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Well, you’re a 'real man,' and you do what you can
You only take as much as you can grab with two hands
With your big heart, you praise God above
But how’s that working out for you, honey?
Do you feel
Loved?
Crowley doesn’t remember much before Eden.
He has a few flashes of Before the Beginning: softness and comfort, laughter, wondering why God’s Plan seemed to be getting more and more difficult to understand.
And then, of course, pain.
Flames.
Burning, turning to ash and reforming with fire in his veins that scorched him from the inside out. His beautiful wings permanently blackened with soot. He saw his reflection, soon after, and almost screamed at the sight of his eyes.
Why was it that all the demons seemed to resemble some kind of animal? Was it because they were too earthly for Heaven to hold?
Tempting Eve wasn’t really that big of a deal, to be honest. It was like she was looking for an excuse to have some fun.
Crowley likes to think his memory only really begins with standing on the Eastern wall of the Garden, averting eye contact with an angel sporting a shock of white hair.
As they stood there and watched the first rainstorm together, Crowley tucked under the angel’s wing, Crowley could barely contain his excitement. Was this another one? Someone else who saw the strangeness in God’s rules, and who wanted to help, make himself happy, despite whatever nonsense the Almighty told him to do?
I gave it away.
It echoed in his ears for millennia afterwards. Aziraphale was still good inside, unlike Crowley. Aziraphale hadn’t done anything to deserve Falling. But Aziraphale still understood. He knew that there was a real difference between God’s law and what was right. Finally, Crowley had found an ally. Perhaps even a friend.
He laughs, whenever he remembers those initial thoughts. He had been so naïve. How had he forgotten how terrified Aziraphale would be of disappointing God when he still had so much left to lose?
Crowley’s still mad about the Satan thing. As if Satan would’ve deigned to turn into a serpent and do the dirty work in Eden himself. They couldn’t have at least called Crowley by name?
Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life.
Crowley had been cursed, of course. But the humans had gotten it a bit wrong.
There were a few curses, but none of them really had much to do with crawling on the ground.
No matter what form he took, Crowley could never hide his eyes. That only became a problem later on- the fourth or fifth time he was burned at the stake for being a creature of hell, he decided dark glasses were the way to go. He became rather attached to them, and got larger and larger ones as the years progressed. As he saw more and more suffering, as the humans and angels and demons alike came up with more inventive and painful ways of torturing and killing, Crowley was reminded how important it was to protect himself. Get them a little larger this time, he told himself as the years went by. Make sure they hide your eyes for good. No use taking risks when you can stop it before it happens.
The other curse, of course, was his name.
He couldn’t remember it.
It was fine. Really.
But when the other demons started calling him Crawly and he felt that discordant chord strike inside him- crying out wrong wrong wrong -he chose a new name for himself. He picked himself up from the pit of fire he’d been thrown into, dusted himself off, and raised his head high. He didn’t try to escape the Almighty’s punishments, because he knew he never could. Instead, he embraced them.
There was a good reason for everything that She had done to him. He knew that. So, he had to make sense of it as much as he could.
She wanted to hurt him. He couldn’t not accept that. So, he embraced Her punishments with open arms. Maybe, just maybe, this was Her way of giving him some power. He’d take what he was given and make it serve his own purposes. He had control over himself, no matter what anyone liked to think.
In his darker moments, Crowley wondered whether She had just hurt him for the sake of hurting him, no precision or ulterior motive in mind. Surely not. The Almighty was many things, but cruel was not one of them. Whatever happened to him, he must have done something to deserve it.
Despite what Aziraphale insinuates, Crowley didn’t save anyone from the Flood.
He stayed and watched as they were all swallowed up by the raging sea, crying out for salvation that would never come.
Crowley could’ve saved them- at least, saved some of them. Could’ve put it down on the report as a thwarting of Heaven’s work, been home in time for tea. It would’ve been simple.
But Crowley had watched those thousands of people drown, clinging onto family members as they cried and spluttered and suffocated, and wondered, do they deserve it?
