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Then the devil leaveth him, and, behold, angels came and ministered unto him.
-Matthew 4:11, KJV
“Alright,” said Crowley, “enough of this charade.”
He sighed and dropped the snake-form—larger and more intimidating than he usually preferred, with a nice big venomous hood—and stretched his arms one at a time until his shoulder-joints cracked satisfyingly.
The carpenter, emaciated and bedraggled, looked rather less startled than Crowley thought polite of him. Then again, the godchild seemed rather more aware of what was actually going on than Crowley had been given to expect—whether this was a prank on behalf of the lowest office, or a genuine case of failed reconnaissance, he didn’t know. It hardly mattered in the end; Hell might be incompetent, but as long as its incompetence kept leading it into unhappy little accidents like this, it wasn’t about to change.
Jesus, Lord of Lords, King of Kings, Wonderful Counsellor, etc etc etc, raised an eyebrow at him as if to politely ask what he had in mind next.
“Come on,” said Crowley, irritably, “this whole assignment was clearly a set-up, probably because I botched that coup last century and they need an excuse to rake me over the coals for it. I did my bit, you did yours, and now I want to get off this Satan-forsaken mountain so I can get drunk.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” said Crowley, making up his mind. Three temptations at least, his orders had been. Technically, he’d only done two, but he figured the thing with the bread could be spun as one if he tried. Gluttony, or something—even if personally he found fasting that long to be rather suicidal, that wasn’t a sin yet, and wouldn’t be for centuries. “Congratulations, you get a gold star.”
“Right,” said the suddenly very exhausted and human-looking Jesus, before stepping forward and promptly collapsing onto the dirt.
“Shit,” said Crowley. He really wanted a drink before the inevitable rigmarole about his failure, and to see if he could catch Aziraphale and let him know he’d be absent a few years before the angel started fretting, but… well, he could hardly leave the guy snoring on the ground on top of a mountain in this condition. He’d die of exposure, maybe—Hell knew that She wasn’t exactly planning to make him unkillable—and then the whole thing would be a mess of paperwork, and he’d probably have to do this again in three decades.
He looked at the motionless form distastefully—apart from the aura of holiness, Jesus smelled a bit like a man who’d been outside without a bath for forty days, and then gingerly reached out to see if he could arrange him into a better position for carrying.
It stung instantly, like putting his hand into a lightning bolt. Smelled like it too, and he jolted back with a yelp. Jesus didn’t stir. Had the man been depriving himself of sleep, too? Who knew God Herself was such a masochist. Crowley shook out his singed hand until the raw flesh sealed over with scales and then skin, and then sighed and took off his cloak, carefully covering every exposed inch of Jesus’s skin before picking him up in a bridal carry and spreading his wings. It was faster than walking back to the cave he’d been living in, Crowley thought, and he didn’t really want to snap them there after all the metaphysical effort he’d taken with his temptations.
In the end, that was probably a good idea, because he had to miracle a pot of soup and the fire to heat it. It’s not like he’d come out into the wilderness prepared to do anything more than throw a few doomed one-liners at the Mother’s newest pet project and skedaddle.
Jesus came to about an hour later, which was honestly sooner than Crowley had expected him to. He blinked, wincing a little in the light of the fire.
“Crowley?”
“Hm,” said Crowley, unimpressed. “The more I think about how this whole temptation in the wilderness thing went, the stupider it seems. Sit up. There’s soup.”
He miracled a bowl—why not? In for a penny, in for a pound—and ladled out a steaming helping as Jesus slowly and seemingly dizzily got himself upright.
He reached for the bowl, and Crowley drew back hastily. “Nuh-uh-uh,” he said. “No touchy. Hurt enough getting you back down here.”
He set the bowl on the ground and stepped away. It really had started to sting by the time he’d gotten to the cave—apparently, a single layer of linen only did so much.
Jesus took the bowl and started right in on the broth, apparently satisfied that this fell outside the realm of official temptation.
“Not so fast,” cautioned Crowley. “And I won’t be giving you another for an hour at least. Don’t give me that look; refeeding syndrome’s a bitch.”
Jesus shot him a look of mute betrayal over the top of the bowl, but did slow down.
“Your fault,” said Crowley unrepentantly. “I didn’t design humans to die if you give them too much food.”
“Sorry,” Jesus said when he was done, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and looking vaguely embarrassed.
It was Crowley’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“What?”
“I didn’t think She did apologies,” remarked Crowley, amused. “How human of you.”
“I am human.”
“Hm,” said Crowley, “no, because I’m fairly sure you’d be dead. You’d certainly not have turned down the food, either.“
“Haven’t,” said Jesus sheepishly, gesturing at the bowl.
“I meant before.”
“Oh. Well, I had to wait ‘til after. Besides, it wasn’t going to be that long after you turned up, and I’d already been at it for forty days.”
