Chapter Text
One second, he is driving his Bentley to the bookshop, tapping his fingers involuntarily to the Velvet Underground , with vocals by Freddie Mercury. He should’ve pocketed the tape before a fortnite flew by, but it slipped his mind.
The next second, as he was speeding 90mph over central London’s speed limit, he was rocketed out of his seat and stumbled across a dank room. At the speed he was flung, he tripped over his own feet, flipped into a roll, and came to rest ass-over-tea-kettle on the opposing wall.
He groaned out, more pissed and confused than he’s been in his long life, “What the FUCK? ”
“I could ask the same thing.”
Crowley scrambled to a defensive crouch and faced the voice. What he saw made him pause.
There was a figure, an older man, who wore a fairly unremarkable cardigan, reading a textbook with a pair of reading glasses. Crowley thought the man reminded him of Aziraphale, just with an untamed beard and wildly curly hair - then it struck him that this was Aziraphale. Or at least, the spitting image of him.
“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked without a thought.
The man cocked his head. He seemed remarkably calm for someone who had a person just appear in his room. “Who? Sounds biblical.”
American? Crowley thought. He stood up. “Where am I?”
He finally looked around this room and found, oh , it’s not a bedroom or an office. It’s a prison cell. There’s an obvious heavy door with reinforced glass windows, bland cement walls with only two high windows with barely any light coming through, and the tether that’s keeping the only occupant of this cell within a limited space.
“I believe you’re in my cell,” The man said. He closed the textbook and placed it on a desk, which unnerved Crowley further to see sketches of anatomy pinned above it. The prisoner stood up, peering at Crowley through his reading glasses. Contemplative. “Now, am I hallucinating or did a man just appear out of thin air?”
“Hallucinating, definitely,” Crowley easily lied. Maybe this guy is crazy enough to let it slide. He began pacing around the room, examining the windows, nearly catching the sight of the security guard and quickly ducking out of the way. The entire time, the man watched him with undeniable scrutiny. It made Crowley uneasy - more uneasy than when he had to check in down in Hell. At least that was familiar territory. Now, it was like he was thrown in a completely different universe, with an Aziraphale lookalike that might also be a criminal.
“I’ve never hallucinated before,” The man mused. “I think my head has been very clear this last decade. But maybe my imprisonment is getting to me.”
“Yeah. That.” With a well-placed miracle, he could unlock the heavy door. But then, where would that leave him? He couldn’t sense Aziraphale anywhere on Earth right now, which has him wondering if he’s even on the same Earth as before. Ugh. Multiverse. Not one of his, unfortunately.
“What kind of hallucination are you?” The man asked. “A manifestation of my fears, perhaps? One of my past victims? Maybe a demon.”
“Oh, demon, for sure.” Crowley tilted his sunglasses down to show his eyes. Sudden uncertainty pass over the man’s face, and he took a step back.
“Oh.”
The man fell silent for now. Crowley took this as an opportunity to assess his next step. Usually, he’d go to Aziraphale if something like this happened, but he’d never been without his angel before. This was all on him.
He didn’t have much time to think about it when the door at the end of the hall opened. Another figure made their way towards the cell, and Crowley jumped out of sight. He flattened himself into a corner and pressed a finger to his lips. The man was watching him with knitted eyebrows, but as he glanced down the hall, he brightened.
The door opened. Crowley performed a small glamor to make himself even less noticeable, and it worked like a charm.
A younger man stepped into the cell, dressed primly, but his shoulders were stiff as he regarded the prisoner. The man did not immediately mention Crowley’s presence, but he appeared too enlightened by this visitor.
“Malcolm,” The man greeted warmly.
“Dr. Whitly,” The visitor said, stiff. Crowley glanced at the anatomy sketches on the wall. The name did not ring a bell.
“What’s brought you here, son?” Dr. Whitly asked. “Another murder, perhaps?”
“Something like that,” Malcolm said. Crowley was still processing the mention of murder that he almost missed the next part: “People have been disappearing all over the city. Absolutely no trace left of them.”
“You must be desperate if you’re coming to me,” Dr. Whitly said.
“Unfortunately,” Malcolm agreed. “We’re stumped. There’s no evidence to link it to the Junkyard Killer. No evidence linking to anyone at all.”
