Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Some winters were barely worthy of their name. Typical London winters mooched from autumns leftovers, barely bothering to further crimple up the already brown leaves. Snow had become a forgotten dream for the last twenty years, a payday at the end of the month that never came. There were those winters, and then there were Winters like this one.

This Winter hastily tossed the leaves aside in a few sweeping whirlwinds and slammed down two decades worth of snow, as if wanting to out-do it's clumsy predecessors. It blew in cold air from the arctic, froze the rivers, and blocked the roads. A fluffy white carpet laid thick on the roof of a bookshop in Soho.

Aziraphale turned another page in his book and distantly wondered if Adam might have accidentally messed things about after all. There hadn't been any real Winters for several decades. He couldn't complain too much. First, as schools and the railway system had shut down, so could, surely, his bookshop. Second, it had made Aziraphale's afternoon quite entertaining.

From where he was perched under the window embroidered with flowers of ice, he had a clear view of the entire street. An entire street covered with slippery ice and hurrying Londoners who hadn't seen a whiff of ice and cold for two decades. Aziraphale greatly appreciated the result of combining those two. He mentally rated the triple axels of doom on a ten point system. Occasionally he added or detracted points for the component score as well. How big was the arc of their feet as they fell on their ass and cursed? He had never been more entertained.

He peered at the next victim rounding the corner, who was wearing something that looked like a postmodernist deconstruction of a tent, or just a plain normal camping tent perched on their head. Aziraphale coiled in anticipation. Their saunter on the ice was already unstable, challenging a spot on the podium.

"SSSSSSSSSSHIT!"

Feet went flying. Aziraphale spurted cocoa out of his nose. He cackled, wiping tears from his eyes. A picture was worth a thousand words, and he was a bookshop owner. The pirouette he'd just witnessed was too glorious to put into words.

Aziraphale froze. That damned saunter.

Oh no.

Aziraphale's books were interrupted from their slumber by a cold draft. Before they could mumble and turn the other side, a second wind seized the room and forced their attention on the door. Their owner fell through the doorway along with 5 buckets of snow and an ice statue. They sighed and settled back on the shelves. They'd seen weirder come through that door. They were old books.

Aziraphale ran his fingers over the cold hands of the ice statue as if to warm him. Frozen yellow eyes stared, unblinking, at his face. The only things Crowley could move were his pupils.

"...really my dear, out in this cold, and why?"

Crowley stared back at him.

Aziraphale sighed and took Crowley's face in his hands. He pressed a kiss on his nose before pulling off another layer of hat from his head. His red hair finally showed, perking straight up in a victory cry. Aziraphale ran his fingers through it, and Crowley could start to feel the slightest twinge of pink appearing on his face.

"It's warmest by the fireplace, but you won't fit in the armchair like this…" Aziraphale mumbled to himself, sizing Crowley up, pulling another thin black sweater over his head. His eyes grew contemplative. "I'd hold you in my lap until you thawed out," he murmured, and Crowley gulped mentally. "Except your joints don't really bend right now. Honestly, dear, outside in this weather—"

No joints, no problem. Before he knew it he was shrinking, skin turning to scales until he was eye level with Aziraphale's foot.

"Oh! Right," Aziraphale said, and picked him up. Crowley dangled frozen between his fingers, unable to perch on his arm.

"Little demonic pretzel," Aziraphale said affectionately, running fingers down his back. Crowley barely managed a weak counter-hiss.

Aziraphale settled back down into his armchair, setting Crowley onto his chest and then covering them both with a blanket. He picked up his book and continued from where he left off, absentmindedly working circles onto Crowley's back. Slowly but surely, Crowley melted under his touch. If snakes could purr, he'd be oscillating wildly. Aziraphale raised his hand to turn a page and was met with an armful of snake.

"Better now?" he asked, setting his book down and running his fingers over the sides of his face, meeting the two yellow buttons that stared back. Crowley's characteristic wobble answered him. He had told Aziraphale once that the wobble when he walked and crawled appeared in some species of snake, and that the damage was neurological.

He hadn't told him that some wobbles came from extreme heat shock. Where that came from, was obvious.

Aziraphale sensed the melancholy shift in Crowley's mood. He placed a kiss on his head, and ran his whole hand down Crowley's back. Crowley shuddered, rubbing his head against Aziraphale's finger. He would never get used to this.

"You're adorable, my dear," Aziraphale said, peering closer at Crowley. Crowley extended and pressed his nose against Aziraphale, tongue flitting out against his lips.

"Little demonic pretzel?" he hissed back with no actual malice. Aziraphale laughed.

"I was slightly hungry," he defended himself. "Biscuits, tea?"

"Tea's alright, if you don't mind,"

Crowley sprawled out on the headrest of the armchair and stared outside.

Horrible weather. He started rating the falls of the passerby.

Chapter Text

Crowley blinked. An owl blinked back. There was an owl in Aziraphale's bookshop, perched on his armchair. It didn't seem threatened by his presence.

The owl was an off-white colour and big. The ear tufts stood upright. Grey eyes that could have actually been a faded yellow or blue peered at him.

"How did you even get in?" Crowley muttered, eyeing the jet black beak and claws. And how do I get you out?

"Through the front door."

Crowley almost screamed, flailing backwards. The owl seemed amused. "You fucking talk?"

