Raindrops were coming down in their armies of millions to lay on the ground, defeated. Then, after some time, they’d be lifted back up into the sky to try again, only to fall. It was a strange and frustrating process. Over and over until the end of time. It was a bit like existence, the demon decided, his yellow eyes watching a raindrop trace the window of his car. He was feeling a trifle testy about the whole affair (existence, not the rain), but then again—he was always a trifle testy. You had to be testy if you were a demon. It was programmed in, like how geese are always supposed to fly south. Well, perhaps that wasn’t the best metaphor, because if you took the time to figure out which direction they were actually flying, it was never south. It was usually east or west, or even north, even in the dead of winter. Crowley disliked the winter like a cat to water. It was always too cold, and it rained, even though it was supposed to snow. THAT was something that was supposed to be “built in” that never happened in London. The sky, as if to prove his point, opened up. Crowley grumbled. If it was Before, he’d go to the bookshop and his angel would’ve made him a cup of tea which he wouldn’t have drank, but his angel wouldn’t have minded, because he’d listen to his complaining about the weather and the winter. They’d turn on the lights when it got dark out and his angel would put on the record player—some old orchestrated song from the seventeenth century, and Crowley would watch him sort through the new books he had, giving input on where he should put them to keep people from actually reading or buying the books. And when the old clock in the corner chimed ten, Crowley would say good night, and he’d get in his car and drive to the street he slept in, park his car, and fall asleep. That couldn’t happen, now. Because…well. He didn’t need to think about it. No, he didn’t WANT to think about it. He needed to think about it. Crowley wouldn’t. It made him feel sick to think about it. Probably a bit like how a star would feel right before it exploded. Crowley missed seeing the stars, almost as much as he missed his angel. Looking at his angel was almost like looking at a star. Perhaps that’s why he missed him.
