It was a dark and stormy night.

Perhaps it was the kind of night Mary Shelley might write Frankenstein in, or the kind of night H. P. Lovecraft really got down with his inspiration.

It was not, however, terribly dark and stormy. Those writers just had overactive imaginations, you see. (Or were, perhaps, just a tad too fond of certain hallucinogenic substances.) Because, while it was certainly night out (likely past ten) - and thus dark - and while it was certainly raining - and thus stormy - it couldn't really be called the kind of night that inspired horror. After all, no electricity had gone out, no wires were swaying in a hurricane-like wind, and there certainly was no moaning and groaning of the trees and buildings which would have stood against aforementioned (nonexistent though it might be) wind.

This was the kind of quintessential 'dark and stormy night' that romantically-minded people with warm places to nestle and fond people to nestle with often claimed as their own. This was the kind of night where two old friends would curl up under a large tartan blanket on an old, uncomfortable couch (armed with pillows to offset that uncomfortability, mind) and quietly sip cocoa as - instead of getting drunk or arguing about philosophy, music, art or literature - they watched telly.

Well, Aziraphale was sipping cocoa, anyway. He strongly suspected Crowley's had found itself to be something a bit more alcoholic, quite a few hours ago. The demon was still nursing said drink, arm propped over the back of the sofa behind Aziraphale's shoulders. Aziraphale's feet were propped up on a tattered footrest that had seen better centuries. Crowley, predictably, was curled up completely under the blanket but for that one arm, pressing against Aziraphale's side as though to steal warmth, his knees digging into Aziraphale's thigh. But it was comfortable, and warm, and quite nice, really.

Aziraphale suspected Crowley might be bored with the show, though. The dear demon kept trying to nuzzle into his neck, and Aziraphale had to shift his shoulder gently to put him off. He didn't often indulge in telly, but when he did The History Channel often provided an interesting take on the events he'd been alive for. It was quite charming to see how the humans painted over what had really happened. Often how the decisions had really been made changed depending on the lens one looked through, the reasoning one assumed had gone on, or that other facts (once so important) had been lost to time, entirely. After yet another such attempt to nuzzle past his turtleneck (sometime after eleven, now, and Aziraphale had lost count of the attempts before then), Aziraphale looked at the demon out of the corner of his eye with a slight puzzled frown. Crowley gazed up at him with wide, innocent snakelike eyes.

The telly played on in the background, but its volume slid down a little. Aziraphale sighed.

"Really, dear. You've been antsy all night. What is it." Crowley cocked his head, the fake-innocent look dropping as his eyes flicked back-and-forth over Aziraphale's face.

"You can't figure it out?" Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond but a sharp grin darted onto Crowley's face, his fingers quickly entangling in the soft waves at the back of Aziraphale's head. Aziraphale caught a breath he didn't need, eyes wide as Crowley leaned in, purring. "C'mon, angel, I know you're not that oblivious." Crowley sneaked closer, eyes glinting, his hand under the blanket slyly insinuating itself under Aziraphale's turtleneck, palm pressing against his stomach. Aziraphale made a small noise, and Crowley's hand pulled his head closer, enabling the demon to lick at his lower lip.

"Crowley." He huffed, although it might've sounded a bit breathy. Aziraphale felt the demon grin against the side of his mouth, and sighed, long-sufferingly. Crowley snorted against him.

"Oh, don't pretend you don't want it." Aziraphale made another little sound as that hand on his stomach wandered, Crowley's fingers caressing over the slight pudge there. Aziraphale resisted the urge to squirm under the attention, but the demon took the small gasp that escaped as an invitation and moved in to kiss him properly. The tartan blanket shifted, falling a little bit, pooling around their hips. Aziraphale's eyes fell shut as the heat of Crowley's mouth met his own, hands beginning to move to -

The clock on the mantle chimed quietly, and Aziraphale guessed it must be announcing midnight. Crowley didn't bother with it, though, more concentrated on nosing into Aziraphale's turtleneck and nibbling gently along his throat. Aziraphale tipped his head back, fighting a shiver, right hand lifting to card through Crowley's hair -

Pain. Sudden, sharp pain and Aziraphale gasped, trying to shove the demon away but Crowley's hand snatched his right wrist - grip hard, and unyielding. The angel took in a startled breath, feeling something sharp - no, two sharp things - slide into his neck and he huffed, shaking his head, trying to pull away, confused and hurting.

