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In the beginning, Crowley falls.
No; in the beginning, he is an angel. He’s long forgotten those memories, long forgotten what it felt like to answer to a different name, in a different place, with his old eyes and wings. He can vaguely remember designing the stars, the galaxy, and perhaps he knows that his eyes once held a beauty that no longer remains. He thinks he was quite good at it, but who would know? All that matters is that he isn’t an angel anymore, and he certainly won’t be one again.
There’s a tree, and an apple, and a temptation that changes the universe, and Crowley might have fallen from Heaven or, in his own words, saunter vaguely downwards, but he falls for Heaven, or rather, a small part of it, inside the Garden of Eden.
He’s seen Aziraphale before, spoken to him, even, but it’s a gifted flaming sword and a shelter from the rain that makes Crowley fall a second time. This time, it’s a pleasant, yet aching fall; a fall that doesn’t burn, or completely ruin him, and perhaps, just maybe, restores some beauty to his tainted eyes. But that’s neither here nor there, and it certainly won’t result it anything pleasant. Angels don’t love, and neither do demons; or at least, they’re definitely not supposed to. Crowley’s never been one to follow the rules, so it comes as no surprise that this isn’t any different.
Even if it’s all very complicated and unknown, there’s an element to falling in love that is - unsurprisingly - ineffable. And so, in the beginning, Crowley falls, and loves, and falls again.
——
Ever since the Garden of Eden, as a general rule in the world, when something happens, Crowley turns to Aziraphale.
When Armageddon starts, Crowley turns to Aziraphale.
When their plan to avoid Armageddon is revealed to be a complete and utter failure, mere hours away from its commencement, Crowley turns to Aziraphale.
Alpha Centauri is his first and only preference to replace Earth, mostly because it’s the only star system he can actually remember creating; he knows he must have helped with the others, and he doesn’t remember the actual process of creation, but he is certain that Alpha Centauri was his design, once, before his fall. He’s drawn to it, ineffably, but there’s just one problem; Aziraphale won’t abandon Earth. And Crowley, for all his wiles and whims, won’t abandon Aziraphale.
In the end, it doesn’t matter; Armageddon falls through, in the nick of time, and even though Heaven and Hell try to eradicate their problem entities, Crowley and Aziraphale are one step ahead of them. They didn’t avoid the end of the world just to be killed by their own kind, you know.
They find themselves with a new routine that feels vaguely familiar; regular visits, companionship, and an ache inside of Crowley that wicks and wanes with their time together. He forgets about visiting the stars, forgets about the pain of not being able to remember anything from before the fall, and even forgets the pain of falling from Heaven in the first place. Instead, he is overcome with his deeply ineffable love for Aziraphale, and allows himself to fall deeper for him, over and over and over again.
——
Aziraphale asks him one night, over many empty bottles of red and a half-hearted game of chess, “Do you remember Heaven, my dear?”
It’s a sudden question that catches him off-guard. “Of course. Big, empty place. Very white. Huge thing of hellfire in the middle, that would have killed you, were we not so incredibly clever. Why?”
Aziraphale shakes his head gently, and he’s smiling, but it’s a sad smile, and the ache inside Crowley rises inexplicably. “No, no, not when you were me and I was you. I mean... Before you fell, Crowley. Do you... Remember being an angel?”
“Oh,” Crowley says, for absolute lack of anything else to say. “Right. That. Well, I... I, uh, s’pose I do, Angel. Not much, of course; reckon forgetting is part of falling, actually, but... I can, sort of, remember... Things.”
“Things,” Aziraphale repeats, and Crowley nods.
“I helped make the stars, y’know. You don’t forget stuff like that, no matter how hard you fall.”
“You... Helped make the stars?”
This time, it’s Crowley’s turn to smile sadly. “Sure did. Never wondered why I was so fixated on Alpha Centauri? I created the thing. Magnificent stuff, really. Still is now, not that I’ve been up there since,” he muses.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, tilting his head ever so slightly, and the way he says Crowley’s name is enough to make him sick with longing, really. “We ought to go, dear boy.”
Crowley shrugs. “S’not bad, this Earth business, though, is it? Armageddon avoided, and all things considered, I’m alright here. Maybe next time the world ends, though?”
Aziraphale shakes his head. “Let’s hope it doesn’t, my dear.” His solemn expression lingers for a moment before lighting up as he shifts a bishop to take out one of Crowley’s knights, and yes, Crowley muses, I’d take never seeing the stars up close again for an eternity of exactly this.
