Purrchance To Dream - Part 2 (Patreon)

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Companion prose written by my wonderful co-writer Calico! Enjoy!

***

He sleeps for four more hours after that.

When he wakes, he grudgingly acknowledges that he feels less terrible. He takes himself off to St James’ Park and the sunshine isn’t horrible, the birdsong doesn’t grate on his last nerve, and the sight of a swan rounding on various other species in a territorial display of might - like a white dragon towering above farmyard poultry - actually raises a bit of a smile.

Maybe his body hadn’t been completely and utterly wrong. No, a frigid shower to the point of total numbness wasn’t what it had been initially suggesting, but it seems to have done something at least. Shifted his brain chemistry a smidgen.

Maybe the occasional cathartic release, even if not of the orgasmic variety, could be good for him after all.

Crowley sits on the—their—his?—bench.

He’s sat here alone before. It doesn’t feel hideous.

It doesn’t feel great, but nothing he can’t cope with.

It’s just a bench.

Crowley scowls at some children as they pass too close to him, apparently having seven or eight piercingly shrill arguments at once.

A woman walking three dogs strolls by in the opposite direction. He scowls at her, too.

And then, behind him, exceedingly close, there’s a sudden rush of wings.

For one heart-stopping moment he thinks it’s angelic wings, and a lightning bolt shimmies through his chest, his eyes going wide. And then his senses catch up and he realises no, of course not, it’s just a great big flock of geese launching themselves upwards from the grass directly behind the bench.


Of course not.


Crowley shakes off the fizzy, glowy sensation and twists around to aim his renewed scowl at the source of the commotion behind the bench: a glossy white cat, scampering towards him across the grass.

Well, towards the geese, more like. Not that this pampered idiot has any hope of catching one.

“Good luck,” Crowley sneers, elbow dangling over the back of the bench as he watches it lollop closer.

He finds he feels a surprisingly vicious degree of enmity towards this cat. Something about it just pisses him off.

“Think you’ve got any hunting genes left after all that inbreeding for shiny fluffy fur? I highly doubt it, you cross-eyed pedigree twat.”

Instead of continuing careening after the runtiest goose on the menu, the cat all but screeches to a halt behind the bench and peers up at him.

Crowley has the strangest sensation he’s being judged.

By this cat he’s never seen before.


Ridiculous.


“Mrrrp!” the cat says, urgently.

Crowley scoffs. “Nah, nope, I don’t think so. No treats here. Go bother a dog-walker.”

“Mrrp,” the cat says, flicking its ears into a shape that almost looks… defiant.

“That’s right, off you go,” Crowley says, flapping his hand.

The cat seems impervious to this suggestion.

“Come on, move it, jog on,” Crowley says, and then it dawns on him that he’s apparently gone stark raving mad and is trying to communicate with a random stray in public - in broad daylight, no less.

He twists back around, and concentrates all his attention on the duck pond instead. Him, feeling a tad sheepish? Never.

A moment later, a flash of white slides through the corner of Crowley’s vision, and he flinches as the cat leaps silently up onto the bench next to him.

It sits in the dead centre of the available space, facing the pond; putting all four feet together and lifting its chin, posture absolutely perfect.

For a surreal moment Crowley is reminded of the ancient goddess Bastet, back in Egypt, oh, a long time back. He and Aziraphale had—well, anyway.

Crowley rubs the back of his neck, heaves out a sigh, his thoughts and temper completely derailed. For a moment, they sit in silence, looking at the pond.

Then the cat glances at him, one ear flicked back, whiskers twitching. “Mrrp.”

Crowley remembers all at once who he is, where he is, and just how bloody weird this is. He huffs and jumps to his feet, remembering a dozen other places he’d rather be right now. He catches himself about to say goodbye - goodbye?! To a cat?! - and flings his head in the opposite direction, hurrying away, muttering.

He needs a drink.