Grand Havana Remix
Title: Grand Havana Remix
Summary: It's amazing how "two weeks" can change your life.
Rating: PG
Note: Many thanks to cpollard's mun for writing the original, letting me borrow her character, and allowing me to write my own take on her amazing story. This was cathartic.
Crowley is there when Cayce enters the Grand Havana. He has been there for hours, uncertainly lurking in the few shadows afforded by this wealthy and soulless place. He gazes at her, drinking in the sight like a man who has been refused water for years. She's really here. She remembered. His mark blazes on her forehead. Mine, it calls to him.
He wants to say she looks the same, but it's not true. In a plain black dress so similar to the one he'd given her ages ago, her face is pale and haunted.
She looks the same as he did nearly fourteen years ago.
***
He woke slowly, cocooned in a nest of luxurious fabrics. The light was on the wrong side of the bed, so he rolled over in the squirmy way that only one who'd been limbless once could. Crowley had been having a strange dream about Aziraphale and Bernard Black competing to see who could sell the fewest books and he was trying to remember the details in order to amuse his roommate over breakfast.
Serpent eyes opened and blinked once as he gave a disconcertingly jaw-splitting yawn. He focused on the Annunciation he'd had on his bedroom wall for centuries; he'd hung it there to piss off Caravaggio, originally. Or, at least, on his bedroom wall in Rome. Then it had become something of a habit to keep it displayed, though he had the odd feeling he hadn't seen it in a while. Gabriel - divine and entreating. Mary - modest and afraid. One second, two, five, and then the penny dropped. London. Not Disneyland. Home.
Crowley vaulted frantically out of bed, landed on his bad leg, and collapsed to the floor. Well, that answered that question. Scrambling up with a wince, the demon dressed hurriedly, wandered around his quiet, empty… lonely, sterile …flat for a moment, and was out the door, cane in hand.
The Bentley was parked out front - which was something of a relief - and he sank into it gratefully. Aziraphale's replica had been excellent, but he'd never been able to reproduce that whole body glove feeling that only seventy years of sitting in the same way on a leather seat could contrive. Cool hands came to rest on the polished wood steering wheel and Crowley was off, trying to remember the best route to Soho.
"Tink!" he bellowed, bursting through the 'Closed - Please do not call again' door. "Where the fuck are you? I swear to someone if you're not back…"
But familiar curls were peering around the jamb from the back room. "Crowley! I was so worried. Where have -" he gasped, wide blue eyes fixed on the snake-headed stick. "You're hurt, my dear!"
There was dead silence as the representatives of Heaven and Hell on Earth stared at one another.
"Yesss," said Crowley first, after a moment. "The holy water… The Winchesters… You…" He stopped there, not sure what he'd been going to say. Both choices were problematic. Both hurt to even think.
"Holy water!" the angel exclaimed. "Crowley, what did they do to you? You disappeared a fortnight ago. I was so afraid they'd… because of Tadfield, you know, and now holy water…" Aziraphale was working himself into a full blown dither. Crowley barely noticed.
Two weeks. Two bloody weeks. Not two years. And Aziraphale didn't - or maybe he wasn't - and the demon went pale as Death. It wasn't this angel he'd desperately kissed under the park's bizarre spell. It wasn't this angel he'd lived with in mutual understanding. It wasn't this angel who'd saved his life, nursed him back to health, or rebuilt his car piece by tiny piece just to make him happy. Crowley felt sick.
They say you can never go home again.
***
Fifteen minutes pass, and Crowley doesn't dare wait any longer. He gathers his courage and approaches, sitting across from her.
"I'm glad you remembered," he says.
And then she's crying. Crying desperately like he wants to cry but can't. "Oh, for Adam's sake," he mutters, for a lack of anything better to say, and pulls out a handkerchief, pushing it into her hands. He ensures no one around will notice as her eyeliner smudges, making her resemble nothing less than a sad panda. The ridiculous thought is enough to snap him into some semblance of himself. "Hey," he says softly. "If I'd known you were going to be that happy to see me, I'd have brought an entire box." That gets a ghost of a smile through the tears.