“Did it hurt?”
Crowley looks back up at the angel, ready to make a quip on the human pick-up line nature of it all. “When I fell from Heaven?”
“Well, yes.”
For all the worlds, he wants to make the joke. He wants to laugh, smile mischievously, and flirt in a way that he is allowed to, because it’s a ridiculous line and really, has anyone ever gotten laid because of it? Surely not, he thinks, and realises he’s procrastinating his response, and there might be a reason behind that but he doesn’t want to delve into it. Interesting, that.
“It, uh... Yeah. It burned, a... A bit.”
He can remember falling, the pain of it all, if he tries to. He can’t remember the stars, though, nor their creation; he only knows that he did help make them. He assumes that Heaven must make demons forget on purpose, because the blanks he draws when he tries to remember only stop hurting when he lets Aziraphale win and he watches his face light up again with delight, and even then it’s only replaced by the ache that has come with loving the angel for over 6000 years.
——
Crowley thinks nothing more of his revelation to Aziraphale until the angel appears at his front door a week later, accompanied by a basket and - was that a blanket?
“Uh... Did I miss a memo?” Crowley asks, positively basking in Aziraphale’s joy and trying desperately to not make it obvious. The angel is smiling impossibly widely, and he can’t help but wonder if someone’s having him on.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, looking down at the items in his arms. “May I come in?”
“Don’t see why not,” Crowley murmurs, holding the door open as the angel strides in.
Aziraphale places the basket and, yes, it was indeed a blanket, rolled up neatly and covered in plaid, of course, down on Crowley’s desk, before turning to fawn over the plants.
“Oi, none of that!” Crowley says, shooing him away. “I’ve spent an incredible amount of effort on making sure they know I won’t put up with any shenanigans, and every time you talk to them, they start thinking they can slack off. Which,” he continues, turning to talk directly to the plants, “You absolutely can NOT. Don’t you even dare, or else you know what’ll happen.”
Aziraphale huffs his disappointment. “Well, you know what I think about how you address your plants, dear.”
“I try not to,” Crowley smiles sardonically. “Now, to what do I owe this pleasure, Angel?”
“Ah,” Aziraphale beams. “I was rather hoping you could be tempted, so to speak, in a little adventure. We’ll need your Bentley, of course, and I’ve packed everything else. I promise to make it worth your while, dear boy.”
Anything with you is worth my while, Crowley thinks, and swallows the thought away before he can even consider verbalising it. It goes, but the ache inside of him does not. “Sure. S’long as you leave your opinions on my music behind, and absolutely no backseat driving; we go as fast as I like.”
“Oh, if you insist. But you really do go too fas-“
“Ah, that’s a fantastic example of what not to do, Angel. My way or the highway. Now, where am I driving to?”
——
After almost an hour of driving, during which Aziraphale is wonderfully restrained in commenting on both Crowley’s music and driving, the angel motions for Crowley to pull over beside a considerably sized park. As Crowley brings the Bentley to a halt, Aziraphale peers outside the window, still looking utterly pleased with himself.
“Right,” Crowley says. “Where are we?”
“A little place called Kenley Common. Take the basket, will you, dear boy? All will be revealed shortly, I promise,” he smiles, tucking the blanket under his arm and exiting the car. Crowley shrugs to himself and obeys, following behind him with the basket.
As they wonder through the park, Crowley realises two things; firstly, it’s night time, which doesn’t come as a huge surprise, but is more obvious now that he’s not driving the Bentley. Secondly, the park is positively empty, and he isn’t sure whether it’s because of the dark, the looming clouds, or... Well, a literal miracle.
Aziraphale stops at a tidy clearing, unravelling the blanket and laying it out on the grass. Suddenly, Crowley realises what’s happening.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he says, slowly and full of amusement, “That you dragged me out into the middle of nowhere at night for a picnic?”
Aziraphale scoffs. “I would hardly call Kenley nowhere, Crowley; do you always have to be so dramatic?”
“No, but - really? A picnic?”
“If you’re so offended at the idea, we can leave,” Aziraphale says, starting to get huffy. “But I rather thought we could... Well, we could stargaze, my dear.”
Crowley laughs, gesturing upwards. “Try telling that to the clouds, Angel.”
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, and Crowley looks up. There are no clouds in the sky, though he could have sworn it was filled with them not five minutes beforehand...
