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Calvary – 33 AD
Aziraphale had been following the man for over thirty years. Listening to his preaching, marveling at how very human he was. Jesus seemed to be indicative of everything that was good about humans, and helped to remind Aziraphale why he loved this silly little species.
That, of course, was before now.
The week had started out so well. He entered Jerusalem for Passover, and continued to watch the man from afar. He watched as Jesus was welcomed to the city like a king, even as he entered on a humble donkey. It had gone downhill very quickly from there.
A final supper the night before, a betrayal early in the morning, denial not long after that. Aziraphale had watched the “trial” with disgust. He watched as a kind man's life was traded for that of a murderer's. He watched as a man was put to death to maintain the egos of Romans and those who claimed to speak on behalf of God.
Aziraphale had followed Jesus' journey from Jerusalem to Calvary. Every time he fell to the ground under the weight of the cross, the angel nearly had to physically restrain himself from rushing to help the poor man. Every fiber of his ethereal being screamed at him to help, but he had been given strict orders from Above not to interfere. Thankfully, another kind soul helped Jesus lug the cross to the Place of the Skull.
As he watched the guards set up the execution, Aziraphale felt another presence at his elbow. A quick glance confirmed his suspicions. Crawly.
He continued to watch the scene before him unfold as he addressed the demon, “So. I suppose this is your doing, Crawly?”
Aziraphale turned to glance at the serpent, and was surprised to see her expression read as a mix of surprise and hurt. “You give them so little credit, angel,” she murmured, “Humans are capable of such amazing acts of cruelty.” She raised her voice, “And it's Crowley now. Crawly was a bit...lowly.”
The angel and the demon watched with pained hearts (though they didn't physically have hearts) as an innocent man was nailed to a cross. Crowley observed with a pained expression, “What did he say that got them so worked up?”
Aziraphale's voice caught in his throat as he answered, “Be kind to one another.”
Crowley tutted, though it was halfhearted, “Well. That'll do it.”
The cross was raised. Jesus let out one final scream of agony as the nails in his hands and feet struggled to support his weight. Blood poured from his wrists and onto the hot desert ground. As he tried to catch his breath, he murmured something so lowly that only the nearby occult beings could hear him, “Forgive them. They know not what they do.” He raised his head slowly and smiled kindly at Crowley and Aziraphale.
They exchanged a shocked look before their attention was drawn back to the cross by an unearthly wail. Two women stood at the foot of the cross, one in all blue supporting the one with pink clothes and a teal head covering.
Crowley jut her chin at the women, “Who are they?”
Aziraphale looked to where she was gesturing. “The woman in blue is his mother, Mary,” he said quietly, “The other one is his wife, I believe. Her name is Mary Magdalene.”
She looked at Aziraphale, shocked, “I didn't know he was married.”
The angel shook his head sadly, “Not many do. She was a prostitute, and many found it hard to believe that he would stoop to marry the likes of her.” He spat out the word “stoop” as though it were poison.
Crowley and Aziraphale watched as Jesus hung on the cross for nearly three hours, not a word exchanged between them. It was too painful to even speak.
As the three hours drew to a close, Jesus raised his head to the heavens and muttered tiredly, “Into your hands, I place my spirit.” The fight drained from his body and he breathed his last.
As he slumped over, darkness covered the previously bright sky and thunder began to roll in the valleys. Aziraphale and Crowley looked up, slightly startled by the sudden change.
Still staring at the sky, Crowley said, “You know, he often said that he was Her son. Do you think he was telling the truth?”
Aziraphale looked defeated, “I honestly don't know.” He looked to the cross, where guards had begun to take down his body, “I don't think it matters. They murdered a good man without cause.”
Crowley put a cautious hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. The angel made no move to shrug her off.
Aziraphale looked to the heavens, much like He had done, and sighed, “They killed the kindest man I've ever met. I don't know what to think anymore.”
Vatican City (Kind Of) – 1213AD
If he had the ability, he would have stormed the Vatican by now and strangled every last one of the self-righteous bastards. Unfortunately, the entirety of Vatican City was consecrated ground, and he had no desire to be discorporated any time soon. All Crowley had the ability to do now was sit at the walls and weep.
They were children. They were just children. They had no business going off to fight a fruitless and bloody battle on behalf of a God that wasn't even listening.
