Love cannot live where there is no trust.
-Edith Hamilton
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Seventeen days in, Crowley woke up and the world didn't hurt. He sat up in bed, and found himself having an urge to tempt. He hadn't had such an urge in over two weeks, too consumed by Aziraphale's absence (and the horrible ruminations thereon) to focus on anything else. He stared at himself in the full-length mirror on the wall and stood, suddenly dressed in a sharp suit. The ache of loss was still in the back of his head, but he could stuff it away, now. It wasn't as sharp, as debillitating.
He went out and caused three minor car accidents (two out of three due partially to mobile phones, the third being the other driver's fault, entirely, but Crowley would still take credit where he could get it), glued a few antique coins to the sidewalk and smoked in a non-smoking restaurant (where no one dared ask him to leave). He returned to his apartment feeling satisfied in a way he hadn't in a very long time, and this prompted Crowley (once there) to shed his black jacket at the door, toe off his shoes and have a glass of very good, old brandy in only his silky lustrously-yellow button-up shirt (first two buttons undone, of course), loosened black tie and black slacks. He kicked his black stocking (unholy, thankyouverymuch) feet up on the coffee table, reclining on his white leather couch with the square cushions (very chic), holding the matching square scotch-sized glass in a hand as he stared at his plants, musing. (They were very terrified at the sudden intense attention—even though Crowley was more lost in thought, than anything else—and immediately straightened and bloomed, each plant according to its talents.)
Crowley sipped at his brandy and hummed quietly to himself, unusually pensive.
Well, Aziraphale was gone. He winced a little, taking another sip. Yes. That was undoubtable. Undoable, too. It was highly unlikely the people Upstairs would let the angel come back anytime soon, if ever. Crowley considered this with a nod—yes, that seemed probable. If Aziraphale had… truly meant what he'd said, sometime during those two weeks, surely he would've made every effort to at least contact Crowley.
The demon felt a small surge of anger, at this. Or, once back Up There, perhaps Aziraphale realized how shoddy it was down here, in comparison? Crowley snorted to himself. All those centuries of Aziraphale claiming Above's bureaucracy was as bad as Below's—Crowley shook his head. The angel just hadn't been home enough. Crowley felt a quiet, angry sneer curl up his lip. Yeah. That'd be how it went. Aziraphale would get called up, reprimanded for fraternizing with the enemy, be confronted with innumerable slips of paperwork to fill out, all the while bathing in the glory of the Host. Crowley hissed to himself, fingers tightening on his glass. Some tiny part of him prodded at his anger, saying he wasn't giving Aziraphale enough credit. He impatiently batted it away. Crowley was a demon for a reason—he didn't do faith. He didn't trust. And sure, after almost six-thousand years, Crowley'd thought he'd known Aziraphale. But things could always change. Hell, Crowley'd seen all of human history. He knew about change, and he knew some things always stayed the same.
Like angels.
Crowley sighed, slouching back into his couch, dropping his gaze to the amber brandy in his glass, swirling it and staring idly at the swishing liquid. Something dark and ancient prodded at his mind.
It was only two weeks, after all.
Did you really expect it would last?
How dependant are you willing to be, for him, Crowley?
He narrowed his eyes. It was true. Two weeks to (essentially) immortal beings was nothing. Who's to say it'd been nothing to Aziraphale? Who's to say it had actually meant anything at all? It could've easily just been the angel trying to lure him into 'goodness', through being superficially wicked—just wicked enough to catch Crowley's interest without committing any sin.
What if Aziraphale had just been playing with him, the entire time, waiting for a chance to call up on Heaven and give his report on subverting a demon—making a demon love. Something in Crowley recoiled as he admitted that to himself and he felt sick, but the queasy feeling quickly turned to rage in his stomach. That tiny blessed part of him said that Aziraphale would never do that, Crowley only had to wait and Aziraphale would—
But what if he doesn't?
What's the point in ruining yourself over what might have been?
He's not here, so whatever happened in those two weeks doesn't even exist, right now.
And, again, that was true. Why should Crowley be the one to suffer, here? Why should he be upset that he hadn't heard anything? It was Heaven's affair, and Aziraphale was their agent. It was none of his business. Why had Crowley let himself fall so far (pun not intended)—it had nothing to do with him. He smiled, wanly. Clearly, otherwise Heaven would've smote him by now or Aziraphale would've returned. Crowley chuckled to himself, feeling something hard lodge itself in his chest. Something sharp and spiky, like one of those old medieval maces.
He'd never been one to give into those demonic urges—even back in Eden, he'd been the only demon 'good' enough to hold a conversation with an angel (even though that angel had been Aziraphale, still, back then it had been a big deal). After Falling, he'd made the choice not to go in on all that torture crap, and had avoided most of it on Earth, as well. (Read: see his reaction to the Spanish Inquisition.) Crowley'd never allowed himself to get discouraged, when Aziraphale said it was 'down to his nature' that he had to do evil. He could've bitten Eve—he didn't. Crowley could've done a lot of things, over the millennia, that he hadn't.
