Crowley chose to use his body as a weapon. At first it was a response to being cursed with serpent eyes, in his pain and anger, all he was capable of was lashing out. The human race was smaller then but its intrinsic nature had pretty much solidified, so Crowley dedicated a great deal of time mingling with them and learning.

After all, it was the questions and the wanting to know more, to know WHY that had led him to the Fall, so he saw absolutely no reason to stop now. They were fascinating creatures, and early on he realised that they were equally as capable of heart stopping kindness as they were of utterly evil horrors. He wasn't sure if this was a feature or a flaw, so he spent several centuries immersing himself in all possible ranges of the spectrum, to learn what he could.

And, oh the things he learned. First, he learned to shape his exterior to a hard cuttingedged brutal beauty and then wield it like the weapon it was. His demonic nature was a lodestone for many, the appeal was magnetic, regardless of gender, or often intention.

He learned social rituals, and while he never found any appeal in eating the food (he could and occasionally did, but didn't enjoy it), alcohol in all its forms quickly became his favourite drug of choice. That it was something humans did frequently in all social circles made it much easier for him to interact and 'pass' convincingly as one, and his ability to sober up and never suffer from a hangover (after the first memorable experience) gave him notable advantage.

He gained a reputation for many things, including being a convivial drinking companion. He spent time in the bleakest hovels, amongst the sick and dying, dined with the most powerful, most provocative and most salacious of nobles. He became known for the sly ready wit, the most well timed cutting remark, a mere quirk of saturnine lips could be the rise or fall of an endless supply of courtiers.

Humanity created many new things to experience, various fine fabrics that could be made into clothes. He learned to use those as part of his visual weaponry and always had a very firm sense of self and style and way of presentation. There is a certain way to combine elegance and menace in even the most sumptuous of clothing styles. Crowley learned that the way you wear something is equally as important as what it looked like.

Body language fascinated him for the longest time, the way humans unconsciously interacted with each other, picking up on so many subtle signals and responding. Just one step too far into someones personal space had so many possibilities to manipulate them. He became slightly taller over time, allowing him to loom menacingly (preferably out of the shadows). Sometimes it appeared that he had too many teeth in that vicious knifeblade of a smile, or that the ones that were there were somehow longer and sharper than they should be.

The tilt of the head, the measured pause between words, the lightest touch of a finger, a lowering of the eyelids. Sarcasm was something he totally claimed for his side, and did much to develop the artform in his own right.

Of course the banquet of sex constantly paraded before him was sampled extensively. Sin was his raison d'être after all, and while tempting people into it was one thing, actively participating made the temptation so much easier. They fell over themselves to get a sampling of demonic delights, and for a long time Crowley was only too willing to oblige.

Whores quickly became his favourite people, they had a refreshingly clear eyed view of the world, and a very straight forward approach to the mechanics. Many of the older women (and some of the men) had fascinating insights into the endlessly complex human relationship machine, and Crowley learned much from them, spending hours discussing, debating, dissecting and doing his best to understand humanity at its most basic level.

It paid off over the hundreds and then thousands of years. When he exerted himself to be charming and engaged, Crowley was a force to be reckoned with, and fortunes and kingdoms rose and fell at his whim (or the instructions of Hell).

Eventually he got tired of the endless futility of it all. He could see that humanity had damned themselves already (by the Industrial Revolution it was inevitable) that he couldn't see the point in trying so hard. Fuck, they had come up with the Spanish Inquisition all by themselves, it was sheer coincidence he happened to be in the area at the time. He got a commendation for that, and spent a month vomiting over the horrors he had seen.

He surrounded himself with the finest art, slept on the softest sheets – sleep became a habit and then a necessity for an emotionally exhausted demon. It became one of his two forms of escape from the continual reminder of what he was.

The other escape was the angel. At first they were wary of each other, being on opposing sides and so on, but as they say, familiarity breeds contempt, and they bonded over mutual contempt for the requirements of their respective sides rather than contempt for each other. For when you have only one other being in your current plane of existence who truly knows what you are, and you keep running into them at random intervals, it becomes harder to distance yourself from them.

Especially when your 'side' as such, has no real idea about what life among humanity is like, and sometimes you just need an epic bitch and drinking session. Plus the angel was 'nice', but not in the annoying angelic holy way, just inherently nice. He expected wiles and temptation from the demon, and twitted him about it regularly, but he wasn't nasty about it. He wasn't guarded and hostile, in fact he was welcoming and friendly.

So over time, they became friends, and eventually The Arrangement came into being, and they consorted even more as a result. He saved the angel's ass on many occasions, and similarly rescued himself now and then as well.

They dined out everywhere they met up, with the angel choosing to eat every possible food choice available, and Crowley was happy to sit, drink and just ….relax…. in his presence. The angel didn't judge him for his nature, he accepted the necessity that for the light to be seen, the dark must be present. Crowley always wondered if Aziraphale realised that Crowley was a pretty pathetic excuse for a demon in comparison to someone like Hastur or Ligur, and was grateful as a result. He never asked, though.

In general, they rubbed along pretty nicely over the centuries. Sometimes didn't see each other for decades or longer, Crowley slept away the entirety of the 19th century (the 16th and 17th had been pretty lively times for both of them) but the 20th century had been very engaging for him. He adored the mechanical improvements, and his Bentley became his most prized possession. Technology supplied endless fascinations, electricity led to so many possibilities. The Internet was a hotbed of opportunities for demonic interventions, and he didn't even have to leave home. Cellphones gave him the internet in his pocket, and even more possibilities for creative meddling (he was particularly proud of the selfie thing and social media in general got him even more commendations).

Then unexpectedly it all threatened to come to an end, and only with the help of an angel, a witch, the Antichrist and his friends and a random assortment of strangers, were they able to avert it. He and Aziraphale were now persona non grata with their respective sides, and they both knew that repercussions would be quick and almost certainly destructive.

They had spent the bus ride back to London discussing the options, and came up with the plan, that remarkably worked, and at the very least gave them some breathing space. And now here they were, at the angel's favourite place, lunching at the Ritz, drinking champagne in celebrations.

Yet, in all the thousands of years of learning that Crowley had spent with humanity, the one lock he had never managed to crack was the one that contained the answer to the question in front of him.

What would he do about the angel he had been in love with for as long as he could remember?

The angel whom, he was pretty sure now, actually understood how he felt, but didn't acknowledge it in any obvious way. Crowley didn't know what to do NEXT, and given they were both essentially free agents at this point in the ineffable fucking Great Plan, he figured now was the best time to deal with any pending existential crises likely to be had over the possibility.

But that meant that someone had to say…something…and having successfully surpressed his feelings for the angel for six thousand years, he just simply couldn't bring himself to say it out loud.