(no subject)
Recipient: moonytoes
Title: End Reflections
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: What does a demon contemplate while waiting for the End?
Author's Notes:Gen, implied A/C if you squint really hard.
It is said that when death is imminent, one's life flashes before one's eyes.
Of course, this is generally said by humans, for whom it is plausible to fit at least the highlights of one mortal lifetime into those last few precious seconds before Azrael comes calling. Beings of angelic origin, with a great deal more memory to fast-forward through, must by necessity be more selective.
As he stood there clutching his tyre iron, waiting for the Adversary to put a final end to this sad little charade, Crowley reflected on just the past millennium. It was all he had time for, and all in all he would have to say it had been the best part of a lengthy and interesting existence. (Well, discounting the fourteenth century, of course.)
This past thousand years had seen a vast leap forward in practically every aspect of human existence. They hadn't conquered the Horsemen, not by a long shot; but by God (he could think that now, couldn't he? No reason not to anymore) they'd made a grand effort, improving the lots of millions of their kind to a degree their ancestors could never have imagined. They might actually have done it, given the time; might have wiped out the scourges that had plagued them since the dawn of Time. They were that clever, and for all their regrettable habit of shooting themselves in the collective foot, as a race, they more often moved forward than back.
I could have given them that, he thought with an unfamiliar pang, thinking back eleven years to a dreary English night and a tiny wailing creature given into his charge. A few more years, at any rate.
He still wasn't sure whether carrying out his orders that night had been the Right Thing to do, or the Wrong Thing, or some Other form of Thing altogether. Nor was he certain whether his inability to ditch a helpless baby had had more to do with fear of the repercussions from Below, or the simple fact that it was a helpless baby. He was inclined to think it might be the latter.
If ever there was a time to put aside self-deception, this had to be it. The occasional spot of calculated cruelty he could manage, when the situation called for it, but the kind of dedicated malice that marked the real movers and shakers in Hell had always been a little beyond him. Ironic to think a trait that would have marked him a rotten demon under almost any other circumstances had compelled him to do exactly what he was ordered to do that night...
Ineffable, the word came to his mind unwillingly, and he glanced over Shadwell's head at the angel on the other side, who stood there holding his flaming sword with an unexpectedly serene expression. Aziraphale, the other thing that had made this past thousand years the best Crowley could remember.
A great deal more history had passed before the Arrangement than after, of course, but sometimes in recent years he'd found it difficult to remember a time when he couldn't sit down and share a bottle of wine and a pointless philosophical discussion with the angel. In all honesty, they'd reached that stage long before it had ever been formalized and acquired a name. Crowley couldn't say with complete honesty that Aziraphale had ever really been an enemy, for that matter. A rival, a competitor, a professional acquaintance, yes, but an Enemy? Didn't that require some degree of genuine animosity?
He thought about the night of the Antichrist's birth, and he wondered now what Aziraphale might have said if he had called the angel and asked his advice before he delivered the kid. As counter as it seemed to his kindly and harmless appearance, sometimes Crowley had the vague impression Aziraphale was the harder of the two of them, capable of a degree of detachment and cold logic Crowley had never quite achieved.
He had contemplated it that night, briefly, in his state of near-panic. Aziraphale, I've got the Antichrist here. It'll be the end of everything. What the fuck do I do with him? He was rather glad that he hadn't, now. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what the angel would have said.
Aziraphale did in fact have a little bit of bastard in him, but one should never trust the word of a demon. It was everything else that made him worth liking.
Crowley couldn't think of anyone he would rather be standing next to, here, at the end.
Adam looked around. He looked down. His face took on an expression of calculated innocence.
There was a moment of conflict. But Adam was on his own ground. Always, and ultimately, on his own ground.
He moved one hand around in a blurred half circle.
The world changed.
And it occurred to Crowley, sometime not too long thereafter, as a nightingale sang where none had sung before, that the qualifier at the end was completely unnecessary.
