Hoo boy it has been TOO DAMN LONG since I’ve had time to write, my fingers are ITCHING for it, please accept this piece of something I spat out in approximately twenty minutes while sick and between jobs.
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“Who were you, before?”
Crowley raises his head off the back of the chair, squinting in confusion through his askew sunglasses. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks. Aziraphale runs his hands nervously along the side of his glass, staring intently at an old burn mark on the table. His prim posture is slipping into a slouch, but he’s not as drunk as Crowley — not yet.
“Well, I don’t imagine Crawly was your name when you were an angel,” he says.
Crowley freezes, feeling instantly sober without even making an effort. He sits up, pushing his glasses back straight on his nose, staring at Aziraphale, who is still studiously avoiding his gaze.
“What the he— what on Earth do you want to know that for?” he demands. Aziraphale shrugs, and takes another swallow of wine.
“The humans have started this quaint tradition,” he says, “of sending each other cards at Christmas. Many of them use it to send well wishes to family and friends they haven’t talked to in a while. I wondered if I oughtn’t send a few to my colleagues up in— Well, I suppose they’d find it odd.”
“What’s that got to do with ME?”
Aziraphale takes another generous swallow of wine, and reaches to refill his cup. “Well— apart from check ins with Gabriel and Uriel and some of the others, I really haven’t kept up with what’s going on in Heaven since, well, since I was set to guard the Garden.”
“Can’t let ‘em see you without your sword, it was your signature item,” Crowley ribs him, trying to drag the conversation back into well-trod, safe territory. Aziraphale ignores the dig.
“It was only — I was thinking about the angels I knew before I came down to Earth, and I realized I didn’t know — who you’d been. Before.”
“Before I Fell,” Crowley finishes for him in a monotone. Aziraphale flinches slightly at the word, but he nods.
“Yes.”
“Why do you care now, all of a sudden? Why not ask me right in the Garden?” Aziraphale finally looks at him, if only because he’s scandalized.
“Well that would have been rather rude, wouldn’t it? I mean we were hardly—“ He huffs, turning back to his glass. “It was just that I wondered if I had known you.”
“You didn’t,” Crowley answers, too quickly. Aziraphale looks back at him again, quirking an eyebrow upwards.
“Are you sure? We mostly all knew each other, in the beginning.”
“Oh for Satan’s— why does it MATTER, angel? Whoever that was, they’re gone. I’m a demon. Do you think the name would even mean anything to you? Do you remember who Beelzebub was? Or Asmodeus? HASTUR? Our names were scrubbed from all the records. Except Lucifer, suppose the Almighty wanted to make an example of him.” Crowley slumped back into his chair, reaching for his own glass and tossing back whatever was left, before beckoning the bottle closer.
“But you still remember it.” He looks back to find Aziraphale watching him now, and frowns.
“I told you, whoever that angel was, he’s gone now. I’m just Crowley.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m a demon, Aziraphale. I’m literally a snake. THE snake. What else do you want?”
“Do you think maybe the angel that you were — do you think God… Do you think your fall was—“
“If you say ‘ineffable’—“
They fall silent, watching each other across the table. Crowley sighs, sits back up, leaning towards Aziraphale.
“Don’t ask those questions, angel,” he says softly. “Not those questions.” The drink suddenly feels heavy in his head. He stands up, forcing the alcohol from his system until he’s steady on his feet, and he turns and leaves Aziraphale sitting at the table, quiet and alone.