"C-Crowley, dearest, not quite so - don't - " He winced as the fangs sank in only deeper, resisting the urge to try and shove the dear boy away, again. Crowley'd just got carried away, is all. "That hurts, stop…" His vision started to feel fuzzy around the edges and Aziraphale blinked furiously, trying to clear it. After a few moments Crowley drew back, grinning at him in quite… quite an unfamiliar way (well, what he could see of it, anyway.) The demon's face was sliding in and out of focus, and Aziraphale shook his head, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. "You… got a bit… carried… away - is it?" He said foggily, attempting a warm smile, squinting at the demon as though he could see him better if he did that. Crowley laughed, and the sound was as clear as a bell - no, it was worse. It was piercing, and Aziraphale winced when he realized Crowley still hadn't let go of his wrist. He tugged on it, faintly, but the demon kept it captive and only leaned in towards him. Up close, Aziraphale could see that that grin was not kind.

"6,006 years, 6 months, 6 days, angel." Aziraphale felt a creeping cold realization in the back of his neck - but perhaps that was spreading out from the poison. He stared at Crowley, dumbly, brain slow to process.

"What… You didn't - Poison?" His vision blacked out for a moment and Aziraphale shut his eyes, shaking his head again, trying to will it away. Crowley laughed at him, again - this time soft and menacing, intimate.

"Can't shake this one off, Aziraphale. 's designed especially for you." Aziraphale cracked open his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't - his vision was positively swimming in darkness, patches of color where he could see Crowley's eyes and face burning at him, bathed in victorious evil.

"Why - ?" The angel still managed, trying to reach his left hand up, to touch Crowley's cheek. His arm didn't want to listen, the muscle response was slow, sluggish. But Crowley would never… The Crowley he knew would never -

Crowley only sneered at him, yellow vertically-slit eyes fever-bright with the fires of Hell. To Aziraphale, it seemed everything was moving… curiously… slow… His head ached.

"Did you think a demon could really love an angel?" Crowley spat at him, and something wet landed on Aziraphale's cheek. He was numb, he couldn't really register it. Something was… was wrong with his body

"But… dear… you - " Aziraphale blinked, but it was a struggle to reopen his eyes, this time. He couldn't focus, couldn't deal with this… not Crowley. It had to be… a mistake, a joke, of some sort - mind you, a poor one, but…

A mean leer met his fuzzy eyes, blinding as the sun on sand. He couldn't see much beyond that horrible smile, couldn't hear the telly anymore, his ears were ringing but he could still make out Crowley's words as they painted strokes of illumination through the rushing, oncoming darkness.

"6,006 years. If I'd known it'd be this easy to deliver a Principality to Hell in a hand basket, I'd have done this ages ago and not wasted my time."

Something in Aziraphale hurt, very much, as the poison at last won out over his depleted faculties. The last thing he saw before being washed in blessed, unconscious oblivion, was Crowley's damned grin, imprinted on the back of his eyelids and destined to haunt every waking moment yet to come, in Hell.

: : :

That image would feed the urge for revenge once he was a demon, but Aziraphale didn't know that, couldn't imagine that, right now. It would take years to strip away what he'd been and make him what he'd forever after be. But the time - and transformation - would go much faster once the sadness had been burned out of him, replaced by unbridled rage and hate at Duke Crowley for making him Fall.

It wouldn't be anger for 'betraying his trust', by then.

Demons didn't make a habit of trusting each other, after all.

(That was something only angels did.)