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Chapter Text

The voice came from below.

“Well that went down like a lead balloon,” the voice said.

Aziraphale instinctively leaned towards the sound. The voice was somehow husky and multilayered, like a harmony all its own. It was as soft as a whisper, but echoed in the angel’s head louder than a heavenly chorus.

The angel didn’t know what to say in response, momentarily struck by the beauty of the voice.

He settled for humming in agreement. Tearing his eyes away from the two humans stumbling through the desert — the flaming sword blazed against the darkening sky as the woman wildly swung it through the air — the angel looked down at the great stones on top of the gate and saw a serpent. Not any old serpent but The Serpent, black scales iridescent in the waning light with a striking pattern of red that splashed across their midsection. He supposed that was why the voice was so beautiful, for tempting. Aziraphale clenched his fists and reminded himself that he was rather cross with The Serpent at this particular moment.

A crack of thunder accompanied a brilliant flash of lightning across the desert. Instinctively, Aziraphale extended a wing over The Serpent. Fat drops of rain fell around the wing, forming a dry patch around

“Thank you,” The Serpent said airily. “I thought you would smite me on the spot.”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to respond to this either so he hummed again. Truthfully, he felt an odd pull from The Serpent, his voice weaving its way around him accompanied by the sound of rain and smell of petrichor.

“I suppose I should, shouldn’t I,” the angel finally said after some time had passed. He said this in a resigned fashion as he continued to look out across the sand dunes. The humans had disappeared over the horizon.

“What is your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Aziraphale did mind, quite a bit, if he was being completely honest. Before his assignment here at The Garden, his angelic superiors had warned him of demonic wiles, especially from the silver tongue of The Serpent. He wrung his hands together helplessly.

The Serpent looked up at the angel expectantly, bright yellow eyes luminescent against the shadows of black clouds.

“Aziraphale.”

“Your name is like a melody.”

“I-I I’m terribly sorry but I don’t understand.”

Aziraphale was rather put-out about this entire situation, first at The Serpent for tempting the humans, then at himself for giving up his sword.

“A melody, angel, surely you’ve heard of one given all the singing you do up there, heavenly chorus and all that.”

“Ah yes. Do you remember it at all by chance?”

The Serpent lowered his head. A wave of shame washed over Aziraphale. Even if The Serpent had a large part in their current mess of a situation, there was no need to make him feel badly.

“Not really,” The Serpent said. “I don’t even remember my name from back then.”

Before Aziraphale could apologize, The Serpent tilted his head in the direction of the horizon, drawing their body up into a seated position, as seated as a snake could be, anyway.

“Did you really give them your sword?”

Aziraphale blanched and continued to wring his hands together.

“Well, they had nothing! I wasn’t going to let them go without some sort of ability to fend for themselves. This is all your fault as it is. You should have at least taught them how to live before releasing them into the wild!”

He wasn’t mad at The Serpent per se, but he was annoyed and somewhat unsettled about the entire thing. After all, he had been tasked with keeping the humans safe in The Garden and that had all gone horribly wrong.

The Serpent blinked and then Aziraphale heard harmonious laughter coming from his direction. It was even more beautiful than his speaking voice.

“May I?” The Serpent asked. And before Aziraphale could answer one way or the other — or ask what The Serpent meant — The Serpent began to slither up Aziraphale’s leg. The angel shuddered. It wasn’t an altogether awful feeling, but it was odd and The Serpent had moved before he could give permission.

“All I did was give them knowledge, angel. And you misunderstand. It’s a compliment that you gave them your sword. I’m honestly impressed.”

Aziraphale flinched a bit at this. He wasn’t supposed to be impressing demons, and he should tell Crawly to leave straightaway, but he was now a rather pleasant weight on his shoulders, curled beneath his wings to stay dry.

“By-the-by, I’m Crawly,” The Serpent said, curling around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes you said that already.”

Crawly looked, unblinking, at the stormy horizon. Aziraphale watched as his forked tongue flickered in the air before turning the full intensity of his gaze to Aziraphale. The angel had to stop himself from shuddering.

“I really am impressed, angel. Can’t think of one of your brethren who would have done the same, not much for asking questions and all that.”

Crawly’s voice took on a twinge of bitterness, a minor chord in his harmonious delivery. Somehow it was even more beautiful to Aziraphale’s ears.

“Then again, I don’t remember much.”

Aziraphale supposed that, had Crawly been in a human corporation, he would have winked.

“I just hope it was the right thing to do,” Aziraphale said.

Crawly’s tongue brushed against Aziraphale’s ear.

“You’re an angel, aren’t you? I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”

His voice was so utterly melancholic that Aziraphale reached up to brush his fingers against Crawly’s scales before coming to his senses and letting his hand fall at his side instead.

