Crowley reads.
He's a demon. He's a liar.
He reads.
He doesn't bury himself in fiction. He buries himself in theorems. He swims in equation. He nests in razors. He doesn't read books. He ingests texts. He scrutinizes dissertations. He feeds from intellectual articles. He thrives on encyclopedias. He plays in rules, regulations, and standard operating procedures of governing structures and establishments.
He is the father of knowledge. He is the catalyst that kicked off learning. Curiosity... Questions.
He is the apple.
And the apple never falls from the tree - a brief stop to intentionally bounce on a physicists head along the way, notwithstanding.
So no. Crowley doesn't tend to partake in fanciful stories. He doesn't realize that Jane Austen wrote love stories with balls and fancy feasting and societal intrigue.
So no. Crowley doesn't speak poetry. He doesn't brandish his adrent affections against the roaring beast of injustice and malicious threat. He doesn't corral the spirit of charity and goodwill to bring about change, however sorely it may be needed.
But he sees it in code.
He sees it in synapsis networks.
In solutions.
In results.
He sees it all in inevitably.
So he offers an escape. An escape to his own system. A system he created. A system he cherishes. A system he knows is safe, is lasting.
And he offers it to the one fantasy he can grasp. The one thing he has loved for almost as long as his system. The one thing he desires so deeply enough that now the "outside world" is starting to realize that he cares too. It's becoming obvious. It's becoming an inevitability to be addressed.
"We can go off together."
We can escape the vortex that will eventually result in a black hole.
We can be safe.
I can be safe.
With you.
In the stars.
Forever.
Crowley doesn't read. But he listens.
In all the years that Aziraphale surreptitiously worked to build himself a haven, there were countless times where the angel would bend his ear.
"Crowley, listen to this!"
"Crowley, I must share this passage I just read earlier today with you!"
"It's such a lovely story, isn't it?"
"Can you simply imagine it, my dear?"
No soul would last a second beyond learning that, despite Crowley grimacing, rolling his eyes, and scoffing, he had found that listening to the angel read to him was one of his favorite things. And if all of those past instances taught him only one thing, it was Hope. If there was one simple thing that the angel managed to slip beneath his scales with his stupid books, it was Hope.
And Crowley is a persistent bastard.
He is a cunning bastard.
He is a clever one.
The possibility of success lays out in dismal percentages in favor of him. But Crowley knows a thing or two about probability. And he may have a sulfuric snap or two in his back pocket to tip the scale every now and again.
Teaching a demon to Hope can be a very terrifying thing.
Why?
Because Crowley totally fucking reads.
----
@joycrispy 's post might still be haunting me, honestly... /cough
Idk