Crowley wept and he wept and he wept until he had no more tears to spare. People had been passing him for hours, giving a wide berth to the crazy man who was crying in such close proximity to the most powerful man in Europe. So when he heard footsteps approaching him, he quickly wiped at his eyes and put on a disinterested air, presuming it was someone from his side.
He heard someone clear their throat. Crowley looked up and was pleasantly surprised to see Aziraphale leaning up against the wall.
“So,” the angel said, “Still not an aardvark?”
Crowley frowned for a moment before remembering their conversation over a thousand years ago. He smirked, “So, still pretending we aren't friends?”
Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably but remained silent, which was really all the confirmation that Crowley needed. The demon sighed, “Fine, angel. Pretend all you like.” He squinted up against the sunlight to peer up at Aziraphale, “What are you doing here, anyways?”
He gestured vaguely, “Oh you know, minor miracles and the like.” He blushed slightly, “I heard that there was a fantastic cuisine around these parts. I think they're calling it...pasta.”
Aziraphale looked down at Crowley, “And what are you doing here, dear? Planning on storming the Holy City?”
When the demon didn't answer and simply stared at him unblinkingly, Aziraphale's jaw dropped.
“By all the saints, Crowley,” he hissed, “What on earth are you thinking?”
Crowley scoffed and waved the question off, “I'm not that stupid, angel. You don't give me enough credit.” He sobered up immediately as he stared at the cobblestone streets, “Can you answer a question of mine, Aziraphale?”
The angel slowly lowered himself to the base of the wall, “Well, I can certainly try.”
Crowley took in a deep breath, shuddering slightly as he did. He bit his lip and made eye contact with Aziraphale for the first time since they had started speaking. “Be honest with me, angel,” he said quietly, “Did Upstairs have anything to do with these Crusades?”
Aziraphale fumbled with the question, “W-Well. I'm, uh, I can't say for certain?”
Crowley moaned and banged his head against the wall, “Bless it, angel. They were kids.”
The angel frowned, “What do on earth do you mean?”
Crowley looked up to the sky and sighed, “Twenty-thousand children, marching towards the Mediterranean because they thought they were on a mission from God. They thought the damned sea would part for them and that they could convert the Muslims in the Holy Land.”
There wasn't much he could say to respond to that, other than, “What happened to them, Crowley?”
He looked to Aziraphale in a rare moment of vulnerability with unshed tears in his eyes, “They were sold into slavery, angel. All of them.” He shook his head, “I got a commendation for it, you know. Said it was the first time I'd done proper evil in decades.”
The angel looked properly horrified. It took a few moments for him to speak, but when he did, his answer shocked Crowley, “Well I can assure you, my dear, that my side had nothing to do with this. Truthfully, they think all of this Crusading is a waste of time. All humans are going to the same Heaven and Hell, no matter what they believe.”
Crowley laughed bitterly, “You do realize that means the alternative is that much worse, right?” Aziraphale looked confused, so Crowley continued, “The humans did this all by themselves. No tempting required on behalf of either side.”
He leaned his head against Aziraphale's shoulder, allowing the other to stiffen before he eventually relaxed into the contact. “If these humans are meant to be inherently good,” he murmured, “They sure are doing a fucking terrible job.”
Mississippi – 1830
Crowley didn't know what to think at this point.
This new country had seemed so promising. Built on the foundations of liberty and the pursuit of happiness (for the white man at least), he thought that perhaps they would at least try to be predecessors. They had even called themselves the United States of America, bringing about images of a nation that was stronger together. He had apparently been very wrong.
He had already been getting rather sketchy vibes from their new president. He had practically thrown a tantrum when he had lost the election seven years ago, wailing about a “corrupt bargain.”
But now that he actually was the president, the sketchy vibes had only grown. For somebody's sake, the man even had a Kitchen Cabinet consisting of even sketchier advisors.
And then this had happened.
Granted, the settlers had always had a, shall we say, strenuous relationship with the people that were native to the continent. But this was taking it to new extremes. Moving the native people across the country, simply because the land they had been living on was desirable? Forcing them to walk thousands of miles, leave their homes, leave their sacred spaces? White man's burden, his ass.
Crowley wanted nothing more than to go to President Jackson and persuade him and Congress to fix the damn slaughter they were setting up, but doing good could get him in serious trouble Downstairs.
