Chapter Text
The story started, as it would end, in a garden.
Specifically, the Garden of Eden.
An angel and a demon stood on a wall, side-by-side. Water dripped from the sides of a white wing that sheltered a figure draped in black. Yellow serpent eyes watched not a blond, blue-eyed angel dressed in white. The angel, meanwhile, was nervously observing Adam and Eve’s departure.
In the distance, someone watched them as well.
For centuries, philosophers have debated the question of Divine Intervention, posing questions such as “Does it actually exist?” and “Why won’t you help us, why won’t you save us, how could you let this happen -!”
The answer, in the end, was simple. Free Will. God could, most assuredly, do whatever She wanted. But in the ineffable game of Her own devising, there was only one fairly solid rule that the dealer had to follow: no direct intervention with the players.
No matter how much She wanted to, She could not command change without compromising the game.
The angel and demon met several more times throughout the years, hesitantly approaching a relationship that could be labeled as “Friends.”
Or “Friendly Acquaintances,” at the very least.
But before that relationship could be finalized, there was a flood, and there was a fight. The angel left, beholden to Heaven’s will, but the demon remained, determined to save as many children as possible, even if it meant going against The Great Plan.
The watching figures made their move, and the angel never saw the demon again. In the centuries to come, he grew tired, cynical and lonely, constantly giving more and more of himself to both Heaven and the humans until he thought there might be nothing left to give. He could not afford to be soft, for there is no one to protect him when he was, no flaming sword (nor red-headed demon) at his side.
But whenever he reached that level of emptiness, he remembered sly smiles and yellow eyes, and found that he still had a little bit more left inside. (Perhaps if he had given more back then, he would still have someone to call a friend.)
Somewhere far away and up a flight of stairs that will one day be an escalator, a demon slowly forgot white wings and blue eyes until only a twisted, mangled memory and buried feelings remained.
Gabriel, an archangel of great renown, was having a fairly normal day in Heaven. Reports and folders were spread across the see-through surface of his polished glass desk, and his pet was settled obediently between his legs.
The angel hummed as he worked, flipping through files and signing documents with one hand while his other kept a firm grip on long red hair, tangling it between his fingers as he directed the demon’s motions. Several hours later, Gabriel set down the papers with a sigh, leaning back in his chair to watch the sight of his cock disappearing into his pet’s mouth.
There was no warning as he gripped the red hair in both hands, forcing the demon’s head up and down as he thrust down the other’s throat ruthlessly, ignoring the sounds of choking and cut off whimpers.
With a final thrust and snap of his fingers, he forced the demon’s head all the way down and came deep inside the warm throat. The archangel grinned as slowly, his pet started to squirm, eyes fluttering and rolling as the slick throat tightened around his cock, his poor pet desperate to breathe but trying so hard to obey his master.
But before Gabriel could continue his fun, he was interrupted by a very panicked Sandalphon. Any interruption in and of itself was strange - the other angels had learned the hard way not to interrupt during private time with his plaything - but the fact that it was Sandalphon, of all angels, meant that it was serious business.
The shorter angel gulped, straightening his suit and catching his breath before meeting confused purple eyes. “The Metatron has a message for you, Gabriel.”
“A message for me? Um, I’m the Messenger, not him. If that’s all, tell him I’ll be there when I’m done -”
“Gabriel. It’s a message from Her. ”
The archangel was up and out of his chair in moments, thoughtlessly shoving the demon to the floor in his haste. “I’ll head there immediately, then. Could you take care of the mess and watch it for me? It knows what to do, so feel free to have some fun.”
With that, Gabriel was off, not bothering to hear anything else Sandalphon had to say. He had places to be and a Message to hear. It had been near six thousand years since She last spoke to them, after all.
Part of being God meant that, occasionally, one could… bend… the rules. Especially for Her favored children. She could offer a suggestion, for example, or raise them from the dead after three days. That sort of thing. Sometimes, oftentimes, really, this suggestion is ignored, overlooked, or otherwise unheard.
When the suggestion is roared, full of rage, and with a chorus of thunder and thousands of voices combined, it is impossible to go unheard. And the Metatron, quite liking his job and not looking forward to the possibility of a steep Fall into sulfur, makes sure it is not overlooked.
Aziraphale had been having a fairly pleasant day.
He should have known that it wouldn’t last.
“Aziraphale! Buddy! How’ve you been?” The principality sighed, setting the book he had been about to reshelve back on the pile on his desk. He forced a grin on his face and turned, only for it to immediately falter.
