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“I talked to them too. Back in Eden, I mean.”
It’s a full month after Armageddon’t, and Crowley and Aziraphale are back in Aziraphale’s bookshop, ending another day with good wine and even better company. The fire in the hearth crackles away merrily, and the two beings, ethereal and occult, are content to lean back and speak to each other in tones soft as stars.
Crowley blinks. “Hm?” he grumbles sleepily. “Who’re you talking about, angel?”
“Adam,” Aziraphale says, staring into the fire. “Adam and Eve.”
Crowley blinks again. In the light of the flames, Aziraphale is almost blinding, with orange catching on the curls of their hair and flames seeping into the souls of their eyes, turning them from a bright blue summer sky to a blazing sunset. They’re still, unnaturally still, like recollection has turned them into a rock.
In times like these, Crowley can’t help but wonder at the golden sight of them. In times like these, Crowley can feel the truth of their angelic nature in his soul.
He sets his wine glass down and leans forward, elbows and knees locking and creaking as he takes his glasses off and places them on the table. “Tell me about them,” he murmurs, placing his hand on his chin.
The fire crackles on, sparks occasionally flying as a piece of wood collapses in on itself. It’s an eternity of these stretched-out sparks before Aziraphale speaks again. “They were so hopeful, Crowley,” they say, voice thin and dreamy, as if they’re trapped in their memories. “I remember them laughing, sometimes just because they could.”
“Sometimes,” they say, and then they break off, breath shuddering with the weight of thousands of years.
“Aziraphale?” Crowley itches to take Aziraphale’s hand in his. But Aziraphale’s hands lay firmly closed in their lap, wine glass having been miracled away an hour back. “Angel?”
Aziraphale blinks slowly and Crowley, with some hint of horror, makes out the edge of a teardrop hanging off of their lashes. Just as he’s about to reach over, Aziraphale licks their lips and sighs, shaky. “Sometimes they would sing.”
They turn to Crowley, eyes filled with fierce tears. “Why did they have to be banished Crowley?” they ask, almost pleading. “Why?”
Crowley’s throat clenches, like a fist is crushing his windpipe. Guilt knaws at his stomach, no less painful for its familiarity. “Aziraphale,” he says, throat clicking as he swallows, “Aziraphale, I’m so sorry.”
Aziraphale blinks. “Wha-” they say, blinking away tears. “Crowley, what on Earth are you apologizing for?”
Crowley laughs, bitter and sharp. “Don’t pretend, angel,” he says tiredly, gaze falling on the half-empty wine glass in front of him. It looks like blood, thick and red and flickering with the reflections of hearth flames. “I was the one who tempted them.”
“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale says urgently, reaching over to take Crowley’s hand in their own. “My dear boy, I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything-”
“S’alright,” Crowley mutters, fingers twitching. The warmth of Aziraphale’s hand is soothing and so, so good. Crowley doesn’t know if he deserves something this good.
“No,” Aziraphale says. “No it’s not. Crowley, my dear, you didn’t tempt Eve.”
Crowley looks up, incredulous. “That’s literally what happened, angel!”
“No,” Aziraphale says again. “You didn’t tempt Eve. You gave her what no one else, not Heaven nor Hell, would give her.”
Aziraphale looks at Crowley dead in the eye, and suddenly Crowley’s afraid of what they might say. “Don’t-” he chokes out. “Don’t-”
“My dear Crowley,” Aziraphale says, sweet and steady and smiling like a blessing, “You gave her a choice.”
The words, kind as they are, punch a hole in the wall in Crowley’s chest. Somewhere, deep within the cages of his heart, something warm stirs, a feeling he’s locked away for millenia finally coming to life once more. But he can’t accept that.
“You,” Crowley says, sputtering. He stands up abruptly, but doesn’t shake away Aziraphale’s hand. “You can’t just change history based on your good opinion of me.”
“And neither can you,” Aziraphale says, gently, but firmly. “You can’t change history based on what the books say.”
“The books,” Crowley says, disbelieving. “You, you with your bookshop and books, you’re telling me not to trust the books? And-and what about everyone else? The one thing Heaven and Hell and Humanity all agree on is that-”
“They’re wrong.” Aziraphale looks at him dead-on, completely unruffled by Crowley’s shouting. “You know they’re wrong, my dear boy.”
And he does. Oh he does, he does, he does. For all that he’s a demon, Crowley’s never wanted to hurt anyone. He’s never wanted to be malicious and evil and cruel. He had to tempt them, he knows he did, and he’d tried to do it as kindly as possible, just a little suggestion of free will. It had been up to them after that.
Still, he can’t feel absolved.
“I knew they would be punished,” Crowley says finally, tasting ash in his mouth. “I knew they would be punished but I didn’t think-”
“I know,” Aziraphale says, patting his hand. “And that’s not your fault my dear.”
Crowley swallows. “I don’t know why they had to cast them out like that,” he whispers.
Aziraphale looks at him. “Me neither,” they say softly, squeezing his hand. And finally, finally, Crowley crumples into his chair, hand still held in Aziraphale’s own.
The fire crackles on.