With a bottle of whiskey tucked under one arm and a bottle of gin in his hand, Crowley gave a snap of his fingers with his free hand to pop the lock on his apartment door. “Go on, then,” he said, pushing the door open to give Quentin the room he needed to make his way inside.
Since he’d last been there, the flat had a bit more life to it – though not as much as one might expect. But at least there were a few plants in a corner near a window; that helped, at least. It made it feel a bit more like ‘home’ (whatever that was) for the demon and it gave him something to actually give a shit about day to day.
Nudging the door shut, he followed into the space, immediately making his way to the small bar cart he’d wrangled and grabbed a couple of glasses. “Remind me, on the rocks or no? Or would you rather have a gin and tonic? Cause m’a straight whiskey sort of fellow, myself.”
Q smiled at the little show of angelic (profane?) magic, but he didn't make it a thing as he moved in to Crowley's place. He had to mentally hold himself back from going over to the new plants, although he would have freely admitted he was curious. About what kind Crowley had picked up, and where he may have gotten them. What did it say about him that he kind of hoped his friend had taken his advice about the plant center near his office building?
Probably that he was a dork.
"On the rocks. Whiskey, I mean. It's more my speed, too, but definitely cut with a couple of cubes. No one wants me under your table, which is likely to happen if I try to drink it straight." Quentin gave him a wry smirk, then looked from him to his couch and gestured to it. "Is it okay if I sit? I'm a champion of hovering awkwardly in one place, but I can't say it's my actual preference."
Crowley set the bottle of gin down, leaving it untouched as he moved to twist open the cap on the whiskey instead. He poured himself an overly healthy amount and then went to put two ice cubes, as requested, in the other glass and pour a more reasonable amount for a human over it before taking both glasses over to Quentin.
The question caused him to give a moment’s pause, eyebrows raising briefly as his mind caught up. “Oh, yeah, ‘course. Make yourself at home,” he said, offering the glass with ice to him. “If you want more, let me know.”
He sank into the leather of the couch and slouched, long legs spread a bit. “Though if we’re avoiding you winding up on the floor, then I suppose you’ll be wanting to take it slow, hm?”
"It's for the best. I'm not exactly unmessy when you get enough mood altering substances in me." Q nodded his thanks after taking the glass, then sat on the other end of the couch. He didn't have Crowley's artful sprawl. Really, the only thing keeping him from drawing his feet up was because he was in someone else's apartment, on someone else's couch. "Put a few more of these in me, and buyer beware."
He took a small sip, grateful he'd actually eaten up at the BBQ even though he'd basically only shown up for long enough to establish his presence for a few key people. Better to have something to soak up at least some of the booze. "I don't mean anything by this, but can you actually get drunk? Like, how does that work for the Heavenly Host and the formerly Heavenly Host?"
“So do you just end up on the floor with enough liquor in your system or…?” Crowley raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Quentin, yellow eyes curious. “Just wondering what else I might be able to expect.”
He chuckled though and looked at his glass before bringing it to his lips, draining half of it easily; he was well practiced, after all. “Yeah, I can. Takes a whole Hell of a lot more than just a few glasses though. More like a few bottles to get properly drunk, but m’thinking that at best, I’ll get a nice… erm, buzz tonight, hm? I’m a bit of a messy drunk when I let myself get that far gone.”
Had he been mid-sip or swallow, Quentin would have either sprayed them both or choked. As it was, he paused with his glass halfway to his mouth, face going flush. He may still have been smarting from losing his friends and boyfriend, but even that sadness didn't preclude him from being a little flustered. "Le-e-e-et's just say that more of my thinking starts to happen with my little brain. Or I just get really maudlin. One is vastly more welcome than the other, but I guess it's players choice as to which is which."
Q finally took another drink, but on the back side of it, he tilted his head toward Crowley. "Okay, I have to know: what does 'messy drunk' look like on a demon, anyway?" He made a face at himself. "It's okay if I call you that, right? It's not, like, derogatory or anything, is it?"
