Sleep was a fabulous idea, until it came to waking up and one found himself half-blind and disoriented, wobbling out of the bedroom to the kitchen for a midnight snack. Not that he really needed a snack, because Crowley didn't need to eat, but all the same he felt like something, and he was sure there were some biscuits or perhaps a scone somewhere in the cupboards. His bleary state of semi-consciousness was making it rather difficult to locate them.
It also seemed to be causing him to hallucinate a giant beam of blue light streaming through his kitchen ceiling.
Crowley blinked once, then twice for good measure, and studied the light with the hazy indifference one might observe a smear of something questionable on the sole of his shoe. He wasn't sure whether or not he was truly seeing a blue light, but all the same there it was, a bloody bright stream burning a perfect circle into his lovely linoleum floor. He frowned. He rather liked that particular pattern.
Finally, it dawned on him that beams of blue light were not an everyday occurance in one's kitchen, and that the direction it was coming from meant only one thing: bad news.
"Bugger all," he mumbled, and dug an Oreo out of the box in his hand, popping it into his mouth. He would need a little sustenance before dealing with whatever was about to happen. Crowley took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and stepped into the circle of light.
"Good morning, Crowley," said a voice.
"'Morning," he said, though it sounded more like, 'MorrrnnaaaaAAAAnngh," as he suddenly gave a gigantic yawn. He rather liked yawns; they were refreshing, like a sneeze, though not as violent, or messy.
"Sorry," he mumbled, into his hand. He looked up into the light, and his eyes narrowed, looked through the brightness. "Er, who's up there?"
"We are," it said with a dramatic pause, "the Metatron,"
Crowley nodded. "Ah," he said. "Er, if you don't mind me asking, what in H- the world are you doing in my kitchen, of all places? At," he squinted at the digital clock on the microwave, "Four-bloody-thirty in the morning?"
"We wanted to talk to you," said the Voice, sounding a little annoyed, "about something rather important. Something that has come to Our attention."
"Um." Crowley fidgeted. "Yes. Important. I see." He rummaged in the box for another Oreo and began nibbling at it, nervously. "Go on?"
The light flickered for a moment, and Crowley wondered if that were the Metatron thinking. It was probably quite a task to think, as a Voice. He wondered idly what it thought with.
"Aziraphale," it said finally, startling him into paying attention again, "is your Enemy." A statement, more than a question. "We are your Enemy, as you are Ours."
Crowley wasn't sure if he was supposed to reply. By the time he'd decided that he should, the voice spoke again.
"And yet you fraternize quite heavily with your Enemy."
He was definitely supposed to answer, now. "Yes," he said, slowly, wondering what exactly the Metatron was getting at. A little voice inside his head – not, for once, instructions from Below, but his own niggling little scrap of a conscience – whispered something to him, something that made him uneasy, but he couldn't put a name to it. Not yet.
Instead, he waited.
"You have come to consider Aziraphale a friend."
Crowley nodded, somewhat stupidly. "Well, I suppose so," he said. "What I mean to say is that I've known him for quite some time, you know. Six thousand years."
"We know."
"Of course you do," Crowley mumbled. "So, yes, I suppose I sort of think of him as a friend, in that he's… er. Familiar? Not terribly irritating? A smashing drinking partner?"
The Metatron mulled this over for a moment, the beam shivering all around Crowley. In hindsight, he wondered if he should have added that last bit. What if Heaven frowned upon its agents getting squiffy on a regular basis (and with Aziraphale, it was fairly regular if not clockwork)? It would be terrible if Aziraphale suddenly had to mind his expenses.
Eventually, it spoke. "You have come to consider Aziraphale important to you," it said.
Crowley blanched. "Now, wait-"
"You have come to love Aziraphale."
"What?" Crowley sputtered. "You're out of your tree. I don't l-"
The light vibrated suddenly, violently, so much that Crowley could feel it across his skin. He took it as a divine request to shut up.
"You have been among the humans too long, demon," said a rather amused Voice, "to attempt a lie while in Our presence."
"Er," said Crowley.
"Very well," said the Voice. "You have confirmed our suspicions. Action will be taken. Good day to you, Crowley." The light began to fade.
Crowley dropped his box of Oreos.
"Wait!" he shouted. The light brightened again.
"Yes?"
He stared up into the brilliant depths. "What are you doing to do?"
The light shuddered. "We-"
"-because if you're planning to do something to Aziraphale because of how I fe- because of me, then that's just bloody fucked up."
"Crowley-"
"It's not his fault, I mean, I'm the one who- He's not… What I mean is that it isn't fair-"
"Crowley."
"-and I'll be DAMNED - AGAIN! - if I let you cast him out over this!"
"CROWLEY."
He closed his mouth.
"We are not casting Aziraphale out," said the Voice.
Crowley exhaled. "Oh," he said.
"He has done nothing wrong."
"Right."
"It is an angel's very nature to love and be loved. He was created with that in mind."
"Yes."
"As were you."
"Erk?" Crowley froze. "Er, I beg your pardon?"
The Metatron sighed. "You were created as he was, once, with the same abilities and the same expectations. He fulfilled where you failed." It paused. "Until now."
He held the breath he was not breathing.
"To love is no sin, Crawly," said the Metatron, a tint of something cheerful to its Voice. "It was not created to destroy. To love is salvation. To love is divine. To love, little demon, is holy."
And with that the light vanished, leaving no trace of its presence save for a faint ring on the kitchen floor which had already begun to fade. Crowley stood still, expecting a clap of thunder or bolt of lightning, or something equally grandiose, the kind of thing he expected from Above. They had the better budget for it.
There wasn't anything, except the occasional rush of tires against the streets outside.
When he could move again Crowley stumbled back to his bedroom. He wondered if perhaps he might have dreamed it all, except that demons do not dream and besides that he was fairly certain he'd been awake for the whole thing. He could still taste the Oreo as he crawled into bed.
As he settled in, the blankets stirred.
"Go back to sleep," he said to them. The blankets sighed and a rumpled blond head popped out from under them, looking perturbed.
"I'm trying," mumbled Aziraphale, tossing and turning a bit, "but I just don't see the point."
Crowley shook his head, and reached for him, and the bedroom filled with sighs, Aziraphale's laughter, and the first breath of dawn.
Neither of them noticed the feathers mingling on the floor, one black and one white, drifting together to form a new shade of grey.
A Christmas gift from Aziraphale in 1945. He's never quite forgiven him.
Crowley did dream once, about sea monkeys. He's made a concerted effort never to dream again.