“Mm,” said Crowley, who thought that, in that case, Jesus hadn’t needed to be so rude about it. “How did you know? Could have kept you out there another forty days, just to torment you, couldn’t I?”
“Please. The first thing you did when you saw me was offer me food, you’d have hardly dragged it out. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone but Mother that you meant it kindly.”
“Do you have to tell Her?”
“Can’t help that.”
“Ah,” said Crowley, uncomfortable. “Well… great. Um. But that sort of makes my point, doesn’t it? How are you meant to be human when you don’t work like one? Put any of them out there and they’d roll over and succumb by day ten, the sun being what it is.”
“Humans aren’t that fragile.”
“Maybe not, but most are. And you can’t just use that as an excuse forever—‘oh, I’m a totally normal human except for all the ways I’m not’. It really gets to a point, don’t you think?”
“Hm,” said Jesus, eyeing the soup not very subtly. “Well, takes one to know one, I suppose.”
“Pardon me, I’m not even a bit human.”
“Not what I meant—but at what point do you have to stop calling yourself a demon just because you’ve got those eyes?”
“I am a demon,” said Crowley, annoyed. “What more’s to say?”
“Sure, sure,” said Jesus. “Hence the eyes and those lovely wings—very pretty, by the way—but demon’s meant to mean… oh, you know. Evil, loveless, forsaken. And it really gets to a point, as you say.”
“And angels are meant to be good and kind and rainbows and puppies, but have you ever met one?”
“Yes,” said Jesus. “Twice. I don’t remember the first time at all, though, as I’d just been born. Mum and Dad say the ones who talked to them were very kind, though.”
He’d started to edge slowly towards the pot, so Crowley rolled his eyes and took the bowl away, handing him a waterskin instead. Jesus chugged it.
“You’re going to get a stomachache. And no, angels are pricks. Aziraphale told me they’d talked to Gabriel, and he’s one of the worst. I bet he came off very impressive, though. Show-off.”
“Well, then, how do you know they’re angels?” asked Jesus practically. “If they don’t act it, I mean.”
“Because I doubt M—your Mother would send them on errands otherwise,” said Crowley dryly. “It’s not like She’s about to call on me to do her errands.”
Jesus raised another skeptical eyebrow. “Well, why not? You fit all the right characteristics, don’t you? Kind, loving, devoted… principled, even. Humble.”
“I am certainly not humble,” said Crowley, affronted. The rest were awful things to say—the worst insult you could give a demon, really—but humility? Him??? “Excuse you! I happen to have a sense of style. Humility’s dull as bricks.”
“Not when it’s done right,” observed Jesus mildly. “Say, do you think I could have…”
And Crowley, too upset to deny him, ladled him another bowl of soup, surreptitiously cooling it to drinking temperature since he was fairly sure his… guest? adversary? was going to pour it straight down his throat.
“What is this, anyway?” asked Jesus, once said throat-pouring was done. “It’s good, and I don’t think I’ve had it before.”
“Wouldn’t have,” said Crowley. “It’s from China. That’s one of the places I showed you. Shouldn’t you know that?”
Jesus shrugged. “It’s not really relevant, and besides, I could just ask you. Shame though,” he sighed, “that means I’m unlikely to have it again.”
“You’ll live. Or—no, you won’t. You know about that bit, I’d wager, if I do. Won’t have much time to try much of anything by then. Three years? That’s nothing. I’ve napped longer.”
“I know,” said Jesus, and Crowley couldn’t be sure if he was referring to the death or the napping.
“It’s not fair, really,” Crowley continued, slightly maudlin. “You know, I probably won’t see you again. I mean, even if I wanted to. They’ll drag me back down for failing at tempting you, even if there wasn’t a force in heaven or hell that could, and I’ll likely not be back up again to see you off. See—that’s how you know I’m a demon. Can’t touch you without burning, and the lower-downs can yank my chain however and whenever they please.”
Jesus nodded. “So, you’re a demon. What does that even mean? You can still act as you’ve been acting. You’ve a good heart.”
Crowley’s eyes darkened. Quick as a striking viper, he reached out and put his hand over the bare dark skin of his guest’s. He hissed in pain but held his charred palm up, as if to prove his point. “That’sssss what it meanssss. Any more quessstions?”
Jesus recoiled as though he’d been the one burned. “Crowley!”
“What,” says Crowley crossly, shaking his hand as the burn faded. “Look—I get it. Your whole deal is love and empathy, and apparently you’re less your Mother than you think, or else She’s gotten very chill about a lot of things very quickly—but you’re being insulting. Ssssay whatever you like, but it doesn’t change Her reality.”
Jesus hummed. “Do you want it to?”
“Do I want what to what?”
