The first time, though of course he doesn't know it's the first time, everything went exactly according to plan. Crowley got the baby, right on time. He took it to the nunnery, and didn't stop to talk to the man waiting outside. He observed the whole thing, and makes sure no funny business happens. At the end of the night, the Antichrist went home with the Dowlings.

Hey, we never said which plan it went according to.

Crowley doesn't notice something's up right away, but he does notice before he gets his orders again, give him a little credit. It's hard not to notice when his favorite reality show does a repeat episode, his African Violet is right back where it was, and the dent he'd made in his liquor stash the night before bounced right back. The only thing to do is to relive the day, start drinking earlier, and wait for his orders. He still follows them to the letter. He must have done something wrong the first time, to have to repeat them.

He goes through another five rotations before he makes the decision to rebel. At this point, he figures anything he does against Hell's orders won't change anything, so he decides to have a little fun with it.

The past few times, the Bentley had been playing Bohemian Rhapsody. Honestly, it's gotten a bit old. He skips through his tape of Brian May's Caprices until he finds Another One Bites the Dust. He roars through the graveyard at top speed, taking care to only knock down headstones on beat. He screeches to a stop at the back of the cemetery, but not before striking Hastur, discorporating him instantly.

Crowley rolls down the window and shoots a mean grin at Ligur. "Baby, please."

Ligur speechlessly hands the basket through the window and backs out of the way of the car.

"Thank you, I'm off, goodbye, see you at Armageddon!" He waves as he rolls up the window. If Crowley knew anything about Americans, he would probably roll coal in Ligur's face as he drove off.

Tonight, the Dowlings get twins. Crowley thinks there's a certain symmetry, with twins. Cain and Thaddeus III. Hilarious.

Tonight, like every night so far, he starts drinking. He would probably drink for the next eleven years, if he were able to. Unfortunately, he's still following the wrong plan.

He falls into a little routine, after that. He comes up with new and hilarious ways to humiliate Hastur and Ligur. He revels in the opportunity to say whatever bullshit he wants, right in their faces, without consequences. He keeps scaring the nuns, too, though that becomes less fun over time. It's not until it begins to feel like work that he realizes: he can contact Aziraphale.

He doesn't actually do it until his next runthrough, though. He needs time to plot it all out. He needs to convince Aziraphale to believe him.

It turns out, he doesn't have to. Of course, maybe he's more receptive to the idea because they're both incredibly drunk.

Aziraphale claps his hands excitedly. "Oh! It's just like that Vonnegut novel, it's newer but I do have a first edition, let me see if I can--"

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no," Crowley cuts him off. "It's not. It's not the, the book. It's. That movie with the horrible American man and he has a rat."

Aziraphale nods sagely. "I think I know how to fix it. You should take the baby."

"Take the baby?" Crowley's astonished. "Then the Antichrist'll have even more demonic influence!"

"Oh, but he won't!"

Crowley frowns. If he, a demon, takes the infant, then it will be influenced by him, a demon.

Aziraphale leans forward in his seat. "At least, he won't have only demonic influence."

And Crowley gets it. "Well, best sober up and get our boy!" He stands and rubs his hands together.

"I'll get a room together while you're out," Aziraphale smiles softly.

Crowley knows his role. He follows through, by rote at this point. Well, except for the part where he speeds past the birthing hospital, and straight back to London. And the part where he sets a little basket in the middle of the floor in a bookshop in Soho.

Aziraphale sends him an annoyed little look, but then he's opening the basket, and pulling out the bomb that destroys the world. He's giving it a finger for it to wrap its tiny hands around, holding it close to his chest, making little cooing noises at it. And something in Crowley's chest melts, or collapses, or bursts, or does something that demonic chests are not supposed to do.

"Have you thought of a name for him, yet?" Aziraphale whispers over the Antichrist's tiny head, but Crowley can't focus on anything, not when his angel is so tender with the world's destruction. Aziraphale huffs and hands the baby over to him. "I'll prepare some formula for him, sit tight," and Crowley does.