Not sure what else to do but wait - how has he always been so poor at giving comfort? - he simply sits across from her, hands folded, expression blank.
"He took a duck in the face at two hundred and fifty knots," she murmurs after a while. He hears and understands, but says nothing because it works and she's calmer now. She wipes her eyes and looks up at Crowley. "I'm sorry," she says.
"Did you think I'd forget?" He grins, and it's so easy to fall back into the old, familiar act. Sometimes Crowley's not sure if he can separate himself from it anymore. He almost could once… "I never stand a beautiful woman up. Drink? V.A.T.s if I remember correctly, isn't it?"
She nods. She's still shaking. "It wasn't that I thought you'd forget," she whispers.
"What then?" A waiter takes their drink order and glides silently away.
She's silent for a minute, and then it spills out. "I wasn't sure that you were real."
***
Ten years passed and Crowley fell back into old patterns of tempting, wiling, and work. Slowly his leg healed and after a few years, he didn't need the cane anymore, though the faint limp remained. His flat was updated every few years to reflect the latest furniture styles, but it was still barren and cold no matter how many houseplants he tormented into perfection. He continued to buy new, sleek, black computers every year, but actually started using them. Bulletin boards made way for the internet and life went on ever faster.
But there were echoes of his time at Disneyland. He made a killing on the stock market, investing in Starbucks and Microsoft. He 'invented' the iPod, by sketching what he remembered of it on a napkin at lunch and handing it to Steve Jobs. And he began what he thought of as 'The List'.
The List, which lived in the wall safe behind the cartoon of the Mona Lisa, had odd entries like Adams - 1972 movie, 1776 - no wonder he fell for her; Abby's a shrew and Kira, Setsuna, Katou, Doll, others - 1995 manga, Angel Sanctuary - severely fucked up. Crowley constantly raked through pop culture (creating half of it as a side effect) and The List got quite long, but there were uncomfortable blanks next to Susan and Carrot. And Cayce.
In February of 2001, he rang Aziraphale to inform him that he'd be going to America for a while and expected to be back before the end of the year. It was in the spirit of the original, polite, distant Arrangement which they'd defaulted to after the-day-of-which-they-did-not-speak, though the angel never stopped asking intrusive questions, trying to learn what had happened to his equivalent.
"A mission, my dear?" came the prim voice over the line.
The demon was staring at The List, twisting the phone cord through his fingers. "Something like that."
"But the United States…"
"Ciao, angel."
Crowley spent the next six months infiltrating al-Qaeda, the CIA, and an investment firm located in the World Trade Center. He was there that infamous Tuesday morning when observers claimed that the black-winged angel of death flew over the towers. Scouring the lists of the dead afterward, Crowley eventually had to concede defeat; all his work had been in vain.
He couldn't save a man who'd never existed.
***
"What do you mean, not real?" Crowley says. "Did you think you'd dreamed it all?" He'd never doubted. Despite everything. Of course, the leg injury is hard to ignore. But sometimes he's jealous of humanity's abilities of self-deception.
"Something like that," Cayce says miserably. She clasps her shaking hands together tightly. He wants to reach out and hold them, but isn't sure that he won't give away his own telltale vibrations. "Tell me something," she pleads. "Just, anything, anything you can think of that'll prove that you remember."
Everything, he thinks, I remember everything. Our fight, our flight, the sight of your naked body in the water, your attempts to be polite to 'Antoinette', everything… "What, remembering you drink V.A.T.s isn't enough?" Crowley smiles, trying to take the edge off the sarcasm, and leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. Best to remove himself from temptation. "All right. You were right about 9/11. The only way I could get you to go skinnydipping was to promise an absence of shenanigans and going out at the new moon. And you told me about a poem you'd read which described the afterlife as a place where the dead could meet and talk quietly. How's that?"
"I think I'm going to start crying again," Cayce says. Her voice cracks.
"You're going to ruin your makeup," he says, gently teasing as his heart clenches painfully in his chest.
"Like I haven't destroyed it already," she retorts. The drinks arrive and Cayce quickly hides in hers. She takes a deep breath. "I've been a mess, Crowley."
You and me both. "Want to talk about it?"
"I would if I knew where to begin."