“I do hope you’re right,” Aziraphale said.

Chapter Text

Greece had been kind to Crowley, neé Crawly. In between a variety of temptations — through which Crowley barely had to flick his tail or tongue to accomplish, the Greeks were founders of Hedonism after all, or at least it was a Greek that put a name to it — Crowley had been taken in by a family supposedly descended from the gods and had been living a good life indeed.

Crowley didn’t have the heart to tell them that they weren’t actually gods. He also supposed that allowing them to continue their own religion of sorts constituted some sort of demonic favour and was proven correct when Hell issued him a commendation for not only the creation of the religion itself but the myriad dramatic deaths that had occurred. The award had irritated Crowley so much that he had gone about saving a boy named Asclepius and had taught him the secrets of immortality out of spite.

Asclepius also hadn’t deserved to die, in Crowley’s opinion. It wasn’t the boy’s fault that he had been conceived through human infidelity.

This hadn’t ended well. Despite saving many human lives, Asclepius had been killed off rather quickly by a highly-convenient lighting strike that Crowley (correctly) blamed on Heaven.

On this particular day, a shadow fell over Crowley as he sunned himself on dark-coloured rock, black scales glimmering in the light. His forked tongue smelled Aziraphale before Crowley opened his eyes to see the angel standing above him.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale responded by sighing and taking a seat next to Crowley on the rocky outcropping looking over the city of Athens. It was a beautiful view.

Crowley had encountered Aziraphale more than a few times in the years since the garden — The Flood stood out as a particularly memorable occasion, Crowley hoped the angel hadn’t discovered the little island where he had led several of the children slated to be drowned, lest the angel call him “nice.”

He wasn’t nice. He had been doing his demonic best to thwart the will of Heaven by saving those children and besides, he had herded them to what became the island rather obnoxiously, rearing up like a hissing cobra and bearing his fangs.

“I suppose you’re the one responsible for Asclepius,” the angel said warily.

“Ssss’not my fault they worship snakes. The Egyptians do too, you know.”

“Snake worship is hardly what this is about, Craw— Crowley!” the angel corrected himself as he slipped on Crowley’s name. “You can’t just teach humans the secret to being immortal!”

The wind ruffled Aziraphale’s light curls, causing his toga to billow around him, somehow draping the angel perfectly in white, flowing fabric. Crowley could think of several Greek artists who would wish to capture this moment in stone, many of whom would try to entice Aziraphale into a tumble during the process. The angel’s calves alone were worth song and sculpture among more prurient interests.

These thoughts made Crowley smile. Had he a human corporation, Crowley would have worn a stunning smirk on his face. As it was, he continued to watch Aziraphale, tongue flickering out occasionally to smell the angel as he slithered closer.

Crowley rather enjoyed both being around and annoying the angel. As far as he could tell, Aziraphale was the only other celestial being to be found regularly on Earth, and this amused and pleased Crowley greatly. Aziraphale was warm and kind, all of the things that an angel actually should be, as opposed to the vague, sterile distance he occasionally felt in what few scraps of heavenly memories he had.

“Then your side was responsible for the lightning then?”

Aziraphale hung his head in response, the natural rosiness of his cheeks paling slightly. It made Crowley feel guilty for asking, especially since the angel’s reaction only confirmed what he had already known. Aziraphale was almost always one for keeping with Heaven’s will, even if he visibly disagreed with it. That disagreement and the angel’s initial act of defiance with the sword still fascinated Crowley, but he didn’t want to make the angel feel badly about anything beyond his control.

“It’s against their natural order, immortality,” Aziraphale said primly.

“I presssssume drowning them all in a flood save one family was in keeping with the natural order?” Crowley hissed.

“Oh do stop that. And please don’t say it in that voice.”

Crowley curled inwardly on himself in defense. This was the first time he had heard that the angel didn’t like his voice. It made him upset for some reason.

“What’sssss wrong with my voice, angel?”

“Your voice, it’s like a musical chorus! I suppose that makes it easier to tempt them.”

Crowley couldn’t tell if this was a frustration on the angel’s part, or a compliment. He chose to take it as the latter.

“You find me tempting?”

“Oh, now you’re just twisting my words.”

There was no actual ire in Aziraphale’s voice. Crowley triumphantly moved closer to the angel, who automatically held out his arm for Crowley to climb. He curled up on Aziraphale’s broad shoulders, head peering out from behind Aziraphale’s ear to look down at all of Athens.

It reminded him of the wall at The Garden.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began. “Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“Ask away, angel.”

“Did you ever have a human corporation?”

“I can’t recall,” Crowley said.

