Hung the Moon

Have Mercy (On the Sinners and the Saints)

Pepper was not the only being to dream that night.

Crowley dreamnt. He couldn't remember the last time he had, since the Fall. Just as well. Who knew what terrors his mind might conjure up? He might not be particularly good at being evil, but demons like Hastur were and he'd stood by for more atrocities than he cared to admit.

"Crowley."

The voice boomed in the chambers of his heart and the wet spaces of his brain.

"Full offense," he snarled between his fangs, very prominent just now, "but fuck off, Mother."

"I tell you," the voice -he refused to acknowledge it could very well be god, beyond his initial outburst - "you must crawl on your belly and eat dust."

Crowley woke with a burnished golden feather pressed to his lips. Its scent was pure Aziraphale, whispers of cologne, the barest hint of musk. The feather thrummed with power, so much more than just an idly shed primary. It had come from the spot where Aziraphale's wings met his shoulders, the cap of feathers that helped meld the human characteristics to the angel's.

That night even Aziraphale slept. Weariness was to be had in great quantities for all involved, though Crowley couldn't quite remember what had happened before that. Well, beyond the mind blowing fucking they'd indulged in so.

He would have thought on it more, but he opened his eyes and what he saw took all of his attention.

The room was a veritable Eden, covered in vines and flowers and plants. Jasmine flourished next to oranges, English roses next to birds of paradise; absolutely mad combinations of things that never would have happened in the mortal world. A creeping vine and verdant moss covered the ceiling and floor. The tallest tree, its canopy tucked against the corner of the room, hung heavy with ripe apples.

He sat up, the feather still clasped in his fingers, feeling light headed as if he were still stripped down to his essence, as if he were still dreaming.

"Zira," he managed, a hoarse, awed whisper. The flora hadn't invaded the bed itself, but huge branches had twined around the footboard, sprays of yellow and blue flowers that had no mortal equivalent. He felt Zira's feather get heavier and heavier in his hand, as if once separated from its angel it turned to pure precious metal.

Aziraphale came around slowly, all but mummified in the blankets. Crowley couldn't help but reach out and grab Aziraphale's arm, vaguely sorry about the painful pressure but needing Aziraphale to see this right now. Hells, it looked so perfect, and the days in the Garden hit him like a sucker punch. Yes, he and Aziraphale had their roles even then, their status as being on opposite sides. But it hadn't meant as much, with only Adam and Eve to tempt, and he and Zira were more apt to lounge in a patch of sunlight eating berries than smite/curse one another.

Tempting Eve was probably the only thing he'd ever done that Downstairs considered properly demonic, and he'd been trading on it for millennia. Hastur and Ligur getting uppity? Excuse me, who is the Original Tempter around here? That's what I thought. The Lord of the Flies buzzing around him, demanding he perform more works of evil? Piss off, insect, I tempted Eve herself.

(He knew, of course, that this largesse would run out eventually. That did not, however, keep him from antagonizing the other demons like they were a bunch of tightly wound dog breeders on show day).

Aziraphale sat up and he got the third shock of the morning, and he'd only been awake for ten minutes.

"Hey uh. Did you know you're well...that you're me?" Crowley said, stumbling over the words.