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Crowley couldn’t take her eyes from the battered young man. Part of her felt she had no right to look away when he had no choice but to endure; and another part steeped in astonishment that she should even set her demonic gaze upon the Almighty’s newest favourite. But then, being favoured and all was hardly proving any kind of honour, was it? What was one pair of serpentine eyes fit to do to him among a crowd that had already inflicted infinitely worse?
And besides, he knew her eyes. He had smiled up into them, laced with sadness. With forgiveness Crowley hadn’t asked after and knew she could never deserve.
What has this world come to?
Her black abaya swayed against her legs as she wound her way in from the edge of the throng, drawing closer. The demon’s breath hitched and she stilled. Standing among the crowd’s more muted tunics and cloaks, there was a shot of light.
Aziraphale…
The man-shaped being had draped himself in layers of wool kept too clean and too brilliant by miraculous means. Delicate white-gold curls lay tucked away beneath the twisting cotton turban, a small mercy in a place otherwise removed of such benevolence.
Of course he’s here. He’s always here at these sorts of deals. Aren’t we both?
The difference then was the lack of anything raining down—no first rains, no great floods, no stars crashing fire and judgement, no blood nor beasts nor insects. Just a gentle man who didn’t deserve the mocking spectacle put upon him.
Crowley didn’t want to go to the angel: no, the need of it scorched her. Aziraphale was not on her side, but he was a friendly face in that darkness which loomed constant at her shoulder. And so Crowley loomed over his shoulder instead, keeping Heaven’s servant on her right as had suited her in the past.
“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?”
“Smirk? Me?” Aziraphale barely startled.
Were you waiting for me, Crowley wanted to ask. Instead, she said, “Well, your lot put him on there.”
Aziraphale frowned, and twisted his hands. “I am not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley.”
The name grated against her ears. It had been a terribly long time since she’d considered herself any sort of Crawley. She had always sort of assumed she could let the angel keep calling her that. It’s what he knew, what the demon met him as. But in light of all the going-ons—and what was clearly more than simple discomfort flashing in Aziraphale’s stormy eyes—she was weary of the distance it forced between them, him not knowing how she felt, how she identified those days.
So she closed the gap, saying cool and casual, “Oh, I’ve changed it.”
“Changed what?”
“My name.” The demon scrunched her face with revulsion. “Crawley wasn’t doing it for me. A bit too squirming at your feetish.”
“Well, you were a snake,” Aziraphale pointed out, needlessly. “So what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?”
“Crowley,” she said firmly but with forced lightness. Isn’t this normal, her tone said. Aren’t we just chatting in the market and not watching the bleeding Christ child, well, bleeding?
To punctuate the moment, the ringing of metal against metal clanged across the desert. Demon and angel both winced.
“Did you, uh, ever meet him?” It was Aziraphale’s turn for lightness it seemed.
“Yes,” she said. “Seemed a very bright young man. I… showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”
There was an ocean of softness in the angel’s voice as he asked, simply, “Why?”
Was he so truly stunned? Because Crowley was a demon? Or just because she was Crowley?
“He’s a carpenter from Galilee. His travel opportunities are limited,” she answered, an omission more than a lie.
Another hammer blow, and this one buried the nail through the young man’s poor wrist. Dark blood spilled from his body as swift as the wordless agony from his cracked lips.
“Ow. That’s gotta hurt.” Crowley’s heart clenched beneath her breast. It was all so senseless. She asked, feeling lost and fighting to keep the rawness from her voice, “What was it he said that got everyone so upset?”
Aziraphale’s lips danced between a frown and miserable smile. “Be kind to each other.”
Ohh. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”
The young man’s agony crescendoed as the soldiers raised the wooden cross. His already battered and beaten body sagged against the weight of the world, the ropes and metal pinning him there like a still-breathing butterfly on gross display.
Crowley’s throat tightened just watching him. And that was, after all, what she was there to do. Watch. Make sure none of the young man’s devotees rallied to his rescue. The Dark Council wanted a win against the forces of Heaven, especially after Crowley’d gone and buggered up the whole temptation of Christ gig. Her first major project since original sin, and she just didn’t have it in her to convince the young man of anything other than a quick vacation.
She wasn’t sure if Hell would see it her way about the road to Calvary but, far as the demon was concerned, help to carry his burden and a damp bit of cloth to his face? Well, that could hardly be considered help, could it? It wasn’t like there was anyone leaping to get whipped and crucified themselves in His name.
And so, with the angel at her side, Crowley watched. As the soldiers gambled over his clothes. As the others condemned to die sought damnation and forgiveness each. She watched.
At length, she pulled the folded edge of her shayla back across her stricken face. Only her golden-lit eyes peered out, still witnessing. She whispered to her old nemesis, her friend, “Will you stay until the end?”
Aziraphale hazarded a glance to her. “What?”
“It could take days up there like that, you know.”
Worry flashed across his face, creasing his brow. “Days? To…?”