Interesting. One corner of Crowley’s mouth curled upward into something of a smirk as he took another sip of his drink before pulling the glass away and setting it aside for the time being, allowing it to balance precariously on the arm of the couch. “Oh, I dare say the former is much more welcome,” he replied with a chuckle, draping his arms along the back of the couch now to properly… spread out, as it were.
“I mean, s’what I am. A demon. More of an apt description than a job title at this point, though,” he answered, somewhat shrugging in a rather casual way. “Anyways, yeah, s’fine. And it doesn’t look much different on me than it would on you, it just takes more alcohol to get me there.”
The look on his friend's face was enough to make the floor seem suddenly fascinating. Coupled with the way Crowley made himself even more comfortable, and Quentin thought his face might spontaneously combust. The optics on his reactions were probably really shitty, but he was in his late-twenties and very much enjoyed other people's company. And anyway, no one was going to judge him more than he judged himself. "It usually is. More welcome, I mean. Sometimes. Depending on who I'm with, usually."
Ember's balls.
He flung himself at the change in topics like it was a life preserver. "Is there a difference? Between the description and the job title? Can you be a demon in what you do, but not by your nature? Or is this way too esoteric and philosophical for drinks after a BBQ? Because I wasn't kidding. I really do have so many questions about your miracles and how they fit into human theology, but I also don't want to badger you."
As amusing as he was finding the flustered nature Quentin was easily settling into, he was willing to give the man a bit of grace (ironically) and leave it be. For now. He had to admit he did find it somewhat endearing, but no one else needed to know that.
“Naaah, it’s fine,” he said, lifting a hand and giving it a small wave as if he was brushing off the quiet apology that seemed to fill the other’s words. “Let’s just start at the fact that every fallen angel, at least in my universe’s version of Heaven, became a demon of some sort.” He canted his head to the side a little as he looked at Quentin, then gestured toward his eyes. “My eyes didn’t look like this until I got kicked out. So. There’s a physical aspect that goes along with the title of Demon, because every demon does something different to keep Hell running. Cog in a machine, all that.”
They'd hung out twice now, and while he'd gotten a little more used to Crowley's eyes, Q definitely used the ready made excuse to really look at them again. It wasn't staring if someone else called attention to a thing, right? He couldn't find the right descriptor for them. Everything he tried either sounded like he was trying too hard, or were completely unequal to what they really looked like. Instead of floundering around it, as was his wont, Quentin drained his glass before setting it on his knee and leaning in a bit. "Okay, so pertinent question: what cog were you? Demon in charge of poisonous plants?" He grinned. "I'm only slightly teasing."
It wasn’t often Crowley allowed humans to really see his eyes, but it was something he’d just… not cared to conceal about himself upon his arrival here. Besides, most everyone that was displaced in this city had likely seen weirder shit in their time than his eyes, right?
He watched as Quentin leaned in, then shifted to drain his glass, before closing more distance between them to get a better look. All the while, Crowley sat there amused and unphased by it all.
“Well, technically my job was fairly… easy. I was just Hell’s representative on Earth, based in London. I was meant to just. You know. Tempt and cause humans to sin so their souls would go down instead of up. I managed to do some things, but for the most part humans and their free will caused enough chaos on their own and I just– hm. Enjoyed my time, I suppose?”
Q let out a surprised laugh, immediately slapped his hand across his mouth, and then rocked back to his original position. "Sorry," he said from between his fingers. "I don't— It's just so obvious? Looking like, well, that."
Okay, this was coming out all wrong, and Quentin desperately wanted another drink. He felt pretty glued to his seat, however. His hand dropped. "Were you the inspiration for the legend of the incubi? Incubuses? Whatever the plural of incubus is. We had them in our world. Not angels or devils. Well, maybe we did. I don't know everything. Hi, I'm Quentin, and I basically say whatever's in my head. Sorry."
The demon’s eyebrow arched again, but there was no heat or malice behind the look. “What was obvious?” Truly, he wasn’t sure what Quentin meant by that, so he simply wanted clarification.
Then Crowley gave a small shake of his head, sensing the other man’s energy and reached for his glass before clamoring off of the couch and over to where the whiskey was to fix him a new one. “No, not– that. I mean, I suppose they could be real where I’m from, but I never met one as far as I know.” He made his way back over, fresh glass poured and handed it over. “No, I was the snake who tempted Eve in the garden of Eden. It just sort of all went from there.”
