Chapter Text
London, England - Present Day
The flat is empty.
Which shouldn’t come as a surprise, really. It’s supposed to be. That is, after all, the one defining characteristic of living alone.
And yet now, as Crowley lets his gaze wander aimlessly across the room to the terrified plants, the silent ansaphone and the A-list fridge packed with food he never intended to consume, he finds that the solitude no longer feels like an expected perk, a lifestyle he’s chosen for himself or any of the thousand colourful little lies he’s been telling himself about his condition for millennia. No, right now it feels exactly like what it is; a punishment Someone bestowed upon him for reasons only partially known… but one that he knows with all his heart he deserves.
It’s funny.
If someone had asked him about it just a few hours ago he would have told them that, while it is the place he most commonly falls back to at the end of the day, he’s never really considered the stylish flat in Mayfair a home. Nor, if he’s being honest, has that ever applied to any of the long list of luxurious and expensive domus, small castles, villas, hostels and all sorts of other lodgings that preceded it in the centuries past.
In fact, if he was asked again, this time having downed a good few bottles of whatever drinkable alcoholic beverage they had on hand down at the local pub, he might have added that he just… didn’t see the point in homes, y’know? I mean, the last ‘real home’ he could remember had been Heaven all those millennia ago, and look how that one’d ended. Nah, he would have said, as long as he was on Earth he would much rather remain exactly as he was: untethered, unattached, free to do as he pleased with no one and nothing to weigh him down, thank you very much.
And he would have been wrong. So, so wrong.
***
Lancashire, England 1309 AD
It was a cold night. It always was. It was the fourteenth bloody century after all, and most of the good things about the world - like cars or centralised heating or water you could drink unboiled without suffering some extremely unpleasant consequences - were yet to be invented. Not that Crowley had ever personally needed to worry about that last one, given that he was a) immortal, and b) didn’t require water in order to survive, but still, it was the principle of the thing.
He shuddered. One of the downsides of being a supernatural being masquerading in a human-like body was that somehow he always managed to underestimate just how fragile the blasted thing was and, as a result, he was rarely able to correctly guess what would constitute appropriate apparel for a given season. And yes, he supposed that he could have simply kept an eye out for what everybody else was wearing and copied that, but he just couldn’t bring himself to abandon all fashion sense in favour of a bit of comfort. Everyone has lines they won’t cross, and Crowley would be blessed before he showed up to a social gathering in tights.
Anyways, even without counting for the cold slowly sinking into his bones his day could not have been any worse. It was dark, raining badly and he was nowhere near where he needed to be; his horse had made the brilliant choice to desert him in the middle of a field, which meant that he’d spent the past forty minutes dragging himself across a dusty rutted road to the nearest town in search of a either a new horse or a hostel to spend the night in (neither of which was likely to happen any time soon). Plus, he’d recently been reprimanded for apparently being too ‘outspoken’ about his ‘proud demon heritage’, whatever that meant, so using his powers to get himself out of the situation was apparently out of the question. Honestly, all he wanted was a bath and to be somewhere that wasn’t freezing cold and caked in mud. Fairly doable request, in his opinion, and yet for some reason it seemed like it would take a sodding miracle just to–
“Crowley? Is that you?” called a delighted - albeit somewhat puzzled - voice from somewhere behind him. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
Crowley stood still for a moment, allowing himself to briefly indulge in the illusion that perhaps if he just refused to acknowledge it, then the moment would fade away and come back at a more convenient time. Of course, that didn’t happen because God had a mean sense of humour and was apparently only really interested in performing miracles for people when She knew it would put them in awkward positions. Crowley couldn’t even be mad at that, actually; it was very much on brand for the Almighty. He turned.
