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It is a sublime sight. Crowley was glad to have the children tucked away in that bowl- mortals couldn’t bear the wonderfu, divine horror of it.
The Angel, his adversary since Eden, had given in to something very old and very hungry in the core of him. He’d seen the humans send their offerings to their devouring gods and They were no different. His Angel’s god took Their meat scorched- thrown into the fire until bones broke in the glowing heat and the core of it danced red under a new skin of char. There was love for God in the spilt blood of a goat and devotion in the burning.
The storm was vengeful. The cellar was dark and Crowley could see the room without earth-splitting lighting but he could look at nothing save the very old and very hungry celestial creature as he tore dull teeth into muscle and sinew. It was that human shape he wore- so small next to the great beast he was methodically rendering to bone- which made it so easy to forget.
It had started innocently enough. Not on Crowley’s part, of course, but the Angel had been desperately pure as always. He had heard the bleating of the birds, seen into Crowley’s heart and the shameful good he’d buried deep, and he’d offered his delighted amusement as consolation. Crowley had seen that smug grin and wanted a taste of it one way or another.
The humans were so disappointingly easy. It was never a puzzle to sniff out the potential for their corruption, but his Adversary was different. With all his testing and observations in their brief meetings since the garden, Crowley had gotten no further than the faintest idea that the Angel might want, and that he might enjoy. His Angel was always finding pleasure in earthly things. He wore real linen made by human hand and he’d even been known to lounge, luxuriating on plush cushions. The animals of the earth were the first to invent rest. The cleverest of them, provided the necessary dexterity and resources, would make themselves nests and chairs and beds to improve the experience. Crowley was a big fan of sleep- enjoying the warm sun on his scales and hot stone beneath his belly as much as a pillow beneath his head. The Angel dabbled in sitting.
He seemed to abstain, as he was meant to, from a great many earthly pleasure.
The Angel had an interest in simple pleasures that went unmatched in the celestial kingdom. He liked art and he seemed to like people. He was bound to enjoy a great many things and Crowley wanted to be the one to hand them to him. He wanted to spoil him with honey until his candied heart learned to put want over shame. It would be so devious of him. He let the Angel watch as he poured the wine, and he was sure to take note of that nervous jump of his throat. He wasn’t ready to drink, but he struggled to justify his denial when Crowley offered a platter of smoky ox. He writhed with the discomfort of his curiosity, his disgust so theatrical it couldn’t have been anything but a performance. He probably felt rude leaving Crowley waiting. He took the meat between a finger and thumb. The knowledge of what it was- that what he held was part of a breathing life that morning- put a distasteful curl to his pretty lips. Head tilted back and eyes tightly shut, he ate it like it was filthy. There was a delay before the taste of it shocked him. Fingers held, demurely to his lips, he met the demon’s eyes and moaned. “Oh,” he whispered, reverent. Crowley would offer him the world to see that undeniable, rapturous satisfaction.
A human would have given in the same way, and they’d have eaten until they were full. His Angel had endless need. Crowley didn’t have to focus to see the outline of the great beast he was, his holy soul filling the room with its thousand eyes and so many teeth. He was beautiful and terrible to watch, and Crowley could relax into the view, smiling at the violence of it. There was such a thrill in knowing, despite the spectacle, this was a small dalliance. A tentative toe dipped into a volcanically warmed bath. This was a small pleasure in the scope of what Crowley knew was available to them. The preordained six thousand years would go by all too quickly if he kept having this much fun. The Angel didn’t yet know moderation and Crowley was terrified that he might learn it- might hold back that ancient hunger.
Grease shone on the lower half of his face, a lion’s maw dripping blood, and he seemed so blissfully unaware. The storm threatened the world above, but the dark was a safe and hidden place. Heaven wouldn’t have been pleased with the carnal hedonism their agent had given himself over to, but they’d never have to know. Crowley was selfishly, jealousy content to keep this memory entirely to himself.