“Her reality. As you perceive it, regarding yourself. Do you want it to change?”
There was something open-ended in his voice that made Crowley nervous, as though it wasn’t a mere hypothetical. He scowled and ladled him another bowl of soup, suddenly not caring if it gave him a stomachache. “Here. Stop talking a minute.”
Jesus did, though he was a little less frantic about downing the bowl this time, instead drinking about half of it before he set it aside for sips.
“…no,” said Crowley finally, because he had been thinking about it.
“No?”
He shook his head. “Why would I? ‘S not… look. You’ve never been betrayed, have you? Not by someone you really cared about. Once you do, maybe you feel like you’d do anything to get what you had with them back, but the truth is… even if you did, you’d never be able to look at them the same again.”
“Mother broke your trust,” said Jesus, nodding as though this is a perfectly normal thing to say.
“Well,” said Crowley awkwardly, “yeah. I mean, close enough… and it’s not like I could go back to Heaven, either. Wouldn’t be the same, not seeing it like this. I don’t think I’d like it much, even if I did get to make stars again. And even that would be… well. Only a few thousand years left on those, right? No one knows the hour or the day, sure, but we were told in fairly uncertain terms to wrap up the long-term projects asap.”
“That is complicated,” said Jesus thoughtfully. “Not insurmountable, but complicated. She’d have to do a damn good job earning your forgiveness, and even so, you don’t feel you’ve a place to go.”
“She doesn’t do apologies,” said Crowley. “All-good, and whatnot. The best I’d get from Her is an explanation of why I’m wrong, and I’m good on that score, thanks.”
Jesus shrugged. “They don’t have to be mutually exclusive. I mean—She might give you an explanation that satisfies you, without necessarily blaming you for it.”
“Mmm,” said Crowley doubtfully. “I really think you’re overlooking the whole ‘demon’ thing.”
“I’m not,” said Jesus. “I told you—I’ve met an angel twice. This is the second time, according to Mother. She assured me I’d be attended by one after the ordeal was over.”
It took Crowley a minute to catch on, but when he did, his vision almost blacks out in fury. “O-oh, that—that—utter bitch.”
Jesus, looking rather amused for someone who’s just been called a son of a bitch, drew his knees up to his chin. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“No. She doesn’t get to use me like that—she’s no right.”
“Ah,” said Jesus, looking graver. “Well. I do see your point there. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not,” snapped Crowley, “because you can’t be, because you haven’t done anything wrong—that’s the whole blessed point of you. You’re jussst as trapped as I am.”
“I’m not,” said Jesus, suddenly in as much earnest as Crowley had been. “Anything you offered me, I could’ve said yes to. That’s the whole point, that I could have.”
“Then why didn’t you? Is it even free will if you always choose the same thing?”
“I don’t know,” said Jesus. “Is it free will when you stay with me until I’ve healed, even knowing that Mother said you would?”
Crowley glared at him, because he knew he wasn’t going to leave. It wasn’t just the caretaking—it was… something else. About being near someone who understand him, about how the pain of being burned by his touch was almost… beautiful, because he remembered when he’d been able to bask in Her love without being burned, and because a stupid craven part of him still thirsted for it. Because it was nice to be near someone who called him good, even if it was a terrible, lethal insult, even if it was an even more terrible and lethal idea for one such as him to entertain.
“Of course,” said Jesus, as though he knew every thought that has just passed through Crowley’s head—he probably did. “You see what I mean. You understand what it means to be driven by love.”
“So you’re going to let yourself be killed because you love them.”
“And you’re going to let yourself be tortured because you love me,” said Jesus, again acting as though this was all perfectly reasonable.
“What makes you think I love you?” snorted Crowley derisively.
Jesus took the last sip from his bowl and set it aside. “You act like it,” he said thoughtfully. “And I think you love me because I’m good, and you love goodness because you can’t help yourself. Which makes it all the worse that you don’t love yourself.”
“Not to put too fine a point on this, but I am, as I’ve reminded you, a demon.”
“You could be a camel, and it wouldn’t change who you are,” said Jesus. “Don’t think you’d want it to, either.”
“Of course not,” said Crowley, annoyed. “I got myself kicked out for not changing who I was, so why’d I want to do it now?”
“Mm,” said Jesus, and Crowley wondered if he was just being polite, or if, somehow, he remembered a version of Crowley who hadn’t been called Crowley yet, or even Crawly. It ached a bit to think of that, like longing and like betrayal, so he stopped.
“I suppose,” continued Jesus, “that it didn’t turn out how you expected. Have you ever had a place to go that just let you be?”
Crowley glared at him. That was altogether too much, that was the last straw; he couldn’t just say things like that.
“Sorry,” said Jesus, sounding, once more, genuinely apologetic, no matter that that should have been impossible. “That was too much.”
