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Love. It was something Crowley had denied for centuries, for millennia . He was a demon. How could he feel love if he was the very thing created with the sole purpose to corrupt and rip it away from humanity? God must really hate him if She has decided to thrust these festering feelings upon him.
In Eden, it hadn’t been anything. Not really. Crowley, or Crawly at the time, had seen the Angel, flustered as he admitted to giving the woman his sword. A sword gifted to him by God herself, yet he gave it away simply because she was with child. Crowley felt a jerk where his heart would be, but wrote it off. The Demon had successfully tempted Eve and became the Serpent of Eden, cause of Sin on Earth. Surely, Crowley was just excited about a promotion. Nothing More, nothing less.
The petals started falling from his lips centuries later. 2500 BC. The angel from the wall, Aziraphale, lied. To the other Angels. He lied to save the children, even when he thought he’d Fall. He still did it. The pang Crowley felt deep in his chest, expanded. Moved from a small crevice to fill his chest, pushing against all the organs in his corporal. It felt like thorns pushing into his lungs, thorns making breathing just a little harder.
It was only after he assured Aziraphale that he was not Fallen and the long silence between them did the Angel leave. It was almost instant. Pink and yellow rose petals spilled from Crowley’s lips, some stained with blood as they hit the dusty ground. Crowley had never heard of any such thing happening but it did not hurt, so he paid it no mind. Humans had such weird bodies.
—
Millennia came and went. The petals did not. They stayed in Crowley’s lungs, his throat, and his mouth. It was all he could do not let them spill from his lips every time the Angel was around.
As humans advanced, so did their medicine. With it came centuries of medical research. Crowley now knew what his affliction was. Hanahaki disease. Though, it did not affect him as it would a normal human or he’d most certainly be dead by now. No, Crowley believed it was due to the power lent to him from Hell. They really didn’t like to deal with the paperwork of having to dish out a new corporal, so they gave his body a little boost.
The thing was, Crowley had no clue why he of all people, er, demons, had caught this bloody disease. He was a demon . Demons don’t love. So why would he have the disease that came from unrequited love? Sure, he cared for the Angel, but he didn’t love Aziraphale. He couldn’t. No matter how much he wished he could .
There were times where the thorns that poked his lungs sharpened. St. James's Park 1862, Soho, 1967. It felt like they were being punctured, the air slowly leaking out, burning every nerve as it blew right out of him.
A few times, it stopped. Well, as close to stopping as Crowley had ever felt. The Globe Theater, 1601, London, 1941. Aziraphale smiling, spending time with him. Crowley’s heart soared on its shattered wings, the pain in his lungs easing every time his Angel looked at him with anything other than disgust. The petals didn’t hurt that much coming up, nor did they force themselves out as often.
These past few years have been nice. Raising the antichrist together really bonded the two.The angel and demon had been spending far more time together than they probably ever had.
“Oh, my dear boy, are you absolutely positive that we’re doing this right?” Aziraphale wrung his hands as he paced the center of his bookstore. Both Crowley and the Angel had a day off, so they’d decided to make a day of it, dinner at the Ritz and bookstore drinking galore.
“What if he decides one day that he wants to rule the world or that he hates humanity?” The Angel continued his worried mumblings, nearly creating a groove in the floor with how much he treated back and forth. “What if-”
“Please, Angel, you’re ruining the fun,” Crowley grumbled, hiccupping. “You’re bloody brilliant, so obviously the little scamp will grow up to be a Humanity hugging demon overlord. Without destroying the world.”
It seemed rather ridiculous to Crowley that anyone who spent so much time with Aziraphale could be anything less than stellar. Well, there is me. Horrible as a Demon, Horrible as an Angel. Oh well. Every rule has its exceptions. Aziraphale hasn’t kicked me to the curb yet. I’ll take what I can get.
When Crowley looked up from where he was staring intently at the bottle in his hand, his eyes were instantly drawn to his Angel’s face. Aziraphale’s mouth was slightly agape, his cheeks dusted with a rose gold hue. Crowley’s gaze moved from his lips and cheeks to his eyes, which seemed to be locked onto Crowley’s with a look of… it couldn’t be.