Crowley had deserved what he got…right? That was how God worked. Things only happened because they were supposed to. If Crowley had been tossed out of Heaven like a discarded plaything, burnt to a crisp and sentenced to cause evil for the rest of his existence- well, he must’ve done something to deserve it, right? He must’ve done something to warrant that level of punishment.
God couldn’t be cruel just for the sake of it. That was Crowley’s job.
Crowley thinks about the children who died that day, sometimes. He remembers all of their faces.
Whenever Crowley sees statues of the Regina Pacis, he winces.
And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.
That’s her, alright- although a lot paler than he remembers- clad in blue and white, a completely blank expression on her face. She’s always standing on a snake, her bare feet choking the life out of the poor thing.
Crowley had gotten along quite well with Mary. She’d spent her time being worried sick about her son going off on trips all the time to do religious preaching, wringing her hands, sure he was going to get himself into some real trouble one of these days. Crowley had tried to protect him. He’d offered him all the kingdoms of the world, as a favor to that poor woman waiting for him to come back home. He’d refused, of course. On principle.
And Crowley had stood there next to Aziraphale, watching the Roman soldiers hammer nails into his wrists. If only the kid had done something for himself, one of those days. He could’ve kept spreading his message of love and peace and whatnot. Just…taken a few precautions. Shirked a few of the superfluous laws to get a nice house for his aging mother to live in. Punched a soldier in the face and made a run for it when they came to take him away.
But no. Crowley stayed there all afternoon, watching as he slowly suffocated to death, blood dripping from each of his limbs, his stomach, his scalp- had those bastards left no part of him untouched?
IESUS NAZARENUS, REX IUDAEORUM, read the mocking sign nailed last-minute above his head.
That bastard, Crowley thought, long after Aziraphale had left his side. Why couldn’t he have listened to me? I was trying to save him.
But no. The Almighty had a plan, after all, and a very important part of it was this kind, principled young man, slowly suffocating and bleeding in the middle of the Earth for the humans’ enjoyment.
He watched Jesus slowly die on that unremarkable Friday afternoon, and Crowley knew: no matter what you do, you can’t escape the suffering the Almighty delights in making you go through. It’s nothing to do with you at all. There certainly wasn’t anything wrong with Jesus. He was supposed to be the best of that whole lot.
He was just chosen. And what a privilege it was.
“You know,” Aziraphale begins, those ridiculous reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose, “I rather do think this was Her plan all along.”
Crowley can’t help it. His lips quirk up into a reluctant smile. He hoists himself up on his elbows, his spine protesting as it longs to be pressed back up against the overstuffed armchair that he’s draped himself over for the evening. “Yeah, sure, angel. I was at the airbase. I heard the spiel.”
Aziraphale’s doing “inventory,” as he calls it- a night every few weeks when he takes all his books off the shelves, lovingly runs his fingers down their spines, opens a few, maybe dusts the wood they were on for good measure, before putting them all back in the places they’ve held for the past two hundred years.
“Oh, but that was just for show!” Aziraphale exclaims, quite too enthusiastically, a cloud of dust spreading from his hands as he gestures widely, a half-disintegrated first edition of Le Livre de la Cité des Dames dangling from his fingers. He catches it, just before it falls, chuckling to himself, embarrassed. He wipes at the cover a few times with his handkerchief as Crowley watches, amused.
“I would have said anything that day. But I’ve really been thinking about it, my dear. I think my problem has always been that I believed in God’s plan all along, but I couldn’t bring myself to understand the way the others sought to carry it out.”
Crowley’s smile twists downwards. “So…still in favor of ‘the Great Plan,’ then?”
“Exactly!” beams Aziraphale. “She never meant for us to go through with the Apocalypse. She planned it this way from the very Beginning, don’t you see? Everything we’ve done, everything that’s happened- every bit of it was what She intended.”
