Work Text:
See the thing about time is that it isn’t so much a straightforward thing. The idea that time marches ever onward in a neat and tidy line really couldn’t be further from the truth.
Time is like water. Well, also very much not, but minds can only hold so much, so for the purposes of explaining–time is like water. It moves in rivers, but also streams, creeks that twist and loop. It pools into ponds and lakes, then expands past thought into oceans and tides and–you see that this is all very difficult to keep within the metaphor.
Before time existed, there was still an order to things, but not a When, not a Before or After. And after time came to be, suddenly everything before time was just Before.
The thing about being older than time, was that if you paid attention, you noticed the difference.
And Crowley was quite a bit older than time. Older than many a thing, but never older than Her, even if that was all Before time.
His memories of those moments were fractured, holes and gaps filled with trauma. An aching howling void where Her Love had been. He wasn’t sure if he had been part of the creation of time, not like how he remembered holding the burning cores of stars, burning with Love and–well it wasn’t important.
It was just a surprise the first time he reached out, having had quite enough of the moment, and time listened. There was a familiar weight in his hand, and he didn’t know what it meant.
He was still Crawly then, and he remembered the way Hastur had frozen in place. Crawly had been too shocked by the presence pooling around him, like gripping onto the edge of a skirt and having eyes turning down to notice you. Time had only sputtered before continuing, the feeling slipping out of his hands. Hastur hadn’t seemed to notice Crawly’s distraction afterwards.
Hell was a place where having an extra second or two would mean the difference between having your wings raked and gnashed, verse slipping free to tempt another day. (There was a reason not all demons had wings anymore.) He had lots of time to practice this strange power that didn’t seem to have a counter. The other demons were so frustrated with his seeming to teleport away (from their view), that many gave up and left him be.
When he started getting mischievous with it, they booted him up to the Garden. Him and his hand crank.
He and time had a relationship. It whispered things, words and concepts from long into the future, or from paths that had branched off ages ago. It didn’t feel like an angel, or a demon. It didn’t feel like a person at all. Just the hint of a presence, so like but also unlike Her. Her presence was Love and the Word. Her Light would burn him if he were to crawl up close now. But time didn’t burn. It was a whisper of sand, but also the rush of sea water come to drown. The soft tick of a clock and the bone-shaking gong of a bell tower.
Time was like a sparrow that happened to perch on his shoulder if he asked sweetly enough. If he pulled hard enough on those drapes to stop the curtain from closing.
And there were times he tried to stall an actual curtain call. A few last second saves managed. Hell didn’t seem aware of this power of his, so they never asked why. But many times, he couldn’t do anything but stall the clock.
A few times he held time so taunt, so desperately, that when it finally did wiggle free, he was hit with quite a backlash.
Time would strive to take back what he stole from it.
Sometimes that was a small aging of his corporation. It was unsettling to feel death march slowly on the cells of his body, but in the end, he was a celestial being not his body.
Other times, it would rip entire days from him. Not all time was equal after all. A second to one person could be worth hours to another. Suddenly time would jump forward for him. Like a full glass suddenly finding itself missing a gulp. Usually these gulps from his personal hourglass built up, after than coming immediately afterward he had pulled on time.
Sometimes he found he could coax these gulps to happen while he slept. He would awaken restless as if he’d had only a short nap, but find a week or more had passed. He wasn’t sure if time took pity on him (if it could even feel emotions at all?) or if something about sleeping made the process easier. Time was strange in dreams, after all.
Still, it was a handy tool in his kit, especially one that didn’t seem to be logged anywhere in Hell’s paperwork and therefore didn’t need to be explained to anyone. Well, almost anyone. Aziraphale had been quite perplexed the first time.
He hadn’t really thought about it when he came across Aziraphale surrounded by an angry mob. This was after Sandalphon’s doing, the humans had been infuriated and looking for a scapegoat. Crawly had slipped through to see Aziraphale’s wings being held down by several of the mob. He hadn’t really thought about it. It was easy to just cup the rush of time for a moment, and move.
“I told you–” Aziraphale cut himself off, blinking rapidly at the suddenly still humans. “Oh my, what–”
“Angel, best get going.” Crawly ripped the stiff hands from his wings, freeing him. He carefully kept his voice neutral, removing the rage he felt at seeing the angel like this.
