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Crowley watched Aziraphale ascend. Literally and figuratively, he supposed. The demon took a quick glance around Whickber Street, wondering if he’d ever see it again. Would he park in front of the cafe and stare over the road at the bookshop that no longer held a persnickety, sweet, bastard of an angel. What would be the point?
He drove. Crowley wasn’t sure where he was driving to, but he needed to keep moving. He didn’t have many options now. Or maybe he had all the options in the world; the universe even. He could finally see Alpha Centauri. He’d dreamed of it over the years, what it had looked like when he’d designed it, when he brought it to life.
There were other options, though. Hell had asked him back. Well, Beelzebub had and they were gone now, but he could say fuck all to Earth and take his rightful place in Hell. Shax be damned… again! He could be a Prince of Hell. He could order demons about and shout a lot. It was all he’d ever really seen Beelzebub do. And maybe it would put him on the path of a certain, newly promoted archangel, not that it would matter.
Crowley cut across three lanes of traffic, stopped many traffic lights from changing, and he soon found himself back where he started. Whickber Street, in front of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, across from the bookshop and The Dirty Donkey. It was time to take the elevator downstairs and get this over with.
Shax was taken by surprise, and honestly, none of the other demons were especially clever enough to handle the job. It was easy enough to steal the position away from Shax’s greedy grip. She had her moments, but she really wasn’t that bright. She and Furfur moved aside quickly and bloodlessly, and Crowley found himself ascending too, though maybe not as far as the angel had. On the off chance the angel would ever need him again, he could be in a position to help.
Time moved quickly, faster than he could recall. It had been over six thousand years since Crowley was in Hell full-time, but nothing had changed. Taking over for Beelzebub, Crowley was now the prince of demons, but, demons being demons, it just meant that they didn’t disembowel him when he told them to do something. He doled out assignments, and demons soon found themselves being sinister troublemakers rather than unholy terrors. Nobody seemed to care, though. It was less work for everyone. So Crowley locked himself in his office as decades passed. He issued his orders by telephone.
“Crowley!” an angry voice shouted through his door. There was a loud pounding. “Crowley, open the door, you idiot.”
With a click of his fingers, the door flew open, and Hastur stomped in, waving a scroll covered in very familiar copperplate. Crowley growled, “What do you want?”
“We’ve got several missives from Heaven. Your old boytoy has been trying to reach you. Didn’t tell him where to find you? I don’t want to read this shit.” Hastur tossed the vellum scroll onto Crowley’s empty desk, turned, and slammed the door behind him.
Crowley wasn’t sure how long the scroll lay on his desk, giving off a glow as if it were lit independently of everything else in Hell. It smelled like Heaven, sterile and a little lemony. There was a blue seal with a wing embossed on it. The neat script above it just said “Crowley”, and the demon expected his heart to ache, memories of the angel to flood his brain, his sadness to return like a wave crashing over him. Instead, anger flared, and he clicked his fingers, and hellfire engulfed the scroll, burning it to ashes in seconds.
He used to hope for many things, that whatever happened, he and the angel would resolve it and save themselves and the world again, but it was too late now. It was always too late.