***
The farther the 21st century progressed, the more tightly wound the demon got. He was even more peevish than usual, taking his anxiety out on as many 'innocent' bystanders as possible. Fortunately for everyone around him, the news came sooner than he expected when on January 19, 2003, his daily Google search came up with the front cover of the New York Times Book Review. 'Pattern Recognition': The Coolhunter.
Crowley froze before his eyes began to scan the article frantically. There! The fourth paragraph:
The novel's heroine, Cayce Pollard, -- no relation to the Case of ''Neuromancer,'' though Gibson does like a sly self-reference -- is a freelance marketing consultant. She's so suspicious of trademarks that she sands the logos off the metal buttons of her jeans and has been known to suffer panic attacks at the sight of Louis Vuitton luggage, or the ''terrible eyes'' of the Michelin Man.
He fell back in his chair, shaking, and ran an unsteady hand through his hair. He'd finally found her…
Crowley managed to snag a copy before the book was widely released and spent an entire winter's day curled in a chair in his living room, reading by grey daylight. Once he shut the back cover, the demon laid the book aside and remained there, unmoving, for hours. When the light was long gone, he stood and went into the bathroom. Not even a long, scalding shower was enough to fully remove the feeling of being an utter pervert. It was not a feeling the demon had ever had before.
Though he never read it again, the book lived on his coffee table. If he squinted, the face on the cover almost looked like hers.
Aziraphale came over for drinks the next New Year's Eve. Seeing the battered and much handled book on the table, he reached for it, saying, "You know, my dear, I'll never understand what you see in these trashy modern novels. They're all nano-this and giga-that. The characters are only the merest afterthoughts."
Crowley's voice went fire and ice and dangerously calm. "Aziraphale. If you touch that book, I will rip your arm off."
The angel sniffed and withdrew his hand. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure." He didn't stay much longer after that and Crowley didn't encourage him to linger.
From then on, the book was kept in the wall safe with The List. But the space after Cayce's name remained blank.
***
She tells him almost everything. He nods, understanding completely, and wonders what she's discovered about him; if she had that same voyeuristic sense when reading his life in overly simple black and white. He's not even sure what's included in his story. He's had a long, and at times embarrassing or horrifying life. Crowley listens and says nothing. What is there to say? When she finally runs out of things to talk about, she sinks back in her chair, hands knotted together, and searches his face.
"Dammit, Cayce," he says softly. "I'm sorry."
She shrugs. "What can I say? It is what it is, and all I can do is learn to cope. I've learned to cope with some fucked-up shit in my life before, and I'll learn how to deal with this." A pause. "Eventually."
And they talk for hours, about anything they can think of. About the many years that have passed for him, the handful of months for her. What he's been doing in the meantime, what her plans are. They don't talk about the park anymore, nor the other people. He has to be strong for her.
***
"Hallo?"
Crowley wasn't sure why he called. Actually, that wasn't true at all. He knew exactly why. The boy would be what… 25 now? The same age as when…
"You gonna say anythin', Crowley?"
"It's, uh, been a while."
"For you," came the amused voice.
"Not for you…?" It was only half a question.
"I saw you yesterday. You were drivin' to Ellie's place but stopped at Aziraphale's shop to talk to him, only me an' Setsuna an' Kira were there. You were gonna say somethin' snarky to Setsuna, but Susan showed up with Pearl an' Calvin, so you went all quiet and stormed off."
The demon squeezed his eyes shut as the names buffeted against his memory and ghostly familiar faces appeared behind his eyes. The kid had really been there. As recently as, "Yesterday? But that was months before I left. And you were there a week later when I…"
A laugh interrupted his train of thought. "Dun't think about it too much. I'm kinda like the bowlin' ball on the rubber sheet. 's quantum or somethin'." It was the only explanation he was likely to get. "So, you really need to see her, huh?"
The line was silent a moment. Then, "Yes."
"You know there's a price."
"…Yes."
"An' you're willin' to pay it?"
"Yes."
"Funny, the situations you an' I get in," the voice mused. "All right. Meet me at Tadfield Manor on Thursday mornin'."
Crowley wondered if this was how people usually felt after making a deal with the devil.
