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Chapter Text

Aziraphale had never been to a restaurant with televisions inside of it before. Even after all this time, he was still finding new things to experience. This particular one had been Crowley’s idea; a pub specifically for patrons to watch various sporting events as they ate. The angel found the notion a little odd, and far from relaxing, but he didn’t mind as long as he was spending time with his friend. Crowley, however, was running late – more so than usual. Aziraphale decided he would wait a few minutes more before borrowing someone’s mobile to check on him.

His gaze wandered around the room from screen to screen. The games might have been more interesting if he’d understood the rules, but after so many centuries, all of the sports humans had invented were starting to run together. Suddenly, a news alert interrupted several of the programs. Aziraphale couldn’t hear any of the dialogue (another thing he found perplexing about this establishment), but the video told him everything he needed to know. His mouth went dry and his heart seemed to stutter in his chest as he watched the live footage.

The television showed an attractive young woman off to the side, as she pointed to a chaotic scene behind her. Several burly men were wrestling an enormous black and red serpent in the middle of a busy street. If Aziraphale had had any remaining doubt, the caption at the bottom read, ‘Exotic snake on the loose in Mayfair.’ The camera zoomed in on the animal, and he spotted a pair of yellow eyes the angel would have recognized anywhere. He’d gone six thousand years without swearing, yet here he was again, less than a year later, about to do it for the second time in his long life.

Aziraphale leapt out of his seat and scrambled out the door. “Oh, fuck.”

Earlier That Day:

It wasn’t as if Crowley had grown complacent. He simply hadn’t been expecting humans. He was constantly on the lookout for demons or angels trying to get back at him for averting the apocalypse. With Aziraphale’s help, he’d gathered plenty of weapons to use against either party…but nothing to use against a couple of religious fanatics armed with paint, sage, and overconfidence.

Which is how he came to be stuck inside of a devil’s trap in his own flat, coughing and rolling his eyes. They’d gotten red paint all over his floor, and the white candles surrounding the circle were ridiculously melodramatic. Crowley had been in a few of them throughout the centuries, but it had never amounted to anything. The would-be exorcists always gave up after a while, when the thin red haired man remained unchanged no matter which techniques they used on him. Thus, the demon had no reason to believe this time would be any different. The sage was irritating, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

…until they pulled out the Latin. The reason most of the previous exorcisms had failed was that they were intended to banish a demon from its host. Crowley’s corporation was his – it was made for him, and had never belonged to anyone else. This time, however, the wording was different. The occultists, or whatever they were (Crowley hadn’t bothered asking), seemed to be trying to force him “back to whence he had come.” The demon was starting to worry, but he’d be damned (again) if he let them know that.

Their chanting increased in volume and Crowley felt his muscles seize up. His yellow eyes grew wide and he began convulsing. He felt his spine curving forward of its own volition as he fell forward onto his hands and knees, before everything went dark.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Crowley heard the younger of the two exorcists speak up nervously. “Is…that what was supposed to happen?”

“This may be worse than we thought,” answered the older one. The demon tried to push himself up onto his elbows, and was shocked to find he no longer had any.

'Sssshit,' thought the serpent lying in the middle of the painted circle.

Chapter Text

The news crew was gone when Aziraphale finally made it to Mayfair, as was Crowley. He cursed the evening traffic for slowing him down, and frantically tried to think of what to do next. What would a bunch of humans do with an enormous serpent who was clearly not native to the area? He had heard of dogcatchers and such like, who then took the poor creatures to be pounded. Perhaps there was something similar for other wildlife. Aziraphale was not far from his friend’s apartment, and he always carried the spare key he had been given several months prior.

After letting himself in, the angel was horrified to see what must’ve happened: there were clear signs of a struggle, as well as a huge ritual circle drawn crudely in red paint on Crowley’s stark black floor. His mobile phone and sunglasses were lying under the desk, as though they’d been kicked away. Whoever had broken in was long gone, but Aziraphale was far less concerned about tracking them down than he was about rescuing Crowley. Knowing he needed help, he used the demon’s phone to dial Anathema’s number. She picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Yes! Hello, my dear. If you aren’t too busy, I’m afraid I have a rather large favor to ask of you,” Aziraphale said, all in a rush.