"Crowley, dear," said Aziraphale, fluttering his wings a little.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley pulled off his glasses. He'd never seen him like this before. "How did you— I haven't— ngk." His voice gave out. 

Aziraphale quivered his wings and jumped down to the coffee table. "I was just curious," he said. "I thought of this for a split second, and, well." He spread out one wing like a human would, and Crowley noticed the long reach of his white feathers, dotted with occasional brown and grey. He was beautiful.

Angels don't have animal forms, whispered a voice in his head. An alarm sounded in his mind. Beelzebub's flies, Hastur's and Ligur's slimy— reptiles? His own snake form. No angel was associated with an animal. 

"For how long have you been able to do this?" Crowley muttered, sinking into the armchair. Aziraphale hopped closer.

"I tried this morning?" he offered. Crowley's heart sank. After Armageddon. After their disobedience. After Aziraphale's execution. "What is it then?" 

Crowley didn't know how to say it. He looked at Aziraphale's wings spotted with grey. What if he was falling? Would his plumage slowly turn grey, and then into a dull black? He imagined the glow from his halo fading, slowly cracking, the front shattering—

His hands trembled. Aziraphale's eyes pleaded a reason for the expression covering Crowley's face. Slowly, he offered the tendril of his thoughts towards Aziraphale.

Aziraphale promptly joined their minds, weaving them together until they were one. He took one look around in his mind and softened. The usual starry sky of his mind was covered in clouds. His form brushed against Crowley's, and Crowley could hear the thousands of voices of Aziraphale's angelic form reassuring him as he wrapped his arms around him. He sank into his affection and forgot to worry for just a little bit, even as his broken halo ached. Aziraphale's angelic form was sort of owl-like, Crowley suddenly realized, and Aziraphale laughed from around him and drew him in for a kiss.

The stars shone through again.

Eventually Aziraphale gently withdrew. Crowley saw an afterimage of his true self shine through his owl eyes, his earthly corporation slightly blurry at the edges. He was certain he looked similar. They were both slightly out of breath, Crowley's hair disheveled.

Aziraphale hopped into his lap. Crowley yowled.

"OWNGHH claws claws claws that's sharp—"

"Sorry," Aziraphale said, stretching his legs. "Slightly unused to how this goes." He looked up at Crowley with big eyes. He was so small and fluffy and— cute, Crowley's subconscious decided for him. He traced a finger over his head, feeling his fingertip sinking into the soft feathers.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and nuzzled into his hand. He was soft, ear tufts grazing Crowley's skin. Crowley ran his hand down his back, smoothing down the errant feathers. He leaned down and pressed a kiss between his eyes. Aziraphale pressed tight against his chest, and Crowley held him, fingers carding through feathers.

"You're beautiful," Crowley whispered, tracing a finger over one ear tuft and feeling Aziraphale shudder in response. Looking in from afar, it seemed as if Crowley was holding a single big cotton ball in his lap.

Chapter Text

Crowley writhed on the stone floor. He couldn't see. There were pieces of shed skin stuck to the furniture around him. It was too dry and cold for him to shed completely. He didn't like winter one bit. His ocular scales were stuck and he couldn't turn back into something more humanoid. It would only make it worse.

He cursed at himself for wanting to know what the underside of his couch looked like. He couldn't crawl back to his habitat. The bathroom door handle was too far up, and the kitchen door was closed. Curiosity killed the cat. He'd just have to hope his ocular scales fell off on their own. Wait and patiently work on the remaining skin. His wobble made it harder to remove skin from some areas.

He'd just committed to coiling around a table leg when he heard the door unlock. It was Aziraphale. Crowley was mortified. 

He heard a small gasp down the hall as the angel recognized the first strip of shed skin. He'd never shed in front of him before.

"Crowley?"

"'m right here, angel," he murmured.

Aziraphale's footsteps drew closer, and Crowley felt Aziraphale's hands gripping him, pulling him upwards. A quick flit of his tongue confirmed Aziraphale's face underneath it. Half of his 5 metre body was still under the couch.

"Sss too hard to move me, angel," Crowley drawled. "Jussst leave me be misserable."

Aziraphale grunted in response and pulled him out in one smooth motion, hoisting him over his shoulder. Crowley was suddenly insanely attracted to him. Also slightly scared.

"Your ocular scales are stuck! You can't see me, can you?" Aziraphale worried, carrying him somewhere.

"Not really, no," Crowley admitted. "Where are we going?" 

"Bath."

"That'ss far. You can't drive the Bentley, by the way."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Aziraphale messed with the taps of cold and warm water while Crowley wound himself around Aziraphale for fun. He wondered how many loops he could do. Aziraphale's voice echoed from somewhere under his neck. "Crowley, I can't see. You'll have to get off now."

Crowley blew air out of his nose in the direction he hoped was Aziraphale and slithered towards the tub. Once Aziraphale freed himself he lowered the rest of Crowley in.

He coiled up in the warm water, Aziraphale running his fingers down his back. A piece of skin slid free. He inwardly sighed from relief. One of his ocular scales slid free, and the other soon followed.

"Demon bath water," he drawled, perching his head on the side of the tub for pats. "Wonder how much they'll pay for that."

Aziraphale started drying him off. Crowley let him lavish him with affection. "Unacceptable," murmured Aziraphale.

"Do you want my bath water, angel—"

Aziraphale dumped a towel over his head