Chapter Text
The Flood
Anthony J. Crowley had a secret. He hadn’t even told his angel, Aziraphale, though he knows the angel will only approve. Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t told him; demons don’t usually do things of which angels would approve. It would be awkward.
It started when God decided to flood the earth and drown all the people. He remembers the conversation he had with the angel at the time.
Crowley: What's all this about? Build a big boat and fill it with a traveling zoo?
Aziraphale: From what I hear, God's a bit tetchy. Wiping out the human race. Big storm.
Crowley: All of them?
Aziraphale: Just the locals. I don't believe the Almighty's upset with the Chinese. Or the Native Americans. Or the Australians.
Crowley: Yet.
Aziraphale: And God's not actually going to wipe out all the locals. I mean, Noah, up there, his family, and his sons, their wives, they're all going to be fine.
Crowley: But they're drowning everybody else? Not the kids? You can't kill kids.
Aziraphale: Mm-hmm.
Crowley: Well, that's more the kind of thing you'd expect my lot to do.
Aziraphale: Yes, but when it's done, the Almighty's going to put up a new thing, called a "rain bow," as a promise not to drown everyone again.
Crowley: How kind.
He had parted company with Aziraphale at that point in the conversation, thinking about the kids. What’d they do to deserve drowning. Doesn’t She discriminate at all? He had felt so helpless and angry, frustrated with the angel who wouldn’t intervene even though Crowley could feel, deep inside, how wrong this whole scenario was.
Expecting a smiting at any moment, he tried to work covertly as he rescued as many of the children as he could. He started with the smallest, the babies and the barely walking, and worked his way older. Hopefully the older kids will be able to swim a bit, stay afloat until I can come for them. He fought fatigue and despair as he swooped and searched, gathering up as many as he could hold at a time and depositing them on a mountaintop. It wasn’t enough, he couldn’t save them all, and when there were no more tiny limbs flailing in the water, he had stood on a different mountaintop (so as not to further terrify the rescued children) and howled at the storm, at God, at Aziraphale, at the entire situation. His rage was swallowed by the wind and the rain, and he screamed until his throat was raw and he had no more tears to shed. Then he’d made his way back to the rescued children and, with a snap, moved the entire group and himself to dry land half a country away. He tended each child as best he could, waving them dry and warm, healing any hypothermia or water in the lungs or any other injury they may have sustained while struggling against the rising water for their lives. Older children held onto younger children, and babies found small arms securing them safely. They were all of them too tired and shocked to cry, too traumatized to sleep.
Crowley miracled up some bread and honey for the kids and, putting the oldest of them in charge while he was gone, went in search of a solution for their continued care.
Demonic miracle energy drained, walked for about 30 minutes until he found a village. He didn’t see many children running around, and asked a local about it. “Oh, we’ve been cursed. No healthy babies have been born in 7 years.” She went on to tell him of the heartbreak new mothers faced as their children were born too soon, or without vital organs. Their crops would soon start suffering; they relied on every member of every family to work the fields, but without children they didn’t have enough help.
Crowley stayed and talked with the village women for a bit, making arrangements and planning for the future of his rescues. Making sure they'd be safe and wanted and cared for. Then he trudged back to the group and led them to their new home.
The people of the village rejoiced to see so many children. The babies were immediately snatched up by grieving mothers. Crowley made sure siblings stayed together. When all but one of the children had a new home, he went to talk with the village leader. He handed over a hefty pile of the local currency and instructions to use it to take care of all of the children. The remaining child joined the village leader’s home, and with promises to check in from time to time, Crowley left.
He returned every handful of years, watching the children grow and thrive. The ache of the flood ebbed slightly, but he never forgot, never forgave Her for the horrors these children had lived through. They weren’t supposed to live through it, maybe that’s on me. He never could quite figure out if he had done a good thing, rescuing the kids, or a bad thing, thwarting the plans of the Almighty.
He never told Aziraphale about the rescue.
Egypt
Crowley didn’t mind the plagues so much. He was rather impressed; they were more the kind of thing he’d expect his lot to do. He enjoyed the mayhem as the Nile flowed red. He wasn’t so fond of the flies or the lice, but the frogs weren’t too bad. He’d gorged on them in his snake form until he couldn’t move. But then things got worse; the livestock started dying and were left to rot in the fields, causing a stench that crept across the land. People, even children, were covered in boils, and he couldn’t heal them. That’s when he started to suspect that there was more coming. Hail flattened the crops, and locusts ate whatever was left.
When the darkness fell, he tried to reason with Pharaoh Ramesses. “Look, I know the Almighty. She doesn’t give up. She once drowned an entire population because She was in a mood. She doesn’t care if children get hurt. Let the slaves go, before it costs you even more.” But the Pharaoh wouldn’t listen, so Crowley sought out the angel he knew was out there, comforting God’s People.
“Can’t we do something?” He begged and pleaded and tempted and tried every trick in his book, but Aziraphale was adamant: this is how it was meant to be, and he’d been instructed not to interfere, just protect Her people.
Aziraphale did try to get Crowley to leave before the final plague. “Why?” Crowley asked wryly. “What’s She going to do, start killing babies?”
