Chapter Text
Present Day
Temptation is a fire that consumes what it offers. Need is the kindling, want is the spark that lights the flame. Greed is a fucking can of gasoline.
Crowley is good at temptation, yeah? Which is bloody ironic, because it's one of his angelic traits that makes him such a perfect demon: Empathy. A natural empathy that got twisted and perverted when he fell, that festered and burned. Now it's little more than a godforsaken Geiger counter for corruptible traits. He feels it all, like it or not: The need, the want, the greed. He has watched whole dynasties burn down and not felt a shred of sympathy for the selfish fuckers who wanted more, more, more, when they already had everything. He takes pleasure in ticking the box “🗹 Classified 1+ MSG.RO” when he files the paperwork. Certified selfish assholes, likely to re-offend.
It's the ones who have nothing that get to him. The poor sods who just wish for food, for shelter, for peace, for a decent quality of life. If that's a sin, then creation is a sadistic shitshow, but what else is new? He tends to misfile the reports, using the odd demonic miracle here and there to have them circle through the departments indefinitely. Hey, bureaucracy is hell. Not his problem.
And if a certain angel happens to bless these unfortunates, it's not his doing, right?
It takes some sleight of hand to have them both fulfill their quotas at the same time.
But they've had 6000 years of practice.
Mesopotamia, 2500 BC
Crowley would never admit it out loud, but he'll be damned… more damned… Nghgh. It was a glorious day, alright?! Watching Aziraphale do his whole "Behooooold, I’m a mighty angel!" spiel is bloody entertaining. Never gets old. And it's fun to go all "Mwwahaha, I'm an evil demon!" in return. They've done it a thousand times, they are feeding off each other's energy so effortlessly. Heaven got what they wanted. Sorta. Hell got what they wanted. Kinda.
And Crowley got more than he bargained for.
Crowley thought it would be fun to tempt Aziraphale with a juicy morsel of human food. He thought the angel would enjoy it, no harm done. After all, there was only a tiny flicker of want in this afffable, curious soul. Not enough to burn. Not enough to hurt. Only when the angel's eyes widen in shocked amazement, when the gentle trickle of need turns into a torrential stream, does the demon realize his mistake. He thought that the absence of hunger meant safety, when it really means a starvation so long-lasting it has been cruelly written into Aziraphale's bones, to the point that hunger is pointless.
Crowley watches him eat, trying to school his features into sardonic amusement while the angel's desperate need threatens to pull him under, threatens to unearth more hurts that have never been soothed, more needs that have never been answered. It feels almost indecent to witness the first tentative satisfaction, then the glorious joy.
Crowley wants to weep. Crowley wants to rejoice. Crowley wonders what else his only friend has been starved of.
He thinks about that a lot.