“Cra–” Aziraphale didn’t move, staring at him in shock, and Crawly let the cup fall. The humans screamed and Aziraphale jumped into the sky. Leaving the mob shouting and screaming around Crawly.
Later, Crawly had cursed himself for letting an angel of all things see his power in action. For not just pausing the angel as well and his part in the rescue going unrealized. It had seemed natural to scoop the time up around him, instead of including his time as well. Crawly had shrugged uncomfortably to himself. At least he hadn’t been stupid using his demonic miracles to save the angel–that definitely would have been noticed. Curse his heart and how it tightened and squirmed. He was sure the other demons’ hearts must’ve burnt up in their Falls. Or maybe Hell had ripped them out of the others. No one had been able to catch him to have the chance.
And he wouldn’t give them the chance. He needed to stay under the radar (what was a radar?) and stop giving into his squirmy, squishy heart’s pleas.
Fortunately (or unfortunately) Crawly, later Crowley, would continue being terrible at not giving into his very squishy heart.
It was much later when Aziraphale finally questioned him on what had happened that day. Well afterward, when drinking in Rome had opened them up to friendly chatter and work gossip.
“You know, I have never seen anyone do what you do.” Aziraphale had said in his around about questioning way.
“Yep.” Crowley replied, popping the P sound was particularly nice to do after a few drinks. “Only one serpent to do serpent-y things yanno.”
“That too, but I meant more of your crowd control methods. Of course, I am still grateful, don’t misunderstand, but also it was quite the experience at the time. I feel that I didn’t fully express my grat–”
“Ssssshuuuuudd it.” Crowley hissed. “I don’t want your thanksss or any of your other disgusting platitudess. I had my reasons, so keep whatever you feel to yourself.”
He sidestepped the conversation and while he could feel Aziraphale’s curious eyes on him, he didn’t ask again.
He didn’t ask after Paris either, but again, Crowley could feel his curiosity grow. Eyes filling with questions unasked, unanswered.
He didn’t ask after the next time or the time after that.
Questions were dangerous to an angel, after all.
~
He had driven many cars, many automobiles, many different horse-less carts and wagons. He loved them.
Horses, however, hated him. He hated them back. Hissed at them as they pulled back their lips and declared him a Threat to them. Panicky prey animals that walked on their fingertips. Whomever had up there that had helped designed them was clearly an asshole who enjoyed others’ suffering. To decide these panicky prey animals, who needed to run, who needed freedom and family, to decide that they were "beasts of burden" (a very fun, sharp and terrible name indeed) was just the topper of the suffering pisspile that horses had been served in life.
And in response to his pity, they hated him.
But cars? Beautiful. Smog machines that ran on explosions and decay? Beautiful. Human ingenuity at its best. Tireless machines that could still starve? Glorious. The bastards really were made in Her image.
And this car? A Bentley, black and shiny, made sharp and.. Just so perfect. This car was his.
Time whispered to him, and he could see dreams of all the wondrous shapes cars would be, could be, but this one? This one was perfect and it was his.
Humans had such interesting ideas about their technology. They made up stories of machines that could flex time around themselves like a toy. They wove horror into their tales, just as much as they did awe.
Time curled around him, heavy with these tales, heavy with stories and smog and machines upon machines upon machines.
At one time, maybe, he had been full of hatred for humans. At one time, full of jealousy and rage for their place on the stage–Her stage. Rage that all he had created, the burning cores he had held in his hands, would be simply a fancy wallpaper for them. He remembered it in bits and pieces. Finding where the furniture had left gaps, where gaps full of burning trauma had formed, where things had been torn from his mind and heart.
The soreness of his missing Grace always throbbed when he encountered human machines. Their technology. Their creativity. A trail of bread crumbs to follow and puzzle out.
(Children, he had insisted even back when the Earth was brand new, were different. They reminded him of those burning cores of stars, full of bright love, so pure and alight. He had decided that the children didn't deserve his rage even back then.)
He knew now that humans looked up, and saw the stars he had held the burning gas cores of, as he coaxed them aflame with his own love echoing Hers, and he knew that humans found inspiration there. Fuel for their wonderful, awe-striking creativity that made them so like Her.
He had never really hated humans. Not since he actually met them. Not since his first talk with Eve.