"I just meant you're hot," Q muttered. When Crowley was already off the couch and across the room and hopefully wouldn't hear him. Because as brave as everyone said Quentin was, he could very much take the less-brave way out when it was open to him. Like now. His face pulsed in time with the pounding in the side of his neck, and he took a couple of breaths to calm himself down. Jesus.
"Um, thanks." He offered the other—no, not really a man, that was just how he was presenting himself now. Regardless, Q offered him a grateful smile as he took the glass once again. He was careful not to do anything twee like try to knock their fingers together or anything. They were friends, and that's what Quentin needed more than anything. His brows climbed up his forehead, both surprised and impressed. "That's a pretty impressive entry in your résumé. Any other greatest Biblical hits you've got on there?"
Unfortunately for Quentin, the fact that Crowley was a demon meant he could hear better than most humans. And see better. And… well, he did most things better, really. It sort of came with the celestial territory. Still, he only lingered in front of him a moment after he took the glass before sitting down again, however this time he left less space between them on the couch.
“Well,” he began, draping an arm along the back of the couch once more and letting his fingertips idly linger at a dangerously close proximity to Quentin’s neck. “I was there when Noah was loading up the ark, though… obviously that wasn’t me. I was there when Jesus was crucified, too. Poor guy. I spent some time with him in the desert before all that, showed him around, but then we went our separate ways and the last time I saw him, he was getting nailed to a cross ‘cause the Almighty’s a bit of a cunt. Oh, I don’t know how well you know the story of Job, but I was involved with all of that. I’ve… well, been around, you could say.”
"I grew up vaguely Protestant, mostly non-practicing, so I know of Job." Really, the fact that Quentin hadn't swallowed his tongue at the casual and frankly hilarious blasphemy was a miracle in and of itself. Although he'd called gods pretty bad things before, so maybe he just needed to shift his theological perspective a little. From a demon's point of view, the Almighty was probably the biggest cunt there was. (He heard the word in Margo's voice, clear as if she was the one within millimeters of toying with his hair.) "I know a lot of the main Bible stories, so it's kind of wild to wrap my head around the fact that I'm sitting with someone who was, y'know, there. 'In the Beginning', and all."
He chewed on his lip and looked down at his whiskey. "Did you… enjoy your job? No Job pun intended. Or was it like any other normal career? Good and bad, depending on the situation. Am I humanizing a demon's calling too much? And, okay, speaking of humanizing things—or magic-izing things in this case, but how do your miracles work? Do you have an unlimited supply or something? Is it some kind of energy you can connect to even here, like me?"
“And if I told you I’ve existed for millions of years, not just however long the Earth’s been around? What, six thousand and some odd years now, right?” Crowley chuckled softly. “I was there before time existed and after it began. S’a long fuckin’ time, really.”
Time he’d spent incredibly alone, if he was honest. But there was no need for Quentin to really know that.
Crowley gave a soft snort, amused. “Mm. I was damned good at my job, but that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it. I–” He paused, the amusement faltering for a moment, and he shifted to reach for his own glass to take a drink from it. So what if his fingers might’ve brushed against the hair at the nape of Quentin’s neck in the process? “Well, let’s just leave it at that for now. I’d have rather not, but I didn’t really have a choice.”
“Anyways, the miracles… well. It’s a whole thing. An energy, yeah, between Heaven and Hell. Small miracles are a drop in the bucket, but bigger ones apparently set off alarms. At least they did in my universe. I have no idea how closely I’m being watched here or if anyone’s even noticed.”
"Considerably longer than that," Quentin couldn't help but correct. Even as he said it, though, he reminded himself that they didn't share a universe. Except for the one they were in now. He made a face, but it smoothed out into a tiny, self-deprecating smirk. "But I guess your mileage may vary. And after that much time, does time even matter at that point? I can't conceptualize the next year, let alone the next five hundred."
Q's breath caught, and he went still. Nothing more than the tiniest of pauses.
