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[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Date: May 13, 2000
Setting: Manor Grounds
Status: Public (Writing Challenge Thread)
Summary: Remembrance of Things Past

Crowley had gotten into the habit of taking walks around the Manor when he was bored and Aziraphale was working. Some part of him resented the time the angel spent with paper and ink, telephones and accounts, but most of him realized that it was good for him. Aziraphale liked to be busy and useful; it made him happy which made Crowley happy, so he let it be and walked instead.

Since April showers were clinging stubbornly to May, he stayed inside, exploring the parts of the lower floors that he'd never seen, or at least he thought he'd never seen. Turning a dark corner, however, he promptly discovered he was wrong. This place looked familiar, smelled familiar. It was the part of the building that hadn't been destroyed in the fire two decades prior and it put Crowley in mind of a dark night and a baby in his arms. Stopping, he looked around. This was the corridor where he'd come all those years ago, bringing the infant antichrist to what he thought would be their doom.

He thought back to that night, remembering his panic and feelings of helplessness, the frantic plans and fleeting hopes spinning through his mind. He'd thought of Aziraphale then as he drove through the dark. The angel had been the first and only person he'd considered going to for help. He hadn't met John yet. The man would have only been in his mid-twenties. Odd to imagine that, really, him looking younger than Crowley. Crowley wondered vaguely if they'd have even had a friendship if he'd met the cocky young man back then, before deciding probably not.

Finding a door and pushing it open, the demon discovered that it did lead where he expected it to. On the other side was the small, neglected courtyard where he'd parked the Bentley and that man with taste in clothes like Aziraphale's had told him that he'd left his lights on and that they'd already started in room three. He smiled faintly, amused at how one small mistake can change the course of the world. The rain was beating on the garbage cans, a syncopated metallic rhythm and he went out into it, letting the cold water fall on him, spattering his sunglasses, soaking his suit and damping his hair. He wasn't in snake form and the air wasn't as fresh and clean and flower scented as it had been then, but it reminded him of the Garden, as so many things did. That was another instance where a chance occurrence changed the path of the world.

If they hadn't had that somewhat friendly conversation in the rain, where would they be now? Probably not friends and definitely not lovers. Crowley would have spent six millennia alone. It was a sobering thought. He tried to imagine not having all those times when he was lonely or bored or tired or distraught and ended up spending time with the angel. Between the challenge of tempting him to something, lots of alcohol, and intelligent, dryly humourous, and somewhat snarky conversation, he'd always felt better afterward. Except for the occasional hangover. What would his life be like without that? Probably a lot more demonic, he decided. And not nearly as interesting.

Not immune to the irony that his life had been just as unpredictable as any human's, Crowley stepped back inside, leaving the past behind. Dripping on the carpet and squelching as he walked, the demon moved back towards the populated end of the Manor, hoping to run into Aziraphale or John, Ellie, Gabriel, Adam, Belial, or anyone really. He was ready to make some new memories now.

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[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

He recognized himself, though it bore little real resemblance, the figure etched out in pale swaths of robe and wing, adorned with fine details of gold. Gabriel did not doubt that his stained glass likeness shimmered, liquid fire, when the sun's full radiance lit the chapel; but now, in the early hours, it gave off a soft, muted glow, cold and pale and distant like the light of the stars, stark in the night.

He always recognized himself, with the same constant surety that birds could pick out the same patterns of migration across changing seasons: instinct, more than anything, for though the styles changed, the stories changed, it took nothing more than the maker's passing thought to stamp his identity out in art: this, this is the Messenger of God.

Of course, sometimes the scene would betray him even without his surety; the
Annunciation adorned this panel, his glowing form tempered by the sweet, simple lines of the virgin Mary. There were those mortals, no doubt, who could recite the tale even better than he, how the Messenger had descended from Heaven to tell the virgin of her conception. But then, he had very different reasons for remembering that moment, and even as he stood in the manor's chapel gazing at the frame like some idealized photograph of his own memories, one detail stood out to him: Mary's eyes.

She had been barely more than a child, especially by the reckoning of one who had existed for centuries before and would go on even after her trials had ended. Barely more than a child, and yet even the archangel had found much to admire in those eyes. Soft and sweet, as gemstones cradled in silk, they had flickered with fear at his arrival. This he was used to; his duty was one mostly of ceremony, and faithful and nonbelievers alike gaped when he came to them, not in Earthly body, but in his true form, eyes aglow, wings outstretched. Never in wrath, never in judgement, and yet mortals always feared their first glimpse of that which lay beyond their understanding.

But he had spoken her name in soft tones, one hand outstreched, and watched the range of emotion that flickered in dark eyes as he talked of the blessings the Lord had chosen to bestow upon her; of the virgin birth, which would shift the very foundation of human belief for ages after.

The girl had had no way to perceive the eternal scope of his words, and yet she had had grown braver with each phrase, her gentle trembling subsiding as awe began to take the place of fear in her visage. He had smiled at her, sensing her confusion in that first shivering silence, and the first hints of guilt had crept upon him as she cautiously questioned him: he knew what she would go through should she accept. Still, it was not the angel, was nothing outside her own heart that would make the decision for her. This was a matter between her and her God; and Gabriel was, as ever, simply the Messenger.

When she had raised her eyes to his once more, it was with shuddering conviction, and he had known that she trembled then not with fear, but with something that she perhaps could not even fully grasp, and he had smiled once more. So young, so pretty, and she was about to change the course of history with little concern for the consequences to herself.

Whenever, after this historic meeting, Gabriel reflected on faith, he had no image in mind of momentus struggles or suffering, nor of the shimmering songs of lauding seraphim in the highest reaches of eternity: all he remembered were Mary's eyes, shining, in that moment.

"Be it according to His word."

According to His word.