Disclaimer: Not mine, suing will get you the lint lining my pockets, et cetera.
Notes: For the community fanfic100, prompt 019 (white).
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In the end, Heaven won after all.
It wasn't what you'd call unexpected, exactly. Of course there'd been loads of cheering(1) for the other side, there always was, but that was mostly machismo and a misplaced sense of pride. It had been Foreseen, or at least Seen, often enough that it wormed its way into the most obstinate. Of course, Hell had dragged its collective feet until the end, but when the last explosion ended and the earth was only so much dust, no one was surprised at the light and the muzak-arranged Elgar buzzing in the background.
What no one expected, except perhaps one indecipherably smiling Being, was the pit into which the demons Fell.
It wasn't a particularly terrifying pit, as far as pits go, though it was deep. It was deceptively simple, just a big hole in the ground. The only thing that set it apart from something that might have been in some ambitious kid's back yard(3) were the inhuman(4) screams rising up from it.
Clawed and misshapen hands scrabbled for purchase in the decidedly crumbly dirt, and eventually great hulking shapes started to emerge. They were dark and dripping and dank, with teeth the size of breadknives and feet like small kraken. White wings, mangled and streaked with dark mud, flashed out dangerously, instinctively. What little sanity there might have been after eons spent in Hell fled to parts unknown--or at least parts no longer known.
One beast, bleeding maggots, hugely sinuous, flickered in and out of existence for several long seconds until it was replaced by a tall man with golden eyes and cheekbones that could cut diamond(5). His dark hair was hopelessly mussed and his wings were clearly snapped in several places, but his eyes looked less deranged than the others' around him. A dark jacket appeared with a blink and sunglasses with another.
Feeling about as normal as he thought he could, given the situation, Crowley began to emanate his usual aura of cool and began sauntering out of the maw of shambling creatures. He'd found he wasn't made out for the really physical side of fighting, as it were; he'd learned how effective hiding in plain sight could be early on.
God touched the Morningstar's shoulder somewhere in the background.
He stopped, suddenly, mouth opening slightly in surprise--or at least surprise was a good excuse. He hurried forward, dropping all pretense of nonchalance.
"Aziraphale?" he asked.
"Hmm?" said the angel in front of him. He turned his head vaguely; Crowley had to stop himself from rushing forward. The plump and fastidious (but nevertheless endearing) façade was gone, and in its place was the shape Crowley, Crawly, never quite forgot, muscular and pure and beautiful.
"Aziraphale, it's me," he said, breathless.
Aziraphale frowned at him. "How do you know my name?" he asked. His voice was the same, just the same but for some resonance it hadn't known for six thousand years. Crowley had only heard something similar behind that voice in the dark, when hands and mouths and legs were moving feverishly and Aziraphale put his mouth right on Crowley's ear, teasing, and said three words that Crowley always echoed.
Crowley stared. "Don't joke," he said. "Please, please, it's not funny."
The angel looked at him. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Yes," said Crowley, "you know me and my car and my plants, our plants, they were ours, and sushi, and Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Queen and Regency silver snuff boxes and your books, your books . . . ."
Aziraphale shifted slightly closer, a carefully concerned look on his face. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked.
"Please, please," he said, embarrassed even now, "oh, please, angel, love--" He reached blindly forward, catching Aziraphale's arm in a tight grip.
The Morningstar kissed God.
The angel stiffened, and shook, and--remembered, oh how he remembered--and said, "Oh, Crowley"--and touched the hand on his arm, just touched, tender and loving--and then stood straight, wings snapping angrily behind his back.
"How do you dare?" he said. A sword, crackling with blue fire, manifested in his hand. He raised his arm, pale and perfect other than the muddy mark left by the demon's hand.
God didn't move as the Morningstar hit him.
Crowley's face crumpled. "Nothing," he said. "My mistake. I'm--I'm sorry."
"See that you stay that way," he harrumphed righteously, and walked quickly away. Crowley watched for a long, long time, but he didn't look back.
God kissed the Morningstar.
It started to rain. After Eden it had become rather a regular occurrence in Heaven, some small reminder of the Lord's greatest creation(6). The holy water poured down; screams and smoke rose up from the pit. Crowley was curled into himself, silent and still.
The Morningstar withered and God smiled.
A little while later, Aziraphale walked by. "My," he said. "What a mess."
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(1)by tall blonde people in little red-and-white uniforms. A certain someone was particularly proud of his accomplishments in this area.
(2)and the bright and, most of all, the white.
(3)Tibetan monks sold separately.
(4)Well, obviously.
(5)Or at least die trying.
(6)Arguably. Sometimes He wasn't so sure whether the design had been intelligent after all.