And that should have been that, except his body betrayed him. Goosebumps pebbled the back of his neck and shot down his arms, which were uncommonly bared since it was still technically summer. Quentin cursed himself. He wasn't even a month out from heartbreak, reeling from it in wave he now wondered if Crowley might be caught up in something similar, too. The demon was different this time around. Sure, Q hadn't been close with him the first time around, but he'd seen enough to pick up on it now. It pulled him effectively out of his impending spiral.
He jerked his glass up with enough force to clink the ice together noisily and send a couple of drops flying ahead of downing a sizeable portion of his drink. "Isn't that always the way? We get handed what we think we want, but it's not like it was supposed to be." Quentin steeled himself and looked over at Crowley, facing him head-on with his gaze, but not necessarily in body. "Is this what we call sympathy for the devil? It doesn't feel as ironic as it should."
Shifting slightly, Q pulled his leg up onto the couch, crooked at the knee, and all but wedged into the corner now. "Have you tried? Making a big miracle? What would you do if you could?"
“You would be surprised just how important it can be,” he replied, his voice a bit more hushed. Crowley couldn’t help but think about all of the centuries he’d spent running into Aziraphale here and there, seemingly on accident but almost always on purpose. He tried, as best as he could, to not let the sudden ache in his chest at the memories show on his face as he grabbed for his glass to down what was left in it.
Or maybe that would give him away. Did it matter?
Crowley’s yellow eyes caught the sight of raised hairs and goosebumps on Quentin’s arms and he gave it a curious look, briefly, realizing that the response coincided with the graze of his fingers. Which made the sudden shift of the other’s body further into the corner of the couch make more sense. Ah.
He shifted as well, bending his arm at the elbow and propping his head against his hand as he looked at Quentin. “Well, I’m not the devil, or even a devil, technically. I also– didn’t want that. To… end up in Hell.” Crowley’s nose scrunched briefly and he sighed, looking down into his empty glass. His head lifted just long enough for his fingers to snap, his glass miraculously refilling itself and promptly disappearing down the demon’s throat.
“Nah, no big miracles. Not really used to being allowed them, so I’ve… no fuckin’ clue what would happen.”
There it was again. A flash of something that Quentin thought of as sadness. He didn't remark on it. Why would he? He'd been invasive enough already.
"You'd like my version. Not of Hell, but the Underworld. It followed more along the lines of Greek and Roman mythology. I wound up there once." Well, apparently twice, since he'd found out he died-died, and not just temporarily, via dragon. "It was more like a waiting room until the P-T-B decided where you wound up, but I bowled with some of Julia's friends. It was a pretty surreal time. Who knows what it's like here. Can't say I'm in much of a hurry to find out for sure. I'm not sure I've ever heard of a reluctant demon before. Yours must've been pretty bad if even you didn't want to go there."
He grinned at the small show, then drained his glass. With a small tut, he drew his fingers along the side of his mostly empty glass, which soon filled with a deep red wine. "This is probably going to taste like shit, but if you're showing off, I figured I'd get to, too. What constitutes a major miracle anyway?"
“Your version of the Underworld has bowling?” he asked, clearly confused and even perhaps a bit annoyed. Not at Quentin, no, but– “fuck’s sake. Work would’ve been far more enjoyable if that had even been an option, but nooo.” Crowley rolled his eyes and shifted again, never one to stay still for too long.
He turned back to face front, sprawling a bit again with his head pressed into the back of the couch and his eyes upward. “I mean, Hell didn’t exist before. I didn’t. Know what it was going to be like, when I fell. Sort of helped build it from the ground up, s’just that I didn’t want to be there.” He paused and blinked once, twice, before letting his gaze fall over onto Quentin. “Look, m’more than a bit shit at talking about feelings, but… I’ve been told it’s a good thing to do. So m’just gonna go ahead and say it–
"I didn’t mean to. Fall. I got… I got caught up in some bullshit with Lucifer after I asked too many questions, n’they. Kicked me out of Heaven for it. Leaving wasn’t my choice.”
There. He huffed out a breath and looked up again, staring at some random pattern of drywall spackle.
