Crowley had always thought the humans had a great fondness for being exaggerative. For instance the habit they had of saying something like ‘I’m starving’ when they had eaten less than six hours ago or ‘I love you’ during a bout of good sex, but for once he was thinking that the descriptor ‘I feel dead inside’ was entirely appropriate.
The Serpent was dead inside. Not outside, no—he had escaped his own fate at the cost of the only being he ever cared about. It had taken torture to break him, to get him to comply, yes, but in the end he had lured Aziraphale into the trap Beelzebub set. No longer did Crowley have to wonder about just how evil he was—he knew. He’d always known he should have left the angel alone, at first for fear of getting in trouble, and then later for fear of hurting him.
Now none of that mattered. Aziraphale was going to die, and he was being made to watch. It was his fault. He never should have made the Arrangement, never should have cared—after all, look where it had gotten him. He was evil and tainted anything he touched, destroyed anything that was Good.
"I can't decide what order to do this in,” Beelzebub purred, holding the angel’s face in his hands. “Your tongue needs to be removed for your insolence, of course, but before or after you scream for mercy? Such a choice I have to make. But your eyes... yes, your eyes remain, so you can see exactly whose fault it is you've been handed to me so sweetly."
And then Aziraphale looked at him, though Crowley did not return his gaze—he could not. I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msosorry was the mantra repeated in his head but he didn’t dare voice it aloud. It was meaningless. Everything was meaningless.
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Date: Wednesday, 23 June 2010 20:48 (UTC)The Serpent was dead inside. Not outside, no—he had escaped his own fate at the cost of the only being he ever cared about. It had taken torture to break him, to get him to comply, yes, but in the end he had lured Aziraphale into the trap Beelzebub set. No longer did Crowley have to wonder about just how evil he was—he knew. He’d always known he should have left the angel alone, at first for fear of getting in trouble, and then later for fear of hurting him.
Now none of that mattered. Aziraphale was going to die, and he was being made to watch. It was his fault. He never should have made the Arrangement, never should have cared—after all, look where it had gotten him. He was evil and tainted anything he touched, destroyed anything that was Good.
"I can't decide what order to do this in,” Beelzebub purred, holding the angel’s face in his hands. “Your tongue needs to be removed for your insolence, of course, but before or after you scream for mercy? Such a choice I have to make. But your eyes... yes, your eyes remain, so you can see exactly whose fault it is you've been handed to me so sweetly."
And then Aziraphale looked at him, though Crowley did not return his gaze—he could not. I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msosorry was the mantra repeated in his head but he didn’t dare voice it aloud. It was meaningless. Everything was meaningless.