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Am I the antichrist?
How do I sleep at night?
Just need to escape my mind
I guess it figures
- Holly Humberstone, Antichrist
If hell is stifling hot, then the Garden of Eden is delightfully cool.
It’s the perfect sort of weather, warm but with a breeze. Crowley sleeps here, content, curled up in a tree. In sleep, he forgets the fact he has fallen. He forgets the instruction, cause trouble. He forgets he is himself.
When they approach he is ready for them. Resigned, but well rested. He opens one eye.
Eve stares curiously at the apple. Why shouldn’t she take it? What’s so wrong with asking questions?
“Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden’?” Crowley hisses. Eve startles, but then smiles.
“We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, but God did say, ‘You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.”
“You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to Eve. “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”
Eve’s expression changes. Her eyes brighten with excitement and curiosity. She reaches up, and takes the apple. She bites into it. Passes it to Adam.
And they are cast from the garden. But how can knowledge be sinful? Crowley was born wanting to learn. But here he is, damned hell spawn, cursed by his own curiosity. Just like the humans.
After the almost-apocalypse, Crowley’s curiosity dies.
He has learned too much. Because at the very end of the world, God had not intervened. She had left them. The world is abandoned, he thinks, left in the hands of angels and demons. But what are angels and demons, really? What’s the point of all of it?
Hell has stopped paying his rent. So Crowley sleeps curled up in the Bentley, the only real home he has ever had. Most of the space is taken up by his plants. He hadn’t the heart to leave them.
And that’s the whole problem. Too much heart for hell. Too much head for heaven. Too strange for humanity. Too much for his best friend. Every night Crowley wonders what he is, and what he should do.
Apart from the occasional chat with Aziraphale, Crowley has nothing at all to do. The thought used to be freeing. Now it leaves him feeling empty.
“Crowley?”
Crowley looks up. Snaps out of it. Aziraphale’s staring at him, his mug halfway to his mouth. Crowley offers him a smile.
“Where did you go?” The angel asks, not fooled by Crowley’s weak smile.
“Sorry,” Crowley says. “Been sleeping rough.”
Aziraphale’s brow furrows. Crowley has always loved his sleep. He could nap for centuries, if he wanted to.
“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asks. He lowers his voice. “It isn’t… hell, is it?”
For a moment, Crowley considers telling the truth. But he holds back, and puts on confidence.
“Everything’s fine downstairs.” He says, dismissively, but as he tries to gesture vaguely downwards he knocks over his own cup of tea.
Crowley hisses. Aziraphale waves his hand, and the damp spots on the carpet disappear.
They look at each other. Aziraphale frowns.
“You’re not your usual demonic self.”
Crowley wants to laugh, at that.
“I’m fine.” He says. Easier to lie. “Really, angel.”
Aziraphale takes a sip of tea.
“I’ve known you for 6000 years, remember?”
“How could I forget?” Crowley says. Their shared history lingers between them. Crowley can’t tell if it comforts him, or makes him feel worse.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale says. More gentle than Crowley has ever heard him.
And that’s enough to make Crowley stand, very suddenly.
“I’ll see you later.” He says, all in a rush.
Aziraphale watches him leave.
Crowley lies on top of the Bentley, looking up at the sky.
He can see Alpha Centauri. He imagines himself there. Would he have been happy? Would he have a purpose? Or would this feeling linger no matter the planet, dark and all-consuming?
“There you are!”
Crowley startles, and almost falls from the top of the car. He peers over the side, and there’s Aziraphale, looking up at him.
“Angel?” Crowley asks, wide-eyed. “What are you doing here?”
“I found a rather nice bottle of red at the back of the shop.” Aziraphale says. “I went to your apartment, but it’s empty.”
There’s a question in Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley sighs.
“You’re not living here, are you?” Aziraphale asks.
“What does it look like?”
Aziraphale is quiet for a moment. Then he pulls himself up to the top of the Bentley.
Crowley lies down again. Aziraphale, cross-legged, sits patiently beside him.
“Hell’s stopped paying the rent.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Aziraphale asks.
“What good would it do?”
Quiet again. Aziraphale looks up. Crowley wonders if he sees Alpha Centauri too.
“You could stay with me.” Aziraphale says, very, very quietly.
