Aallotar [Good Omens]

Twelve - Ice Cream

The café was small, but quaint, the kind of café you'd find only in the best parts of London. In Leo's Café, large windows let in light from the street, and the falling sun began to creep closer to the horizon, casting everything in golden light.

It was a quiet night. The café was nearly empty save for the worker leaning against the counter, staring absently at his phone. And then the wall clock. And then his phone. And then the clock. He wondered if his break would ever arrive.

Suddenly, the bell above the door jangled and a tall, slender man and a young girl in a red raincoat entered. The worker threw them a lazy glance, dully noticing the girl's glazed and tired eyes or the uneven way she walked.

"Take a seat," Crowley muttered, pulling her chair out with a squeak. She threw her backpack down and sat, her head falling into her hands. The café worker drifted over, notepad in hand.

"Welcome to Leo's Café. My name is not Leo; it's Leon, thanks very much. What can I get for you?"

"Oh, nothing for me, thanks," Crowley said and waved his hand dismissively.

"And you?" Leon said to Olly, not looking up from his notepad. Olly, exhausted and miles away mentally, stared at a pigeon strutting down the sidewalk and watched it fly away as it was pursued by an alley cat.

Crowley, knowing that Olly wasn't going to answer, thought back to his days with the misidentified-antichrist, Warlock. The pampered child was far more interested in play time than meal time, and he hardly knew the difference between a vegetable and a carb, nor did he really care. In his opinion, food was food. But what Warlock showed most interest toward at meal time was what came after: dessert.

"She'll take an ice cream sundae," Crowley said. Leon, not Leo, nodded absently and left, leaving Crowley alone at the small table with the strange girl.

"So," he began, "been in London long, have we?" Conversations were more the angel's strong suite that the demon's. Olly rubbed her eyes and gave him a small smile. It shined as many colors as the sunset.

"Is it that obvious that I'm new here?"

"Oh, no, definitely not," Crowley said. Olly peered at him through glossy eyes for a brief second and released a laugh she had been holding in.

"A week or so," she said. She rested her cheek on the heel of her palm. Crowley thought she had fallen asleep, but she spoke. "It's been fantastic..."

"You're very convincing."

"I know."

The conversation fell into a comfortable silence, and Olly stared at the man. This was her closest encounter with him. In fact, it was the only other time she had ever seen him aside from that day in the bookshop. He had been in such a frenzy about... Something...

Olly waved away the nagging thought and studied Crowley. He wore the same leather jacket as before and dark sunglasses. She liked his style--his lack of care and interest in how others judged him. She respected that greatly.

"Yes?" he said, noticing her gaze.

"I don't mean to be rude, but why do you wear those glasses?"

"Uh, well, I mean," he muttered, at a loss for words. For thousands, literally thousands of years, Crowley had come up with many excuses for his glasses or has entirely avoided the question. But Olly stared up at him with pure curiosity and tired eagerness, the type where answers far outweighed the importance of sleep, that Crowley was half-tempted to tear off his glasses and show her the truth. But he continued to form an excuse, making strange, stuttering noises along the way, when, thankfully, Olly interjected.

"I once knew someone who would wear these orange glasses, like woodshop-type glasses, when I'd go bowling with friends. He said they blocked out 'blue light' or something like that cuz the blue light gave him insomnia. Is that why you wear those glasses a lot?"

Crowley nodded quickly. "Yep."

"Cool," she whispered with genuine interest.

"So you're in London because...?" he said, attempting to steer the conversation away anything that disguises his demon features.

Olly grew quiet and her energy washed away like rain water down a drain. A beat later, she said, uncertainly, "Just visiting family for a while."

Recognizing the telltale signs of a touchy subject, Crowley did not press on any further. At just that moment, Leon sat Olly's sundae on the table.

"Cheers," Crowely muttered as Leon shuffled away. He saw Olly staring at the sundae and casting long shy glances at the tabletop. "Something the matter?"

"No..." she said. "Actually, yes."

"Don't like ice cream?"

"I'm lactose intolerant," she whispered, her expression being the equivalent of Don't hate me; I'm sorry. Crowley leaned forward.

"Well, that shouldn't be a problem," he said. "It's lactose-free ice cream."

"Are you sure?" she asked, peering up at him. He nodded and snapped his fingers (as non-chalantly as any person--uh, demon--can).

"What? Are you performing some magic on my ice cream with the snap of your fingers?" she joked. She dug her spoon into the melting ice cream and ate it with glee.

Then she froze.

"Wait, what time is it?"

Crowley glanced at his watch. "Nearly five."

Olly's eyes widened. "Oh, shit!" She yanked her phone out of her pocket and soon had it up against her ear. "Hello? Gran? Yes, I know, I- yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I'm with some friends from school, and I forgot to call. I'm on my way. Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I'll do extra chores." She hung up the phone and exhaled deeply. "Could you give me a ride home?"

"Of course," Crowley said. They left the restaurant (but not without the ice cream which Olly stuffed into a Styrofoam cup and ate in the car against Crowley's silent protests). After some direction and compliments toward Crowley's Bentley, they were sitting in the street in front of her grandma's house.

"Thank you for the ride, Mr. Crowley. And the ice cream. And the mental support. And the help back at school with those idiots."

Crowley gave her an expressionless nod, but, by this point, Olly knew that he meant something along the lines of you're welcome, Olly. I'll always lend you a hand (even though snakes do not have hands, but, of course, Olly did not know of Crowley's demon ways). She walked to the doorstep, turned, and waved. The Bentley honked and the raced down the street at a much quicker and dangerous pace than when Olly was in it.

She turned toward the door, feeling very alone and tired. That day was a haze and there were many more to come.