“Big miracle shit would be like some of the stuff in the Bible. Parting seas, bringing people back from the dead, all of that. Making… entire fuckin’ star systems and nebulas with nothing but your hands.”
Guilt curled low in Quentin's gut. It lived there anyway, so he barely noticed it except to regret bringing up their current topic of conversation in the first place, going as far back as their network exchange. Crowley's pain was as obvious as his frankly incredible eyes. Q's free hand inched out. Where it was going was anyone's guess. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he stopped. And now he sat there, with his hand out. Like it wasn't the most obvious gesture ever.
Any comparisons he could have made to his own life seemed a little insulting, so he didn't try. Instead, he spread his fingers in an expansive way, then wiggled them. "So you're the 'Let There Be Light' guy? What's it said about history? Always written by the victors."
If this were a therapy session, and it certainly wasn’t, Crowley would likely be keen to go into even further detail about everything. Or well, maybe keen wasn’t the right word. Obligated? Maybe. Still, the fact was that he found himself going through these… waves of emotions. One moment finding himself fine, or excessively excited, and the next wallowing in a self-pity pool of his own making.
The gesture of Quentin’s hand caught his attention and he glanced over at him again, before chuckling quietly and giving a small, sad nod. “S’me. I nearly forgot to say that, too.” Crowley frowned a bit and then pushed himself to sit up a bit straighter, lifting a hand. “Let there be light,” he murmured, and pulled his hand down as if he were pulling on a cord.
An excessively bright light filled the room and he looked up toward it for a moment before pulling the invisible cord again and making the light go out. “Well, at least that still works.”
Dazzled didn't begin to cover the state of Quentin's sight in the wake of that particular display. Lights danced across his field of vision whether he blinked or not.
In his momentary blindness, his mind spun up a possible version of events. It went like this:
He would jerk back in his surprise and flail for the coffee table that simply wasn't there, only to remember at the last moment and instead spill his whiskey-wine all over himself and the couch. Sputtered apologies would ensue. Quentin would make a feeble attempt to pat himself dry using whatever bit of his shirt wasn't soaked through.
He'd feel the couch move and the glass being taken from his hand. "Such a mess," Crowley would say, adding the kind of sibilance that made Q wonder if he had a forked tongue. "Let me help you clean it up."
Quentin would try for a laugh, but it comes off high and strained. This would be what being prey felt like. Q wouldn't hate it, but he'd at least put on a good show by saying, "No, really, you don't have to."
"You're my guest," Crowley would say, and those long fingers would press against his chest. "I insist."
And before Q could drum up some other reason why this wasn't the best idea, he'd feel the tip of a tongue against his neck, chasing after a drop of wine he hadn't noticed, and then… and then…
All of this flicked through his head from one breath to the next, on the back of the latter the (un)holy trifecta of curse words hissed out of him as his eyes began to prickle and then stream—he got that part right at least: "Shit, fuck, goddammit." And then, a little more quietly and sitting quite still, "Sorry. You just caught me by surprise. That was really impressive. Which is probably the biggest understatement in history."
Of course, the demon had spared no thought for just how sensitive human eyes were to lights like that, and he noticed how Quentin’s body reacted to it. Oops. He at least had the decency to give him a sheepish look when he heard the string of curse words spilling from his (admittedly very nice) lips.
“Ah, sorry ‘bout that,” he murmured, giving a bit of a wiggle of his fingers to make the lights in the room dim a bit further. At least keeping it darker might help his eyes adjust more quickly? Maybe?
Crowley reached a hand over and waved it a bit in front of Quentin’s eyes, curious. “Didn’t completely break your sight with that, did I? I mean. I could heal it if I did, but I’d rather just not have done it in the first place.”
He sat for a moment until the bright spots behind his eyelids faded. For a second, after he opened them again, he was genuinely concerned about permanent damage, only to realize that Crowley had thoughtfully lowered the lights for him. Quentin batted the hand in his face away without a second thought before realizing that physically defending himself against a literal demon might not have been the best idea he'd ever had.