Aziraphale stood a few metres behind him, miraculously dry, and was shielding himself from the rain under the entryway of a nearby inn, the warmth and clamour seeping pleasantly out of the semiopen door and into the night. The first thing Crowley noticed about him was that he looked strangely… appropriate in the clothing of the time, weirdly befitting, tights and all. But then he supposed that he always did, no matter where or when he found him; just had one of those faces, maybe.
“Oh, I very much hope not,” he replied, scrambling to arrange his features into something that he hoped resembled a somewhat personable evil grimace. “Otherwise you and I would both be out of a job.”
“Ah. Indeed we would,” said Aziraphale, his smile wider now. If he’d taken any notice of Crowley’s damp hair, mud-encrusted boots and overall dishevelled appearance, he gave no indication of it. Truthfully, Crowley didn’t know whether to count that as a win or a loss. “And what brings you to our lovely town? I thought you were, er, ‘living it up’ in Genoa these days, so to speak.”
“That was a… thing for a while, yeah,” said the demon dismissively, fighting a shiver. “Nothin’ important, really, just visiting. Well, maybe ‘visiting’ is too big a word. It’s not like I’m visiting someone or something specifically, I just… happen to be here at the moment. For no particular reason.” He cleared his throat. “I guess.”
Aziraphale looked a little lost, but tried nonetheless to do the polite thing and comment on whatever he’d just been told, which Crowley found mildly amusing.
“Right,” he said, cautiously, “that does sound rather… interesting.”
“Hm. Sure is. Anyways, lovely to chat with you, angel, as always, but I’m afraid I have to be going if I want to make it to Lancaster by morning,” Crowley added - none of which was technically a lie in any sense of the word.
The angel looked concerned. “In this weather? Are you quite sure?”
“Afraid so.”
“Well, I should hope your steed is up to the task. You know, most would not risk it with the dark and the rain - I mean, to be completely candid, the roads around here are barely operable as it is. It would take a remarkably good horse on the best of days and even then, they can be rather undependable creatures.”
Crowley’s smile was so impossibly constrained by this point that he was starting to worry it might do some serious damage to his skull.
“You don’t say,” he replied through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to point out that he’d had a remarkably good horse, had paid good money for it too, but of course the bastard had to go and get scared off by a thunderbolt the second he’d been distracted, leaving him on foot. “Good to know, good to know. Listen, um, on a completely unrelated note, you wouldn’t by any chance know of anyone here who’d be looking to sell or maybe rent one out, would you?”
Aziraphale’s round eyes widened in startled understanding. “Oh. Oh, I do hope you’re not saying you’re–”
“Completely horseless? Yep,” said Crowley with a brief nod. “Happens to the best of us. Or worst, I suppose, in this case. ”
Aziraphale paused to ponder this for a few seconds.
“I must admit I can’t think of anyone, no,” he said finally. “Especially not at this hour of night. Maybe if you came back tomorrow? On Sundays there’s the market, I’m sure you’d find something there.”
“Yeah, was looking for something slightly more immediate. Oh, well. Thanks anyways,” Crowley replied, and with a half-hearted wave he turned to leave. “Goodbye, angel. See you in, what, half a century?”
Aziraphale didn’t reply or even wave back, which, while thoroughly expected, still managed to send an unwelcome wave of disappointment through Crowley. Eh, he thought, checks out. An appropriate conclusion to an appropriately lousy day. Raindrops fell loudly to the ground like counterfeit coins on a chronic gambler’s table, soaking inadequate clothes and saffron-red hair. He suddenly felt a faint wish that he’d settled on wearing a hood the previous morning. Or some kind of hat.
“Erm, Crowley?” Aziraphale called again after a moment of silence that could have lasted anything between five seconds and five billion years.
Crowley turned, trying his best to keep a neutral face (and arguably failing). “Mh?”
“You’re not actually planning to walk all the way to Lancaster, are you?”
He was still standing in the entryway, a couple of hesitant steps from where he’d been moments ago; a few wary drops of rain that hadn’t gotten the memo were trickling down from the above windows and sticking to his hair and tunic, but he didn’t seem to notice. He looked… concerned? Was that even possible? Nah, that couldn’t be right. Probably just a trick of the light, Crowley reckoned.
