Ahh but you know what my brain did with that information?!? Mini fic incoming:
Crowley can’t go to Soho. He can’t face the bookshop with the wrong angel inside. He can’t go to the park either. Or the museum. Or the theatre. Memories of Aziraphale are everywhere.
So he goes to pubs and bars instead. He drinks and drinks and drinks until he can almost pretend to forget his aching heart.
He doesn’t plan to go anywhere in particular. But somehow he finds himself gravitating to this one place again and again.
He tries to tell himself it’s not because it’s in angel. No, certainly not.
He orders Talisker. Always a large one. Never only one. He sits in a corner and he drinks.
He wonders sometimes, when his thoughts are still clear enough, which angel is responsible for the name of the area. Or if humans came up with it all by themselves. He also wonders if angels come to drink here too. Probably not.
But mostly he thinks about one angel in particular. His angel.
And so sometimes, in the corner of a bar, in a place called angel, a demon clutches a glass of Talkisker for support and cries.