“Hang on…Aziraphale? Is that you? This is Crowley’s number.”

“Yes, of course,” he said impatiently. “Only, Crowley’s gotten himself into a bit of a pickle and he might be stuck at the animal pounder, and I’ve no idea how to get him out of there, or if he’s there at all.”

“Okay, slow down,” she said. Unbeknownst to the angel, Anathema’s eyes had grown very wide and she was pinching the bridge of her nose. This never achieved anything, but it made her feel better. “What do you think is happening to Crowley?”

“Well, he’s a snake. I think he’s stuck that way, and some humans must have spotted him. They’ve never been very keen on that form of his, you know, so I think they’ve made off him with somewhere but I don’t know where!” Anathema followed this about as well as a young child follows a physics lecture, but she tried her level best.

“But…why is he a snake?”

“Oh, he’s the serpent. The original. You know, the one from Eden? We might not have gotten ‘round to mentioning that.”

“Uh, no. No, you did not. Okay, anyway, if he looks like a snake now, then animal control has probably taken him to a shelter or something. It will likely be one that’s close by. We’ll just have to start calling. Maybe you could pretend it’s your pet that’s gotten loose?”

“Oh! Brilliant, dear girl; what a clever idea!”

“Don’t mention it. You dial some local shelters; I’ll see if I can dig up anything online. Let me know how it goes.” With that, she hung up, and Aziraphale summoned up his phone book from the shop (it was such a minor miracle, it hardly counted as one, surely).

The first three went straight to voicemail. The fourth was answered by a harried sounding young woman who seemed to be in a heated argument with some tropical birds. Beginning to lose hope, Aziraphale dialed the fifth number.

“Mayfair Pest Solutions, how may I help you?” said a bored, low pitched voice. Aziraphale was so surprised at getting a proper response that he entirely forgot what to say.

“…um, ah, yes! I’ve lost my dear pet serpent, and I thought I saw him on the news. Would you be so kind as to tell me how to locate him?” Aziraphale asked.

“That thing’s your pet?!” the voice became much higher pitched.

“Certainly!”

“You still got all your limbs, mister?”

“Oh, yes, he’s normally quite harmless. But he gets frightened in unfamiliar places.”

There was a pause, as if the man on the other end of the line was deciding whether or not Aziraphale was insane, or lying.

“Alright. It ain’t up to me to decide if you get your snake back. But we’re not equipped to keep reptiles long term, see – some professor came to pick him up and took him back to her lab at the university.”

“How may I contact this person?” Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or more worried.

“Look, mate, I can’t be givin’ out people’s private information!”

“A name? Please, just a name.”

The man gave a long, drawn out sigh. “She’s called Colleen Stanton. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Aziraphale heard the click that signified the end of the conversation. Heart pounding, he called Anathema back to tell her the news. If an academic had Crowley, then he was probably doing just fine!

Earlier That Day:

Crowley was not doing fine. He was still stuck in this blasted circle, and the humans were frantically running about his flat, trying to decide what to do.

“Will this work?” shouted the younger one, holding up a small flower pot.

“No, Nigel, you fool, he’d never fit!” said the older one. Crowley let out a hiss of anger and confusion. When he tried to curse at them, he found he was no longer able to speak. Something about the exorcism had not only changed his physical form, but also made some of his occult abilities vanish, too.

“Here, this should work!” Nigel said excitedly. He was now holding an enormous glass vase, one that had formerly contained a towering Yucca plant, until the traitorous thing had decided to develop leaf spots.

“Oh, and just how are we going to get him into it?” the other man said, scathingly.

“Um…Google said you use a big hook. Or tongs!” The pair ventured into the hardly used, but fully furnished kitchen, and returned with a broom and some grilling tongs. Before Crowley could figure out their plans\, he found his head being shoved into the ground by the broom, and his tail being yanked into the vase with the tongs. He wriggled and snapped ferociously, but it was no use. They had the upper hand (as he had none).

