A Heartache

“He had heard about talking to plants in the early seventies, on Radio Four, and thought it was an excellent idea.” “Maybe you can tell what’s wrong with me?” Given the situation, the question was rhetorical. Crowley, resting his cheek on his hand and leaning on a small table, was talking to his small taciturn green interlocutor that was sitting there before him. It trembled slightly from unwanted proximity, and Crowley’s body, driven by alcohol, swayed slightly to its beat. “Six thousand years …” the demon began in a dramatic tone, rolling his eyes into his skull, as if he could see his ancient memories in those dark depts. “Six thousand years of quiet wreaking havoc, and there YOU HAVE IT!” With both hands, Crowley banged his fists on the table, and the strength of his fury shook already shaking little green leaves. Golden eyes pierced through the blackness of dark glasses, giving the poor plant a glimpse of their owner’s despair. “Why now? . Why me?.. Why… her?” The plant could have had some sympathy for him, had he not been such a mean and vicious asshole to it and its brethren; so instead it sympathized with her — Y/N — if we assumed that it was capable of sympathy at all. Actually, to explain it shorter, all these drunken woes where dedicated to her. For thousands of years human generations had been moving in a never-ending queue of births and deaths, while he, Crowley, always remained the same old demon He had seen many people — outstanding — and not that much — different faces, bodies, manners, personalities… As a rule, he remained indifferent, with some rare exceptions… and then, in the twenty-first century he just waltzed into a new era and fell in love. For all the people he had met, numerous and unnoticed as they had been, she was the one to leave him baffled and “composing Hallelujah”.* “I’m a bloody demon, not a summer flower!” He hissed through gritted teeth, such anger in his voice as if his plant dared to suggest the latter. It takes all sorts of demons to make a hell — this simple truth hadn’t yet dawned on Crowley, not even after he had made friends with an angel, saved the world, and became partial to all these human trifles, like cars and music. Now Y/N herself had crawled her way into his heart — and blocked all ways out. He himself felt strange for being ashamed of this love — not that he had or cared for a good reputation in Hell anymore, not after those shenanigans with the Apocalypse. But a poisonous little thought that had been lurking somewhere on the edge of his consciousness was now knocking on the front door and offering him clues with its whisper: the problem might be that his vile love was hanging like a target on Y/N’s back, given all new troubles and new enemies swirling around the rouge demon after his rebellious antics. “I can’t love her… but I will. So it goes!” Crowley surrendered, sealing his defeat with a clap of his hands. Then he pushed himself off the table and deftly picked up a bottle of wine — one that wasn’t completely empty — and then he walked away from his apartment, away from his angst. A lone green leaf sank smoothly onto the shiny brown surface.