***
When the hour grows late and night falls, he walks her out to Fifth Avenue and they pause on the sidewalk, awkward. As if they're waiting for something to happen.
"I won't see you again, will I?" Cayce asks.
Crowley shrugs. "I had to ... well, let's just say I had a huge fucking favor to pull in for all this."
"That wasn't really an answer."
"It's the best I can give. Cayce?"
"Yeah?"
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, carefully. Crowley knows that if he can control his breathing, the rest will follow. He doesn't dare think of the alternative, though his soul, or what counts for it, is already returning to the familiar aching feeling of loss. For once, worry and yearning overrule his incredible pride. "Take care of yourself, all right? Get better. I don't think I -- I just don't like the thought of you being miserable."
There are unshed tears in her eyes. "Thank you. I'll try."
"Do or do not. There is no try." He smirks.
Cayce laughs. "That's my line, you flash bastard."
"I know." He raises his hand and a taxi pulls immediately up to the curb. In New York City that's got to count as a miracle. "Your carriage awaits, my lady."
She pauses just a moment. Then she stands on her toes and kisses him on the cheek. His hand comes up of its own accord to brush her forehead. "See you in the next life," she says.
It's a startling thought. Because where he wants her to go, he can never go again. And if she goes where he can see her, he'll finally understand the meaning of heartbreak. He's flustered into an unconsidered answer, "I hope no-" and she shushes him.
"Goodbye, Crowley."
She steps into the cab and is gone.
***
Crowley stands for a long while on the sidewalk. It's a muggy night and he can feel the tempers simmering around him like a warm bath. He enjoys it. It's easier than thinking about what just happened.
He feels the presence behind him before he hears the voice; it's like a fillip of cool water amid the summer heat. "Everythin' okay?"
"Yeah." After a moment, he adds, "She's a mess."
"She'll be all right."
Crowley spins around and looks hard at the blond boy. "You didn't --"
"Didn't do anything," the boy says calmly. "I just know. There's more things in Heav'n an' Earth, Crowley…"
The demon knows he's right. And it might be just enough to be getting on with.
Summary: It's amazing how "two weeks" can change your life.
Rating: PG
Note: Many thanks to cpollard's mun for writing the original, letting me borrow her character, and allowing me to write my own take on her amazing story. This was cathartic.
Crowley is there when Cayce enters the Grand Havana. He has been there for hours, uncertainly lurking in the few shadows afforded by this wealthy and soulless place. He gazes at her, drinking in the sight like a man who has been refused water for years. She's really here. She remembered. His mark blazes on her forehead. Mine, it calls to him.
He wants to say she looks the same, but it's not true. In a plain black dress so similar to the one he'd given her ages ago, her face is pale and haunted.
She looks the same as he did nearly fourteen years ago.
***
He woke slowly, cocooned in a nest of luxurious fabrics. The light was on the wrong side of the bed, so he rolled over in the squirmy way that only one who'd been limbless once could. Crowley had been having a strange dream about Aziraphale and Bernard Black competing to see who could sell the fewest books and he was trying to remember the details in order to amuse his roommate over breakfast.
Serpent eyes opened and blinked once as he gave a disconcertingly jaw-splitting yawn. He focused on the Annunciation he'd had on his bedroom wall for centuries; he'd hung it there to piss off Caravaggio, originally. Or, at least, on his bedroom wall in Rome. Then it had become something of a habit to keep it displayed, though he had the odd feeling he hadn't seen it in a while. Gabriel - divine and entreating. Mary - modest and afraid. One second, two, five, and then the penny dropped. London. Not Disneyland. Home.
Crowley vaulted frantically out of bed, landed on his bad leg, and collapsed to the floor. Well, that answered that question. Scrambling up with a wince, the demon dressed hurriedly, wandered around his quiet, empty… lonely, sterile …flat for a moment, and was out the door, cane in hand.
The Bentley was parked out front - which was something of a relief - and he sank into it gratefully. Aziraphale's replica had been excellent, but he'd never been able to reproduce that whole body glove feeling that only seventy years of sitting in the same way on a leather seat could contrive. Cool hands came to rest on the polished wood steering wheel and Crowley was off, trying to remember the best route to Soho.
