AN:
No specific warnings for this chapter, except for the absolutely wild change in tone. Crowley's gone a bit... well. You'll see.

The downward spiral of bad decisions begins with a single step. Crowley takes a flying leap, and finds out just how good it is to be evil.

Look at you. You're gorgeous.

Crowley, slouched in a wicker chair, slung one leg over the arm and tipped his head back with a small, content smile. The object of his admiration wasn't far, a few yards at most. Against the backdrop of a cloudless, light-blue sky, the yellows, reds, and oranges were especially vivid. A soft breeze carried the most wonderful scent, a mix of aromas that were impossible to pull apart into their individual elements, even if he'd cared to. Murmurs wafted over him like music—he could have made out the words if he'd felt like it, but he let the voices fade in and out, a soft addition to the ambiance.

Eyeing the handful of grapes in his lap, Crowley tossed another toward where his head was resting on the back of the chair. Just as he was about to get his teeth around it, it was blown away. Crowley's annoyed gaze followed the escapee's wobbling journey down to the sidewalk, where it was immediately crushed underfoot by the gathered crowd.

No one noticed that fruit was appearing out of seemingly nowhere, focused as they were on the fire.

It had actually been raging for some time now; two weeks of suspiciously mild Scottish weather had dried wood and mortar and sapped the life from the surrounding grasses until they were almost yellow with sun. From there, it had only taken a nudge—Crowley in neighbourly conversation with a man who tended to gesture wildly with his cigarette while talking, and who nearly always threw it down without stomping it out. Today, the man's sputtering outrage had resulted in flicking the smouldering remains at a fence dividing his property from the next.

Bad luck then, that the embers had fallen directly into a pile of lawn clippings on the other side.

Perhaps the blaze would have spread on its own, and perhaps it would have taken a miracle for it not to. All a dozen families knew was that a little gust of wind, at just the wrong moment, had led them here, watching their homes burn. All the firefighters knew was that, no matter what formations they moved in, no matter how much water they laid down, another breath of air pushed the danger further afield.

All Crowley knew was that catching food in his mouth was harder than it looked.

More annoyingly, he didn't know how to deal with the ever-present problem of Aziraphale's condescending echo in his head: "Just imagine how awful it might have been if we were at all competent."

Something about that conversation at The-End-That-Wasn't was a constant itch under his skin, an unease that he couldn't put a name to but that chafed nonetheless. He didn't regret a single step on the path that had led to being branded Hell's Traitor—an illustrious distinction he now had to share, he supposed—despite being brought to this moment, when every needless throb of his needless heart rang like a death knell in his ears. Yes, perhaps the Grand Plan had come to a grinding halt more in spite of his efforts than because of them, but Crowley hadn't become the Original Tempter by being inept. He just… hadn't wanted certain assignments. For instance, this particular mischief was just a holiday, a treat for all his recent hard work.

"There's nothing we can do to them that they don't do to themselves," he'd once said. Living amongst mortals for a few thousand years had really allowed his rich imagination to spin to life, and Crowley found himself to be more than competent at devising fresh torments. Apparently, he just hadn't sunk his fangs into things before, because becoming an independent agent of chaos was extremely gratifying. After all, the mind that had once engineered entire swathes of Creation hadn't been dulled simply by Falling.

He'd been wrong, and he could admit that.

Grinning, Crowley kicked his feet up on some young family's unattended yard table and pushed another grape between his lips. How horrified Aziraphale would be if Crowley ever got to say that to his smug, holier-than-thou face. A sincere apology that would even come with a dance.

The thought warmed him more than the fire.

Resentment, always nipping at the heels of schadenfreude, flared hard and hot, almost hot enough to scorch away any lingering satisfaction. Despite his best efforts, Crowley couldn't get Aziraphale's voice out of his skull, or fill the distinctly angel-shaped hole that was left behind. Aziraphale's absence burned more than a communion of holy water; his forgiveness struck a harder blow than any flaming sword. It had been weeks since Crowley had fled London, and still he probed at the loss, a bruise that had formed over six thousand years and that he was now only realising went further than skin-deep.

Enough of that, then. It was far too excellent a day to spend brooding.

Pushing himself to his feet, Crowley meandered through the crowd, invisible. He could have driven to his next destination, of course, but there was something to be said about slowing down when the view was so scenic. Inspiration could strike at any moment.

