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He remembered how it began like it was yesterday.
Crowley can’t exactly remember what possessed him to climb up the wall, to put himself in arm’s reach of an angel, and start a conversation with him none the less. But he remembers the first thing he’d said to the angel-
“That went down like a lead balloon,” uttered in a casual way, like he was chatting with a friend, and not, well, an enemy.
And he remembered how Aziraphale had responded, gone along with what he’d said, his light tone and clipped words betraying his hesitant demeanor, clearly not sure how to respond to this random demon’s sudden attention. Dully, he supposed boredom and curiosity must have driven him up the wall, and as the angel stuttered through the same lines he continued to hear since Falling, he found himself regretting coming all this way just to mess with the heavenly being.
Then he had asked about the sword. Oh, the sword. The look the angel had given him, the way he’d pitched his voice when he responded- the demon knew he would not be forgetting that for a very, very long time. Crowley couldn’t just leave things here, he knew it. He wanted to keep messing with this angel and see what other buttons he could push. But his sarcastic response went right over the angel’s head, and instead he had given him that smile, and any thoughts of mischief flew out of the demon’s mind faster than he could even process. It was a quick, fluttering thing, a product of anxiety, but it still managed to dazzle the serpent in a way he couldn’t quite explain. There was something, a small voice in the back of his head, that wanted desperately to see that smile again.
Then the rain started, and as he shuffled closer to the ethereal being, under his pristine wing, the demon had a thought. Most angels were bastards on a good day, but this one…
This angel was different.
And so it went, through the centuries, dancing around each other in a cautious and almost paranoid way, looking over their shoulders almost the whole time. They met every once in awhile throughout the years, shared pleasantries and the occasional drink, and left it at that. Eventually, they started sharing meals, too. It started in Rome, Aziraphale’s offer. But it always ended the same way, with the two going separate ways. And it left Crowley feeling… lonely, he supposed. He didn’t have anyone else to turn to on Earth, and Somebody knew there weren’t any other demons he could turn to in Hell.
From these feelings, the Arrangement came into being. Of course, having less work to do in the long run would be nice, but it was also an excuse to talk to the angel. There was something in him, some ugly thing that flared up when he saw the angel, when he heard him talk and laugh, when the angel smiled at him in that way. It sat somewhere deep in his chest, and- not that he would admit it- thinking about it too much scared him. He knew what it was, and he wanted nothing to do with it. The possible implications of what it could mean were too much for him to handle.
Unfortunately, these feelings only grew over time. And Crowley knew Aziraphale was a being of love, knew he could feel love, and he had to know how Crowley felt. But he never said anything.
And Crowley wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of Aziraphale never saying anything, or someday addressing the feelings Crowley knew he couldn’t hide from the angel.
And he remembered how it ended like it was yesterday.
There was a building he knew like the back of his hand, his second home, a place less like a book shop and more like a vault, and it was on fire. Flames ate the once-cherished books, and Crowley’s world shattered. He clutched one of the last untouched books and stumbled from the fire to a bar, any bar, he didn’t care and couldn’t focus over his racing thoughts. And then Aziraphale was back. He was too drunk to process everything, too many thoughts rushing around, and he couldn’t get everything out. He couldn’t get anything out, and then his angel was telling him to go to Tadfield, and he had places to be.
And then there was a Bentley, an old and well cared for car, 70 years and not a scratch, with Queen stuck on loop, and it was on fire. Flames ate the wheels and the frame, and it protested as it hurled along at high speeds, from the M25 all the way to Tadfield. The flames raged on, fighting the car, and Crowley fought back. The flames took Hastur, but not Crowley, because Crowley had places to be, and Hell was not one of them. So the Bentley held strong until it couldn’t anymore, when Crowley reached Tadfield and his angel.
And then there was his angel, righteous and holy, the only good one up there, his first home- and Crowley could never put that into words for him, but he wanted to, so badly he wanted to- and he was on fire. But the fire did not eat his angel, because Crowley had stepped in for him. He was a good imitation, but could never measure up to the real thing- his angel, so bright and wonderful, where he was a wretched being, so how could he ever come close? No, the fire did not eat his angel, because it was Hellfire, and they were made from same things.
And he remembered how the first day of the rest of their lives began like it was yesterday.
They dined at the Ritz, him and his angel, and toasted to the world, and more quietly to themselves, toasted to each other. Then they returned to Aziraphale’s book shop, and shared a bottle of wine, and simply enjoyed each other’s company without worry for the first time in the 6,000 years that they had known each other. And that thing in Crowley’s chest flared up again, and he couldn’t help the fondness that overtook him as he stared at Aziraphale. And his angel was returning his gaze, an identical look on his face.
Unfortunately, there were gaps in his memories, alcohol and the feeling of being overwhelmed fogging up parts of the evening. He couldn’t quite remember how they ended up that way, but they were tangled together on the couch, holding tightly to each other. Their lips met once, twice, too many times to count through the night, but still not enough for Crowley. But as they dozed peacefully on the couch, Aziraphale peppering his face in kisses and running a hand through his hair, he knew there would be many, many more opportunities for the two of them.
One of the last things that Crowley could not remember was when exactly “the angel” became “his angel,” but he knew Aziraphale didn’t mind, and he didn’t mind. Crowley was just looking forward to what he and his angel would do next.