Maybe it had been Aziraphale. Maybe the angel had been influencing him. Crowley shook his head. No, that was only part of it. Aziraphale had been someone he could talk to as an equal, as someone who understood his lot in life (well, more than the humans, anyway, and demons didn't really like to talk). Crowley had to admit to himself that he hadn't let himself get carried away. He liked humans. He had nothing against them, it was just his job. That had been exactly how he'd lived his life, and likely why everyone was still around, in the first place.
Crowley smiled snakily to himself. Oh, was that it? If he tried harder, would that mean he could influence the end of the world? He almost laughed aloud at the thought, but the notion persisted, niggling at the back of his brain. What if he hadn't brought up the idea to stop the apocalypse, eleven years ago? What if he hadn't been able to convince Aziraphale that it was a bad idea—barring all that 'thwarting wiles' nonsense (that'd just been to get the angel to go along with it). What then? What would've happened, if Crowley hadn't made the choice to stop the end of the world? It certainly hadn't been the demonic thing to do.
Also, without Aziraphale here, that meant there was a severe imbalance in the world. Crowley could tempt, but there would be no angelic parry, no shield of righteousness to limit his victims. His smile spread, growing a bit sharp around the edges. Forget Aziraphale, then. Perhaps he'd better have some fun, like he'd never had, before. Maybe that would get Heaven to do something, spur them to action. But really, Crowley wasn't motivated by all that. He and Aziraphale had saved the world together (nevermind Adam). If Aziraphale couldn't be arsed to stay at his station—Heavenly mandate or no—why shouldn't Crowley take advantage?
Yeah, he thought to himself, angrily, If Aziraphale's gone what do I have to lose? No one here knows me, they're all just humans, maybe it'd really be fun to see just how well people do without an angel to balance the scales. He hissed to himself, fingers tightening on the glass, making it creak. Crowley cast an infernal grin at his plants, hard and hurt and angry. What did it matter, anymore? The only reason they'd saved the world was because Aziraphale had managed to persuade Metatron and Beelzebub otherwise. Crowley'd barely done anything at the end, he'd only instigated the beginning, eleven years ago. If Aziraphale wasn't here, what was the world really worth, to him? An eternity without an Adversary to duel? (Forget what had happened in the two weeks after the apocalypse—to Crowley, now, that time was as good as dead, as good as nonexistent, because there was no point in getting his hopes up. If Aziraphale'd wanted to return, he would have. Crowley stubbornly wouldn't allow his thoughts to consider otherwise.)
Crowley snarled to himself, abruptly hurling his unfinished glass at the mantle, where it shattered. Shards of glass went everywhere, the brandy leaving a dripping stain until Crowley glared at it and the damage was gone. The houseplants shivered in fear as the demon stood, hands grasping each other behind his back as he strode away. He just ended up pacing in the bedroom, the bed's white sheets messy and unmade (and 100% Egyptian Cotton). Crowley turned on his heel smartly, continuing to pace. An idea was crawling into his mind, sodden and dripping with darkness.
What's it matter, anymore? Aziraphale's gone. Why should I keep trying if there's no one to thwart me?
Exactly. Without his influence mucking up your aura, you can finally act freely.
The end of the world's a bit much, though. Crowley realized, coming back to reason, a little.
Granted, but no one ever said you had to be nice, did they? Crowley paused, staring at the foot of his bed.
That's true. The dark voice from the back of his mind hissed in glee.
Ssssee? You have ssso much potential, Crowley. Don't let it go to wasssste! Crowley grinned to himself, a little, allowing a push of confidence as he resumed pacing.
Yeah. Yeah! I am better than what I've been.
Aziraphale's been distracting me.
I could do ssso much more…
Crowley snickered, eyes casting out towards the window. He grinned, selfish and eager.
No more Mr. Nice Demon. Heaven wanted Aziraphale out of the way? Fine. Crowley'd enjoy the unhindered temptations and damnings that would occur in the meantime. Oh yes he would. It was high-time he started acting like a real demon—no angelic influence allowed.
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If he was going to be alone forever, anyway, at least he'd still have his work to be proud of.
The prospect of his life without Aziraphale was so much easier to swallow if he spent it making others miserable, after all.
But Crowley didn't dare admit that last part to himself. It was buried along with that tiny blessed spark which was being firmly smothered beneath an overabundance of sudden, rather-demonic rage at being left behind, at being abandoned, at being ripped away from a promise of soft happiness that he'd never encountered, before. If Heaven didn't want Aziraphale around him, that was fine. Crowley didn't need Aziraphale to do his job, to make humans despair—Hell, to live. In fact, he'd do it better than ever before, just to show Heaven what a horrible, nasty demon he was. Playing under the radar didn't matter, anymore, and besides—he might even get a commendation and a better standing in Hell if he did a really wicked job.
(Crowley ignored a small sense that he'd decided to do this because a spike in demonic activity might make Heaven—provided Aziraphale hadn't changed as much as Crowley feared—send the angel back. Purely to 'balance the scales', of course. There could be no other logical reason than that.)
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Three weeks in, Crowley was starting to wonder if this was how a heart died. Oh, he'd never had one to begin with, to be sure—but he had a sneaking suspicion that he'd acquired one, somewhere along the line.