Then again, he'd just been fantasizing about said demon, so he'd never exactly been the poster child for best or even good ideas. He pulled his hand back to swipe at his cheeks and gave Crowley a sheepish smile. "No, it's fine, really. It's coming back now. I meant it, though. The light. It was very cool. And you can just tap into these little miracles whenever you want? I gotta say, I'm pretty jealous."
When Quentin swiped at his hand, the demon gave a soft chuckle and pulled it back, draping it along the back of the couch once more.
“Well, yeah, I suppose I can. I’m sure it’ll eventually have its limits, but for now the little miracles seem to be working just fine. And they can come in damned… hm, handy in. Certain situations.” Crowley flashed him a toothy grin, relaxing into the couch a bit more as he looked at him. Then he canted his head to the side, eyebrow raised toward his hairline when a thought came to him. “So… if you could do anything, hypothetically, what would you want to do? Maybe something small first, or is flashy more your speed, Quentin?”
"If I could do a miracle?" For once, Quentin didn't have an immediate answer.
Well, no, that wasn't quite right. He had a few dozen, and each one was fighting for priority in his mental queue. "I guess bringing someone back here would be a big one, huh? And probably really selfish, since I don't really know what they went back to and if they were happy living their lives where they are." That bit of clarification slimmed his queue down considerably. His mouth twisted into a tiny, rueful smile. "Repair of Small Objects. That's my specialty. Maybe that's what I should stick with. The small miracles. Yeah, I think I'd like to fix small things with just a snap of my fingers or a mere thought. It'd be convenient."
Q glanced at Crowley before draining his whiskey-wine and ending it with a sigh. His limbs were starting to feel looser. "I know my limits, and I appreciate them. I'm not meant for the 'big' things."
“Unfortunately, I think bringing someone here from another universe is even entirely out of my realm of abilities,” he confessed quietly. If it were that easy, Crowley wouldn’t be feeling so pathetically lonely.
Crowley’s mouth quirked into a smile and he shifted again, turning a bit more to face Quentin properly, pulling a leg up onto the couch between them. “How do you know you’re not meant for bigger things?” he asked, his question genuine. “Not that the little things don’t need someone who knows what they’re doing, but that just seems so… well. Confined, in my opinion. But maybe it’s just a matter of your power and mine not functioning the same, which- I mean, I’ve never met a human who could do… things. Like miracles. Though I suppose they’re not really miracles, technically.”
He paused, thinking about what he’d just said, his gaze drifting off a bit before he pulled it back to look at Quentin. “Or maybe it is. It’s your own type of miracle, isn’t it?”
>
Q set his glass on the floor, but within easy reach, and mirrored Crowley's position on the couch. He didn't actually have to put all that much thought into it. "Call it earned life lessons. And learned ones, too. Don't get me wrong, I've always wanted to be the protagonist, but I know my lane. I've accepted it. Shooting for anything more just winds up getting someone hurt. Or dead. Sometimes both, but in the right order. It's better just to help people rather than strive for power."
He chuckled and rolled his head against the back of the couch. It was an immediate mistake, since it seemed to make the action of opening and closing his eyes a little harder. They really wanted to stay closed. Stupid alcohol. "I used to think that, about magic. It seemed miraculous right away, but I learned pretty quickly that my type of magic came from pain. From the default human condition of suffering, I guess? You should stick with your miracles. Crowley"—he tried to roll his head upright but didn't quite manage it. He did fix him with a scrutinizing and genuinely interested look, however—"why are you sad?"
The idea of someone’s abilities, whether celestial in nature or not, coming from pain left a sour taste in Crowley’s mouth. His nose crinkled and he frowned at the idea of it. “Hardly think that’s fair,” he muttered, turning that over in his mind. “There ought to be- I don’t know. Joy in something like that, don’t you think? Though I suppose it doesn’t matter what you think. Never matters what any of us think,” he said with a sigh, running a hand down his face briefly before looking back at Quentin.
If the Almighty had been the reason he had magic, but had to tap into his own personal suffering to make it work properly, what was possibly right about that? Just another thing to add to the pile, he supposed.
Crowley was pulled from his thoughts at the question and though his expression immediately went dismissive, it only lingered for a moment before softening. “...because I miss someone, too,” he admitted gently.