Crowley swallows reflexively. His mouth tastes like ash. He chokes out a noise he hopes Aziraphale will interpret as a hum of agreement. His eyes dart around the bookshop- damn Aziraphale for convincing him to toss his sunglasses to the side as they enjoyed each others’ company.
Luckily for him, Aziraphale is quite focused on moving through the next shelf down.
“What is it they would say?” Aziraphale murmurs, most of his attention fixed on sorting through the rest of his medieval French literature. “Mysterium Fidei? Faith can seem awfully counterintuitive, but when one trusts in God’s Plan, one can overcome even the stuffiest of overbearing archangels.”
Crowley gropes blindly for the nearest bottle of wine. He finds it on the floor where he left it and swiftly brings it to his lips, not bothering with a glass.
“Angel, don’t tell me you were attending Catholic masses for the past five hundred years. I can’t imagine you with those skinny, self-flagellating martyrs.”
The last few words are a bit hard to get out. He lets them sit in his mouth before saying them, letting them slowly roll off his tongue once they’re ripe and ready to fall.
Aziraphale chuckles. "Oh, goodness, no. I never could find the discipline to sit through their masses, I'm afraid. Still, they had the best of intentions. I think they got most of it rather correct."
Crowley sighs, the sound expressing six thousand years of built-up frustration with his angel’s unwillingness to voice his doubts.
“Come on,” Crowley begins, feeling the snarl burn across his face, the cruel words rising up through his chest like bile. “Sure, it was Her plan, but it’s a fucking horrible one.”
Aziraphale is staring at him, mouth wide in a caricature of offended shock.
Crowley can’t stop talking. “You don’t actually think the Almighty gives a shit about either of us, do you? What about all the wars? All the pain? I know your lot’s all about sensing the virtues, but you can’t tell me you’re completely oblivious about all the stinking, festering suffering that’s been smothering this planet since the Beginning.”
Aziraphale straightens, a slight frown on his face. “The suffering is regrettable, of course, but that’s what happens when you give humans free will. It’s their decision. They’re going to kill and maim each other as much as they help each other, and love.”
Crowley scoffs. “Love. Right.”
Aziraphale sits across from him, one ankle crossed over his knee. “Come now. You’re not going to sit there and tell me there’s no love in the world.”
Crowley makes a face, lips drawn down into a pout. “Nah. Just. That’s people, right? Not Her. She has nothing to do with anything you think She does. All that love and- and goodness, whatever, that’s all humans. And- And us, I suppose. But we’re more like them-” and here he swings his arms in a wide, encompassing gesture “-than we ever were like them,” he finishes, flicking his pointer finger up and down, over and over.
“So-” Aziraphale chuckles, and it’s not his normal chuckle. Crowley curses himself, silently. This is the high-pitched, reedy chuckle his angel makes when he’s getting ready to flee the country. Crowley’s made him afraid. “So you expect me to believe that everything good in the world, averting the Apocalypse and all that, none of it was in God’s plan? It was just- just chance?”
Crowley swings his legs over the arm of the chair and onto the floor, sitting up straight so he can look Aziraphale directly in the eye, right on his level.
“Not chance, no,” he says, his voice remarkably steady, all traces of inebriation gone. “Just people. Choosing to help out, for their own selfish reasons. Nothing wrong with that. But those religions? Those archangels? They’ll tell you anybody who doesn’t hang on their every word and do what they want, regardless of how stupid and evil they are, is destined for eternal damnation. I know a bit about eternal damnation. No one should go there for following their own moral compass. Just for not following Her ssssstupid rulessss, breaking onesssss that don’t even hurt anyone.”
Aziraphale’s leaning forward, his head tilted and eyebrows slanted in concern. “Are you quite alright, my dear?”
Crowley glares right back. “Jusssst peachy.”
He swipes up the bottle of wine and takes one final chug before rising to his feet. “I’m done for the night. I’ll leave you to your thoughts about how everything horrible that’s ever happened was all for the greater good.” At the end, he puts on a high, simpering voice.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, quiet, and oh Satan, he sounds hurt.