He gave a shrug. “Why the Heaven not? It’s a bit of a trek, yeah, but it’s not like I have anything better to do here. Besides, I thought you of all people would approve. Y’know, free will and all.”
A peculiar expression crossed Aziraphale’s face. He looked a bit like what Crowley imagined a velvet duck would look if you took the time to explain the intricacies of foreign politics to it - which is to say confused, conflicted and not at all amused.
“Why n– Because it’s absurd! And dangerous. And I feel I have a moral obligation to, erm, put a stop to whatever… evil scheme you’re planning in Lancaster.”
Crowley snorted. “I’ll be fine. This body’s five thousand years old. I guarantee you, it’s been through worse.”
Aziraphale first gave him a pained look, then sighed, rolled his eyes and finally stepped out into the rain, offering him a disinclined arm.
“My dear boy, you are positively trembling!” he chastised. “I’m sorry, but I cannot in good conscience allow you to head back in this ghastly weather. Please, come in,” he continued, gesturing to the door of the inn behind him which Crowley was only now noticing from the sign was named ‘The Jolly Seraph’ and was complete with a rather hilarious rendition of a painted baby with wings. “There is plenty of room for you to get settled in and I’m sure Lancaster will be there in the morning just as much as it is now.”
Crowley let out a sound of strangled scepticism.
“Hm. You sure you wouldn’t mind sharing your roof with Evil incarnate, then?” he asked, tentatively.
Though his had obviously been… well, not a good joke, perhaps, but a joke nonetheless, there was nothing humorous in the tone to Aziraphale’s response, or in the way his expression turned from warm politeness to borderline-offended shock in a matter of milliseconds upon hearing it. On the contrary, it was nothing short of earnest - almost uncomfortably so. It was the same tone Crowley had heard him use time and time again when defending his theological positions, often against the demon himself; that fundamental disbelief that anyone could call into question what, to him, were self-evident truths about the world.
“Of course not!” he exclaimed, seemingly deeply resentful of the suggestion. “You’re my friend. I can’t have you being discorporated for such a silly reason, now, be sensible. As I said, you are more than welcome to stay the night. Er, if you like, of course.”
Something shifted inside of Crowley, at that.
He didn’t know what it was, exactly - well, maybe some part of him did, some buried, hidden part he thought had died centuries ago - but he felt it, loud and unmistakable and entirely unwished for. It was like an earthquake, a sudden change of the wind, the world ending and reforming overnight without anyone noticing… anyone but him, that was. Only that that was all nonsense, obviously. The world around him hadn’t really changed, had it? It all looked the same to him. Something had, though.
Dazed, Crowley glanced around at this brand new identical world he could nevertheless hardly recognise. He looked at the sign, the hands, the rain, the porcelain skin, the wet hair. He looked at Aziraphale, his oldest friend, his contractual enemy, and at how he was looking back at him with something that dangerously resembled affection.
Suddenly it all felt like too much.
Suddenly, it scared him.
“Ahh. Couldn’t,” he sputtered out at last, forcing the words out like syrup through a sieve in the hope that the rain could somehow dilute them. “Sorry, angel.”
Aziraphale furrowed his brow, because… well, of course he did, why wouldn’t he? He was, as usual, blessedly oblivious to whatever strange place it was that the demon’s thoughts had brought him. In all honesty, Crowley sort of envied him for that.
“What do you mean, you ‘couldn’t’?” he demanded. “Why not?”
Crowley looked profoundly outraged by the question, in that same way that he always did as soon as the topic of conversation shifted to something he hadn’t anticipated and/or wasn’t keen to discuss. To his credit, it usually worked a treat.
