Chapter Text
“Oi! What did you go changing your clothes for? Trying to hide from me, are you?”
The voice was strong but the hand was stronger. So strong it pulled Crowley right off the bench and sent him crashing to the floor. And his attacker was still talking.
“You look a right prat. And what’s with the glasses?”
Crowley was, in fact, not completely in control of his faculties at that time. That is to say he was pissed as a fart, and it was for that reason and absolutely no other that the woman had got the better of him.
And she was still talking.
“Are you drunk? Doctor, are you drunk?”
Lesser demons than Crowley might have chosen to use a small miracle to get rid of her. Or better demons, depending on your definition of what a demon should be. Certainly Duke Hastur would have swatted her away, but whether that made him a better demon was a bit of a question, and not one Crowley felt at all qualified to answer. Especially sprawled on the floor, drunk off his arse, with an angry woman standing over him.
“Doctor? What’s got into you?”
“Lay off would you?” Crowley groaned, struggling to sit up. “You’ve got the wrong bloke. I’m not a doctor.”
“What are you talking -”
The woman knelt down suddenly, and Crowley noticed two things about her. Firstly, she was the only other person with red hair he had ever seen in this part of the world who didn’t also look like a northerner, and secondly, she was wearing the weirdest clothes he’d ever seen - and Crowley knew weird clothes. She looked like someone who had only ever heard about Greece in passing, like she’d met someone blind and they’d told her about, and then she had decided that she could make a decent stab at fitting in.
“Bloody hell,” she said, sitting back on her heels as Crowley tried to edge away. “You’re really not him.”
“Nope. No doctors here.”
Bloody hell was a strange expression too. He’d have to remember that one.
“I’m sorry.”
The woman got to her feet and held out a hand. Crowley took it. He was too drunk to even attempt standing up by himself without making a scene. Not that he minded making a scene, of course, if he needed to, but this was a strange person and he wasn’t completely sure that it wasn’t a set up he couldn’t spot yet.
“I thought you were someone else,” she said. As though Crowley hadn’t worked that bit out for himself. “You look exactly like him. It’s weird. Like, you’re identical. Except the hair.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” Crowley allowed himself to be hauled to his feet, and walked with as much dignity as he could muster - which frankly was little even on a good day - back to his bench. A boy wandered over and put down another cup next to Crowley’s, then filled them both with wine. Crowley wondered vaguely about that, until the woman sat down next to him.
Bloody hell.
Yeah, he liked that. Good words. Bloody hell.
“I’m Donna,” she said, picking up the cup and sniffing it. “What’s your name?”
“Crowley.”
“Weird name. For ancient Greece.”
“Weird to call it ancient Greece,” he countered, picking up his own. Might as well keep going with the wine at this stage. The evening couldn’t get much stranger.
“Oops,” Donna said, under her breath. “Just what my friend calls it. Dunno why, you’d have to ask him.”
“If you’re looking for a doctor, they usually hang about the Athena temple this time of night. Talking about humours and leeches and whatever else,” Crowley said. It was lacking his usual subtlety, he knew, but he really, really, really wanted the woman to leave him alone. He’d been in the middle of a very good wallow when she interrupted him, and he wanted to get back to it. Good for the soul, a decent wallow.
“Looking for one in particular,” she said, gulping down her wine. “That is strong. He will turn up soon, he always does. Remembers me waddling along behind and comes back from wherever he’s run off to. I’ll be better off waiting here.”
“Oh good.”
Crowley decided to try a different tactic, and laid his head on the table, on his folded arms. His glasses pressed into his face a bit but he wasn’t going to take them off in public. He yawned too. For effect.
“Tough day?”
Bloody hell.
“Yep.”
“Want to talk about it? I’ve got nothing else to do.”
“Nope.”
“Suit yourself.”
Despite it all, Crowley couldn’t help but grin into his arm when, a few moments after his spectacular sleep performance began, he sensed Donna take his cup and drink what was left in there too.
“I saw that.”
“You’re asleep. And you’re drunk. I’m doing you a favour.”
Crowley couldn’t quite recall ever having met a person like her. The way she spoke. It was like she didn’t belong there. And those strange clothes, and that hair. But he couldn’t sense anything demonic or ethereal about her either.
Maybe she was just weird. Well, he knew all about weird.
“DONNA!”
They both jumped as the disembodied voice rang out through the market, and Donna dropped the cup on the table.
“Guessing that’s him,” Crowley said, watching her scramble to her feet.
“DONNA!”
“Bloody hell, like a foghorn,” she mumbled. “Cos that’s really fitting in, isn’t it. Fit in, Donna, don’t wander off. Hypocrite.”
“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Donna said. “Sorry about the mix up. And I’ll tell you what, mate. Whoever they are, they’re aren’t worth it.”
And she was off, weaving through the crowd towards the sound of the yelling, leaving Crowley gaping after her. The boy came back and righted the cups, went to top up Crowley’s.
“No-” Crowley flipped him a coin and staggered to his feet. “No more. It’s been a strange enough evening as it is.”