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Crowley doesn’t like Earth at first. It’s cold and it’s real and it’s different. Humanity disgust him the most, which is rich because he’s a demon and they make his skin crawl, their wars and their arguments and smiles that aren’t really real, aren’t really true; fake and plastic, like dolls. He doesn’t like Earth, because despite the fact that his job is to live off lust and gluttony and wrath, their sins aren’t worth anything, not really. They’re the sins of children, fabricated and wrapped with a ribbon to look professional.
The angel is constant and warm and he loves humanity, loves them with every piece of his soul, like they’re actually worth something. He loves the Earth; he loves the trees and the flowers and the animals.
That’s what they are, he knows; love and hate, malice and greatness. And Aziraphale knows Crowley’s pain, his anguish, and he holds out a hand and says, “Walk with me and I’ll show you how to love.”
And over the next few thousand years, Crowley will know the worst of pains and watch Rome fall and then Germany rise; he’ll watch wars and victories and losses.
And when Aziraphale said “I’ll show you how to love”, he doesn’t mean what Crowley wishes, anyway. The love the angel has is for many things, but it’s not the sort of love you feel for another – deep, passionate, caring. Crowley is disgusted by this love because he’s a demon, of course he is, but sometimes he looks at Aziraphale and sees him smiling at some pathetic human, and he’ll think maybe I could learn to love.
But then he pushes the thought away and continues on, watching societies and men rise and fall. If he was alone, he knows, he would have given up by now. And then he thinks of Aziraphale, a constant comfort next to him, and thinks, But I’m not alone.
--
“An Arrangement,” Crowley says, and smirks.
Aziraphale puts down the piece of parchment he’s looking over, and Crowley sighs because it’s hot and wet and sticky and Crowley would rather be in Rome right now but Aziraphale likes Egypt so they’re stuck here and Crowley isn’t about to leave the angel. “An Arrangement,” Aziraphale agrees, and smiles. “I suppose this means you’ll be sticking with me for another few millennia, then?”
“Only to keep you out of trouble,” Crowley concedes, and Aziraphale laughs and laughs and laughs.
--
They eventually end up in England, Somebody only knows how, but they do. Aziraphale finds himself a bookshop that isn’t really a bookshop, is it, because nobody ever shops there, and Crowley buys himself a sad little house that later gets burnt to the ground. But that’s okay, because he never liked the place anyway, and he stays in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop for a few weeks before finding a new place.
Two weeks later, Crowley gets called away by his superiors, finding himself somewhere in Asia. Aziraphale is still in England, reading old(er) books and blessing people or whatever it is the angel does in his spare time, and Crowley misses him. It takes two bottles of vodka and a fistfight for him to admit it to himself, but he misses the stupid angel.
He feels a sense of relief at admitting it (he won't realise this until years later, but that had been the beginning).
--
“Remember that promise you made?” Crowley says vaguely, a few decades later. He sips from a glass of wine, though maybe ‘sipping’ isn’t quite the word for enthusiasm with which he’s drinking it.
“The one where I told you I’d teach you how to knit?” Aziraphale asks, confused.
Crowley opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Because maybe that’s just the way it’s meant to be, accepted and forgotten – Aziraphale kept his promise without even knowing it, without even remembering it. Not the one about knitting, thank Somebody.
“Never mind,” Crowley mumbles, and downs the glass in one.
--
They’re in a war zone, Crowley doesn’t even know where, he’s lost track of these things by now, but he knows that they’re in a warzone. There are people screaming and there’s blood, so much blood, and Crowley thinks hell isn’t as bad as this and tries not to throw up. Aziraphale just looks sad, like looking at a picture of somebody he lost years ago but still hasn’t quite gotten over.
And for the most of it, Crowley stays out of the fighting. Aziraphale is stupid, and he rushes around, ushering people into houses and healing the wounded, deflecting bullets. But this is Crowley’s job, isn’t it, it’s his life; watch people get hurt and do nothing to save them, because humanity doesn’t deserve saving; they’ve done this to themselves.
But Crowley is not perhaps as evil as he would like himself to be, and there’s a little girl. A little girl, hardly even ten, and she is pushing her brothers and sisters into one of the houses, vulnerable and scared but impressively determined. And then she turns, and there’s a man with a rifle, pressed to her head and Crowley thinks humanity and lost cause, and Aziraphale turns and sees the gun and the child but he’ll never get there in time, never, but Crowley’s closer, and –
The man fires.
His gun backfires, makes a painful clicking sound and bursts into flame. There’s an explosion, and Crowley grabs the girl and covers her body with his which, wow, Hell is going to slaughter him for this later but whatever.
And Crowley gets up, brushes himself off, kind of disgusted with himself because he’s a demon, for fuck’s sake, this is pathetic. The girl gives his hand a tug, smiles at him. He looks at her for a few moments, and the gunfire continues but she just stands there, smiling at him like he’s some sort of hero or something and he wants to yell, I’m not, I’m not, you’ve got the wrong person.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and even years later, he can’t bring himself to regret it.
--
Then they’re back in England, saving people and ruining them, too. Sometimes when it’s late at night and quiet, Crowley takes Aziraphale to his new house and they sit on the roof, get absolutely drunk out of their minds and watch the stars.
One night Aziraphale points out one of the stars, a particularly bright one but one that’s partially covered by cloud, and says, “That one, that’s you. The clouds may go over you for a while, but you always shine brightly despite that, always.”
Crowley jokes, “I like to think of myself more as the clouds,” because he hates sentimentality but from the angel, he puts up with it (more than puts up with it, maybe, but whatever). “Don’t be such a sap,” Crowley mumbles embarrassedly, smiling behind his hands.
“Sorry, my dear.” The smug bastard is grinning; Crowley can hear it through the darkness. “It’s in my nature.”
Later, when it’s black and cold and they’re too drunk, far too drunk, Aziraphale kisses Crowley under the dim moonlight.
After a few beats of silence and warm bodies, Crowley whispers, a rare moment of honesty, “If I were alone, I don’t think I would have survived humanity this long.”
And he feels Aziraphale smile against his lips, warm and kind and accepting, and the words are said softly, almost like a prayer: “But you’re not alone.”