“‘Why not’? Why n– I’ll tell you why not,” he retorted irritably, all the while scraping his brain trying to think of a reason. “First off, my lot would skin me if they thought I was… consorting with the Enemy. I mean, you’ve met them, they’re not exactly ones for subtlety, are they? ‘S all about punishment down there, about setting examples, following the demonic blasted rules–”
“I see,” Aziraphale interrupted sharply, nodding his head in grave understanding. For a second there, Crowley really thought he’d somehow gotten away with it. “Although - and correct me if I’m wrong -, but it seems to me that surely they couldn’t oppose you making a stop at a nearby inn to tempt some humans on the way. I mean, that would just be stand up demonic behaviour, wouldn’t it?”
Crowley considered this. “Er, technically speaking, yes, but–”
“Marvellous!” Aziraphale clapped his hands brightly. “Do come in. I believe I should still have some excellent elderberry wine left in the back somewhere.”
***
The rest of the evening slipped by like time so often did those days, without them even noticing; an unremarkable blur of sweet wine and pleasant conversation.
Sheepishly, Crowley allowed the angel to lead him inside, knowing very well that he wouldn’t have been able to stop him even if he wanted to. He blamed his unsteadiness first on the cold, then on the journey and finally on the liquor (a nice batch of rosehip aquavitae acquired in Italy sometime during the 13th century, according to Aziraphale), until he eventually forgot about it himself. It was a fine evening.
All night they drank and talked, and all night Crowley pretended not to notice the distant thumping of a traitorous heart.
Faint, yes. Forgotten, almost. But there.
***
Somewhere in the Human World - Tuesday
Two figures are standing at the top of an otherwise unremarkable building.
The first of the two - tall, slim and elegantly dressed - is standing right by the edge of the rooftop, a few centimetres from the parapet, in a position that would surely send the safety officer of whatever company owns this place into a frenzied panic.
They look to be about fifty, all high aristocratic cheekbones and long dark hair neatly gathered into an elaborate hairdo. They are, by human standards at least, undoubtedly attractive, but there is something unsettling about the way they’re staring out into the pulsating city with the detached, even somewhat-pitying contempt most humans might show towards, say, an anthill unwittingly sprouted in the middle of their perfect garden.
They have been waiting for some time.
The figure standing behind them, on the other hand, has just gotten here. There is no point in wondering how they did so, given that the doors to the inside of the building on their right are all safely locked from the inside; if it wasn’t completely impossible, one might easily assume that that they’ve just popped out of the ground beneath, but it is so they can’t have… even though it’s undeniable that the cement beneath their battered combat boots is looking more malleable than it should.
Regardless. They look shorter than their counterpart - although it’s difficult to say by how much, since they’re so gracelessly hunched over - and shabbier, their hair and clothes an unkempt, barely distinguishable, foul-smelling mass of dead flies, dark fabric and cheap cologne shoddily arranged into something that vaguely resembles a person in a suit.
Neither of them is technically allowed to be here, but then again neither of them is technically allowed to be anywhere at this moment, so it doesn’t make much of a difference whether or not they decide to play by human rules. It’s not like there’s going to be consequences, anyways. Not from them.
“It izz done,” says the figure, breaking the silence.
The other doesn’t turn. In fact, they barely give any kind of acknowledgement of the fact that someone else has spoken on what, until a few moments ago, had been an utterly deserted rooftop. They just keep staring, unbothered, into the frenetic urban landscape of the busy street below. It is a jungle out there.
“Is it?”
“We did our part. The traitor iz being… dealt with azz we zpeak. I azzume your people are taking care of the other one?”
Again, the taller figure does not grace them with an answer.
“Good,” they say, smoothing down their suit jacket absentmindedly as they finally turn to face their interlocutor. “Upstairs was wondering what was taking you so long.”
“Planzz take time.”
“Yes, I’m sure they do.”
The other stares at them like a dog newly-deprived of its favourite bone, with every plan but none of the courage to get it back.