“Frank, we need to find something to cover the open end. Something flat.” said Nigel. Frank hurried to the kitchen again, reappearing a minute later with a flat metal baking sheet. He shoved it beneath the lip of the vase, and unceremoniously flipped the whole thing over. Crowley felt like he’d been sealed into a tuna can.

“Bugger, that’s heavy. Alright, we’ll take the fiend to Father Nichols. He’ll know what to do,” suggested Frank.

“Will the church be open at this hour?” asked Nigel.

“Father Nichols is always up late.”

Next thing Crowley knew, a towel had been placed over the vase to block prying eyes, and he was being jostled as the exorcists took him out of the building. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed before he started to feel his scales prickling slightly, and knew they’d entered a holy place. His hearing had never been stellar as a snake, but it was even more muffled through glass and fabric. He could just make out a third voice, a deep and booming one. The vase shifted; presumably, it was changing hands. Crowley sensed footsteps walking away, and then his vase was set down on the ground. The burning sensation increased, but he thought his chances of escape were better against one person instead of two.

The towel was suddenly removed, and Crowley found himself face to face with a bald, squinting old man – Father Nichols, apparently. His skin was so wrinkly that the folds of his neck partially obscured his white collar. Bent over with his behind in the air, he tapped on the glass experimentally, and Crowley hissed, opening his jaws as wide as they would go. The man seemed unsettled, but not screaming in terror as some had in the past. This went on for several minutes, until the consecrated ground started becoming unbearable. Crowley wiggled, trying to keep his body away from the holy stone floor, despite knowing it was useless. Looking concerned, the priest lifted the vase once more, and peered into it.

“Listen, little fella. I am called to love my neighbor, and certainly everyone in my own congregation. But those two are downright kooky. They told me you were an evil monster, but I think you’re just one o’ God’s creatures like the rest of us. Got a bit lost, is all,” he said. Crowley stopped moving, unsure why his throat felt so tight.

Father Nichols continued, “Now, I don’t know the first thing about caring for scaly folks such as yourself, so we’re going to find somebody who does.”

With that, he hefted the odd vase-and-baking sheet configuration into a more manageable position and walked out to a rickety looking old van, with the church name across the side in peeling paint.

Later, when the demon wasn’t distracted by more pressing matters, he might ponder the irony of a devout Catholic priest not believing him to be a denizen of Hell, or that he was trapped in a vessel that used to contain one of the plants he tormented. However, at that moment, his only concern was escaping.

Father Nichols looked down at him apologetically, and said, “Afraid I’ll need to turn you over again. Sorry, little bloke.” He did so, and set the vase in the passenger’s seat. After getting into the driver’s seat and starting the van, he placed one hand on the top, near Crowley’s tail, to prevent the snake from being bounced around at any unexpected stops or bumps. Of the three humans he’d interacted with tonight, Crowley wanted to kill this one the least.

“To be honest, I don’t think Frank an’ Nigel know what they’re doin’ – their hearts are in the right place, but they’ve hardly got two brain cells to rub together between the both of ‘em.”

Crowley dearly wished he could roll his eyes. As it were, he was stuck with his head upside down, so he settled for flicking his tongue out at the man, who only chuckled in response.

“Don’t you worry, we’ll get you somewhere nice and safe and soon, you’ll have forgotten all about this. You can go back to, er, Brazil or some place, and eat all the mice and lizards you want.”

Crowley would have smirked if he could, the mention of lizards reminding him of Ligur melting and shrieking in his doorway. Out of nowhere, he felt himself flying forward, the glass shattering everywhere. Father Nichols had been thrown forward into the steering wheel, knocking him unconscious, but Crowley could still see his chest slowly moving.

The windshield and side window had been smashed, so he crawled out, ignoring the nicks and cuts he was getting in the process. Looking around from atop the hood, he could see they’d been hit by a car who’d run a red light. The other driver looked shaken, but they were getting out and appeared to be on the phone. Confident no one would die and terrified of being spotted, Crowley slithered down the side of the van and across the street as fast as he could. He’d gotten rather disoriented throughout the whole ordeal, but he was confident he could get back to his flat, and his Bentley, before dawn broke.

