This is a sequel to "The Gentle Slope", so this story won't make much sense if you haven't read that story first. This was inspired by some excellent conversations I had with Wolfiejimi and so I'd like to dedicate this story to her.
A Wretched Comfort
"It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery." - Christopher Marlowe, Dr. Faustus
Both Heaven and Hell were cold.
Crowley had tried to explain this once to Aziraphale. It wasn't that you simply felt the cold and could miracle a jumper to warm yourself, Crowley had said.
Hell was so cold that it burned. Same with Heaven – Crowley remembered that much. It was the kind of cold that got under your skin and made your bones ache. The kind that made every breath you take feel like you were breathing in daggers.
That's how Crowley felt every time he visited Hell – so cold that he always left thinking, just for a moment, that he didn't want to feel anything anymore.
Focalor, a Duke of Hell, was on duty when Crowley reported in with his night's tally of souls.
Crowley watched impassively as Focalor weighed the souls he had collected the previous night on an enormous scale. The duke looked impressed as he finished weighing the souls in the balance (they had been found wanting, but all scales in Hell were made to show that).
"Forty souls, all in one night," said, Focalor, after he had finished counting. The duke nodded to a demon guarding the souls Crowley had brought in. "Take them down to the first circle," Focalor instructed the minion before turning back to Crowley.
"Well done, Master Crowley," said Focalor. "Lord Beelzebub will be pleased at your success."
Crowley nodded as the souls wailed and gnashed their teeth, a few shooting accusing glances at Crowley as they were dragged away.
"You tricked me! You evil creature!" shrieked the soul of a woman at Crowley.
Crowley was aware of Focalor's eyes on him but he didn't care. For once he didn't need to put on a show as he glared at the soul.
"You made the final decision, mortal, not me. I tempted you – it was up to you to choose good or evil."
Focalor watched as Crowley disappeared back down the hall that would take him back up to Earth. An odd sort of demon, he mused, but a certainly effective one, he thought before turning his attention to the next batch of souls being brought in.
Sometimes, it seemed to Aziraphale that Crowley was the only one who really understood him. And not in some trivial, superficial way simply by virtue of being two supernatural beings amongst a sea of humanity.
It was more than that. Sometimes, Aziraphale felt that if he looked too long into those golden eyes, every thought, every secret, every petty feeling and emotion that he wasn't supposed to have but did feel with every beat of his too human heart – would be revealed to Crowley.
Aziraphale wasn't sure if he was supposed to be comforted or terrified by that.
And then there were times when Aziraphale was brutally reminded of how far they still were from each other, and that no matter how many times they tried to meet in the middle there were some things that they simply couldn't find any common ground on.
Tonight was one of those times.
He hadn't seen the demon for over a week, and while that in itself wasn't usual – merely a blink for two immortal beings – Aziraphale couldn't help but feel that something was off.
The last time he had seen Crowley, the demon had been tense with anxious, nervous energy. He had mumbled something about "falling behind on his quota" and that was all.
Aziraphale wasn't a fool and he knew that Crowley was most likely working on an assignment from Hell that he didn't want Aziraphale to know about.
He couldn't help but feel that something was Very Wrong and an hour later Aziraphale was outside the door to Crowley's flat, knocking gently but earnestly on the door.
"Crowley?"
When there was no answer the angel cautiously miracled the door open. If Crowley had truly wanted him to stay away Aziraphale knew the demon would have found a way to keep the angel out.
Aziraphale peered into the dark flat, searching for his demonic colleague.
He found Crowley sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. One knee was drawn up, his other leg stretched out in front of him. He was holding a bottle of scotch that was already half-empty.
"Go away, angel," said the demon, a warning in his tone that Aziraphale had rarely heard before.
Aziraphale stepped further into the room, the faint city lights giving him just enough light to see by. The haunted look in Crowley's face was familiar enough to Aziraphale by now.
It was the expression Crowley wore every time he returned from Hell, especially if the visit had been less than pleasant (not that any visits to Hell were pleasant).
"I don't think I will," he said quietly as he sat down next to Crowley but keeping enough space between them so Crowley wouldn't bolt.
"Crowley, what is it?" he asked after a long moment of silence.
"You don't want to know."
"My dear boy, I've been around as long as you have. Nothing you could say could shock me."
The demon laughed bitterly. "You say that now. Tell me, angel," said Crowley, leaning in close to Aziraphale, his golden gaze burning even more so than usual against the pallor of his skin.
"Do you know what the screams of the damned sound like? Do you know what it feels like to have a soul struggle against being taken Downstairs? And believe me, they struggle."
