Chapter Text
For many people — perhaps, indeed, for everyone — the following scene will feel all too familiar:
It’s 3:30 in the morning, well past the time one should have gone to bed. You’re lying on your bed in pyjamas, having completed every single nighttime ritual except the actual closing of your eyes. And now, the only light in the room is the blue glow of your phone screen, shrinking your pupils as you scroll. This is your fourth hour of screen time. You’re flipping back and forth between three social media apps, two video platforms, occasionally tapping into your music app to play a snippet of a song; even the algorithm no longer knows what to recommend, eventually throwing in topics you never usually watch, as if paired with ads for white noise apps that promise to lull you into sleep — its final, desperate attempt to drive you offline.
A harmless little vice that hurts no one, which makes it devilishly irresistible. Especially for a demon with no real regard for “health.” Crowley could easily do this twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Dressed in a black nightgown, Crowley lay on the ceiling — the signal had been patchy a moment ago, so he figured a higher vantage point might help. His yellow serpent eyes reflected the ever-changing images on screen. He would argue, of course, that this was work — finding malice online and amplifying it was far more efficient than whispering temptations one by one into human ears.
At last, at four in the morning, even the algorithm threw in the towel. It had passed “niche” and “fringe” and was now delving into “boring trivia.” Normally, when it reached that category, Crowley would shut his eyes and surrender to rest — or perhaps wander outside a nightclub, looking for a sin or two to jot down in a report. But tonight, a video title with a simplistic animated thumbnail caught his eye:
“How to Spot a Lie.”
Ah, lies. Humanity’s favourite casual sin.
Smirking with disdain, he clicked in. He was rather curious about what humans thought they knew about a domain that was essentially a demon’s playground.
Four Common Linguistic Markers of Lying:
1. Avoidance of first-person pronouns
2. Increased negativity or pessimistic word choices.
3. Oversimplified narrative flow.
4. Simple sequence of events, cluttered with unnecessary words or unrelated detail.
Crowley had to give them credit; humans certainly did invest effort into understanding themselves. And he’d never been one to underestimate them — still, the results were rather impressive. Over the next few days, Crowley amused himself by spotting lies and giving them a little push, helping turn minor spats into proper rows.
“No one touched your phone.” — Lie.
“He was drunk and I gave him a lift home, that’s what friends do, right?” — Lie. Try harder.
“I left on time, but this city’s traffic is abysmal — how is this a developed nation?” — Lie. That one’s truly overplayed.
“I’m sorry I can’t spend Valentine’s Day with you — work’s a nightmare. Remember Jerry? He’s been so stressed he started therapy.” — Lie. Really? Jerry? You thought that detail would make it believable?
By Satan’s tail, human life was practically held together by lies. Crowley almost wondered if, when humans were being designed, someone had slipped in a mechanism that made “lie-based communication” the default mode.
Yet as much as he enjoyed this newfound game of lie-spotting, a nagging sense of déjà vu stirred uncomfortably in his mind — a familiar cadence, a pattern he couldn’t ignore. Someone else spoke like that. Someone he knew rather well.
To be fair, it didn’t mean anything. But it was like discovering a smudge on the lining of your coat — no one else can see it, but once you know it’s there, you can’t unsee it. Maddening, really.
And Crowley wasn’t used to being the one feeling unsettled.
It was a perfectly ordinary day.
Crowley was gripping the Bentley’s steering wheel as the car tore through London streets at speeds wholly inappropriate for something that legally counted as an antique. Queen blared from the radio, and Crowley was enthusiastically singing along with Freddie Mercury’s “I Want to Break Free.”
Then — static.
The music cut, and Freddie’s voice shifted from soaring vocals to a flat, talk-radio monotone. Crowley scowled. He knew what this meant.
Hell was calling. They always had the worst timing — he’d been just about to hit the chorus.
He ran a hand through his hair with all the energy of a man trying to answer work emails on his day off. Honestly, email would be better. At least he could set an out-of-office reply.
At this point, he really did want to break free.
But Hell didn’t operate on polite correspondence. Like every other unfortunate salaryman in history, he put on his brightest tone and answered his superior.
“BeelzeBUB! What brings you buzzing by?”
“It’s Beelzebub. Crowley, you’ve got an assignment. From upstairs.”
“Oh, what now? Divine hissy fit with mortals again? Honestly, which of us is the demon here?”
“I don’t like the cross-department chaos either, Crowley.”
Not what I meant, but fine.
“They want you to stir up controversy around a representative of the earthly Church. Public suspicion. Media chatter.”
“What, am I supposed to foxtrot my way into the Vatican? That whole 44 hectares is consecrated ground. I can think of simpler ways to get me off the chessboard.”
“Not that one. The one in Britain.”
“Ah, right. My boy Henry’s handiwork. What — the Royal lot? Haven’t they only just settled?”
“No explanation was provided.”
“Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”
Honestly, that family caused headlines just by breathing. He’d barely have to lift a finger. Still, best to keep an eye on the news — Heaven might be fond of lofty mysteries, but he had no intention of writing a false report. Well — no more false than usual. Not when it came directly from Upstairs.
Freddie’s voice returned to the airwaves: “God knows, God knows I want to break free.”
Did God know what His angels were up to?
“You’ve got to admit,” Crowley muttered aloud, “Heaven’s plans are utter bollocks lately.” Of course, no one answered. (The Bentley did rattle in sympathetic protest.) But normally—normally, there would be a voice.
“I’ve never been consulted on policy, Crowley. They’ve never asked my opinion.”
Aziraphale.
Crowley slammed the brakes, slamming back into the seat with a theatrical force that seemed to echo his internal epiphany.
That was it.
That voice, that evasive phrasing — the dropped “I,” the needless detail...
It was her. Aziraphale’s voice. That strange rhythm. Always too polished. Always dancing around the truth.
Well, to be fair, she never uses negative words. Getting Aziraphale to say anything truly unpleasant was about as difficult as getting her to give up French pastries. Probably harder.
「The angels don’t question Heaven’s will.」
「They didn’t say we couldn’t. There weren’t specific instructions about the equipment.」
「I can’t think of a reason I should be pleased to see a demon.」
She was a one-angel detour around the truth. Well — “lies” might be too strong a word. But she certainly lived in the grey area.
Some angel.
Crowley chuckled. He’d always suspected Aziraphale had one foot in the moral grey zone. But it was another thing entirely to realise she’d been weaving gentle little lies right under his nose.
Back the flat, Crowley stared out the window, over the dimming city lights, whisky in hand, golden eyes glittering. How might he use this revelation? At the very least, he could have some fun. Bring up something about “her side’s arrangements” — this new assignment, perhaps. Then, when she started evading again, he’d catch her in the act. See the fluster. Probably adorable.
But slowly, his grin faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown.
Because, after six millennia of working together, their conversations weren’t just about work anymore. Especially not in recent centuries. All those subtle pushes and half-joking flirtations he’d attempted — always unanswered.
Spotting the lie was only step one.
The real trick was decoding the truth beneath it.
“Two old acquaintances establishing a working rapport isn’t unusual.”
“You’re a demon and I’m an angel — it’s hardly a combination that lends itself to being called ‘us’.”
“This is a mutually beneficial arrangement. You help me, I help you. Saves time and effort.”
Liar.
Crowley downed the last of his drink, the golden hue of his eyes flaring like fire — as if the alcohol had become fuel.
He strode out of the flat. Demons don’t need sleep, but that didn’t mean a night meant for not-sleep couldn’t be repurposed for more important matters.