"Tink!" he bellowed, bursting through the 'Closed - Please do not call again' door. "Where the fuck are you? I swear to someone if you're not back…"
But familiar curls were peering around the jamb from the back room. "Crowley! I was so worried. Where have -" he gasped, wide blue eyes fixed on the snake-headed stick. "You're hurt, my dear!"
There was dead silence as the representatives of Heaven and Hell on Earth stared at one another.
"Yesss," said Crowley first, after a moment. "The holy water… The Winchesters… You…" He stopped there, not sure what he'd been going to say. Both choices were problematic. Both hurt to even think.
"Holy water!" the angel exclaimed. "Crowley, what did they do to you? You disappeared a fortnight ago. I was so afraid they'd… because of Tadfield, you know, and now holy water…" Aziraphale was working himself into a full blown dither. Crowley barely noticed.
Two weeks. Two bloody weeks. Not two years. And Aziraphale didn't - or maybe he wasn't - and the demon went pale as Death. It wasn't this angel he'd desperately kissed under the park's bizarre spell. It wasn't this angel he'd lived with in mutual understanding. It wasn't this angel who'd saved his life, nursed him back to health, or rebuilt his car piece by tiny piece just to make him happy. Crowley felt sick.
They say you can never go home again.
***
Fifteen minutes pass, and Crowley doesn't dare wait any longer. He gathers his courage and approaches, sitting across from her.
"I'm glad you remembered," he says.
And then she's crying. Crying desperately like he wants to cry but can't. "Oh, for Adam's sake," he mutters, for a lack of anything better to say, and pulls out a handkerchief, pushing it into her hands. He ensures no one around will notice as her eyeliner smudges, making her resemble nothing less than a sad panda. The ridiculous thought is enough to snap him into some semblance of himself. "Hey," he says softly. "If I'd known you were going to be that happy to see me, I'd have brought an entire box." That gets a ghost of a smile through the tears.
Not sure what else to do but wait - how has he always been so poor at giving comfort? - he simply sits across from her, hands folded, expression blank.
"He took a duck in the face at two hundred and fifty knots," she murmurs after a while. He hears and understands, but says nothing because it works and she's calmer now. She wipes her eyes and looks up at Crowley. "I'm sorry," she says.
"Did you think I'd forget?" He grins, and it's so easy to fall back into the old, familiar act. Sometimes Crowley's not sure if he can separate himself from it anymore. He almost could once… "I never stand a beautiful woman up. Drink? V.A.T.s if I remember correctly, isn't it?"
She nods. She's still shaking. "It wasn't that I thought you'd forget," she whispers.
"What then?" A waiter takes their drink order and glides silently away.
She's silent for a minute, and then it spills out. "I wasn't sure that you were real."
***
Ten years passed and Crowley fell back into old patterns of tempting, wiling, and work. Slowly his leg healed and after a few years, he didn't need the cane anymore, though the faint limp remained. His flat was updated every few years to reflect the latest furniture styles, but it was still barren and cold no matter how many houseplants he tormented into perfection. He continued to buy new, sleek, black computers every year, but actually started using them. Bulletin boards made way for the internet and life went on ever faster.
But there were echoes of his time at Disneyland. He made a killing on the stock market, investing in Starbucks and Microsoft. He 'invented' the iPod, by sketching what he remembered of it on a napkin at lunch and handing it to Steve Jobs. And he began what he thought of as 'The List'.
The List, which lived in the wall safe behind the cartoon of the Mona Lisa, had odd entries like Adams - 1972 movie, 1776 - no wonder he fell for her; Abby's a shrew and Kira, Setsuna, Katou, Doll, others - 1995 manga, Angel Sanctuary - severely fucked up. Crowley constantly raked through pop culture (creating half of it as a side effect) and The List got quite long, but there were uncomfortable blanks next to Susan and Carrot. And Cayce.
In February of 2001, he rang Aziraphale to inform him that he'd be going to America for a while and expected to be back before the end of the year. It was in the spirit of the original, polite, distant Arrangement which they'd defaulted to after the-day-of-which-they-did-not-speak, though the angel never stopped asking intrusive questions, trying to learn what had happened to his equivalent.