“Yes.” She watched him, taking in his welling sadness and the edges of betrayal, the little ‘no’ formed but not spoken upon his lips. Eyes darted to the condemned and then back to the demon.
You see it, too, Crowley thought, and wanted to reach for him. I know you do. This isn’t right.
And then Aziraphale’s eyes abandoned her, closing as he lifted his chin skyward. “May She show mercy—”
Crowley physically recoiled at the angel’s words. She damn near hissed.
Instead, the demon whirled away with a growl, unable to stand in the presence of such a prayer without saying something regrettable. She heard Aziraphale stumble over her name as she marched away through the thin crowd, the sun long set and the blue night enveloping them all.
Fool of an angel, she thought as tears bit at the corners of her eyes. Begging for mercy? From the Almighty? The One what put him on there?
Crowley didn’t care that she had a job to do. No one was coming to anyone’s rescue, not that night. Whatever punishment came her way if it turned out differently, she’d take it if it meant not spending one more moment fixed on that slaughter.
She stalked back toward the city, snarling and hissing at last, keeping her anger warm. Crowley avoided the gates, turning instead toward the base of a watchtower, suddenly and conveniently unmanned for the evening. She secluded herself beneath the soaring palms that lined the city wall. With the quick drag of a miracle, a shallow fire joined her and she collapsed into a heartsick heap.
“Why,” she keened.
There came no answer.
The demon untucked the shayla from her face. Another upward flick of her hand and an amphora full of amber-colored wine appeared at her feet. The soldiers back at the death knoll wouldn’t notice its absence.
Let them bicker amongst themselves if they do.
It wasn’t the best drink around, but Crowley wanted it all the same. The harshness slanted against her tongue, crowding the juicy edges of the wine into her parched throat. The taste of ash followed but reluctantly. And the more Crowley drank, the less she tasted anything. A blessing and a curse in its own right.
Shortly after humanity had started fermenting grains and fruits, the pleasant side effects of alcohol had fast become the demon’s favourite way to trick her more temperamental senses. But as a hellthing, time and invitation to imbibe were rare. Unlike that night, Crowley had always been with company. The drink always a celebration. Also unlike that night and ostensibly out of self-preservation, Crowley had previously managed to stay on the more cognizant end of drunk. She had often been tippled, frequently merry, occasionally soused, and at those few festivals that revered certain slithery creatures the demon had ever found themselves well and truly soused.
What Crowley was about to be—skipping far past wankered, steaming, and monged—was the wholly new and regrettable experience of arseholed.
If she hadn’t been so gone, perhaps Crowley would have seen the angel’s guileless approach along the city wall and how he then watched her ranting rage, long weighing whether or not to approach.
Instead, Crowley tossed back her head, the ember strands of her hair shining in the firelight. “Is this Your test?” she called. “Or another marvellous promise? Rainbows not to drown everyone.”
The demon took another wretched swig from her third appropriated amphora.
“Blood instead of floods to cleanse their sins,” she snarled and pointed a finger heavenward. “S-sin I helped create. They say that! Did You know? Is that why You do this?”
She cried out, overwhelmed by the reach of it all. She should have drowned in that flood if it was sin and evil the Almighty claimed to be washing away.
“Shoulda been me up on that dogwood,” she muttered, secretive, into the mouth of the jar before drinking again.
Though he hadn’t been hiding exactly, Aziraphale stepped into the light finally and with head bowed. “Crowley…”
“Sod off,” she snapped.
Aziraphale did not, in fact, sod off. The angel stood several paces from Crowley’s fire, his hands folded together, one atop the other rubbing at his wrist. His throat bobbed as he swallowed several comments before settling on, “Are you staying in town?”
“Nnn,” Crowley said through another mouthful of wine.
Aziraphale breathed a little laugh. “You can’t be meaning to sleep out here, are you?”
The demon glared.
“It gets frightfully cold at night,” the angel added.
Crowley sneered and drank again. “The better to punish me by.”
Aziraphale tutted and broke his stillness, rounding the fire. “You don’t even have a blanket! And this… These rocks are hardly comfortable, I should think.”
“Wh-you think I don’t know that?” Crowley huffed and let the amphora clatter at her feet with the other two. “You think I don’t s-spend most of my time f— Lying around out in cold, hard places? What?”
Aziraphale had been eyeing the amphora. “It’s spilling, Crowley.”
“I know that!” Crowley swiped down at the handle. She wrinkled her nose as she shook the jug to inspect how much she’d lost into the dirt below. Pour one out for Yeshua, she thought bitterly.
Aziraphale was still hovering. Undeterred, he said, “I, uh, I haven’t known you to drink…”
“You haven't known me,” Crowley said, her quickdart words aimed to wound. The angel had sense enough to look rightfully reproached, and that pacified the demon.
He gestured to her side with billowing sleeves. “May I join you then?”
Crowley slammed her thin lips together and attempted to focus her bleary eyes, staring. Judging. Weighing whether or not this was a friendly gesture or one meant to lull her into a false sense of security. But when Aziraphale cast an imploring smile, she caved. He wasn’t there to harm her. That was old fears talking. Look at him, Crowley thought, he’s a bundle of fluffy nerves. What’s this night done to him, too?