And Crowley knows how to deal with babies, has since the flood, but. He had never even considered that he might have one to himself, one for just him and Aziraphale to share, and he realizes. He would die for this baby. He would die for his baby.

Aziraphale comes back in with a warm bottle, hands it off to Crowley. "Well, have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Thought of a name, dear. Most infants have them."

And Crowley laughs a little at that, laughs a little more at what he could name this child. "What about Nero?"

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. "A touch on the nose, I think. And besides, hardly anyone practices Gematria anymore."

The baby pushes away the bottle, makes a little gurgling noise. He doesn't cry.

"Martin could be a good name," Aziraphale suggests.

Crowley snorts. "Nobody names their kids Martin anymore. No, we need something better."

They both pause for thought. A good name. Modern, but with history attached. Something simple. Something human.

"Adam." They say it at the same time, and it rings through the room. It's the right name.

Crowley settles Adam against his chest, and lets himself drift off. He's sure he's meant to be in this little bookshop, with a tiny human. With Aziraphale.

When he wakes up back at his own flat, alone, he breaks. This is the first repeat that he's allowed himself to cry.

Crowley checks out for the next hundred or so runs. Maybe hundred. He drinks in the morning, he picks up the kid, he drops off the kid, he drinks at night. He doesn't know if it's been a hundred or not. He stopped counting.

He gives it time. He's always needed time to process. He's stuck repeating the same day. He's got nothing but time, and no distractions that he hasn't seen before. He decides to call Aziraphale again.

He doesn't tell him about the loop, this time. He sits and drinks. He listens to Aziraphale ramble about something. Probably books, knowing the angel.

The time comes for him to leave. He stays.

It's an hour's drive to the rural pit the Antichrist crawled out of. In that hour's time, he moves ever closer to Aziraphale. Bless the consequences. He's just going to repeat this day again.

He's halfway in Aziraphale's lap, face tucked into his neck, when he smells a hint of brimstone over the angel's cologne. He gets up to the front door, but it's blocked off with a wall of fire. Hellfire. The backdoor, too. Even the tiny hatch into the alley. The windows, by now, have been fused shut with the heat of it all. The roof's on fire, now. There's no way out.

He and Aziraphale sober up. The alcohol spills out of the bottles left on the floor, making the fire burn hotter, higher. It's reached the books, now. Crowley is panicking. Aziraphale stands firm, resolute. He pulls Crowley down into a desperate kiss, then pushes him back and away. He doesn't need to see this.

Crowley is immune to hellfire.

Aziraphale is not.

It's not healthy to dwell on the image of an angel swallowed by hellfire.

Crowley's never been particularly healthy.

The next dozen times Crowley burns, he burns alone.

If Crowley was apathetic before, he's completely gone now.

He does what he's asked. He doesn't drink, because what would be the point. He drives the speed limit, because self-destruction isn't as fun anymore. He stays on his terrible bed in his terrible flat, right up until he's needed elsewhere.

He very carefully does not wonder if holy water would break the loop.

It's his six-hundredth and sixty-sixth runthrough, which would be pretty funny, if he were still keeping track. He's made a decision. The world probably shouldn't end.

He can't think of a way to stop it. So he weaponizes his apathy.

He blasts Queen, doesn't laugh when Beelzebub has a devil put aside for him. He bullshits his way through a bullshit conversation with coworkers he now knows wouldn't hesitate to kill him.

He takes the baby, stops to talk to a man who almost definitely is not an ambassador. He hands the basket off to the first nun he sees, chooses against making sure it goes to the right home. He leaves the convent.

He calls his angel.

He wakes up hungover. He wakes up in Aziraphale's bookshop. He wakes up, and it's the next day.

He smiles.

He would be better off not knowing that something else smiles with him.

Finally, things were going according to plan.