Why was it always scotch at this time? The answer was obvious; it was because that’s what Aziraphale liked to drink during a time of crisis, minor or major. A mouthful of fruit and smoke and rubbery brine, which was a vast improvement upon those scotches that he used to like that tasted like artificial ink but not as good as those that tasted like wood and leather and spicy fruits. But no matter what scotch it was, in Crowley’s mind it was all bog mummies all the way down.
If it were up to him, what he’d want to drink would be wine. Something dark and jammy, just slightly chilly, sloshed into a big glass. Or cold, bubbly and dry, redolent of citrus fruits. It could even be pink. Or sweet. In fact, he’d like that quite a bit right now.
Crowley stuck his tongue out at the peatiness and made a face. About the only good thing about scotch was imagining the spooky bog mummies glaring at him for stealing their water and grave beds. No wait, there was that part where scotch fucked him up real fast, getting him drunk much more thoroughly and effectively than wine. Speedrunning the drunk with hot angry medicine. Much nicer to be drunk at this time, even though the last time he had drunk this much scotch he had thought Aziraphale destroyed along with the rest of the world. That particular scotch had been banned from his palate since and Aziraphale had to talk him down from banning it from existence on principle.
And speaking of banning things from existence, so much for his plan. Superceded by a ‘change of venue’ and he could hear it in Aziraphale’s voice, brisk and exact. He sat back in his wobbly unstable chair, one leg slightly shorter than the others, all four feet on uneven tiled ground.
Now he had to come up with something else and why didn’t he just go to Paris anyway when he had the chance? It wouldn’t have been hard to find them, and at least then he’d be able to keep Aziraphale close at hand, even if they could not talk again, even if they could not touch again. At least, he’d be close enough to see the angel, and the angel would be close enough to see him.
That would be enough, wouldn’t it?
Though imagining how they would see each other if Asmodeus had something to do with it sent weird and conflicting emotions and sensations running through him as if contradictory electric currents warring through his nervous system.
Crowley groaned, melting into a stubborn puddle of angry demonic goo, which in the presence of humans looked like he was collapsed drunk against the tabletop. And to be fair, for the last two thousand years or so, there had not been any actual turning into goo for more than a few seconds because it was hard to get back to this preferred state. A hitch in that shapeshifting mechanism meant that he had to be careful to limit what he did, especially because he didn’t want to go back to the one and only person who could fix it.
In the meantime, there was nothing he could do so he was going to have another drink.
This plan business would be a problem for Future Crowley, who as of late was really, really being pushed to the brink, putting up with all sorts of accumulated problems from Past Crowley.
He reached for the glass but he did not quite remember where it was exactly, and bumping his hand into it, the round tumbler fell to the ground, shattering. The noise paused the pub into silence, before nervous laughter and chatter drowned out the momentary quiet.
“It’s too loud in here,” Crowley snarled to himself, getting up shakily.
He went outside so he could have a proper yell about the loudness.