And besides. He’d revealed quite a bit of himself, asking if she’d changed her name to a demon trapped in their own personal hell. Or the demon of lust. Ha!
With the edge of understanding reaching her through the alcohol, forgiveness—or at least the ability to allow the attempt of an apology—smoothed over the tightness of Crowley’s knocking bones. One shaking branch of an arm extended toward Aziraphale, passing him the amphora.
“Do as you please,” Crowley said flatly. She picked up a stick to poke at the fire.
“Oh, thank you.”
“Don’t go blessing the dam—damnable stuff on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Though she angled her body toward the fire, Crowley kept her companion in the corner of her eye. She watched as Aziraphale drank delicately of the stolen wine, amber droplets catching against his lips. His tongue flicked out, drawing back the escaped liquor.
Then his eyes flew open wide. He exhaled sharply with the heat of the drink. “Ooh,” Aziraphale said and coughed twice. “Oh, that burns!”
Crowley raised one dark brushstroke eyebrow.
“Nnyeah? What’d y’expect?” She reached for the jar and the angel passed it.
Aziraphale blinked back tears as he tapped lightly against his chest. “Not sure. Do they all do that?”
With the mouth of the jar already pressed to her lips, Crowley choked as the wine spilled into her. She hacked and gagged, setting down the amphora.
“Are you all right?”
Crowley laughed as she caught her breath, bent over double against her knees and head swimming. She held out a hand to keep the angel from assisting, finally managing to squeak out a few words. “Never… tried it? B-before?”
Aziraphale’s innocent expression caused her laughter again.
“But you eat their food!”
“It’s not funny, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly.
“S’a little funny.” The demon passed the jar back toward him, waiting. Technically speaking, Crowley hadn’t tempted Aziraphale into anything. He had asked to join her.
The fire crackled and shifted.
Aziraphale sighed deeply, and nodded. “I assume it, uh, gets better? The taste I mean?”
“Mm. Maybe. Who knows.”
The angel took another pull from the jar, wincing still but smacking his lips after. “Hmm.”
Long into the night, the angel and demon shared the weighty silence and the soldiers’ wine, the taste of both growing on them.
The moon crested the walls of the city high overhead, capturing Crowley’s forlorn attention long enough that she stopped reaching for the amphora. She tucked the edge of her shayla back across her face, feeling exposed as her eyes welled. Soft sounds scratched up and out of her throat.
Aziraphale, who had been pleasantly humming, stilled after a moment. “Cr… Crowley?”
The demon turned away.
“Are you…?”
Crowley shook her head. It wasn’t a denial of his assumption but of his concern. That would go nowhere any self-respecting demon would allow. And, drunk as she was in the moment, Crowley was not what any demon might call self-respecting.
“It’s nothing to… It’s alright if you are,” Aziraphale whispered.
The wine had clearly made him drippy. And done worse for Crowley, whose breath hitched as she said, “It’s just… What good does it do?” She snapped her golden gaze at the angel, red-rimmed and filled to bursting with questions and more questions.
Aziraphale straightened as he caught that this was about so much more than the proceedings of the night.
“F-four thousand years! And still… tes-s-sting… everybody.” Sobs broke within the demon’s voice. “How are any… of us… meant to… to…”
Aziraphale moved to her side. “My dear. Oh! Come, come here.”
Crowley turned easily into his arms as he offered. She covered her mouth with her quivering hands—had to keep the words in, couldn’t let anyone hear, couldn’t draw attention, couldn’t let either side see her like this. But it was to no avail. The wine had pushed them out, no room left at the inn. Crowley’s devastated wails, fermented in millennia of bearing horrified witness, leaked through too narrow fingers and scattered against the fire warmed sands.
Fiercely, Aziraphale gathered her sob-wracked body to his chest. He was so much stronger than Crowley had expected. Then he caught one of her fluttering hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed her trembling fingertips and sharp-edged knuckles, over and over.
Crowley curled against him, tucking her legs tightly, wishing for inky coils. Smuggle me up your sleeves, Aziraphale. Hide me away.
Aziraphale kept her hand in his, pressed to his impossibly tender cheek.
She shifted in his grip to clasp his wide fingers, desperate to anchor herself through a torrent of tears. “P-please…”
“I’m here,” Aziraphale said, kissing the side of her hand once and twice, leaving his lips firmly against her skin. “You’re safe.”
She cried harder. She didn’t know why she did but she believed him. Perhaps something in the hard set of his jaw rested there against the top of her head as she squeezed his arm and he kept her close. The Almighty Themself could come down from Heaven on high to force them apart and Crowley still knew, bone deep, that there would be no deterring Aziraphale from her side. Not that night.
As Aziraphale’s hand on her shoulder worried the dark fabric of her dress, Crowley’s wine-drunk lips spilled her questions for every tear shed between them.
Through it all, deep into the night, her angel held her and whispered, “I’m here. You’re safe. I have you.”