"A mission, my dear?" came the prim voice over the line.
The demon was staring at The List, twisting the phone cord through his fingers. "Something like that."
"But the United States…"
"Ciao, angel."
Crowley spent the next six months infiltrating al-Qaeda, the CIA, and an investment firm located in the World Trade Center. He was there that infamous Tuesday morning when observers claimed that the black-winged angel of death flew over the towers. Scouring the lists of the dead afterward, Crowley eventually had to concede defeat; all his work had been in vain.
He couldn't save a man who'd never existed.
***
"What do you mean, not real?" Crowley says. "Did you think you'd dreamed it all?" He'd never doubted. Despite everything. Of course, the leg injury is hard to ignore. But sometimes he's jealous of humanity's abilities of self-deception.
"Something like that," Cayce says miserably. She clasps her shaking hands together tightly. He wants to reach out and hold them, but isn't sure that he won't give away his own telltale vibrations. "Tell me something," she pleads. "Just, anything, anything you can think of that'll prove that you remember."
Everything, he thinks, I remember everything. Our fight, our flight, the sight of your naked body in the water, your attempts to be polite to 'Antoinette', everything… "What, remembering you drink V.A.T.s isn't enough?" Crowley smiles, trying to take the edge off the sarcasm, and leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. Best to remove himself from temptation. "All right. You were right about 9/11. The only way I could get you to go skinnydipping was to promise an absence of shenanigans and going out at the new moon. And you told me about a poem you'd read which described the afterlife as a place where the dead could meet and talk quietly. How's that?"
"I think I'm going to start crying again," Cayce says. Her voice cracks.
"You're going to ruin your makeup," he says, gently teasing as his heart clenches painfully in his chest.
"Like I haven't destroyed it already," she retorts. The drinks arrive and Cayce quickly hides in hers. She takes a deep breath. "I've been a mess, Crowley."
You and me both. "Want to talk about it?"
"I would if I knew where to begin."
***
The farther the 21st century progressed, the more tightly wound the demon got. He was even more peevish than usual, taking his anxiety out on as many 'innocent' bystanders as possible. Fortunately for everyone around him, the news came sooner than he expected when on January 19, 2003, his daily Google search came up with the front cover of the New York Times Book Review. 'Pattern Recognition': The Coolhunter.
Crowley froze before his eyes began to scan the article frantically. There! The fourth paragraph:
The novel's heroine, Cayce Pollard, -- no relation to the Case of ''Neuromancer,'' though Gibson does like a sly self-reference -- is a freelance marketing consultant. She's so suspicious of trademarks that she sands the logos off the metal buttons of her jeans and has been known to suffer panic attacks at the sight of Louis Vuitton luggage, or the ''terrible eyes'' of the Michelin Man.
He fell back in his chair, shaking, and ran an unsteady hand through his hair. He'd finally found her…
Crowley managed to snag a copy before the book was widely released and spent an entire winter's day curled in a chair in his living room, reading by grey daylight. Once he shut the back cover, the demon laid the book aside and remained there, unmoving, for hours. When the light was long gone, he stood and went into the bathroom. Not even a long, scalding shower was enough to fully remove the feeling of being an utter pervert. It was not a feeling the demon had ever had before.
Though he never read it again, the book lived on his coffee table. If he squinted, the face on the cover almost looked like hers.
Aziraphale came over for drinks the next New Year's Eve. Seeing the battered and much handled book on the table, he reached for it, saying, "You know, my dear, I'll never understand what you see in these trashy modern novels. They're all nano-this and giga-that. The characters are only the merest afterthoughts."
Crowley's voice went fire and ice and dangerously calm. "Aziraphale. If you touch that book, I will rip your arm off."
The angel sniffed and withdrew his hand. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure." He didn't stay much longer after that and Crowley didn't encourage him to linger.
From then on, the book was kept in the wall safe with The List. But the space after Cayce's name remained blank.