So he took his Bentley, his car, made by human hands with hearts drunk on stars, his car that hungered for explosions and decay, and he found a place for the small hand crank that whispered to him of time ever present, and ever pooling. Time which beat, like a sparrow’s wings, gentle against his hands. That presence that turned and gazed upon him, not with kindness, or love.
After all, love, Her love, had been torn from him. Who was he to know what emotion time may or may not have felt for him. He no longer had the sense of such things.
He loved his Bentley. And he knew, as time wove itself through the car and whispered to its engine which hungered for explosions and decay.
He thought, maybe, that the Bentley loved him too. It was something his squirmy, squishy heart whispered sometimes.
And he used up so many, many important, heavy seconds, to appease that squirmy, squishy heart. Seconds of life and death. So heavy and consuming were those seconds he stole. And time took back what he stole from it. Time always strove to take back what he stole from it.
It had been a long time since he had ever had a sense of whether or not he was loved. His very squishy heart ached.
But the Bentley was his car. HIS perfect car, made of black, sharp angles, formed by human hands with hearts drunk on the stars and nebula he had carefully given to the universe.
And his car would not burn.
Not until he was safe. Not until he was with his angel who had eyes full of questions he would never ask of anyone but the only one who was safe to ask questions of. The one who had already burned up from questions and pretended he had nothing to lose from asking more. Pretended that screaming those questions to the skys, to Her, cost him nothing anymore.
The questions to be asked of him, he wasn’t so sure were safe to answer. Not sure he could answer all of them. And he hated that. Everyone deserved answers, he thought. Even if No One had ever answered his.
~
At the Tadfield air base, Aziraphale looked at his sword, and he looked at Crowley. He looked at his sword and then he looked at Crowley. Crowley’s heart did a weird twist in his chest. The angel, whom the demon loved so dearly, looked at his sword, the sword meant to smite demons like him, and then looked at him.
Crowley knew it wasn’t a real threat. He knew he wouldn’t be smited. Aziraphale hadn’t even managed to actually shoot the Damned kid. But the fact Aziraphale considered his sword as a threat. As part of an argument…
Then the sword lowered, disregarded as any use in this argument, because of course it wasn’t any use, Aziraphale would never smite his demon, but–
“Or I’ll never talk to you again.”
Oh.
Oh. Now that actually was a threat. That was a reminder of what was going on. It wasn’t even a threat Aziraphale had to actually carry out himself. It was the reminder that if Satan brought Heaven and Hell to war, then either of them would talk to the other ever again.
There would be no place to talk. No middle ground for them. No more them.
It was a reminder of what they actually were fighting against and what they both stood to lose.
It was a very good threat.
But at Tadfield air base, Crowley knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid those eyes full of questions for much longer. Nor could he avoid the consequences for his actions.
Time always strove to take back what he stole.
And this time, he had gone ahead and pulled down the whole curtain, rod and all.
The sands he had found them in were both familiar and not. The start and end of everything, a place beyond time. Even the whisper gong of a presence usually watching him was gone in this place. He had thrown a rock into the puddle and splashed all the water out. The sparrow of time was limp in his hands.
It was worth it, he told himself, to give Adam a moment. Just one extra moment.
Then he had to concentrate. He spun his hand crank in hand, the device, the tool She had given him so long ago, feeling the air rev around them. Well not the air. Water flung far from his rock throw being pulled back. The sparrow twitching beneath his hands.
His very squishy heart ached. His best friend was certainly Aziraphale, but time had become a close second. He had hurt it. He could see that now, a scar on the riverbanks. A fine crack in the hourglass. Contorted dented metal of a tire well.
He spun the crank again. What was left of the Bentley pushed with him. Just like restarting a heart. He spun the crank again. Water dripped and slopped unevenly. One of the sparrow’s wings fluttered in panic.
He spun it again.
It felt like being hit by that firehose all over again. The puddle was no longer a puddle, water rushed in all at once, flooding it. The sparrow jumped and twisted in his hands. He held his ground.
He spun it again.
And–
The air popped and the scent of ozone hit him like a fucking train. His hand grasped on Adam's and then on nothing, and he turned to see the world back in its place, time furiously speeding by like a belltower’s gong rippling through space.
Satan stared them down now, and Aziraphale would grab his empty hand.
Consequences would come later, he knew.
He hoped it could understand. He hoped it would understand.
He didn’t have a sense for such things anymore.