So Crowley watched sixteen thousand people native to the American continent trudge along towards the setting sun. Occasionally someone would fall into the dust. No one stopped to help them. Sometimes they got back up. Most of the time they didn't.
A voice at his elbow startled him, “Do you think that they Almighty did the right thing?”
Crowley turned his head to spot Aziraphale looking grimly at the people marching by. He frowned at the angel, “I don't know what you're talking about.”
Aziraphale jut his chin towards a government official not far off, looking at the native people down his nose, “Do you think the Almighty wiped out the right group of people? I think perhaps the Europeans have done more damage than those living in the basin could ever have done.”
Crowley snorted, but silently agreed with the angel. The amount of carnage that the Europeans had caused throughout history was insurmountable. They stood in relative silence for a few moments before Crowley broke it with a question, “Do you know what they call the tribes that were willing to move? Without being physically forced out, I mean.”
Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley sneered, “The Civilized Tribes. What does that even mean? Civilized. Like they hadn't built a society a thousand years before England had even learned to shit itself.”
The angel sighed. “What's the death count?” he said quietly.
Crowley scuffed the dusty earth with one of his boots, “Around two thousand. I expect it to grow before the years end.”
Aziraphale buried his face in his hands. A baby began to cry in the distance, causing him to look up again at the people marching along. “Are you sure,” he paused, as though debating whether or not to continue. He decided to proceed, “Are you sure there's nothing that we can do?”
Crowley shook his head sadly, “This is part of some grand scheme, not some minor temptation or miracle.” He nodded towards the same government official, “This is on them, and it always has been. This will stain their ledger and their souls. They'll be with us by the decade's end.”
Aziraphale went to walk away, but he paused, and turned back the demon, “Crowley?”
He hummed in acknowledgment.
The angel looked at the men, women, and children stumbling through the dirt and set his jaw. He glanced at the official once more before his eyes settled on Crowley's. “When they get to you,” he said, “Make sure they pay.”
Crowley looked shocked for a moment, before he grinned ferally. “With pleasure.”
Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris – 1900
The bells of Notre Dame rang midnight in the distance, but Aziraphale made no move from the grave in front of him. He had been standing there for—well, he didn't exactly know. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time seemed to pass differently here. All he knew was that the bouquet of roses he had purchased had begun to droop and he had been clutching the stems so hard that the thorns had bit into his palms.
He didn't feel the sting anymore, and he paid no mind to the blood dripping from his hand and watering the grave.
Aziraphale heard someone approaching him through the graveyard. The person made no attempt to conceal themselves, and the angel was extremely grateful. He already knew who it was.
Crowley appeared at his side and said nothing but took Aziraphale's free hand in his own. Neither spoke for awhile, but the angel was thankful for the company.
He took a deep shuddering breath before finally laying the roses on the front of the grave. The silence remained for a few more moments before Aziraphale broke it.
“His death was boring,” he murmured, “A man so vibrant and full of life and love dying of something so mundane as meningitis and an ear infection.”
Crowley said nothing, allowing Aziraphale to express the anger he felt.
And he was only getting started, “Do you know hoe he first injured his ear? A ruptured eardrum. You know where he got it? Prison. Do you know why he was in prison? Loving a man.”
His grip on Crowley's hand tightened, almost uncomfortably so, but still the demon didn't say anything.
“They called it a gross indecency,” he seethed, “An affront to God. Who are they to say what's an affront to God?”
Crowley finally spoke up, though his voice wasn't raised above a whisper, “Anger is a secondary emotion, angel.”
With that, all the anger drained out of Aziraphale. He spoke through a choked out sob, “I-I just, I just wish I could've been there for him.”
Crowley looked to the sky, trying to find a star in the polluted Parisian sky, “I tried my best.”
His companion sniffled loudly and blinked back tears, looking curiously at Crowley, “Whatever do you mean, my dear?”
He sighed, looking sadly down at the grave, “I knew how much he meant to you angel. When I'd heard he was incarcerated, I tried my best to look after him. Tempt others away from him, keep him out of trouble as best I could.” His fist clenched tightly, “Obviously it wasn't enough.”
Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand, “It wasn't your fault. It was the humans.”
A comfortable silence settled over them, broken only by Notre Dame again striking the hour. Aziraphale sighed, “Thank you for watching him, my dear.”