Crowley glances at him, eyes sharp and surprised. His eyes linger on the side of Aziraphale’s face.
“You don’t think I’d leave you here?” Aziraphale asks. “You let me stay with you, after the bookshop burned down. I’m just returning the favour.”
Crowley looks back at the sky. Stubborn angel, he thinks.
“I don’t mind.” Aziraphale says. “Drive me home. Have a glass of wine with me.”
How could Crowley refuse? The single point of light in his darkness sits beside him. Radiating goodness. Reminding him just how bad he is.
“Alright.” Crowley says warmly. “Okay, angel.”
Crowley was there when Pompeii burned.
The humans protected each other from the volcano. Crowley had seen them hold each other and he wept for them. The image of bodies curled over each other stayed in his mind for centuries, burned like the city into his memory.
When the bookshop had burned down, Crowley had felt even worse. He could not protect Aziraphale. He could not keep him safe. The fire burnt on and on and filled him with his own fire, hotter and more furious even than hell fire.
But here the bookshop stands, spotless. Aziraphale is fine, too, smiling at him as if they were the only two beings in the world.
Two armchairs. Two glasses of wine. The alcohol relaxes Crowley enough that he manages a genuine smile.
“So.” Aziraphale says. “Are you ready to tell me what’s wrong?”
Crowley rolls his eyes. He leans back in his armchair, legs slung over the side.
“There’s no shame in sharing your feelings.” Aziraphale says, which Crowley thinks is rich, because Aziraphale would much rather spit out denials and excuses than talk about his feelings.
“Feelings.” Crowley hisses. He takes a generous swig of wine. The bookshop spins.
“Something’s eating you up inside.” Aziraphale says.
“Leave it alone.”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale pleads. “You aren’t going to explode, you know, if you talk to me.”
“I’d rather.”
Aziraphale shakes his head.
“You wouldn’t tell me either, if something was wrong.” Crowley says. In his drunken state his voice is sharper than he intends, “Frankly, you never have.”
Aziraphale frowns, but he doesn’t argue.
“I’d want to.” Aziraphale admits. “Only, it’s difficult, isn’t it? We’re not programmed for it. Humans on the other hand, well it’s in their DNA.”
Crowley wants to say, I feel more human than anything else, but he swallows his figurative tongue.
“I worry about you.” Aziraphale slurs.
And Crowley, despite himself, feels a wave of warmth. Being cared for, being worried about. The words are like a gentle touch.
“You don’t need to.” Crowley waves a hand. Aziraphale smiles.
“But I do.” He says, and the warm feeling grows inside of Crowley.
There’s an understanding between them now that wasn’t there before. A sense of comfort and home. Crowley savours it. How long before Aziraphale changes his mind?
They distract themselves with the weather and the news, with the avoided apocalypse and the state of the world now. But the night slips away from them, and finally Crowley feels tired, like he really could sleep.
So he lets himself drift away, while Aziraphale talks to him.
He wakes a few mornings later curled around Aziraphale’s armchair.
Crowley reaches up to his collar. His fingers touch soft fabric - a blanket. Crowley softens. He imagines Aziraphale tucking him in.
He sits up slowly. The light doesn’t hurt his eyes, and his head doesn’t ache. He doesn’t feel hungover. Had Aziraphale fixed that too?
Crowley’s eyes land on Aziraphale’s reading chair. The angel is scanning a book intensely. He hasn’t noticed Crowley has woken, or if he has, he’s doing a very good job at pretending he hasn’t.
“I don’t know what I’m for.” Crowley says.
Aziraphale turns. He looks at Crowley over the top of his reading glasses.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I don’t know what to do anymore.” Crowley says. “Heaven doesn’t want me. Hell doesn’t either. So what am I for?”
Aziraphale places his glasses down gently. He turns in his seat, listening properly.
“Well, you’re still a demon.” He says, rather unhelpfully. Crowley scoffs.
“A shoddy excuse for one.”
“And I’m still an angel.” Aziraphale says. Again, unhelpfully. Crowley doesn’t need a reminder.
“What’s the point of it all?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale’s brow furrows.
“This is what you wanted.” Aziraphale says.
“I know.” Crowley tries to grasp for the words, but he can’t quite find any to explain the emptiness inside of him. “But I’m struggling to find any meaning in anything anymore.”
Aziraphale sets his hands in his lap.