Crowley forces himself to move anyway. He miracles a fresh pair of sunglasses from the Bentley- no use rummaging around for them when he’s trying to make a dramatic exit.
“Loved Falling,” Crowley calls over his shoulder. “So happy the Almighty decided to chuck me into a pit of acid and scorch my wings black, aren’t you?”
Dramatic exit. That’s exactly what he’s doing.
He keeps telling himself that, and he doesn’t start crying until he’s inside his car.
Aziraphale is waiting for him when he gets home. He’s sitting in the dark, his head in his hands.
Crowley flicks on the light. He stands in the doorway, unable to muster even a smudge of anger at Aziraphale for miracling himself here.
Aziraphale raises his head, and Crowley startles. The angel’s naturally round, cheerful face looks gaunt, longer than usual, his eyes filled with an exhausted kind of sorrow.
They don’t need to speak. They know each other far too well.
Crowley stumbles over to the couch, tipping facefirst into Aziraphale’s lap. He presses his face into the angel’s cashmere-clad belly, breathing in the dusty, wood-polish smell.
Crowley shuffles a bit, curling his legs up so he fits on the couch. Slowly, Aziraphale sighs, and Aziraphale relaxes. Fingers start to drag their way through Crowley’s hair, and Crowley hums, content, turning his head to give Aziraphale better access.
“I’m ssssorry,” Crowley mutters into Aziraphale’s cardigan. “I jusssst…”
“I know, dearheart,” Aziraphale croaks out. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
They sit there in the dim light, just holding each other. Crowley calms himself by listening to Aziraphale’s breathing slow.
“Is it stupid of me to wish that She really does love all her creations?” Aziraphale asks, his voice strained. “That She’s let all this happen because She really does have our best interests in mind? Oh, you must think I’m such a fool.”
“No,” Crowley responds automatically. “No, you’re not stupid. Not stupid at all.”
Aziraphale gently grasps one of Crowley’s hands from where it’s currently stationed, fingers digging into Aziraphale’s trousers in a subconscious effort to keep him as close as possible. Aziraphale lifts Crowley’s hand to his lips, and kisses the palm with a gentleness that makes something hard and sharp twist in Crowley’s chest.
“You’re right, of course,” Aziraphale say softly. “Any God who would allow all of this to happen, who would punish you in such a terrible way…”
“I just said that to hurt you,” Crowley admits, abashed. “I don’t care what She did to me. I deserved it. She just…She made so many people suffer, angel. Good people. Really, really good people. They should’ve been treated better.”
“If you think,” Aziraphale begins, his voice much louder, and shaking, “for one second that you deserve anything other than love and happiness, I might find myself having to strike you across the face.”
Crowley exhales a sound he likes to think resembles a laugh.
“Why did She do it, angel?” Crowley’s not even sure himself what he’s referring to.
Aziraphale waits a very long time before answering. Crowley would’ve thought he’d fallen asleep, if it weren’t for the fingers still making slow, soothing trails in his hair.
“I don’t know,” Aziraphale answers. “But I don’t think we’re under any obligation to believe it was the right decision.”
Crowley tenses automatically. It’s alright for Crowley to say things like that- he’s already Fallen, there’s really not that much more She can do to him. But Aziraphale? She can hurt Aziraphale so very much.
Aziraphale squeezes his shoulder before Crowley can even find the words to say anything. “We’re alright, Crowley. We’re on our own side.”
Not just the two of them. Really, it’s the whole of humanity. Big mixed up messes of selfishness and altruism and rage and sadness and joy, and humor, and brilliant inventions and wars and babies and birthday cakes and assault rifles and dances and nausea and crème puffs and songs.
Perhaps, just perhaps, it really is up to them. Perhaps they have a chance at finding that special undirected, purely neutral potential that the humans have in overflowing abundance.
Perhaps it’s not too late for them to decide for themselves.