“It was too much,” said Crowley. “But the answer’s yes, bl—damn you, and you already know that.”
Jesus smiled at him. “I suppose that’s all I could ask for, then. That’s good. That way even if Mother never makes amends to your satisfaction, you’ll still have a place to go.”
“Not if your lot destroy it, I won’t,” said Crowley morosely.
“I didn’t come to destroy anything,” said Jesus earnestly. “I don’t want to destroy anything. It would be so much easier to destroy than to do what I’m attempting here—for one, we wouldn’t have had to go through all this trouble.”
“Alright,” said Crowley, “I’ll bite. What is the master plan, insofar as you see it?”
“Oh—you know,” said Jesus vaguely. “It’s… the way you don’t want to stop being a demon, and you shouldn’t. Being an angel again just wouldn’t be you. Would have been easy to destroy yourself, a kind thing like you, living in Hell. But you didn’t. You made something better. That’s all, I think. Except… large scale, you see.”
“I’m not sure I do,” said Crowley. “Especially since no matter what you do here, the Earth’s still scheduled for demolition. It just makes it even more pointless. Why bother with this whole rigamarole—starving yourself, getting killed, living under the Empire—if it’s all already more than halfway over? It seems like a lot of effort, or maybe effort that should have been put in sooner.”
“I don’t know,” said Jesus. “But I do know I’d do it anyway. I mean—even if the End was in four years. I’d do it if it was just for you and no one else. You see? I’m not trapped at all. Scared, but not trapped.”
“It’s not for me at all,” said Crowley. “Demons are fairly exempt, as per terms and conditions, and so unless you’re going to turn around and go reincarnate yourself in Hell—“
“That won’t be necessary,” said Jesus, amused. “I think I’m supposed to visit, though. That part’s not quite clear to me. Suppose it doesn’t have to be. But no, it’s not for you, and why would it be? You’ve already got what you need to be going on with, and you’re going on quite well.”
“You’ve got to stop saying things like that,” said Crowley. “Someone down there will hear you, and then I won’t get back up here until next century.”
Jesus shrugged. “I don’t think they can listen in on me, you know. The same reason I burn you to touch. If anyone’s interested, they’ll have to come up here and listen in person.”
“They will, too,” said Crowley, with tentative relief. “Just watch. You’re priority number one for the next three years. Obviously.”
Jesus nodded at him courteously. “Obviously. I can only hope everyone’s as polite as you.”
“They won’t be,” said Crowley, feeling sick. “Listen. You can’t go around expecting demons to act nicely—and don’t give them compliments, either, they’ll take it as an insult—or else you’re going to get gutted by a Hellhound in a dark alley and all of this will be for nothing.”
“Maybe some fresh air will do them good,” said Jesus. “I’m not going to get gutted by a Hellhound in a dark alley. Trust me.”
“Hm,” said Crowley, skeptically.
“Trust me,” reiterated Jesus.
Crowley shrugged. “On your head be it.”
“That is the idea,” said Jesus, grinning.
“I hate that,” said Crowley, passionately. “It’s not fair. Mother always does awful things like that and expects us to just… just deal with it. The kinder of a person you are, the more she takes advantage. It’s how Gabriel ended up being Supreme Archangel or whatever he’s calling himself now, and people like Aziraphale get stuck with Earth duty. It’s not fair at all! And I do like you, for what that’s worth. You don’t deserve to get killed.”
“That’s also the idea,” observes Jesus. “And we’ve already been through this. ‘Turn aside from the Plan’, yadda yadda. It didn’t work when I was starving, and it certainly won’t work now that you’ve fed me soup, because all you’ve done is give me a tangible reason why everyone could do better with another chance.”
“Everyone won’t,” said Crowley bitterly. “Not even close.”
“Well, that’s their prerogative,” said Jesus. “All the same, one ought to offer, I think. Crowley, as delightful as this conversation is, I don’t think I’m going to be able to stay awake much longer. Continue it in the morning?”
“What makes you so sure I’m sticking around?”
“You’ll be here,” said Jesus, with the faith of a child in his parents to be there when he wakes, and does in fact rather more collapse than lay down, eyes fluttering shut with relief.
At least he hadn’t thrown up. Crowley had been almost certain he would, but either the Son of Man had more miraculous secrets up his sleeve than he’d been letting on, or he just had a very strong stomach. He sighs, and miracles a blanket. No use in Jesus being cold and catching ill, it would only extend the amount of time Crowley is going to have to stay and look after him.
“You owe me for this,” he mutters to not-himself as he drapes it over his sleeping companion, careful not to touch. “That apology has just gotten twice as elaborate. There had better be grovelling, and flowers, and cake.”
And if a little light rain falls unseasonably that night to bring up fast-blooming desert blossoms outside their cave the next morning, well, who’s counting?