches and itches and hurts, but every minute, this feeling becomes less and less prominent, just like a hangover would, slipping away and hiding from sight, but it doesn’t mean he was just tired, doesn’t mean it’s not real, he knows when he’s being gaslighted, and the Universe thinks it’s so fucking smart, smarter than him, Crowley, who set it up and primed the fucking engine, and how dare it–
"Okay,” they say. “You’re not tired. What now? Can I read my book, or do you want to talk some more nonsense?”
“I would maybe let it be,” he says, knowing damn well he wouldn’t, “if it was just a feeling, but I said this thing, this thingy-thing, this thingy-thingy, what was it… you fucking bastard who?”
“Azir–?”
“This!!! What is that?”
“Might be a fruit?”
“A wha–”
“A fruit name. Like… like agave?”
“I don’t think it’s a fruit name,” he says.
“A berry?”
“Why the fuck would I call a berry a fucking bastard?”
“You do tend to fight inanimate objects.”
“Fuck you, angel, you’re not helping.”
“I’m trying to! I don't know what Azir means! And I know all the languages, mind you.”
“So do I!”
“Exactly.”
“Yes, exactly,” he says. “Doesn’t matter. I think it’s a name?”
“A person's name? Do we know an Azir? It doesn’t even sound like a real name.”
“Fuck you, Muriel, why do I feel bullied here?”
“Because you make no sense!”
“Doesn’t mean a demon deserves bullying. And nothing makes sense,” he says, feeling the wrongness around him, the silent panic of broken causality chains. “Okey-dockey, nice talking to you. Gotta go see a friend, ciao.”
“Okay…” says Muriel. Crowley leaves, and they stay, the book forgotten, and what the fuck was all of this about?
I’ve got a mad demon walking around London, they think. It's nothing new in the grand scheme of things.
The mad demon doesn't stay in London. He goes Upstairs.
Something is very, very wrong with the matter and the reality of things, and he doesn't think anyone Downstairs – except maybe Satan himself, but he won't go there – has the power to influence those strings of matter.
And anyway, it’s been way too long since he’s heard any heavenlish gossip.
“Sarry, dude, what's upppp?”
“Crow... you idiot, what the hel… the fuck are you doing here?”
They don't look exactly happy to see him – fair enough, he's a demon, noone should look happy to see him, and definitely not an archangel – but he knows the source of their frustration, this fear deep inside them – and that's what Heaven is now, isn't it? a bowl of boiling fear – but it's quite stupid of them to worry – their office is distant from all the others, and it's far from the first time Crowley’s sneaking into Heaven (although the place does make him sneeze like crazy), so he’s long perfected his camouflage and never ever got caught.
“Relax, I'm just poppin in for a chat,” he says, closing the door and leaning on it. “Happy not-Apocalipse, by the way. No big congratulations going on Downstairs, but I personally am glad we didn't kill each other and all.”
“You can't be here, go away.”
“Tell me something I don't know,” he takes a chair – why do they even keep chairs around if not to welcome him? – and sits backwards, putting his chin on its back. “Tell me eeeeverything.”
“You’re more stupid than I thought if you think coming here after the Apocalypse is funny, Crowley. If you get caught…”
“Yada-yada, boring,” he says. “Relax, I'm careful, you know that. Got the protective stuff placed and all. Noone will notice a thing.”
“It wouldn't work for the archangel stronger than you, you know that.”
“Not many of those around, heh? Unless you’re expecting an urgent Gabby visit, we’re fiiiine,” he sighs. “I see you’re not in the mood. Understandable. I’ll be quick then. Tell me what changed?”
“What?”
“Something’s changed,” he says.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” they say and move closer, and when they shift just so, he notices long lines of red crawling around their wrists. They catch his gaze and hurriedly pull up their sleeves.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Not your business, Crowley.”
“Saraquel, what was that? Did they hurt you? Can I help?”
“Don’t play a knight, you know if you stay longer and they see you, I will be hurt much more–”
“But why? What happened?”
Tired – why does everyone look so tired today? – they say, “I don’t know.”
“What?”
“You have to go, Crowley.”
“No,” and he breathes in slowly and says, “Did you feel the shift too?”
The office is heavenly-bright – anesthesia room lamps, nearest stars through no sunglasses, deepest pits with the most luminous acids – yet it feels almost dimly.
And when they whisper, “Yes,”
he knows he’s not gone mad.
He finishes explaining – the whole thing with the fucking bastard insert_fruit_name, and the false memories, and the quantum improbability of no superpositions, the speed of light bounding the shift around them, and the wrongfulness of those lungs full of ozone, and you, Saraquel, you were there with me when the Universe was born, so you must know it, but they say,
“I felt it just once”, and quieter, “But I believe you. Happy? Nothing we can do now, so go, please–”
“Just once? You don't feel it now, this constant” – strangely-shaped hole inside him that aches, and it seems he's both used and not used to that ache – “this feeling, this constant buzzling, you don't feel it still?”
“No.”
“But then… then how do you remember? If you noticed it once and then spacetime licked its wounds and regrew itself around, the past and the present and the future and in between, you wouldn’t remember something was wrong, how do you…” and then he understands – “You’ve got the scars.”
They sigh. “Yes.”
“You’ve got the scars, and you don't remember how?”
“Smart demon, now fucking go, won’t you? It’s not something we can change.”
“What is not something we can change?”
“This,” they say.
“What is this?”
“You’re clever, Crowley, figure it out. The reality was changed, and now it’s regrowing itself around this change. You and I, we got too close to it, so we noticed, but for everyone else, it’s like nothing was ever different.”
“But something was different, right? I feel it! I can't stop feeling it, it's wrong. What the fuck is that?”
They sigh. “I tell you, and you go, yes?”
“Yes,” he says, way too quickly. They squint. “I know, I know, big bad demon, untrustable and all, but I'll leave, pinky promise.”
“The Book of Life,” they say. Silence falls.
Just four fucking words, and what–
“No way.”
“Any better theory?”
“It’s not possible.”
“It is,” they say. “Nothing else would explain it.”
“You mean…”
“Someone was erased from the Book of Life. Someone pretty important, and now it’s as if they’ve never existed. But they used to mean something, so all the cause-and-effect links are broken now, and the Universe’s regrowing around it. I’m sure it goes much more smoothly for humans, they shouldn't even notice, but we…”
“We know how the Universe tastes when it sounds right.”
“Ye-eah,” they say, unamused by his choice of words. “Whatever.”
“It seems worse for me, though.”
“Yeah,” they say.
“Why is it so? The thing I was shouting when I forgot, the Azir thing…”
“Don’t go there, Crowley. Really, lose it. Go home and enjoy your post-apocalyptic life. We can't do anything about it.”
“Why scars? Were you trying to… prevent it?”
“I cannot know now, can I? The reason I got them is gone.”
“But they stayed! And you don’t feel weird now?”
“No.”
“Why do I? This Azir thing, this…”
“I think you got a bit too close to the eye of the storm,” says Saraquel. “You must have been really involved in whatever happened before. Not surprising, your scrawny fucking ass… Doesn’t matter now, it's done. Now fucking leave!”
“Why you so nervous?”
“You promised!”
“Yeah, and I will. Not gonna stay and live there, ‘s all… too whitey for me,” and when they come and pinch him, their fingers finding all the little gaps in between his ribs, and it stings, he sighs. “Yep, well-deserved. Thanks for the info, see you around. Sorry about your wrists, I hope they don't hurt,” and he leaves.
He doesn't go to Earth.