A Few Hours Later:

Crowley’s confidence had been misplaced. He hadn’t attempted to travel in this form in quite a long time, and never in busy streets. He’d almost been run over more than once, picked up by a drunk man who’d then worn him as a scarf, and had to hide continuously as the sky lightened. He was dirty, scratched, and smelled like tequila, but he was almost home. Except, in his anticipation, Crowley grew careless. He was spotted as he sped out from behind a garbage bin.

A bloodcurdling scream pierced the air, and he let out a defeated hiss. ‘This was going to be as fun as the Old Testament,’ he thought.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale had a strange relationship with the Bentley. He’d ridden in it plenty of times, and had mixed emotions on each occasion. Flying through city streets at breakneck speeds was terrifying, but it wasn’t as if it could have been the Bentley’s fault. Plus, if he were honest with himself, he could not deny enjoying the company of the driver. All of this in mind, the angel stood in front of the antique car and took a deep breath. He reached for the door handle and found it unlocked – but he had the strangest sense that it hadn’t been that way mere seconds before. Aziraphale’d had suspicions that the car had some degree of sentience, as though its master were rubbing off on it. Today, he supposed he would find out for sure.

He slid into the driver’s seat and ran his fingers over the steering wheel. In theory, Aziraphale understood how to operate a motor vehicle. He understood the concepts of many things; from nuclear physics to ballet dancing. However, there is quite a lot of difference between understanding something and doing it. He snapped his fingers, attempting to miracle the car into starting. Nothing happened – except that the speakers started playing Queen’s “Don’t Try So Hard.” Aziraphale pursed his lips.

“Alright, now listen here. Your master is in a spot of trouble – real trouble, and I need to find him. To do that, I need your help. So, so…what do you say? Old, uh…chap?” the delivery had started out strong but ended as more of a question. He felt rather silly talking to a car.

There was a beat of silence, the music cutting off, and then the speakers began playing, “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy.”

“Shall I take that as a yes?” Aziraphale asked hopefully. In response, the car jumped to life, headlights and windshield wipers coming on; the radio volume increasing. He carefully put it into reverse, checking each of his mirrors twice, buckling his seatbelt, and hardly pressing his foot on the accelerator.

Of course, as soon as he properly made it into traffic, the car took off. Like a dog who hadn’t been for a walk in ages, the Bentley raced through the streets and dodged everything in its way with ease. Aziraphale was steering, or so he thought, but it was clear the car was in control.

“Dear fellow, I know the situation is dire, but we can’t help Crowley if I am discorporated and you are a heap of bent metal,” he said through his teeth, his hands clenching the wheel. Instead of slowing down, the Bentley marginally sped up, and changed the song to “Who Wants to Live Forever?”

Aziraphale might have sworn. He very well could have let out a whole string of curse words - but if he did, no one heard it. The Bentley certainly didn’t.

Not Nearly Enough Time Later:

Much to his surprise, they made it to the university in one piece. Anathema had looked up the professor’s building and office number, and Aziraphale made his way inside. He’d left the Bentley parked in front – he wasn’t technically supposed to do that, but anyone who tried to ticket it suddenly remembered they’d left their oven on.

The woman’s office door was locked, but there was a hastily scribbled note on it that read, “In the lab…be back eventually.” Aziraphale frowned: normally he was the one with sporadic operating hours, and found that he didn’t appreciate being on the other side of things. He decided to try wandering around and hopefully finding the lab himself. He passed several students and other professors, but no one questioned his being there. Crowley always teased him for his outdated sense of style, but here, he seemed to fit right in.

Finally, Aziraphale stumbled upon a promising door; he heard the screeching of birds behind it – perhaps other animals would be here, too? When nothing happened after knocking, he peeked his head inside and found an enormous laboratory. Cages of greatly varying sizes lined one wall, each containing a different kind of bird; the other side cluttered with tables, books, computer monitors, and various equipment he didn’t recognize. In one corner was another door, from which a young woman in a lab coat was currently emerging, a huge bag over one shoulder.