“But...” Crowley starts, somehow at a loss for words. The ache inside of him is back, and this time, it’s encompassing, and he can’t do much beyond gape and stare at the angel in front of him.
“There are many ways to visit the stars, my dear boy. You created them, and I do believe you’re overdue for a reunion of any kind,” Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley looks back up at the sky. The stars glitter and gleam above, in a way that he’s never seen before, except that he has, he just can’t remember because he fell, and he remembers the fall, and it hurt, and he’s still falling and -
He can’t remember saying anything, but he must have, because Aziraphale places his hands on either side of Crowley’s face and gently shakes him back into reality, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs. “I know, my dear. I know. It’s okay. You’re okay, Crowley. I’m here.”
And suddenly Crowley is crying, properly sobbing, and he lets Aziraphale remove his sunglasses and engulf him in a hug that only makes him cry harder, and the ache inside of him grows even more, until he’s shaking, anchored only by Aziraphale’s body.
“I’m so sorry,” he says into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I can’t remember them from then, I can only... Only remember that I did make them, and the falling, the burning, the pain...”
“Shhh, it’s alright, Crowley. It’s okay. You’re not falling anymore, you’re here, with me, and those stars were made by you, and you get to see them for the first time again, dear boy; isn’t that marvellous?”
He pulls back from Aziraphale, eyes darting upwards to the stars and then back to the angel’s face. Still crying, he says, “I’m still falling, Angel. A different kind of falling, and it doesn’t burn but it aches, so much.”
Aziraphale doesn’t reply right away, and instead makes comforting noises as he slowly calms Crowley down, getting him to breathe steadily again. “There we go, just breathe, Crowley. Breathe in and out.”
As he lets out a deep exhale, Crowley thanks Aziraphale quietly. The angel gives him a warm smile in response. “That’s more than alright. Now, do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about it?”
“Talk about the fact you still feel as though you’re falling, Crowley.”
With a shaky voice still not completely rid of tears, he says, “I, uh... I fell twice, y’know. Not strictly speaking, but... Well, obviously I fell. From, er, Heaven. And it hurt, it hurt so much... But I fell a second time. Still am, really. Don’t think I’ll ever stop.”
Aziraphale’s face twists in confusion. “How do you mean, my dear?”
“Well. Remember the Garden of Eden? Me, wily serpent, you, apple tree duty?”
“Of course,” the angel says, smiling softly.
“You... You gave the humans your flaming sword. And it rained, and you...”
“I sheltered you from it,” Aziraphale finishes for him. “Not very well, mind, but yes, I remember.”
“I loved you for it,” Crowley says, simply. He’s surprised at how easily it comes out, and how unbelievably unchanged he is. The ache doesn’t leave. “Still do, really. Loved you for 6000 years, Angel. I know I go too fast for you, but... I don’t think I can do 6000 more years without saying it. I would, if I had to, but... Well, I’m hoping I won’t have to.”
Something in Aziraphale’s face softens, and it’s so unbelievably beautiful that Crowley can feel tears pricking at his eyes again. “Oh, Crowley.”
“I know that it makes no sense. I know that the whole angel, demon thing probably means it can’t ever happen. I know all of that. I can’t help it, Aziraphale. I’ve tried to stop feeling like this, but-“
“Don’t,” Aziraphale whispers.
“Huh?”
“Please, my dear. Don’t stop. I love you too, Crowley,” he smiles. “Of course I do.” There are tears in his eyes, too, and Crowley feels so utterly seen, until Aziraphale leans forward and presses his lips against Crowley’s, and, well, that’s perfectly alright, then, isn’t it?
When they finally pull apart, Crowley realises that the ache inside of him is no longer painful; in fact, it feels rather beautiful. He smiles giddily, and wraps his arms around Aziraphale, dragging them both down so that they’re lying on the blanket, with Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s chest.
“I brought wine, and pie, in that basket,” Aziraphale says. “For later, if you want.”
Crowley hums happily. Aziraphale chuckles from above and moves his hand to comb his fingers ever so gently through Crowley’s hair.
“6000 years, then.”
“Oh, shut up,” Crowley blushes.
“I love you, my dear.”
“Mmm. Love you too, Angel.”
Above them, the night sky shines, and even though Crowley helped make them, and he can’t remember it, and he knows it’s completely illogical, he can’t help but feel like there are twice as many stars in the sky, just for them.