Chapter Text
After the end of the world that wasn’t, after the end of his life that wasn’t, on the very first night of his brand new existence, which on the surface was remarkably similar to his previous one, Crowley slept. And, for the very first time, Crowley dreamt.
☆★☆
Darkness enfolded him, velvety and warm, full of potential. Crowley, not yet a body, but certainly already a being, twisted left and right and, for the first time, smiled. He was not scared. This soft obscurity was all he had ever known.
It was Day One of the universe. In a moment, She would introduce the first dichotomy, but as of yet, only darkness existed, and it was home. Then light appeared, far away. Not that there existed any concept of distance. It pooled, creating ponds and splashes and golden rivulets. Crowley stared. Magnificent, he thought, and the word, not yet expressed in sounds and letters, but expressed nonetheless, reverberated infinitely, not finding any barriers to stop its journey. Light kept spreading, and Crowley kept staring. The earth was born, below both light and darkness, and heaven followed, above them, if only there existed any concepts such as “below” and “above”. Crowley admired Her creation, and kept his not-yet-formed eyes on the light. On the second day, She created the sky. Crowley liked it. It was the result of light coated on darkness, the child of a binomial. He loved darkness, and he loved light. He felt a twinge in his yet-to-be-moulded chest, for he had been afraid, as much as a being of pure emotion could be, that the light would destroy the darkness, that it would take away his home, but it had not happened. Light touched darkness, and darkness reached back, and in their embrace, the cerulean sky was formed, and Crowley liked it. She, he decided, had rad ideas. He stuck to his obscure bit of the universe, where he felt most at ease, and watched on. Dry land emerged, followed quickly by trees and flowers, and grass. She was especially intent on growing a huge apple tree, surrounding it with plants of all kinds, and rivers, and ponds. It looked beautiful. She, raising Her head towards him, basked in the unspoken compliment. Thank you, he heard with ears that were not there yet. You’re up next, I need a bit of a breather.
Crowley did not understand but accepted Her word. She left Earth and reached out to him. Crowley went. They stood at the edge of the light, where it pooled most swiftly. Crowley could see the currents, the ripples as it flowed. Breathtaking, he thought, not knowing what “breath” was, nor why it could, and perhaps should, be taken. She raised Her hand, and in Her metaphysical grip there lay a brush and a palette. It brimmed with light, with colour.
Do your very best, Dearest, she said. I’ll be awake once you’re finished.
She yawned, and left Crowley with his tools. He knew, without knowing, what he was supposed to do. He had just been gifted with Creativity. Thus, he created. His brush dipped in yellows, and reds, and blues, and greens, and purples, and it stroked over the darkness, that beautiful, velvety canvas which was his home. Nebulae appeared. Then dots, pulsing, brimming with light, smattered all over. They twinkled. Crowley twirled, moving from one bit of the universe to the other, flying on wings he didn’t know he had. He was, for that grand, beautiful, perfect day, incommensurably happy, and he painted on, revelling in his actions, until he gave the last touches and stopped to assess his work. Splotches of light stuck to his figure, not yet fully shaped but now sketched by the streaks of colour. She stood next to him, and looked at his creation.
Perhaps, she mused after a long time, just one more of these twinkly ones. Rather big, next to Earth. It will move things along quite nicely.
Crowley nodded. Stars, he said. I call them stars. He brought up his brush for the last time and drew a round, yellow circle, dotted with reds and oranges. She nodded.
Perfect.
And Crowley, his job done for the time being, rested as She made the animals and the humans. And then, She joined him in admiring Their creation.
I only helped a bit, Crowley mumbled.
I appreciated it, she replied, patting his soon-to-be shoulder.
☆★☆
Crowley woke with a gasp, sitting up, blankets pooling in his lap. Never in his ever-so-long existence had he dreamt. Never, in his God-less life, had he remembered Before. His hand moved of its own accord, touching his cheek and finding it damp. Another first, he thought, aiming for sarcasm and hitting heartbreak. His treacherous body sniffled. He found that he could not inhale well through his nose. It was clogged from crying in his sleep.
Unbelievable, he muttered to himself. She had no right to intrude like that. To remind him. He rubbed his eyes, shaking the teardrops away with an irritated gesture. He didn’t even know that his body could produce such a lousy, human secretion. And of all things, to shed them for that. For something which he had no right to remember, did not want to remember, and should not have remembered. Oh, She was despicable.
Crowley collapsed back against the mattress with an annoyed huff. He felt so drained, and under any other circumstance, he would have found shelter in sleep. Apparently, She had decided to take that away from him, as well. For all his misdeeds, all his temptations, his hellish assignments, Crowley couldn’t help but think it was unfair. He did not deserve this, not after all this time, not after all this life. He did not want to sleep. He abhorred the idea of seeing Her again, seeing himself again as he was Before. Yet, he felt slumber descend on him and he knew it was an inevitability.
You are wicked! He shouted into the ether, desperate as he fought against the pull of sleep.
Well, you do take after me, Dearest.
Crowley would have gasped, or jumped up, or perhaps widened his eyes in terrified incredulity, but She left him no time. He went under, succumbing to Her will.