Re: that the one tag you put under the Adam and Steve book comic. Crowley indeed can talk to whatever the heck he wants, including god \o/
I love the idea that Crowley’s imagination allows him to accomplish spectacular feats - simply because it never occurs to Crowley that he can’t do them.
I mean, of course plants don’t normally have quite so many feelings - and even if they did, they wouldn’t be quite that good at expressing them. But Crowley remembers a slithering journey through Eden, where everything, including the plants, was vivid - had just a bit more life. And so it really only takes a day - two at most - for the plants Crowley collects to fill his own imitation garden, to start acting just a bit more cognizant.
And despite what Crowley thinks, demons do not come standard issue with the ability to sense their angelic adversaries anywhere on the globe. Honestly, it wouldn’t even be fair.
It’s after Crowley witnesses Aziraphale have not one, but two near discorporations during one of the earlier religious wars (a bloody one which Crowley would really rather not remember), that it occurs to him that the world is a very large place, and that his angelic adversary could be struck down without him even knowing about it. The longer Crowley contemplates it, the more unacceptable the notion becomes - until he realizes that if he closes his eyes and really, really thinks about it, he can feel the angel’s presence flitting about, a spark of white light on a comparatively dim globe.
And so when Crowley offhandedly thinks of Aziraphale one day and senses the angel’s glowing presence in the heart of France (which was inconveniently in the midst of a very bloody revolution, by the way), he expends a month’s worth of demonic miracles in order to teleport across half the globe and into a very dark, very dreary, very angel-occupied prison cell.
And of course, when the world is ending, and Crowley needs to get to Tadfield to reach Aziraphale, he believes rather strongly that a burning Bentley with no tires left to speak of can drive just fine. And so it does.
It all really comes to a head when years later the world does end - or rather, Crowley’s world ends as the occult blade, dark and flame licked, sinks with deadly certainty beneath his angel’s left breast.
It happens during a skirmish - as Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to save humans from a celestial and demonic battle that has spilled over onto earth. In fact, Crowley doesn’t even realize it’s happened. Not at first.
He’s miracling pale, quaking children to safety, and when he finally looks up, Aziraphale is kneeling on war torn earth. Golden, celestial blood drenches his shirt, pooling around him. Aziraphale’s blue eyes burn and he has time to cast a single, agonized look toward Crowley before he goes limp, and eyes rolling back, he falls.
For an infinite moment, reality bends as Crowley circumvents the laws of space and time to catch his angel.
The battle is finished - battles between Heaven and Hell never last long. In the aftermath, a frigid silence has fallen.
And it’s too late, a part of him knows it’s too late, because Aziraphale is quiet, and cold, and so horribly empty where he rests, cradled in Crowley’s shaking arms.
But this is not a truth Crowley can accept. Because if his angel is gone - really and truly gone, then it means the universe is cold, that existence is fundamentally cruel; because Aziraphale is good, and true, and how can a universe without him in it be a part of Her supposedly great plan? Without Aziraphale nothing is great, Crowley thinks, shivering and rocking his angel. Without Aziraphale, nothing is even remotely good.
As Crowley tries to contemplate an existence without his angel, his mind stutters and stalls. He can’t conceive of it - can’t even imagine. No, he doesn’t want to. He refuses. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t-
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, and Her words press in, forcefully carving space for themselves within Crowley’s mind.
And before Crowley can contemplate the significance of Her words, a soft hand is cradling his tear stained cheek, and Aziraphale, flushed and blinking, stares up at him in wonder.
“My dear, whatever did you do?”
Crowley, bends - curling protectively, reverently around his angel who is warm, and moving, and very much alive.
“Couldn’t imagine a universe without you in it, is all,” Crowley admits, face pressed into Aziraphale’s soft hair.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, and then the angel’s warm fingers are caressing him, brushing away hot tears.
A demon, armed with an abundance of imagination and just a touch of faith is, as it turns out, a power to be reckoned with -
Or - at the very least, a power worthy of annoying a kindhearted god into giving into his demands.
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