Work Text:
537 AD
With a dull clunk of metal, Crowley dropped his helmet to the ground.
“Bloody knights,” he muttered, discarding the rest of his dark armour. The weight didn't bother him as such, slight as he may be, he was still a demon. It was claustrophobic though, all that metal, the heavy visor covering his face, obscuring his vision. It had been a relief to lift it earlier. He hadn't been able to see much as he approached the other group, bloody fog, bloody visor. Then that angelic voice had called out to him.
Aziraphale.
A shining knight in armour, somehow still bright against the gloom.
The tip tap of tiny feet distracted him from remembering how the angel had looked.
“Good evening, Sir Ortolan, how are you tonight?”
“Meow.”
“Is that so?”
Relieved, he saw that the cat hadn't deigned to bring him any gifts tonight. There'd been an uncomfortable moment the other night when a mouse had been presented to him while in company, and his snakey instincts had him eyeing it, mouth watering, instead of with the mild distaste of his companions. Tonight, topaz eyes met his own, closing in a slow blink, before the cat continued to wind around his cold ankles.
“Meow!”
“I see!” Crowley said, sliding to the floor and letting the cat climb into his lap. The soothing hum of contented purring filled the room as he began to stroke the cat's ginger fur. “Least someone's happy to see me.”
Fingers rhythmically moving he found his train of thought again, and began to talk quietly to the cat. “Second person today though, I suspect. Still got my bloody name wrong though. 's been five hundred years, and still it's Crawley.” His face screwed up and he sneered at his old name. “Is Crowley really so hard?” he asked the small creature in his lap. “Recognised my voice though, that's a thing.”
A part of him regretted mentioning the thought that had been lingering for years now. It made sense to him. What was the point in just cancelling each other out? They could have gone off together and drank somewhere warm, instead of clunking around in the damp. Relax a bit. Let the humans foment themselves. They were pretty good at that, Crowley had found. There'd been a moment there he thought Aziraphale might agree, then that idiotic sense of Heavenly honour took over.
“Mustn't do the wrong thing,” Crowley snarked. “Whatever would Gabriel say.”
Still, Crowley knew about temptations, knew how the right words could lead someone down a different path. A seed had been planted today, that would grow, and who knows where the branches might point.
“In one hundred years, we shall have him,” he said, mimicking other demons, and immediately felt guilty about the implication. That wasn't what it was about. Satan help him, he didn't want the angel to fall into any trouble. It was about freedom, space to be themselves. Feeling envious of the animal’s freedom, he looked at the cat, which appeared to have fallen asleep. She wasn't concerned about the job she was meant to be doing. As if to make his point, a mouse scurried by, unbothered by their presence.
Crowley could be patient. He just needed to give him time. Aziraphale would be thinking tonight, the roots beginning to emerge. They'd burrow down, and wait for Crowley to water them.
Trapped by the sleeping cat, he tried to get comfortable, resting his head back against the wall. It would take time, little nudges in the right direction, but if they had anything, it was time. The angel would come around eventually, he always did. Crowley allowed himself a soft smile thinking of the times Aziraphale had gone against God and Heaven and done what he thought was right. As the gentle, warm weight of the cat lulled him to sleep, thoughts of a flaming sword, goats and so many other little moments drifted through his mind, fading into dreams.