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Crowley's first, biggest temptation, the one that made his eternal reputation in Hell, Earth, and Heaven, was almost ridiculously easy.
He didn't expect it to be. Big old tree right in the middle of the Garden with nothing around it but a metaphorical Keep Out sign? It had to be some kind of trick, surely. It couldn't be exactly what it looked like.
He still wonders about that, even now. Whether the whole thing wasn't some kind of a set-up. Still doesn't know quite how to feel about it if it was. Even he, although he'd rather dive into a font of holy water than admit it out loud, might just possibly find some comfort in the thought that everything's always played out the way it's meant to, even while he seethes at the thought of still being nothing more than a tool of God, after She so ostentatiously turned Her back on him.
Mostly, he tries not to think too much about it. Not thinking too much about things has never been one of his best skills, but he's had a lot of time to practice, so he manages it at least as often as not. It helps that there are lots of entertaining distractions on Earth, and that probably wouldn't be true if he hadn't succeeded, would it? So that's one reason to not feel too bad about it. Or to feel the right kind of bad about it. Or whatever he's supposed to feel. A reason not to regret it, anyway.
But the point is, it was surprisingly easy. He honestly hadn't even expected it to work at all, it just seemed like the most obvious trouble to start with. The low-hanging fruit, so to speak. And yet, all it took was a few words hissed softly into an interested ear. "Don't you want to know? Aren't you curious? What could it hurt?" Words he might at least have stopped and listened to in her place, whether he acted on them or not, but weren't the humans supposed to be better than demons? More obedient?
They're not, though. They're really not. Eve had positively leaped to disobey, and that's more than Crowley ever did. He hadn't even quite realized that being disobedient was what he was doing, until it was far too late to suddenly start obeying again.
He wondered about that at the time, that human eagerness to transgress. And then couldn't ever stop wondering about it. Even if he wanted to, humanity wouldn't let him. They just love that phrase, "forbidden fruit." Love to roll it around in their mouths, to savor it. Love to say, "oh, no, no, I mustn't" even while they're reaching towards the tree. To keep saying it even around a mouthful of apple, while the juices drip down their chins. Crowley knows all about that. He has to. It's been his job, ever since, to keep whispering, "Oh, go on, just one little taste" in their ears, and it's never got any more difficult than the first time.
"Never understood it," he'll say, sometimes, a little too loudly. "Humans, go figure. Honestly, I think She made them a little defective. How does it make any blessed sense that all it takes for them to want something so much they can't stand it is to tell them it's a terrible idea? If that's what you call free will, you can keep it."
He'll say things like that, and the angel will tut at him, scandalized and amused, will say something like "Oh, come now, there's a great deal more to them than that," or, "Ah, but having that desire just makes it all the more noble when they resist it." Or, "Well, one could hardly expect a demon like you to understand."
He smiles when he says things like that, the angel. He smiles, and his eyes twinkle as he pops a date or a grape or a chocolate into his mouth and waits happily to hear Crowley's rebuttal.
And Crowley always thinks, I could kiss him.
There are so many moments when Crowley thinks that. When he knows he could lean forward and press his lips to Aziraphale's, that nothing on Earth would stop him.
It would be easy. As easy as that first temptation. He is almost certain that the angel, too, would cry, "No, no, no I mustn't," but would do it with his mouth full.
But he's seen what the consequences of that can be. God has a history of exiling Her children for things that come this easily and feel this right.
And it may be that Crowley can hear his own voice hissing in his ear, saying, "Yes, but then you'd be on the same side, wouldn't you? In a way that even Aziraphale couldn't deny," and "Aren't you curious? Don't you want to know?" and "Go on. Just one little taste."
He knows it never stops with one taste, though. That first bite always changes everything. And the only thing worse than Aziraphale in the power of Heaven would be Aziraphale in the power of Hell.
So Crowley doesn't bother telling himself, "No, I mustn't." Doesn't let Aziraphale say it, either. Not about this. Instead, he simply doesn't bite. He just... enjoys the sight of the apple, breathes in its scent. Stands guard over it and keeps the flying pests away.
But he does wonder, sometimes, what it was like for Eve, that taste, that knowledge, that sweetness. The expression on her face was one of joy, before it turned frightened and guilty. He's never forgotten the sight of it.
He wonders if it felt the way it looked. Because it looked, just for a moment, as if the apple loved her back.
Did it? He looks around at the world, some days, and he thinks perhaps it did.
He can never tell if that's a hopeful thought or not.