“Odd things are afoot,” Dr. Whitly said. His eyes shifted to Crowley’s hiding spot. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“Ask who--” Malcolm turned to look, and stumbled back as he took notice of Crowley. “Who--Who is that?!”
Dr. Whitly snapped his fingers. “I knew I wasn’t hallucinating.”
“No no no! I am totally a hallucination! Mass hallucination is a thing, right?” Crowley crept from his corner with his hands up in an attempt to keep the peace. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the security guard start to make his way to the door. Crowley snapped his fingers. The guard collapsed just outside the room, dreaming peacefully.
“Hallucinations don’t do that ,” Malcolm said, backing away, clearly trying to decide between flight or fight.
“I’ll show you what else I can do unless you shut up ,” Crowley threatened. He didn’t much care for harming humans, but he’ll use his words to get what he wants.
Whatever fear Malcolm had still lingered, but it was like Crowley’s threat had the opposite effect. Malcolm kept the distance between them, but he appeared much like Dr. Whitly; calm, knowing, thoughtful. Like Crowley had somehow revealed more about himself than he meant to.
“Note taken,” Malcolm said.
“...Right,” Crowley said, unused to humans not being afraid of him. “What was that about humans disappearing?”
Malcolm and Dr. Whitly seemed to exchange a knowing look that Crowley had trouble reading. Digging into their auras, he saw the doctor had a soul that didn’t look anything like Aziraphale. It was black and withered, pulsing like a crushed heart, but running purely on raw emotion. A soul marked by Hell. Malcolm’s was more damaged than corrupt, still clinging onto hope, but it had the potential to crumple like the doctor’s. So similar, like….oh. Of course, they’re father and son.
“Why would you want to know?” Malcolm asked.
“Maybe I have some outsider knowledge,” Crowley tempted. He should be good at this, he’s been doing it for six thousand years.
Malcolm appeared tempted. But the trained cops were always harder to bait. “Who are you?”
“Someone who could help you, if you help me,” Crowley said. Not technically a lie, but he’d do whatever he needed to do to get back home to Aziraphale.
Malcolm crossed his arms, and Crowley had the feeling he was caught. “You’re lying. You’ve been lying this whole time. Who exactly are you, and why are you in Dr. Whitly’s cell?”
At this point, Crowley was growing irritated. His words blended into a hiss, “Fine. You want honessty?” Crowley ripped his sunglasses from his face and tossed them aside, glaring at Malcolm with the full effect. He took menacing steps forward, enjoying the way Malcolm’s face twisted into unease. “I’m the ssserpent who tempted Eve into eating that apple. I’m the one who brought Sin upon the humans. I’m a demon of Hell. And one day, I might just be the one to drag your father Down Below.” He nodded towards Dr. Whitly, who’s face became impassive, impossible to read.
Malcolm frowned, tight-lipped. “He’s not my father.”
Crowley frowned. He glanced again at their auras, from Malcolm, to Dr. Whitly. “No, I got that part right.”
Malcolm let out an exasperated sigh. “No. He’s not my father. He’s a murderer, a serial killer . I refuse to have any connections with him.”
“Now that’s just rude,” Dr. Whitly commented.
Crowley lifted a single brow. He pointed a thumb to the doctor. “Your dad’s a serial killer?”
Malcolm’s jaw set as Crowley realized his mistake. Malcolm stepped forward into Crowley’s space until he was forced to step backwards, Malcolm matching his pace.
“I don’t know if you’re really a demon,” Malcolm began, lifting a finger to poke harshly into Crowley’s chest. “But you’re really, really shit at your job--”
Then, just as suddenly as Crowley appeared, Malcolm disappeared into thin air.
There was a pause. Crowley froze in place as Dr. Whitly watched, both of them fixated on the spot where Malcolm disappeared. Dimly, Crowley registered it as the vague place where he had originally appeared.
There was silence. Then, from Dr. Whitly, “What did you do to Malcolm?”
His voice was quiet and somber, more serious than Crowly had heard since he first stumbled into this cell. All at once, he became intimately aware that he was sharing a room with, apparently, a renowned serial killer. One that looked exactly like his angel.
If Crowley silently prayed for the first time in many decades, then that was his secret to keep.