"I thought so too." Quentin reflected sadly on the few times when his magic had made him truly happy. Sadly they were few and far between. His mouth quirked up at one corner. "No, it really never does."
He lapsed into a long silence wherein his heart went out to the demon sitting across from him. They weren't physically close enough for Q to reach out, but he also wasn't sure if a physical reassurance would be welcome. Probably not, since each reveal of an emotional truth seemed to come at an enormous cost to Crowley. "You don't have to tell me about them, but I'm here if you do. I'm about to be the biggest hypocrite here, admittedly— It's just, sometimes we need to talk to people."
“I won’t… burden you with everything. We’d be here for days if I even tried. S’just-” Crowley paused and swallowed down another sigh, his eyes wandering a bit to look anywhere but at Quentin while he gathered his thoughts. “I’m rubbish at this, I am. Alright.” The demon took a breath and cleared his throat a bit, his chin dropping so his gaze fell to his leg.
“I have this. Angel. We’ve known each other a very, very long time. And… recently I… realized some things, I suppose. And I decided to finally, erm, buck up and tell him. But a whole load of things happened before I got the chance and I… was too late. M’always too late, really. Anyways, he’s in Heaven acting as the Supreme Archangel because the Metatron offered him a job promotion and I fucking walked out after I– well, doesn’t matter, but I did. Because he asked me to come with him.”
Oh. Right.
No wonder Quentin had been feeling sympathetic vibes since this updated version of Crowley showed up. A broken heart recognized a broken heart.
This time, Q didn't hesitate. He slid his hand along the back of the couch, telegraphing his movement widely, and leaned in to touch his friend's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Crowley." He sighed and shook his head. "Isn't that always the way? Like, the way the story plays out? It's so frustrating. No wonder you just wanted to grab a couple of bottles and jet—especially when you first got here. God, I just keep coming back to how unfair it all is."
Crowley frowned at the apology and gave a small shake of his head. “S’fine. I’m– well, I’ll live. I’ve been through worse,” he deflected, tossing back what was left in his glass before finally looking up at him. It made more sense now, though. What he’d been feeling coming off of Quentin. It was a kinship, sort of.
“Usually anything having to do with the Almighty ends up being pretty un-fucking-fair, from my experience.” He reached over and briefly rested his hand against Quentin’s thigh, giving it a squeeze and then a pat, before he stood to refill his glass. Of course, he’d already proved that he didn’t have to do that, but a part of him needed to walk out the energy he’d settled into re-telling that story.
“So– why are you sad then? Not that you have to tell me, but I can, uh.” He paused, glancing back and giving a weird wiggle of his fingers between them as if the gesture would explain it. “Vibes, mate. It’s a– thing.”
For just a second, they were a little bit of a closed circuit of physical comfort, and Quentin didn't mind at all. In fact, he was grateful—especially in light of the question he should have known would be bandied right back at him. For some reason, the fact that Crowley had moved away made it easier to answer.
He scratched at his cheek with a rueful chuckle and drew his leg up so he could hug it. "It's a classic story: boy finds the love of his life in a new dimension, thinks he has a second chance, but it's all wrong, so they break up. The love of his life takes up with the alternate universe version of the boy, and it's fine because the boy then meets another boy, and just… throws his whole heart into it. Gets a tattoo. Gets the chorus of 'I love you's. And then both the love of his life and the boy with his heart get taken away at the same fucking time. Y'know, that old, tired trope."
A deep sigh shook his chest, and he freed a hand to reach down for his abandoned glass. "Yeah, hit me again? I'm still not sober enough to find this funny."
Oh, well wasn’t that something. He’d just been about to pour the liquor into his glass when Quentin started talking and it stopped him right in his tracks, bottle hovering in his hand, attention focused solely on what the other was saying.
And it made his heart ache. Of course it did. Even if he hadn’t known Quentin, it would have pained him to hear such a thing, but this person had been nothing but kind to him since his arrival. Nothing but patient and gentle. He frowned and looked down at the bottle, his thoughts wandering a little as he tried to relate – and he found he very much didn’t want to.