***
She tells him almost everything. He nods, understanding completely, and wonders what she's discovered about him; if she had that same voyeuristic sense when reading his life in overly simple black and white. He's not even sure what's included in his story. He's had a long, and at times embarrassing or horrifying life. Crowley listens and says nothing. What is there to say? When she finally runs out of things to talk about, she sinks back in her chair, hands knotted together, and searches his face.
"Dammit, Cayce," he says softly. "I'm sorry."
She shrugs. "What can I say? It is what it is, and all I can do is learn to cope. I've learned to cope with some fucked-up shit in my life before, and I'll learn how to deal with this." A pause. "Eventually."
And they talk for hours, about anything they can think of. About the many years that have passed for him, the handful of months for her. What he's been doing in the meantime, what her plans are. They don't talk about the park anymore, nor the other people. He has to be strong for her.
***
"Hallo?"
Crowley wasn't sure why he called. Actually, that wasn't true at all. He knew exactly why. The boy would be what… 25 now? The same age as when…
"You gonna say anythin', Crowley?"
"It's, uh, been a while."
"For you," came the amused voice.
"Not for you…?" It was only half a question.
"I saw you yesterday. You were drivin' to Ellie's place but stopped at Aziraphale's shop to talk to him, only me an' Setsuna an' Kira were there. You were gonna say somethin' snarky to Setsuna, but Susan showed up with Pearl an' Calvin, so you went all quiet and stormed off."
The demon squeezed his eyes shut as the names buffeted against his memory and ghostly familiar faces appeared behind his eyes. The kid had really been there. As recently as, "Yesterday? But that was months before I left. And you were there a week later when I…"
A laugh interrupted his train of thought. "Dun't think about it too much. I'm kinda like the bowlin' ball on the rubber sheet. 's quantum or somethin'." It was the only explanation he was likely to get. "So, you really need to see her, huh?"
The line was silent a moment. Then, "Yes."
"You know there's a price."
"…Yes."
"An' you're willin' to pay it?"
"Yes."
"Funny, the situations you an' I get in," the voice mused. "All right. Meet me at Tadfield Manor on Thursday mornin'."
Crowley wondered if this was how people usually felt after making a deal with the devil.
***
When the hour grows late and night falls, he walks her out to Fifth Avenue and they pause on the sidewalk, awkward. As if they're waiting for something to happen.
"I won't see you again, will I?" Cayce asks.
Crowley shrugs. "I had to ... well, let's just say I had a huge fucking favor to pull in for all this."
"That wasn't really an answer."
"It's the best I can give. Cayce?"
"Yeah?"
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, carefully. Crowley knows that if he can control his breathing, the rest will follow. He doesn't dare think of the alternative, though his soul, or what counts for it, is already returning to the familiar aching feeling of loss. For once, worry and yearning overrule his incredible pride. "Take care of yourself, all right? Get better. I don't think I -- I just don't like the thought of you being miserable."
There are unshed tears in her eyes. "Thank you. I'll try."
"Do or do not. There is no try." He smirks.
Cayce laughs. "That's my line, you flash bastard."
"I know." He raises his hand and a taxi pulls immediately up to the curb. In New York City that's got to count as a miracle. "Your carriage awaits, my lady."
She pauses just a moment. Then she stands on her toes and kisses him on the cheek. His hand comes up of its own accord to brush her forehead. "See you in the next life," she says.
It's a startling thought. Because where he wants her to go, he can never go again. And if she goes where he can see her, he'll finally understand the meaning of heartbreak. He's flustered into an unconsidered answer, "I hope no-" and she shushes him.
"Goodbye, Crowley."
She steps into the cab and is gone.
***
Crowley stands for a long while on the sidewalk. It's a muggy night and he can feel the tempers simmering around him like a warm bath. He enjoys it. It's easier than thinking about what just happened.
He feels the presence behind him before he hears the voice; it's like a fillip of cool water amid the summer heat. "Everythin' okay?"
"Yeah." After a moment, he adds, "She's a mess."
"She'll be all right."
Crowley spins around and looks hard at the blond boy. "You didn't --"
"Didn't do anything," the boy says calmly. "I just know. There's more things in Heav'n an' Earth, Crowley…"
The demon knows he's right. And it might be just enough to be getting on with.