Crowley smirked slightly and nodded towards the angel carved onto gravestone, “I watched him while he was living. You made sure he was watched over after death.” He leaned around the back, reading an inscription before planting his feet firmly back next to Aziraphale, “Donated by a woman, eh?”
Aziraphale blushed, “He was already in enough trouble, I didn't want to add to it.” He remained silent for a moment longer before quoting, “And alien tears will fill for him/Pity's long-broken urn,/For his mourners will be outcast men,/And outcasts always mourn.”
An angel and a demon stood vigil at the grave and memorial for a few moments longer. Simultaneously, they leaned down and kissed the name written at the bottom of the grave: Oscar Wilde.
Amsterdam – 1945
And he thought the last one had been bad.
Aziraphale stood on a bridge that had been built over the main canal that ran through the center of the city, leaning into the wind as it blew through his hair. He took a deep breath, enjoying the faint salty smell from the North Sea. Celebrations were taking place all over the city. They were free of Germany and the war had been won. But at what cost?
Eighty-five million dead. Eighty-five million. How does one even quantify a loss like that? How does one even begin to think about how many souls had been lost? How high the stacks of bodies were laid? How many families were in mourning? How many dead?
He sighed deeply and looked out over the water. Houseboats bobbed in the canal, intermingled with the occasional gondola. Aziraphale would not be participating in the festivities tonight, not after so much death.
Footsteps echoed across the cobblestones and Aziraphale looked towards the sound. Walking to him was Crowley, the wily old serpent. The demon stood beside him, bumping his shoulder.
Crowley looked down towards the water, not making eye contact with him, “So. Which one did you visit?”
Aziraphale sighed again, “Warsaw. What about you?”
Crowley clenched his fists, his knuckles growing white, “Auschwitz.”
Aziraphale stiffened. He definitely hadn't been expecting that. Trying not to let Crowley see his shock, he hummed in acknowledgment and said, “And what of the Führer?”
If possible, Crowley's fists tightened, “Dead. The bastard killed himself. Didn't even have the goddamned balls to face his punishment like a fucking man.”
The anger drained out of Crowley as he slumped over and leaned his head heavily on Aziraphale's shoulder, “How many dead?”
The angel wrapped an arm around Crowley's shoulders, “Six million.”
“And they all made it to heaven?”
“Every one of them.”
Crowley let out a shaky breath and buried his face deeper into Aziraphale's shoulder. “You know,” he said, “Sometimes I wish I didn't tell them to eat the apple. Maybe there could've been less bloodshed.”
He looked up to Aziraphale and, in a rare moment of intimacy, removed his sunglasses so he could look at his angel properly, “Sometimes I wish this was my fault, so at least then I could still believe they were good at heart.”
Aziraphale placed a tender kiss on the top of Crowley's forehead, choosing not to say anything. But it was Crowley that spoke up again, his voice at a low murmur, “Do you think the Almighty did the right thing? By making the humans?”
Aziraphale looked up at the sky, searching for some kind of star to break through the light pollution and the smog. “I don't know, my dear,” he whispered, “I really don't know.”
And so they stayed huddled over the Amsterdam canal, listening to the sounds of the city fade out until the sun rose.
Saint James Park – Present Day
Six thousand some odd years later, Crowley still didn't know what to think of the humans.
On the one hand, they had committed some of the worst atrocities ever heard of; far worse than anything even Satan himself could dream up. On the other hand, they were capable of such selfless acts of goodness.
He and Aziraphale sat on a bench in Saint James Park. Well, Aziraphale sat, he lounged. They watched the world go by.
Aziraphale broke their companionable silence with almost exactly the question he had been asking himself. He cleared his throat and jut his chin outwards, “Do you think they deserve it? Our protection? To be saved?”
Crowley absorbed the question as he looked out at the humans in the park. A mother and father walking along a path and laughing at their excitable son who would run a few feet ahead and then run back to ensure that they were keeping up. A group of friends chattering excitedly on a picnic blanket and sharing sandwiches and chips. Two girls swinging their clasped hands between them as they walked, each sporting matching blushes and goofy grins.
Finally, Crowley's eyes settled on the angel sat next to him, who was still looking out at the park. A small smile spread across his face and he shifted closer to Aziraphale. The angel turned to him as Crowley pressed a kiss to his brow.
“You know,” Crowley said, “I think the humans might be worth it.”