“Oh, Crowley.”
Crowley smiles bitterly.
“Look at me.” Crowley’s smile cracks. “I’ve got nothing left.”
Aziraphale looks at him. Really looks at him. Past Crowley’s bravado, past his pretence, right to the core of him.
Shaken by Aziraphale’s direct gaze, Crowley scrambles to find his sunglasses, but they’re missing. Before he can ask where they are, Aziraphale interrupts him.
“I know how to fix this.” He says. Crowley looks at him expectantly. Aziraphale smiles, claps his hands. “Let’s go for a picnic.”
“Eh?”
“We already dined at the Ritz.” Aziraphale says. “So I thought we should go for a picnic. Come on, it’ll cheer you up.”
It’s not a solution. Not even close. But Crowley agrees to it.
Crowley’s contribution is Eccles cakes.
Aziraphale brings the rest. Pastries and crepes and sweet treats and fruit. Aziraphale lays out a picnic blanket.
They sit cross legged. The breeze is perfect, like that fateful day in Eden. Aziraphale eats happily, and Crowley watches, feeling a little more like himself. He’s spent centuries watching Aziraphale eat. It always fills him with glee.
“There’s nothing a sweet tea never solved.” Aziraphale says, holding out a flask of tea. Crowley takes it.
Sure enough, the sweet tea is soothing. Aziraphale watches happily while Crowley drinks. Crowley stiffens, knowing his emotions will be clear in his eyes, but he has no way to hide them.
“Where are my sunglasses, by the way?”
“You don’t need them today.” Aziraphale says.
“Angel.” Crowley says, a warning in his voice.
“Relax.” Aziraphale sets his hand on Crowley’s. Crowley freezes, startled and flustered by Aziraphale’s touch. “Sit here with me.”
So Crowley does. He sits and thinks of Eden, of perfect places. Aziraphale bites into an Eccles cake and hums pleasantly.
“What’s this really about?” Crowley asks.
Aziraphale wipes the corner of his mouth.
“It’s helping, isn’t it?”
And it is. Aziraphale’s little jokes, his tiny maddening smile. What kind of magic is this? Crowley knows it’s not forever, but he forgets for a while all of the darkness inside of him.
“Do you have an answer yet?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley’s eyes flicker away from the angel’s lips, to his eyes.
“Hm?”
“To your question.” He says. “ What’s the point?”
Crowley pauses. Aziraphale shuffles closer to him.
“Don’t pretend, dear, that you ever took your duties very seriously.” Aziraphale says softly. “You can still get up to nuisance, you know. You’re just not getting paid for it.”
Crowley just listens.
“If you ask me, you’ve never really been very much of a demon.” Aziraphale says. “That’s why I love you.”
There’s a gentle pause between them. Even the breeze has fallen silent and left them be. Still, Crowley listens, not sure he could do anything else.
“Why not just enjoy the world, as you always have?” Aziraphale says.
It sounds so simple, when Aziraphale says it.
“You can stay with me.” Aziraphale says. “For eternity, if you’d like.”
It sounds good. It sounds more than good. It’s not a cure, not a fix, but it would certainly help.
One evening, after Crowley has officially moved in, he comes to stand by Aziraphale’s desk.
He leans against it, looking down at the angel tenderly. What’s clear to him then is that there’s nowhere else he would rather be, nowhere else he could even go. Aziraphale keeps reading.
“Thanks.” Crowley says softly.
Aziraphale looks up. Smiles sweetly.
“Whatever for?”
Crowley shrugs. He reaches out, and cups Aziraphale’s cheek with his hand. Brave, gentle. He doesn’t feel like a demon, but nor does some heavenly light come from the sky and take him back to heaven.
He feels human.
Confused, and scared, as all humans are.
Full of love, too.
“I’ll stay with you, angel.” Crowley says.
Aziraphale gazes at him, scared too, but there’s love there, reflecting back the same love in Crowley’s eyes.
“So keep your calendar free, yeah?” Crowley says. He rubs his thumb along Aziraphale’s cheek. “There’s so many things we haven’t done yet.”
Aziraphale can’t seem to help but melt into Crowley’s touch.
“How shall we start eternity?” Crowley asks.
Aziraphale manages a smile. He gives the most human response possible.
“With a cup of tea.”