by Taryn

Disclaimer: Good Omens in all its brilliance is the creation of my demigods, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. I apologize for what I'm doing to their characters, but I can't help it.

The lyrics to the song at the beginning are from Superman by Five for Fighting.

Note: This is a short scene that places towards the beginning of Good Omens, with references to things that have never happened outside of my imagination.

Wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
About a home I'll never see

It may sound absurdůbut don't be na´ve
Even Heroes have the right to bleed.
I may be disturbedůbut won't you concede
Even Heroes have the right to dream.

It's not easy to be me.

Crowley flipped off the lights and stared out into the cold darkness of twilight London. Everywhere his eyes darted he saw them, countless millions of people scurrying about their daily lives as if the Apocalypse wasn't rushing towards them with the cold impersonal fury of a comet.

But no, he thought to himself as his eyes followed the line of traffic, it wasn't impersonal. And that was the problem, wasn't it? All the forces of Heaven and Hell were gearing up to fight the good fight without a thought to what would be destroyed in the process. From his nearly unique perspective the world truly did resemble the game board so many philosophers had alluded to over the years, but instead of chess it was closer to a long game of Chutes and Ladders owned by a very spoiled child. The players had spent millennia fighting forward, moving from half-frozen outcasts to beings capable of producing a Chateau Laveau and airplanes and even the music of Queen. And just when they'd almost at long last reached the top, here came the child to kick the board and take home all the toys.

It was entirely unfair, that's what it was.

Crowley held no illusions about the horrors the future would likely contain. Humanity would be beaten down until everything that made the race unique would be ground beneath the heels of immortals that were totally incapable of appreciating the gift the Earth truly was. No matter which side won life- such as it was- would become unlivable.

Despite the propaganda the only clear difference Crowley could see between the forces of Good and Evil was one of style. Both sides used threats to keep their minions in line, and if Evil's tended to be a lot more creative that was only out of pure necessity. Good's ultimate threat of the Fall had after all lost since lost its poignancy for the Fallen.

No, either way the future spread before him with frightening clarity. Once events reached their ultimate conclusion there would be nothing but open empty time stretching forward in every conceivable direction with no escape. No theater, no music, no lunches at the Met.

No Aziraphale.

Barring his teeth in a grimace, Crowley vanished the glass from his living room window and stepped out on to the ledge. Ebon wings unfolded behind him, invisible against the greater blackness of midnight.

His eyes darted down side streets, tracing the tracks of men returning from illicit midnight love affairs. His ears caught the whine of millions of computerized voices shooting through the ether overhead, winging their way around the globe. The sounds, the sights, all of it would shortly be gone, but even the contemplation of the inevitable War of Destruction was better than remembering soft blue eyes gleaming as the Angel uttered those words that had bound Crowley in his thrall, changing everything while changing nothing.

"I love you, you know."

Demons didn't love. It was a defining characteristic. Yet he always came back to those words, spoken unthinkingly after a night involving way too much wine and Mozart's music live and in person. He wouldn't remember the gentleness in the Angel's voice, the taste of his lips, the soft noises he made in the back of his throat as he gave himself completely over to Crowley's ministrations.

Crowley had very nearly been lost.

Those memories were treacherous and capable of damning him more than he already was, and it didn't bear thinking about. Much better to contemplate the new computer virus that would be released at 4:00 A.M. and the bruising of the souls the frustration and blame would cause. It was subtle, of course, and would never be appreciated by the Hierarchy of Hell, but temptation these days was an Art.

And that's all that night had been. Purely a Demon tempting an Angel, a scene as old as time itself. If it seemed to be anything else and if mere words kept burning their way into his every waking thought even after all this time, maybe that was a sign. He had too much spare time on his hands. There were still hours of darkness left, and in the safety of the night even the brightest souls were susceptible to tarnish.

Temptation, that's all it was, and it was for the best if the Angel believed it as well. So many years and not a single sign that Aziraphale remembered anyway. There had been no repeat of those words, nothing but the blasphemy that rattled around in his head until he was sure he'd go mad.

Demons did NOT love.

The snarl came again as he launched himself from the ledge, wings expanded, feathers ruffling in the cool burst of air as the ground rushed up to meet him, but as always he caught the draft and pulled up at the last instant. He wasn't running. It was simply better this way, to glory in the primeval joy of the flight without letting all those troublesome thoughts get in the way. Things would be better in the morning, when he found the Angel and they could decide what to do about the child. It was the Agreement and the thrill of putting one over on the Powers That Be that made his heart pound, not the thought of those eyes and those damning words.

But that was tomorrow, and for now there was still the rest of tonight. With a last glance out at the twinkling lights of London he gave himself fully over to the Darkness, losing the last vestiges of Crowley in the Demon, until finally nothing remained but the echo of words best left unsaid.

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