Title: End Reflections
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: What does a demon contemplate while waiting for the End?
Author's Notes:Gen, implied A/C if you squint really hard.
It is said that when death is imminent, one's life flashes before one's eyes.
Of course, this is generally said by humans, for whom it is plausible to fit at least the highlights of one mortal lifetime into those last few precious seconds before Azrael comes calling. Beings of angelic origin, with a great deal more memory to fast-forward through, must by necessity be more selective.
As he stood there clutching his tyre iron, waiting for the Adversary to put a final end to this sad little charade, Crowley reflected on just the past millennium. It was all he had time for, and all in all he would have to say it had been the best part of a lengthy and interesting existence. (Well, discounting the fourteenth century, of course.)
This past thousand years had seen a vast leap forward in practically every aspect of human existence. They hadn't conquered the Horsemen, not by a long shot; but by God (he could think that now, couldn't he? No reason not to anymore) they'd made a grand effort, improving the lots of millions of their kind to a degree their ancestors could never have imagined. They might actually have done it, given the time; might have wiped out the scourges that had plagued them since the dawn of Time. They were that clever, and for all their regrettable habit of shooting themselves in the collective foot, as a race, they more often moved forward than back.
I could have given them that, he thought with an unfamiliar pang, thinking back eleven years to a dreary English night and a tiny wailing creature given into his charge. A few more years, at any rate.
He still wasn't sure whether carrying out his orders that night had been the Right Thing to do, or the Wrong Thing, or some Other form of Thing altogether. Nor was he certain whether his inability to ditch a helpless baby had had more to do with fear of the repercussions from Below, or the simple fact that it was a helpless baby. He was inclined to think it might be the latter.
If ever there was a time to put aside self-deception, this had to be it. The occasional spot of calculated cruelty he could manage, when the situation called for it, but the kind of dedicated malice that marked the real movers and shakers in Hell had always been a little beyond him. Ironic to think a trait that would have marked him a rotten demon under almost any other circumstances had compelled him to do exactly what he was ordered to do that night...
Ineffable, the word came to his mind unwillingly, and he glanced over Shadwell's head at the angel on the other side, who stood there holding his flaming sword with an unexpectedly serene expression. Aziraphale, the other thing that had made this past thousand years the best Crowley could remember.
A great deal more history had passed before the Arrangement than after, of course, but sometimes in recent years he'd found it difficult to remember a time when he couldn't sit down and share a bottle of wine and a pointless philosophical discussion with the angel. In all honesty, they'd reached that stage long before it had ever been formalized and acquired a name. Crowley couldn't say with complete honesty that Aziraphale had ever really been an enemy, for that matter. A rival, a competitor, a professional acquaintance, yes, but an Enemy? Didn't that require some degree of genuine animosity?
He thought about the night of the Antichrist's birth, and he wondered now what Aziraphale might have said if he had called the angel and asked his advice before he delivered the kid. As counter as it seemed to his kindly and harmless appearance, sometimes Crowley had the vague impression Aziraphale was the harder of the two of them, capable of a degree of detachment and cold logic Crowley had never quite achieved.
He had contemplated it that night, briefly, in his state of near-panic. Aziraphale, I've got the Antichrist here. It'll be the end of everything. What the fuck do I do with him? He was rather glad that he hadn't, now. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what the angel would have said.
Aziraphale did in fact have a little bit of bastard in him, but one should never trust the word of a demon. It was everything else that made him worth liking.
Crowley couldn't think of anyone he would rather be standing next to, here, at the end.
Adam looked around. He looked down. His face took on an expression of calculated innocence.
There was a moment of conflict. But Adam was on his own ground. Always, and ultimately, on his own ground.
He moved one hand around in a blurred half circle.
The world changed.
And it occurred to Crowley, sometime not too long thereafter, as a nightingale sang where none had sung before, that the qualifier at the end was completely unnecessary.