Crowley jammed his hands in his pockets as he walked, and savoured the smell of burning meat.

Ah, pubs. So much guilt and anxiety and anger built up inside their doors that Crowley had to pause inside the entryway and just… bask. The amount of people gathered around the bar and clustered at tables indicated it was nearing the weekend, or at least that a decent game of footie was on. He could feel his yellow irises expand until there was barely a hint of white at the corners; his tongue went long and thin and forked at the tip, and before he could stop himself, it darted out and tasted. The air was pure sin, a balm to his damned, tired soul. He'd spent a long time driving after his stint in Scotland, long enough that he didn't even know the date.

(He did.)

Time had stopped mattering about right around the moment he'd stomped on the brake in western Germany and thought that he'd found one blessed spot on this little blue planet that hadn't been tainted by memories of Aziraphale.

(It had.)

And anyway, what were a few hours to a being who had existed since before time began?

(Not hours. One hundred and four days.)

Crowley clenched his jaw. That night, that first night, he'd promised himself that he wasn't going to spend the next century or so bathetic and piss-drunk, but a little something to keep his head from being so fucking loud all the time certainly wouldn't go amiss.

On his way across the room, Crowley whispered sweet nothings into waiting ears, watering seeds that had already been fertilised by humanity's worst instincts.

It's a celebration. Go on and have one. You can handle one, can't you?

You deserve it, mate. You work hard, and get nothing for it. Nobody'll notice if you're careful.

He's right, you know. It does feel different. It's so much better, and you're both clean, right?

Oi, mate. Looks like that bloke's got an eye on your girl. Can't let him get away with that, eh?

Never tried it? Well, now's the time. No one gets hooked their first go anyway.

I know, darling, she doesn't understand you. But that girl there, she looks like a nice shag. In the dark she could even be the ol' ball-and-chain, couldn't she? That's barely even cheating.

An inexplicably clear route to the bartender opened just as he got his more demonic features under control. He didn't have to snap away the man's memory but did anyway, being only passingly familiar with human concepts like money and labour. Aziraphale—Crowley took a hefty gulp as the drink was pressed into his hand—Aziraphale had been the one wise enough to build up worldly wealth. Centuries of fastidiously-kept records ensured he'd never fallen victim to the virtues of poverty.

"Fucking ironic," Crowley muttered to himself. The stool directly in front of him was vacated with a wave of his hand, and the occupants on either side followed immediately thereafter. Instead of arranging himself into his usual languid sprawl, Crowley managed to fill the same area as a normal human. Maybe he was just getting used to cramped spaces. Well, Hell was paying the rent on his flat again; possible it might be time to go spend a few nights in a real bed rather than slouched in the Bentley's back seat with his plants.

He mulled that thought over for another few sips before he nearly choked on his drink. Crowley warily held the cup out for inspection; his whisky, while perfectly serviceable, had been exchanged for a rather fine scotch, and he hadn't been the one to do it. The switch was almost… miraculous.

A glance to one side revealed an empty stool. Settled on the other was—Aziraphale?

Crowley nearly fell out of his seat. Squinting in the dim pub light, his heart sank from his throat back down to his stomach. On closer inspection, it was a young woman—looking exactly as Aziraphale had during America's civil rights debacle in the 1960s—with blonde ringlets trimmed to chin-length, a sweet, round face, and piercing blue eyes a few shades too dark. She had one elbow propped on the bar, fist supporting her head, eyebrows raised and obviously waiting to be noticed.

Crowley hefted the glass toward her. "I have you to thank for this, then?"

"Looked better than whatever this—" she wiggled her fingers at the whisky she'd stolen "—is." While Crowley couldn't quite place her accent, it certainly wasn't local. Cologne was a suitably popular holiday destination; she could have been from anywhere. He didn't care enough to ask.

"Normally you don't go for the top-shelf stuff to pick up someone in a bar." It was good scotch though, so his protest sounded less like the complaint it wasn't and more like… advice. Crowley exhaled through his nose, exasperated at himself.

"What if I'm not trying to pick you up? What if I just thought you were lonely?" She flashed another smile that was too saccharine to be truly sweet.

"Everyone's lonely. What makes me so special?" Satan, he must be losing his touch; he couldn't even muster proper hostility through this bone-deep weariness.