It had been thousands of years, but he’d recognize that hair and those eyes anywhere. Kneeling by Gabriel’s feet, draped in chains, was Crawley.
The archangel followed Aziraphale’s shocked gaze, lighting up in pleased realization as he realized where the other angel was staring. “Surprise! We have a little gift for you, as thanks for roughing it out down here and doing Her work all these years.
Actually, it used to be your Adversary, didn’t it?” It took a moment for the words to sink in, but once they did, Aziraphale wanted to scream. Or cry. Or maybe vomit on Archangel Gabriel’s stupidly polished shoes and then run him through with the flaming sword that he no longer had.
Before he could act on any of those impulses, he noticed that Crawley had reacted to those words, just barely tilting his head up to see through the curtain of tangled hair.
Aziraphale didn’t know how long he was lost in Crawley’s gaze, but at some point, he realized that Gabriel had never actually stopped talking. “It’s well trained, don’t worry about that. And now that you have full custody, you can do whatever you want with it. Even kill it, for all we care.”
Oh, what Aziraphale wouldn’t give for a flaming sword. Or even some Hellfire.
“There is just one catch - see those runes on its collar?” Aziraphale nodded, cracked smile fixed back on his face and thoughts of murder temporarily set aside. “Those keep it from trying to perform any miracles or other perverted abilities.”
Aziraphale refrained from commenting on the irony of that statement.
“They’ll also keep it alive unless you command otherwise, so there’s no need to hold back. Here’s the issue though: they require some juice to keep working, if you know what I mean.”
“No, Gabriel, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Ah, well, you know. The easiest thing to tie it to was, well… sex! You don’t have to sully yourself with it if you don’t want to - not that you have any issue with earthly pleasures, ey? - so long as it, ah, has and gives someone else an orgasm once a week, it’ll be fine. After that, the runes will activate and kill it for you. A defense measure in case it ever tried to escape, understand?”
What Aziraphale understood was that there were many ways to kill a human corporation and at least a solid two to kill an archangel. He wondered how many he could try before being stopped. Nevertheless, he nodded, smiled politely, and said “Of course, Gabriel.”
“Good, good! I know it might be gross, but it’s a pretty decent fuck if you want to give it a try. Or you could just let someone else have a go, doesn’t really matter. There are more details here -” he passed over a thick folder - “and if you have any questions, well we’re just a call away!”
Aziraphale would most assuredly not be calling.
The archangel prattled on some more, mentioning this and that and all manner of unspeakable things. There was some mention of fewer checkups, which was surely the only good news he’d heard since Gabriel had shown his obnoxious self. By the time the other was making his way out the door, Aziraphale’s fingers were clenched so tightly around the folder that they had turned white, and his smile surely looked like it belonged to a reflection in a jagged, shattered mirror.
As soon as the door shut, Aziraphale miracled the folder away to his desk and had turned around to face the still kneeling Crawley. He removed the heavy chains and shackles before speaking, stomach falling both at the red marks and bruises left behind along with the lack of retaliation or even acknowledgment from the demon.
He kneeled down several feet away, tossing the clunky metal to some corner until he had time to study the runes on them. The collar stayed on for the moment, if only because Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to safely remove it.
“Do you remember me, my dear?” The demon lifted his head, red hair falling away from his face as the heavy gaze settled on the angel. Slowly, he shook his head no.
What was left of Aziraphale’s fragile heart broke a little more.
“Ah, well, no matter then.” He cleared his throat, suddenly wishing he’d had the chance to get some water before this. Or at least a minute to process… everything. “My name is Aziraphale. What would you like me to call you?”
Are you still Crawley?, Aziraphale wanted to ask. Does anything remain of you, the you that I knew?
The demon hung his head, clasping his hands behind his back and shifting into a kneeling bow. “I am whatever you want me to be, Master.”
The angel cleared his throat, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. “I want you to be yourself, my dear. Does… does Crawley still work, or...?”
If Aziraphale had been able to see the demon’s eyes, he’d have watched how they widened, how the yellow receded just until it was contained by the iris once again. The demon spoke slowly, carefully in response, testing as it always had and always would.
“I prefer Crowley, Master.”
“Crowley it is, then.”
The demon did not react beyond a nod, but Aziraphale felt strangely relieved anyway. He didn’t know what would happen from here, or how he would help this being who had once (and maybe could be again) his long-lost friend.
What he did know was that Crawley, now Crowley was here, alive if not well, and that, faced with the choice between a beaten-down demon and the archangels of Heaven, there wasn’t much of a choice left at all. Aziraphale would help free him, or Fall trying.