An Angel like Aziraphale could never, would never stare at a worthless demon like Crowley with anything close to what he was seeing dancing across the angel’s eyes. No, it couldn’t be adoration and wonder. It simply couldn’t. It shouldn’t be. No matter what Crowley’s defective human heart tried to suggest, he would never be able to love like Aziraphale deserved. Not that the Angel would ever want him. Not like that anyways.
So, Crowley did what he always had when unwanted feelings came up. He pushed them down, straight past hell and into the ether below it. He raised his glass and poured more for both Aziraphale and himself and steamrolled onward.
—
It was after the not-apocalypse and things were looking up. Crowley didn’t have Hell watching over his back every second of the day and Aziraphale didn’t have those devious little fuckers the higher ups call Angels getting on his back for being himself. They were on their side now, and they’d just live how they wished. Everything was going great.
Except it wasn’t. The pain Crowley had been experiencing over the past millenias? It was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. What had been a bad day before was now one of his better ones. On the days Aziraphale was snippier, meaner to him than he normally would be, it hurt. Holy Her, it burned not just his lungs but his throat. The skin inside might as well have been thrown through the shredder with how it felt cut and sliced. So many petals left his lips, cutting them with their fine, delicate edges. They all eventually turned red, stained from the blood that dripped from Crowley’s lips.
It had also been progressing faster . On one of his medium days, Crowley decided to just head to Aziraphale’s bookshop to take a nap on the Angel's cot. It’s not like Aziraphale used it anyways, Crowley was just used to naps and his car was not going to cut it for today. So, nap time in the back room.
What Crowley wasn’t expecting was a wake up call. No, being shaken awake was not fun. Nor was the incessant burning his throat, signaling that he was about to have an attack. Cracking his eyes open, Crowley slow blinked as he took in the worried face before him. A worried angelic face.
Above him, Aziraphale’s eyebrows were up turned, his eyes themselves doing the little flitty thing they did when the angel was nervous. He was also biting those soft lips, worrying it between his teeth with the same anxiety he’d had about every thing these past thousands of years. Well, almost the same. There was something Crowley just couldn’t quite read, something he couldn’t bring himself to look further into without risking a bad attack.
“Crowley, my dear, are you alright? You were whimpering in your sleep,” Aziraphale released his lip, letting loose the concern he wasn’t holding back very well. “It gave me quite the fright!”
Crowley tried to sit back up, but his arms nearly gave out under his weight, so he just settled back down, hoping it looked to Aziraphale like he was just adjusting. Guess it’s going to be a bloody bad day, ain’t it.
“I’m fine Angel, just remembering that terrible hat Beelzebub was wearing. I mean, I get they like flies, but bit much, whatn’t it?” That got a laugh out of the Angel. “It's really not that big of a deal Angel, go back to not selling books. Let me take my nap in peace.”
Crowley waved a slightly less worried Aziraphale out of the backroom and onto the store floor. Once he was sure the other wouldn’t come back, Crowley miracled himself back to his car. There, he grabbed the bucket he kept for days like these.
Nasty, blood-soaked anemones and what once was white daisies pushed themselves past his lips. He hacked and coughed as he tried to force them out of his throat. Then came the red roses.
Crowley had dealt with roses before, but the red ones were new. These came with clusters of thorns, tearing his esophagus and cheeks as they spindled their way from his lungs. The thorns had a way of overlapping in the same spots, tearing into already ripped flesh. Almost like it wanted to never let the pain cease.
It didn’t matter. The only other option was to have it removed but that came with a cost. One Crowley wasn’t willing to pay. He couldn’t live with himself, couldn’t live at all if he didn’t live for Aziraphale. It’s how he’s spent the past six millennia and it was how he always would.
So, he’ll keep living. Living with the pain and the petals, all for a life in the orbit of his sun. Because that’s what Aziraphale is. The sun that feeds the flowers rooted deep inside. He’s grateful for the bloom the sun will never see.