"Tall Dark and Handsome here wants to know why seeing him brood all by his lonesome is catnip to half of the ladies and most of the men?" The faux incredulousness made Crowley snort despite himself.

He spun to face his companion, equal parts intrigued and annoyed. "And what, you're my knight in shining armour?"

She learned forward conspiratorially. After a moment's hesitation, Crowley mirrored her. "Between you and me, I think you'd make a fine damsel." She winked and clapped a hand on his knee. "I thought you could use a shield, between you and the masses."

"Oh, yeah?" There was a certain something in her touch, hovering around her like an aura, something that made every one of his demonic senses turn toward her, flowers following the sun. More than simple lust, more than the lure of the forbidden, more than even petty rebellion, it was—yes. Delicious. And she was coming to him? Did it even count as a temptation then?

"Yeah. Doing a good deed and all that." Her grin was flirty and pointed.

All of her shimmering desires coalesced into a hunger that Crowley could almost cut with a knife. Oh, naughty, naughty girl. You just want to be manhandled? The boy that's been in love with you since he was eleven years old just isn't pushy enough?

The sheer volume of self-hatred that was going to roll off of her later was going to be thick enough to eat, shot through with veins of guilt and anger and betrayal, and an unworthiness that Crowley fully intended to drown first the couple in, and then himself. He could gorge on the residual emotion for months.

Dropping one foot to the ground, Crowley hooked the other in the stool under his prey's crossed ankles, and dragged until her knees brushed his spread thighs. His mouth twisted into a smirk when her breath caught, lovely blue eyes going wide. One arm caged her against the bar, his hand creeping onto her seat. Crowley leaned closer, close enough to whisper, "I think you just wanted Tall Dark and Handsome all to yourself."

"That was a pretty expensive drink. You could… thank me for it." She blinked through her lashes, a few shades darker than the strands falling into her face.

Awkward but straightforward, and shit if that wasn't working for him. She was a nice-looking girl, with lips made for pleasure and eyes that wouldn't see right through him.

But there was still the game to play. It wouldn't be nearly as satisfying if he gave in too soon.

Crowley leaned away incrementally, desperately holding onto a straight face when she unconsciously swayed after him. "And how many times has that actually worked for you?"

Of all the responses he'd expected, laughter hadn't been one of them. "I don't know. I've never tried it before."

"So the all-time success or failure of that terrible line is entirely dependent on me." He eased in a little further, to watch her pupils dilate with want.

"Could say, yeah." The small bout of nerves was more ambrosial than any Earthly fragrance. Not anxious that he might say no; anxious that he might say yes.

"Girlie, you have no idea what you're asking for." Crowley's voice dropped low and gravelly, as much warning as enticement. The anticipation, the lust pouring out of her now was almost as good as her shame was going to be later.

Her eyes found his behind his glasses. "Oh, I think I do."

For a demon, he gave far too many chances. Crowley motioned toward her hands, where one had been worrying at the other—at the bare place on her finger where a ring usually sat—with one last opportunity to turn away from temptation. "Your fiancé won't mind?"

Not even possessed of the grace to be embarrassed, this woman. "He never has to know."

Crowley saluted with the last of his scotch. "Well, then. To terrible lines and great successes."

It was nothing like how Crowley would have been with him, and that was what made it perfect. He would never have pushed Aziraphale to his knees in a dingy pub toilet, or shoved his angel's velvet cheek into the bite of his zip and demanded that he make it hard, sweetheart, he wouldn't even have needed to, Satan, just the thought—

So Crowley did for a nameless stranger what he couldn't do for his heart's desire: brought her right to the edge with nothing more than the sound of his voice, tugged her pliant head back to brand possessive marks on her throat, held both delicate wrists in an iron grip in the small of her back. And if he happened to ruin her for anyone else—including her future husband—that was just a bonus.

It was only a tryst. He had to remind himself. It was a meaningless fuck while he burned to have soft, familiar skin under his hands, under his teeth, and if Crowley slitted his eyes, the blond curls and plush curves could have been—

No. Not going there.

By the time overwhelmed tears tracked mascara down her cheeks, he'd stopped thinking about the blue of Aziraphale's eyes.

By the time he gagged her pretty pink mouth with her own sodden undergarments, he'd stopped thinking about Aziraphale's lips, and how they'd felt under his own.

By the time he freed himself just enough to move inside her, Crowley had stopped thinking at all.