“Um…hello? Professor Stanton?” said Aziraphale, with a tentative little wave.

The woman didn’t respond. She flipped the bag onto the floor, pulled a knife from her pocket, and slit it open. She then hefted it up again and began pouring it into something he couldn’t see behind one of the tables. Finished, she looked up and fixed with him with a level stare. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this: mid-twenties, with a beautiful face, with long blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun.

“Who’re you?” she asked bluntly.

“Uh, Fell. I run a bookshop in Soho.”

“So what’re you doing here?”

“Well, I’ve lost my pet serpent. I was told you might have taken him in?”

“Told by whom?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“I’d rather not say - but, please, have you seen him? He gets terribly frightened around strangers.” Aziraphale said.

“What kind of snake is this?”

“He’s black, mostly, with a red belly. He’s got the loveliest yellow eyes.”

“…and how did you lose him?”

Aziraphale blanched. He hadn’t thought of that. He racked his brain for a reason someone might take their pet snake outside.

“I was taking him to a veterinary appointment!” he said wildly. “His scales…weren’t looking…scaly enough.” He winced, certain she would know he was lying.

“Mr. Fell, I honestly can’t tell if you are dishonest or merely incompetent,” the woman said coldly, folding her arms in front of her chest.

“I assure you, he really is my pet! I may not have had him for very long, but…” Aziraphale trailed off, thinking fast. What would Crowley say?

“He belonged to my late partner. My dear Anthony loved reptiles, you see, and I couldn’t just give his beloved snake away to anyone. I’m still learning to care for the little fellow,” he said, mustering up the most pitiful expression he had.

The professor’s face instantly shifted. “Oh…I’m so sorry to hear that. Yeah, I saw him on the news and offered to pick him up – didn’t want anything bad happening.”

“I do so appreciate that,” Aziraphale replied warmly.

“What’s his name?” she asked. He paused for a moment – the snake would hardly be named after his “owner,” after all. He thought back over the 6,000 years they’d spent together for inspiration.

“William,” he said, pretending to sound choked up. Professor Stanton’s eyes filled with sympathy.

“William has had a rough time of it, but he should be okay with the proper treatments. He had some mild burns and cuts, and he was pretty dirty, but nothing too serious. I can show you how to keep the wounds clean to prevent infection. Did…Anthony ever tell you what species he is?”

“Er, no. He just told me what to feed him, and that sort of thing.”

“It’s strange – he’s bigger than the average red-bellied black snake, a little over two meters. That was my guess based on coloration, but his shape is more like a python. I was going to consult some of my colleagues to see what they thought,” she said.

“I’m sure we could arrange that at a later date, but I’d really like to see him and make sure he’s alright.”

“Of course, I understand,” she said soberly. “I…lost someone, too. Some people think it’s weird that I’m so attached to her bird, but…he’s one of the last connections I have with her.”

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry! That’s terrible,” Aziraphale said, now feeling wretched for lying to her.

“Tofu was really depressed when she died, and we kind of bonded over that.” She noticed his confused expression and added, “He’s a white cockatoo, and she was a vegetarian. That was just her sense of humor.”

“It’s a wonderful name,” he said earnestly.

“Anyway, let’s go see William.” She led him to the door she’d he’d entered through, and down the hall into another laboratory: this one had turtles, fish, snakes, lizards, and other such creatures he was not keen on seeing up close.

“They’re always cutting our budget, so herpetology got lumped in with everything that doesn’t have fur or feathers,” she said, disgruntled.

“Are you the only one here?” he asked.

“There are two others in this department. My focus is ornithology and herpetology, so this is where I spend most of my time.”

They reached the far end of the room, and the professor let out a yell.

“What happened?!” she cried. Aziraphale felt a cold dread forming in the pit of his stomach. He followed her horrified gaze to find that the glass door of a large cage was open. As they looked around, several other smaller cages had been opened, as well.

Crowley was gone.