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Crowley had never quite believed in God. Well, he didn't mean “believe” in the same way humans did when debating the existence of certain things, like the Kraken (real) or ghosts (technically real, what with the whole afterlife business) or reasonable London traffic (fake, but that had never stopped him from doing ninety on a street for forty-five).
No, Crowley meant “believe” as in “trust.” He had never quite trusted in God. Of course, that came with the job description for being a demon. Crowley’s distrust was nothing more than a simple fact of life. Ask too many forbidden questions, hang around the wrong people, and apparently God will cast out you of Heaven even if you didn’t mean to Fall.
Crowley’s trembling hands curled tighter around the Bentley’s steering wheel. Outside, all he could see was the inferno he had hurled himself into on a gamble. The hungry flames licked at the windows, waiting for just a second of weakness. A mixture of adrenaline and sheer determination now ran through his veins, urging him to ignore the fire that threatened to discorporate him.
Compared to his Fall, something about Armageddon felt more...personal. Like the powers that be had woken up one morning and decided enough was enough, no more of this Arrangement nonsense. Six thousand years of living on Earth, over. Crowley had spent those years learning everything about humanity, and he had eventually come to a single conclusion. Humans were complex beyond all understanding, beyond the realm of good and evil, of angels and demons. Maybe the Almighty didn’t like that.
And then there was Aziraphale, the one constant across the millennia. His only friend. What would happen to them if the world ended? Too late to flee to Alpha Centauri now. At any rate, it was a good thing they’d burned the bridges between them and their respective offices. No chance of heading off to war and meeting Aziraphale on the celestial battlefield as mortal enemies — just the end, and whatever followed afterwards.
Crowley glanced down at the battered and half-burnt cover of the book currently sitting in his lap. Even with a book of prophecies, he had no idea what was going to happen. It was a cosmic coin flip, determined by chance and too many factors for him to consider.
For the slightest of moments, he faltered, his fingers slipping from the wheel. The heat surrounding him quickly tore into his skin like jagged blades. He growled through clenched teeth. He couldn’t let himself get discorporated here — if he did, he’d never see Aziraphale again. Focus! Focus!, he silently screamed at himself.
The pain dissipated.
Releasing a hiss of relief, Crowley braced himself against the car seat. He fixed his gaze on some undefined point above what would have been the horizon, had there not been a wall of hellfire raging through. In a plan full of unknowns, at least he knew for certain which direction he was headed in.
Over the years, Crowley had grown to like humans despite all of their faults. He had grown to like Aziraphale too, to the point where running into the angel across the ages had comforted him, assured him that he wasn’t alone in the world. Major failings as a demon, on both counts. He’d agonized over this conundrum; if he didn’t belong in Hell, and definitely didn’t belong in Heaven, where in the world did he belong?
But as he pressed harder on the acceleration, as unearthly, howling laughter erupted from somewhere deep within his chest, he decided that he found Hell just as cold and distant as Heaven. Hell wasn’t home. Aziraphale was.
The Bentley rattled on towards the future, held together by nothing more than imagination and hope, hope that somehow, Crowley would find his way back to Aziraphale’s side. Because even though Crowley didn’t believe in God, didn’t believe in Satan, didn’t believe in the whole blasted ineffable plan — he believed in Aziraphale.