Aziraphale looked embarrassed but wouldn’t say anything more about it.
Crowley was with Ramesses when his oldest son, Amun-her-khepeshef, died suddenly. He didn’t believe it could get worse. What could be more impactful to the Pharaoh than losing his oldest son, his pride and joy, heir to his throne? But soon word came in from across the land; every firstborn son of every Egyptian family had died.
Crowley didn’t look for Aziraphale before he left. He didn’t think he’d be able to restrain his rage around Her Principality. He knew the Angel wasn’t responsible, but he was angry and bitter with grief. He wrapped his dark linen garb around him and disappeared into the desert, not caring where he ended up.
The Black Plague
The air was choking with smoke and flies, the smell of rot and decay. Holding a scrap of fabric in front of his face in a futile attempt to filter some of the odor, Crowley picked his way through the narrow streets, listening for the cries of children in abandoned homes. One by one, he gathered them, looking for any signs of the Black Death. He healed where he could, eased the suffering of those that were too far gone. The survivors were gathered into an abandoned barn that he had glamoured so outsiders wouldn’t notice it. He had lined it with beds, and set up a small area where they could eat.
He found a woman who had lost her family but seemed to be immune to the plague, and spoke with her at length to gauge her temperament before leading her to the barn that sheltered the children. He had warned her about the situation; she still looked stricken when she saw the orphans. But she immediately set to work, and Crowley left a stack of gold coins to pay for their care and keep.
When he came back two years later, the children were plump and happy. Their caretaker (he learned her name was Amice) had taken the gold and used it to improve the barn, dividing it into rooms and adding a functional kitchen. There were a few more children than he remembered; Amice and the older children had continued his rescue efforts. The older kids had started wearing plague masks and, doused in spices and disguised as doctors, had sneaked into houses that had no survivors to find money, food, and goods to sell. Crowley was invited to dinner, but declined as the food was needed by those who actually ate. He lingered until bedtime, however, and entertained the children with stories of exotic snakes in distant lands, snakes that could fly through the air like ravens, taking care of those in need. When the last head nodded and the last pair of eyes had closed, he slipped away into the night. But not before he’d left another purse of coins, miracling it to never run out and never draw notice.
The AIDS Crisis
Crowley was angry. Despite the progress of the past several decades, people were still essentially people. Judgemental, hard, cruel.
People were dying, and instead of trying to do anything to help them, the general population had turned their backs, calling the illness “God’s Judgement” for “lifestyle choices.” Gay men - and indeed the entire Queer community - were targeted for discrimination, hate crimes, and panic. Misinformation came from every quarter, from “Don’t drink his milk, you’ll get it!” to “You can’t get it if you’re straight.”
Crowley couldn’t heal this one, though he tried desperately when his friend fell ill. He knew what it was, even if his friend wouldn’t listen to a diagnosis for four years. He could see the decay creep through the veins of the rock star before anyone guessed he was sick. His performance at Live Aid was unlike any rock performance ever, and Crowley watched from the wings, mesmerized and already mourning the loss that was eminent. He was there when he had his foot amputated due to complications of the disease. He held his hand as he struggled through recording his band’s final album, racing the clock against his own mortality. When the star did pass, Crowley got blind drunk and left London for years, unable to bear the daily reminders of the man he’d allowed behind his walls. Never again; human lives are too short, he burned way too fast. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
But as he drifted through the ‘80s, he realized there were other victims of this crisis: children. Those who fell ill didn’t live for long, their tiny bodies wracked with pain and decay. But here and there he found the children whose parents hadn’t made it, who were left behind when caretakers stopped showing up. Once again, he gathered the lost children and set them up in an abandoned mansion, purchasing the land and building outright. He hired a team of caregivers, including child therapists, gourmet chefs, and matronly types of any gender, and didn’t look back. Not this time, his wound was too fresh. But he had secured a bank account in the name of the home, and made sure it always had enough funds.
Through the Ages
He never stopped. He had spent the past 4,000 years since the flood finding children who’d been abandoned, forgotten, or lost, and providing homes for them.
He helped Thomas Coram set up his Foundling Hospital in 1739. The first children’s charity to exist, it changed the standard for other institutions in its quality care for orphaned and abandoned children. Crowley made sure it had the funds to continue their work, and when the Foundling Hospital became obsolete he started donating to the Coram Foundation, which continued the work of helping orphans and abandoned children.
Almost exactly two centuries after the Foundling Hospital was established, he helped set up Kindertransport ahead of the second Great War, and then worked with Irena Sendler to save children marked for concentration camps.
Between Thomas and Irene had been a famine caused by potato blight, and Crowley had traveled to the green island to try and feed the children. Eventually it wasn’t enough, and he protected those who were able to leave the starving island. He was back in Ireland when the Troubles started, shuttling children to safety from the religious conflict.
Following disasters both natural and man made, he was there throughout history, gathering up the lost children and making sure they had homes. Sometimes he could place them with relatives, if it was a suitable fit. He had a list of criteria for new guardians; they had to provide warm quarters, quality food, clean clothing, medical care, and an education. He found guardians that were affectionate and honest.
He saved as many children as he could, and grieved for the ones he couldn’t save.