"Crowley…" said Aziraphale, shifting a bit uncomfortably.
"Nuh uh, you asked and now you get to listen," said Crowley, taking another gulp of scotch before turning his gaze back on the angel.
"D'you know how many souls I collected for Hell last night, angel? Forty. That's right, two score's worth of them," he added when Aziraphale's eyes widened in shock. "That'sss how fucking good I am at my job. Sure, I cause minor chaos here and there, but every once in a while Hell asks me to fill a quota."
"Crowley, you're not-"
"Don't!" snarled Crowley, suddenly getting right in Aziraphale's face, his gaunt features twisting as a sliver of his real demonic form emerged.
"Don't you dare fucking sit there and tell me that I'm just a bit good, or nice, or whatever it was that you were going to say. I am a demon, Aziraphale. And I think you still don't understand that after all these years."
The angel stared at Crowley, unable to speak. Of course he knew Crowley was a demon.
"I know, Crowley," said Aziraphale, gently touching Crowley's hand that was fisted in his jumper. "I know what you are."
Aziraphale swallowed before continuing. "Crowley, humans have choices - you've told me that often enough over the years. Free will has consequences. You're not to blame for that."
Crowley growled and released Aziraphale, turning his head away to stare out the window. The night was cold and dark, no stars or moon were visible.
"But that's not what's really bothering you, is it?" said Aziraphale after a moment. "Crowley, what is it? Please tell me," said the angel, no hint of impatience or self-righteousness in his voice, only compassion.
Crowley tightened his hand around the bottle of scotch until the glass almost cracked under his grip.
"Humans just keep messing up," the demon hissed, still not looking at Aziraphale. "They got something I never did. It's not fair!"
"What, what isn't?"
"Redemption, angel - a second chance," said Crowley, finally turning back to look at the angel. The empty despair and bitterness in his face almost made Aziraphale flinch. "Humans get that, demons don't."
Crowley laughed again, a brittle sound. "And you want to know the real clincher? A part of me almost enjoyed what I did last night - those souls get to see what eternal damnation really feels like."
That did shock Aziraphale. He tried not to show it, but Crowley noticed anyway. He always noticed everything when it came to Aziraphale.
The demon sighed and looked down at the bottle he still held. "Go back to your books, angel. You can't help me."
Aziraphale did leave, and while Crowley was glad a small, broken part of him almost called the angel back.
Almost.
To Crowley's amazement, Aziraphale returned less than an hour later. The angel carried a single large, slender book under his arm. Crowley glared at him through blood-shot eyes but was too drunk and tired to start an argument.
"G'way," he slurred as Aziraphale helped him to his enormous, pristine leather sofa.
"Here, lie down Crowley. There's a chap," said the angel as he sat down at one end of the sofa and rested Crowley's head in his lap.
The demon hissed in annoyance when he felt Aziraphale miracle away his hangover but his head was no longer pounding so he decided to stay quiet. Despite his dark mood he couldn't help but slowly relax as he stared at the far wall of his flat.
He felt Aziraphale shift behind him and saw the angel pick up the book he had brought. The angel started reading and Crowley momentarily forgot his tormented emotions as he realised what the angel was saying.
"Are you reading children's poetry to me, angel?"
"Yes, it's actually quite clever, the word play – I mean, have you ever heard of a 'runcible spoon'?"
"Runcible s'not a word," muttered Crowley before falling silent. He closed his eyes as Aziraphale continued with the poem about the owl and the pussycat, and for once couldn't think of a single snide comment.
Aziraphale stayed like that all night, reading whimsical nonsense to Crowley. His soft tenor voice spoke of pirate ships and dreams, of magical boats and the moon and the stars. He read poems about cats and fiddles, about the Jabberwocky and the Bandersnatch. Aziraphale spoke of witches and fairies, of Jellicle cats and ghosts, of summer days and nights filled with fantastic tales.
At some point Aziraphale rested his hand that wasn't holding the book on Crowley's shoulder. He didn't move it and the slight weight of that soft hand suddenly felt like a lifeline to the demon.
Crowley reached up and clasped Aziraphale's wrist tightly enough that there would be bruises later, but the angel didn't even flinch. He simply sat there and continued to read.
"No one can tell me, nobody knows, where the wind comes from, where the wind goes…"
There were some things that they could never understand about each other, but this…Crowley was certain that no creature in existence – immortal or mortal – could feel like he did at that moment.
It wasn't much, but it was enough to see him through the dark night and for many more in years to come.
So yeah, this was really dark, I know, but I really wanted to push my writing skills in this fic. Poor Crowley's a bit too good at his job sometimes.