Chapter Text
Oct 19th 2009
Nine years before the End of the World.
Crowley is furious.
He doesn’t have the time, nor the mental capacity for this.
He is sitting in a random Starbucks in fucking Manchester, because he can’t be arsed to find a fancy coffee shop if Aziraphale wasn’t there with him. The antichrist has turned 2 years old, and he and Aziraphale have been trying to find ways to influence the boy without raising suspicion from Heaven, Hell or God forbid his parents— it’s always harder to deal with human’s questioning. They at least mostly know common sense.
He was sent to Manchester by Hell, doing some good ol’ temptation to ‘still be useful while our young Master is growing’. Yeah, right. He can’t stomp down the feeling that they sent him away from London because upper management has been catching wind of his.. alliance with a particular angel. He hopes he’s just being paranoid. And what if they did. He and Aziraphale can just— run away. Maybe. Whatever.
So now, he’s downing mediocre coffee alone trying to finish this quest as fast as possible so he can get back to his own plan, and perhaps meet up with a specific bookshop owner in a fancy restaurant under the pretense of ‘planning’.
More caffeine, or Crowley won’t survive this. He waves a hand near the oversized cup of coffee, and it magically fills all the way up again. Six shots of espresso. And a foamy top with a design that almost resembles a.. llama head? Huh.
Crowley brings the cup to his lips, about to chug the whole thing, and that’s when the demon spots them— two young boys huddled together in a corner booth right in his line of sight, with matching hair that almost covers their eyes, matching dark blue and green flannels and shy, unsure attitudes.
He isn’t sure why he chose to observe them further. The brown haired boy in the dark navy flannel is gripping his mug hard, staring down at the cup like it has answers for every question in the world. His demeanor is riddled with anxiety and unease. The black haired boy sitting opposite him isn’t much better: he keeps glancing between the other boy and the window, opening and closing his mouth like he’s about to say something but not sure.
Crowley can smell the tension between the two of them from right here. A quiet sour smell that reminds him of gross body odor. It’s starting to irritate his nasal cavity a little. Whatever problem these two boys have with each other, they should sort it out soon. There are (is) could-sense-human-emotions supernatural entities(y) trying to relax here!
But he could sense something unlying that cloud of anxiety. Something like… affection? And… care?
Oh. If Crowley squints, he could see the blush growing on both of the boys' faces.
Right. These boys are sowing the first seeds of love.
It’s obvious now that he noticed it. Crowley has witnessed love since the creation of it almost 6000 years ago. He’s seen love between children of God created for each other, love between men and women, love between men and men, women and women, demo— no. The point is, he's used to it. So familiar.
Love is a good thing, because it has both good and bad. As an angel, Crowley has supported it since God had it as a concept in the first paper drafts. As a demon, love and lust is an easy way to tempt people to Hell’s side. Love makes humans so weak and vulnerable.
Love also creates drama for him to watch and laugh at to pass the time.
These two boys though, aren’t even moving. They’re rigid in their seats apart from the occasional sip from their mugs and the two-three lined conversation about nothingness before they divert their eyes and stare somewhere else.
The pale dark haired boy has his hand on the table, almost as if inviting the other boy to hold his hand, but he’s too unsure about it, closing and opening his fist nervously, almost retracting it completely. The brown haired one is flushed red now, hand shaking, close to dropping his mug every time he picks it up.
He and Aziraphale weren't even this awkward when they met again for the first time as angel and demon.
Crowley is seriously annoyed now. The End of the World is coming and these two fuckers can’t even look in each other’s eyes. (The irony slips past Crowley’s mind, or he deliberately ignores it.) Have some courage in life will ya?
It’s so clear that they want each other. Crowley doesn’t have to look into their desires to know it's got the other one written all over. These boys are gone and they won’t even do anything about it.
He decides for them, after 5 more minutes of observation where they shared 4 looks and 3 sentences, that they need a little boost.
Crowley snaps his hands quietly, the tiniest miracle so the boys would act on whatever they’re feeling inside their heart. He can make them fall in love, but that’s no fun. He has long realised he could let nature decide how the world flows and it’s for the better.
Something about the tension around those boys breaks. Like a miracle (no, literally), the brown haired boy leans over the table and places a kiss on the other’s cheek. He retreats, wide-eyed and somehow even more blushy, stammering a string of ‘sorry’s, almost standing up like he wants to get away. A hand grabs his though, and the dark haired boy quickly closes the distance between their faces for a proper kiss. It didn’t last long, they break away with still-wide eyes but bright smiles on their faces, and their hands stay locked together.
Eyes catch each other, and a fit of giggles breaks through the two. They start talking again after they calmed down, visibly more comfortable and pleasant. They hold eye contact this time, both with so much adoration in their eyes Crowley is enticed to give it a name.
Ah, his job here is done, he presumes. He can already hear Aziraphale’s rant about him being a nice being— Love is hardly a good thing, he would argue. The boys would have to go on that rocky road ahead just the two of them, and only time would see if they’re right for each other. That’s the fun part, isn’t it?
Crowley has a good feeling though, as he glances at them still with interlocked fingers and the biggest grin on their faces. Something about them feels right. Demonic hunch.
A thought about Aziraphale suddenly crosses this mind at that moment. Right, he should get out of here now. Crowley downs the still-magically-hot cup of coffee, favoring the burn more than the flavor. The brown haired boy glances over to him when he stands up, and Crowley grins at him with a little too much teeth, winking under his sunglasses. The boy raises an eyebrow at that, but gives him no further attention as he goes back to conversation with the other.
Crowley strolls to the entrance, getting closer to their booth and hears one actual sentence from the raven haired boy in the distance before he shoves the door over and walks into the busy street.
“Hey, do you want to film a Q&A for my Youtube channel?”
The next time Crowley and Aziraphale meet is at St James's Park again, because Aziraphale is quite fond of the ducks, and Crowley likes the red popsicles the cart near their usual bench sells.
The weather is gloomy in fashion with England's winter, the trees and leaves adopting a pitiful shade of greyish yellow, and the ducks flock together as they swim across the lake for warmth. They discuss ways to infiltrate the antichrist’s life, and Aziraphale, God bless him (literally, again), is kind enough to ask about Crowley’s doings in Manchester.
“Yeah, yeah, did some tempting I guess. Enough for Hell to fuck off. Some stuff about football players. I didn’t really care much to be honest.”
Aziraphale smiles listening to him. Crowley thinks about teasing him for looking so happy hearing about a demon’s temptations. That somehow brings him back memories of the two boys he performed a miracle on.
He adds absentmindedly, “Oh, and I made two boys confront their feelings. For each other. Did a little magic because they were too annoying to ignore.”
Crowley swears he could see a faint blush creep on the apples of Aziraphale’s face when he heard him. Aziraphale looks away from his eyes and glances at the ducks in the distance, stuttering through his response.
“O-oh. That’s.. good.”
Crowley sighs, fixing his sunglasses, “No, it’s not.”
And they fall into conversation about the antichrist again.