The Curious Condition of Being Human

Chapter 8

Of all the reactions to brute-forcing cosmology on Aziraphale, Crowley didn't expect that the reaction would be acceptance.

Well, not really acceptance so much as trust.

For a demon, who was used to being called duplicitous and manipulative, that unconditional trust was both flattering and a heavy burden. In this particular situation, having Aziraphale trust him was a boon. But he had to sit with the knowledge that the angel had to trust him absolutely innately for it to last beneath the layers of the miracle.

That's not to say that Aziraphale was taking it well. He'd been in a cold sweat since Harold had left, and was perched on his favourite armchair with weird tension and a look of panic on his face.

Crowley handed him a cup of tea, which Aziraphale took and held in a very prim manner.

Aziraphale started to take a sip, then stared at it, then looked up at Crowley with eyes wide. "Do I even need to drink tea?" he squeaked. "Or eat? Or...or sleep? Or..."

"Mmhmmm, noooo. Not really. But I suppose that depends on your definition of need. Those things have their pleasures beyond keeping a meatsack running."

"Meatsack? Really, Crowley. That's quite crude."

"Accurate though," said Crowley as he leaned heavily against a bookshelf.

Aziraphale delicately sat the teacup aside and switched between placing his hands on his thighs and folding them in front of them, before he just stood up instead. He tugged down on the front of his waistcoat and folded his hands in front of him. "I think you better tell me the rest of it."

"Are you sure? Don't you need a little time to let Harold and his marvellous spinning head sink in?"

"No, thank you. I'd rather hear it all at once and go from there. Why would Hell do this to us?"

"It wasn't just Hell, Aziraphale. They worked together on this, with some human magic to glue it all together," Crowley made a vague gesture. "As to why they needed us out of the way? Well, it's probably because you and me have a history of mucking around in their plans."

"But why would we want to go against Heaven's plans? They're the good guys. Surely we'd want to help them."

Crowley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's more complicated than that. Much, much, much..." he sucked in some air, "...much more complicated. And I'm not sure laying out an eternity's worth of backstory is going to change your mind without your memories. But..." he positioned himself in front of Aziraphale and placed hands on his shoulders. "They tried to kill us. Only a bit of sleight of hand kept us from being utterly destroyed."

Aziraphale looked down, then up at Crowley. He didn't shy away from the snake eyes staring back at him. Nor did he seem the least bit afraid of him. "This is all very confusing. I always thought the whole heaven and hell thing was black and white. You're saying I'm an angel. But I certainly don't feel perfect, or divine, or even especially good. I feel ordinary."

"You're anything but that," Crowley interjected.

"Yes, well," Aziraphale turned a little pink. "My point is, I don't feel like the sort who should be an angel. And you..."

Crowley's eyebrows arched.

"I know you're not..." he leaned in and whispered, "...evil. You can be a bit grumpy and rude sometimes. But you're not..." Aziraphale huffed. "Oh, I don't know what I'm saying! It's very disturbing to not remember things that happened, and to remember things that didn't."

"I'm afraid I'm about to make it worse," said Crowley, the words rolling off his tongue regretfully.

"Oh do you have to?" asked Aziraphale with a bit of a pout in his voice.