Because the idea of Aziraphale arriving in this place, of him getting a second chance (did he even want one?), and then losing it… oh, he’d been through some terrible things, but he was sure that would break him.
Crowley swallowed and turned, bringing himself, his still empty glass, and the bottle back to the couch. “I’m… really. Sorry. Fuck, that just doesn’t even cover it, does it?” he asked with a sigh, pouring whiskey into Quentin’s glass and then more into his own.
Quentin nodded his thanks, as much for the sympathy as the refreshed glass, then tossed back a good third of it. The fact that it didn't burn as much going down had to be a bad thing. A pleasant numbness wound through his fingers and toes, and he smirked at his hand when he waved it in front of his own face. It faded from his face, and he dropped his arm back to his side and looked at Crowley.
"There's this spell," he started and immediately stopped. His lips pursed, and he took a slightly more moderated sip. "It won't mean anything, because it's cooperative magic." Really, he should even be entertaining the idea—let alone thinking about it at all, but once it leapt into his head, it wouldn't leave. "It's a spell that makes you look like the person you want to be with, but it only works while you're wet. And it's a colossally bad idea. Pretty fucked up, if you really put a single thought into it. Honestly, I'm not even sure why I brought it up."
And then the reason struck him like a bolt. Q looked at his friend and lifted a shoulder listlessly. "It's not healthy, and it's probably not what either of us need or even want, but distractions are a coping mechanism, and I— I don't mind being a distraction."
Crowley’s eyebrows knit together a little as Quentin spoke, describing the spell, and the reason behind why it was being brought up. Not that he thought Quentin would exactly want him to change his appearance, but–
“Suppose I shouldn’t mention that I can change my appearance?” he asked, his expression softening for a moment before he took another sip of his drink. “Though I haven’t– tried looking like someone else who already exists. But.” The demon shrugged a little and then leaned forward, setting his glass down.
“M’not going to say no to a distraction right now, if m’honest. On that same note, if it would be. I dunno, weird for you if I looked like this, I can, y’know, change. I don’t mind. I’ve even got a female corporation I can swap into if that’s your fancy.”
"It's not— You don't—" Q grunted, frustrated that he couldn't get his words in the right order, which led to the growing realization of just how drunk he was. He squeezed his eyes shut and made the mistake of both shaking his head and leaning in. The room still spun when he opened them again. "fuck. No, you don't have to change, unless you want to. I like both, but that's not really what this is about. Hell, I'm not sure what this is about any more."
He let out a snort and scoffed loudly at himself. "Actually, no. I know what this is about, and so do you, obviously. It's just— I'm still hurting, and you're still hurting, and a drunken night could probably be fun. And depending on how it went, there's every possibility we could just keep crashing into each other over and over, and maybe it never means anything, and… and… I've totally lost where I'm going with this. Something, something… fun, but bad idea?"
Ah. Crowley flushed a little, cheeks going a touch pink when he realized he’d misunderstood somewhat about the request. Or rather, not so much a request, but a mention. Just off the cuff, didn’t mean anything sort of mention, right? Still, he wasn’t anywhere near as drunk as Quentin, so he reached a hand over and gently eased it onto the other man’s thigh.
“I have a question for you before we– even entertain that thought. Which, I. Am absolutely saying yes to. Fun, but bad ideas are sort of my thing.” The demon chuckled softly and then canted his head, looking at him more fully.
“Is this something you want to be this drunk for? I could sober you up, at least a little. Up to you, but I don’t… I’m not drunk yet, darling, so we’re not on even footing here. Is all I’m saying.”
While a part of Q's mind still thrummed with wrong-wrong-wrong, an increasingly louder piece had landed firmly on oh, hell yes. Funny enough, it was the wrong-part that wanted to remain and get even more drunk. But the hand on his leg was warm, and Quentin had been sad and lonely and longing for something(one) he couldn't have. This made the decision so clear he almost leapt forward.
Rather than doing so, and admiring his own self-restraint, he circled Crowley's wrist with his fingers and guided his hand up further. This little display of bravery didn't come with the ability to make eye contact, however, and his voice was barely above a whisper when he made his request. "I'd like to be sober."