“Well, anyway,” the figure says, flashing a tight, condescending smile. “Thank you for your time. It was, as always, a displeasure doing business with you.”
“Likewizzz.”
“Oh, and Beelzebub?”
A pause. “Yez?”
“I trust there is no need to remind you that this little conversation is to remain confidential. Is there?”
Somewhere above them, the weather is changing. Dark heavy clouds are gathered ominously over the city, threatening to spill over with every gust of wind. Just for a moment, as a flash of lightning threatens to send the rooftop antennas frying through sparks, there is a glimpse of something white and huge and frightening enveloping the figure standing near the parapet. It is gone in a moment, though, leaving behind nothing but the suggestion of a smile on angelic lips.
Beelzebub scoffs. “Obviouzzly.” They’d like to add ‘It wouldn’t look very good for me either, you know’, but refrain from it. Here’s a tip: it is impossible to win argument against an angel. They are, by their very definition, right, and always will be. The side of reason simply slides over to wherever they’re standing, smooth and certain, blissfully impervious to the notions of logic, consistency, objectivity and other such banalities, leaving you necessarily and unequivocally in the wrong every single time.
Michael smiles. “Good.”
A few moments later, the rooftop is empty once more.
***
Back then, if you’d told Crowley that that one insignificant episode would have been the first step into a multicentennial spiral of anguish, deception, confusion and flat-out denial, at first he wouldn’t have believed you.
Then, assuming you’d somehow managed to convince him of the fact, he would have laughed in your face and finally he would have promptly excused himself and gone to find the nearest tavern, when he would have attempted to get the record for first ever living thing to successfully drown itself in gin.
He didn’t know why that had been it for him, exactly.
There hadn’t been anything particularly noteworthy about the event in and of itself, certainly nothing that seemed to suggest or warrant any of what would soon follow. And it hadn’t been some huge, incomprehensible shift either, just a minor re-adjustment, barely noticeable at first. The tiniest of cracks in the very foundation of everything he’d always thought he could be.
He supposed that that was the thing about change, wasn’t it? You hardly ever noticed it while it was happening. In the moment, everything seemed completely normal - a few anomalies, maybe, but no more than on any other day. It was only after the fact that you could point back and say: ‘Yep. That was indeed the beginning of it all’.
The people of Pompeii had understood this. Or, well, they would have, if any of them had survived long enough to realise their rookie mistake.
Of course, Crowley hadn’t personally been there when it’d happened; at the time, he’d been enjoying a shamefully luxurious life as a patrician in Rome – he’d always meant to visit sooner or later, but things had gotten in the way and then before he knew it there simply hadn’t been a city left to visit. But he had, in the millennia since past, come across enough recounts and reconstructions of the event to know with near-absolute certainty that it was never just the lava you needed to look out for; that most of the time, it all began with a perfectly ordinary earthquake.
Then again, perhaps even that was an oversimplification.
After all, you couldn’t really blame the earthquake, could you? Even if you’d known how to stop it at the time - which you didn’t, no one does - it was still nothing but an inevitable manifestation of a geological phenomenon that found its beginning aeons before you and your little human town ever came to exist. Some things were simply too big, too many years in the making to be interfered with.
If he looks back at it now, Crowley still finds it difficult to trace the origins of his own personal Vesuvius. He knows consciously that it must have begun at some point, that there has been a time, perhaps not even so long ago, when the beginning of his end was still in the future. Still, it’s foggy, hard to even conceptualise. Was it before the Arrangement? Afterwards? Or does it go back even further, to the Garden? Or before still?
A part of him wants to say that in a way it was always there, ever since the very Beginning; a tiny, negligible seed watered by Time. Hiding. Waiting.
But that’s no answer at all, really, just another point in God’s favour in the unknowable, self-serving game that is Her Creation.
A sigh.
It’s funny how, when you think about it for long enough, even your own past can become a sort of inevitability.