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Ten weeks. Seventy days, and Crowley realized vaguely that it'd been a rather long time since he'd thought of Aziraphale. Oh, he'd had his moments – tears suddenly dripping down his face before he could stop them at the oddest times, or going days without allowing himself to register any thought lest it be of the angel. Of this, Crowley's actions had ended up in a mind-numbing, repeating circle, but Crowley didn't care. This was existence. This was his work – his job.
: : :
Twenty years.
Crowley no longer wore snappy black suits. (What was the point, without someone who was his opposite?) No, now Crowley tended towards greys and whites, checkered patterns, hoodies, and skinny jeans. He found posing as a hipster had the amusing affect of increasing the general hostility in his vicinity. Now and then he would even dabble in steampunk. Crowley allowed himself to be carried along the tide of human existence, tarnishing souls, reporting Deeds of the Day at the usual monthly meetup with Hastur (and Ligur, whom Adam had apparently restored).
Crowley had increased the evil output of the vicinity of London by forty percent. He earned a commendation. Hastur gruffly congratulated him. Ligur gave him the Evil Eye (he'd never really got over that whole bit with the holy water, back in '90). Crowley was a demon. He did demonic things. He encouraged 'discontent among the brethren'. He kept up with the new gadgets, had an iPhone but never used it, except for the Apps. His Bentley had an audio jack instead of a cassette player, the cassettes tossed on the floor of the backseat. His passenger seat was littered with glossy, flashy magazines and various charger cords.
He stayed away from his flat for weeks on end. (All the plants had died long ago, anyway.)
In sum, Crowley made himself forget what it was like to live. He didn't have any friends, didn't make any new ones. The old lady in the flat below died, and her children came and moved out her things. A relatively young, childless couple moved in. They were in their thirties, both concerned with getting high-end degrees. Crowley sowed tension, tempted the wife to cheat and the husband to abuse their finances, and soon enough they were yelling at each other. Five months later they divorced. Eight years of a marriage destroyed by a demon in five months. (It would've been shorter, but Crowley had been distracted by that market crash in America.)
Crowley miracled himself a gun. Sometimes, when he was drunk – with a bottle of wine as his co-pilot – he would drive around London shooting at statues of angels. The bullets ricocheted but never hit anyone. (The angels bled bright blue from where they made contact.)
Crowley forgot. (If he'd done anything else, it would've destroyed him.)
While channel-surfing, he caught sight of a sappy romance movie. It was just another night, but he ended up watching it. The girl's mother didn't want her dating another girl – who, despite being much older, clearly loved the first girl with all her heart – and forbade the first girl from contacting the second girl. There were many scenes of the second girl looking sad, but the main development was between the first girl and her mother. Eventually she won her mother over and the movie ended with the cliché of 'love conquers all'. The ending scene was the two girls holding each other tight, smiling soppily and just looking generally happy to be back together.
Crowley had started crying about when it became apparent there would be a happy ending. It wasn't even sobs, at first – just tears. His vision blurred, and not ten seconds later big, fat, disgusting tears were rolling down his cheeks, his nose growing congested.
He couldn't stop crying for a half-hour. Every attempt to stop only set it off anew.
His chest hurt. His hands hurt – there was an ache pulsing from them and up and down his arms. Like the pain was a physical poison, an acid eating away at the veins beneath the skin. He couldn't see, couldn't smell, couldn't trust what he felt (since it was obvious there was no acid in his veins, much as his body tried to convince him otherwise). He kept crying, sniffling, and generally looking a great mess until apparently his corporation had had enough, and allowed him to calm down.
Crowley never told anyone about these episodes. That one night hadn't been the first time.
Time soldiered on.
To Crowley, it seemed at once too fast and too long.
Twenty years was too long, wasn't it? That was a long time. Why didn't it feel like it?
Twenty years shouldn't go by so fast. Every now and then Crowley came to this conclusion. Human time had always dragged by, for Crowley. He observed too much, remembered too much. But the past two decades just felt like a blob of time arbitrarily labeled 'twenty years'. It could've been two years, for all Crowley knew (except that fashion had drastically changed, when Crowley bothered to pay attention).
He tried to remember what it was like. It felt like he'd lost something.
He still recalled Aziraphale, yes. But any emotion associated with the angel had been burned out of him. Crowley had nothing left. So he just kept going. Kept driving, kept tempting, kept sinning, kept damning. He kept going, because that was all he could do. All he knew how to do. He couldn't process the world as he had, before – too much had changed. So Crowley simply shut out the emotional parts he couldn't deal with, anymore (because of the pain they evoked), and quietly smothered them under a veil of mediocrity. He wasn't special. Why had he ever thought he was? Crowley was just another demon. Another cog in the wheel. And one day he would be sent back to Hell by some aspiring exorcist, or possibly be smote by an avenging angel. Either way, it didn't matter.
But Crowley wouldn't stop.
The only thing he still really knew how to do was drive.
To drive, you always have to keep moving.
So he did.
He kept going.
And Crowley'd go straight over the metaphorical cliff, when it came – full-tilt, never even trying to stop.
What was the point, if it was all the same?
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The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost.
-Unknown