sauntereddownward

Crowley was rather pleased with himself. It had taken a bit of doing, but he was certain his plans were all coming together and one particular couple's holiday celebrations would be ruinous. Tragic. Wasted money, wasted time...

She had the most beautiful hair and He knew the combs would look gorgeous. Crowley convinced him to sacrifice his prize watch. At the same time, she admired the fob, and Crowley came to her, offering coin for her lovely locks.

By tonight it would be a done deal and the demon sat with his wine, sure he'd have two more souls by dawn.

The demon had driven off, fury streaming behind him. It poisoned everyone the Bentley passed. Bitterness, betrayal, feelings Crowley hadn't felt since he'd fallen. Oh, but betrayal tasted all the worse when he was the one who'd gotten fucked over.

Stop number one was a bar where Crowley drank enough that the barkeep told him to leave before he died, because he might not be drunk but that much liquor wasn't good.

It wasn't good. It was great.

He trusted the Bentley to take him home, ignoring the scent of the angel on the upholstery near his shoulder...

* * *

Tempting and such was so much worse when there was no one around to do any thwarting. In a truly childish fit of pique, Crowley went to work ten times as hard, all but daring Aziraphale to come down here and tell him he was smitten-

Smote. The word was smote.

"Why did he say smi-" the demon said, cutting off at vowel as he appeared in the hands of an old wizard who looked at him and popped him into a basket with a strange symbol scorched into the lid.

A grass basket.

And he couldn't change.

Crowley curled up for a nap, content to sleep as the years passed by, as the old man died before he ever figure out how to use what he'd trapped, as the son took over the house and filled the basement with junk, then died himself.

* * *

"Just take it all out, Mike. All of it," the short, plump woman told the burly man in coveralls. "Everything down here was grandad's. It's all going."

The basket sat in the circle, snake cozy and snoozing in the bottom.

While Aziraphale had been in his room letting his cocoa go cold with his nose in a book, no doubt, Crowley had been quite busy down in the library. He'd found a tree. And he'd trimmed it especially for Sol Invictus. It was artificial, of course, since plastics were evil. And Crowley, given the choice, had selected a shimmery black tree. His decorations included blood red tinsel garland, and tiny little angels and demons scattered amongst shiny black and red ornaments.

It stood directly in the middle of the room, between the door and the desk. Annoyingly in the way.

He stood back, quite proud of it.

And then he settled in his favorite chair and pulled out his phone to make a little mischief on the tiktok thing.

Crowley had been having a ball. He'd figured out a bit of hackery with some code and some infernal miracles and soon enough he had millions of people angry at social media for long load times, zero refresh rates, and suspensions that came and were lifted seemingly at random.

He was absolutely giddy as he walked into the bookshop. He spied the angel in his chair and went to the one unanimously agreed to be his and flopped down, legs splayed out long and wide.

"Isn't it the most beautiful day?" he said cheerfully.

Never a good sign.

Since that fateful morning in Aziraphale's shop...flat...bedroom...Crowley had decided he needed to really dive into this feelings thing headfirst. He went to the park and the shops and quaint little restaurants and he watched. Watched couples, mainly. He wasn't human but surely there might be something there he could understand.

He understood the looks, the smiles, the gentle touches. He could appreciate the affection. He could very much appreciate how nervous they all were. Well, not all. Some of the people were absolute predators and he could tell just by looking, but those people he looked straight past. That wasn't what he wanted to know.

Where Aziraphale might turn to books, Crowley liked something a bit more timely and he headed for the internet. He set up a Match.com account, but only learned there were a terrible lot of horny, awful men in the world. He went to r/Relationships and learned just how bloody dysfunctional They all were. It seemed no matter where he turned he only found out that this thing Humans lauded, wrote poetry and music about, talked about constantly seemed to be something not a single one of them had a grasp on.

And so he decided if he was going to learn anything about Love he was going to have to go to the Source. Or, well, close as he could get. He skipped his way into a church and found a priest. Surely His love would be understood in a place like this.

The sum total of what he learned was that the priest was an idiot and dancing his way into and out of the church was going to have him soaking his feet for a week.

At a loss, he retired to Aziraphale's book shop and draped himself in a comfortable chair. He let out a dying, pained moan and hung his head back until he had slithered down and nearly sideways in the chair.

"Angel!" he called. "I think I need some tea."

On a park bench near a pond where ducks gathered there sat two interesting figures. One was dark, rather stylish, and smoking. The other was far more twee with his tartan and crisp white shirt sleeves. The summer heat didn't seem to bother them in the least as they tossed food for the ducks. One particularly daring mallard marched up to demand the best crumbs and the darker of the pair gave the duck a kick.

"Don't be rude," he said. He took a drag then exhaled slowly. "As I was saying, angel, the Supreme Court in America just said they can marry. Mexico, too. And Canada's had it for ten years..."