Sometimes he would dream of having a human corporation — lanky and lean with red hair and swaying hips. He had taken to dozing off regularly, and at the core of these dreams was the idle thought of what corporation Aziraphale would like best.

Aziraphale hummed.

“Do you want one?”

“It would make things much easier,” Crowley said, adjusting himself so he draped around Aziraphale’s neck. “Temptations and all that. I suppose Hell doesn’t think it’s worth much to give me one, given what I’ve accomplished as is.”

He said this with a glimmer of pride. What Crowley didn’t add was that he had tried to shapeshift into a human several times during his time on Earth and had failed every time.

Chapter Text

The Archangel Gabriel, Angel of Revelation cut a fine human figure. His body moved through air like a weapon, wholly graceful and razor-sharp. The sun seemed to move with him, lighting his countenance with the most flattering angles. A group of women gathered at the local well immediately stopped talking to turn their heads when Gabriel strode by smiling.

Aziraphale fluttered his hands in a small wave as he passed, half a step behind the archangel.

Unused to walking beside other celestial beings — save his encounters with the serpent Crowley every so often — Aziraphale was visibly intimidated. He fought the urge of his human corporation to cower in fear as Gabriel smiled at him. Gabriel appeared unconcerned that his celestial essence appeared to be leaking in small quantities from his vessel, as if his being was too large for a single human body.

It most likely was. Even as a principality, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to compare or pull rank. He had also been alone on Earth for quite some time now. His heavenly brethren didn’t visit, or communicate, frequently.

Gabriel had appeared twice now, over a timespan that seemed to Aziraphale like the blink of a human eye.

“—like Zechariah and Elizabeth,” Gabriel was saying, smoothing out the folds of his tunic with his hands.

“Ah! Yes! Well, happy to be of service,” Aziraphale said, a bit too brightly. “I do believe the couple is right over there.”

He pointed across a short field filled with short bristled shrubs peeking up out of the coarse dirt, giving way to a larger field of grasses and a lone olive tree. Underneath the tree, a young man and a woman were talking. Aziraphale smiled as the man reached up to her face, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. She ducked and blushed, her forehead nearly grazing against his.

“She was supposed to be residing in her parents’ home, as is the custom,” Gabriel said.

“Ah, well—“

Aziraphale didn’t know how to respond, but felt as if he had somehow failed Gabriel in this task. He stood up a bit straighter and clasped his hands behind him to keep himself from worrying and wringing them.

“You know,” Aziraphale said. “Young love.”

“Young love,” Gabriel repeated.

“Principality Aziraphale, thank you for your help as always.”

The archangel squared his shoulders. Angelic essence poured out of him in a blinding glow. As he took a step forward, his feet didn’t meet the ground, instead hovering over it as he prepared to deliver his auspicious news to the couple.

“Will you be around for the birth?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but ask.

Gabriel turned back to look at the principality, seemingly startled that Aziraphale had spoken at all.

“I doubt it,” Gabriel said. “You’re dismissed, Principality Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel as if he had been dismissed before that, but had failed to perceive when.

“Oh come on, angel, you don’t really believe all that do you?”

“S’what he said,” Aziraphale slurred. “Why wouln’ be true?”

The angel suddenly lifted his head to stare at Crowley.

“Nn you’re doing that-that…that thing with your voice ‘gain.”

Crowley said nothing, remaining curled up on the table as he watched the angel intently. None of the humans had noticed the fairly large black snake, and Crowley had been intent to keep it that way with only a slight amount of demonic interference.

Aziraphale’s mouth was turned up in a slight smile, his arm sprawled across the table and supporting his head. Soft curls brushed the wooden surface of the tabletop, wet with sweat and alcohol.

“H’rmony,” Aziraphale hiccoughed. The hand that wasn’t supporting his head was loosely wrapped around the handle of a half-empty jug. “S’beautiful, that’s what it is. I hear it in my head.”

“You think my voice is beautiful, angel?”

Crowley slithered up to Aziraphale’s arm, resting his head next to the angel’s head on the table.

“She’ll be ‘lright, won’t she Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. Crowley was at a loss. He didn’t know what Aziraphale was talking about, and flicked his tongue out nervously, tickling the angel’s ear in what he hoped was some sort of comforting fashion. A reminder that someone else existed in this space, at the very least.

“S’going to be diff-, dfic-, difficult,” Aziraphale finally said, his words soaked in wine. “She’s going to have a bad time ’n it’s our fault.”

“Why?”

The angel squinted at Crowley, tears still falling down his cheeks.

“To have that child out of wedlock,” Aziraphale said. “J-joseph was furious. ‘lmost didn’t marry her as is.”

“Humans can be cruel,” Crowley said.

’S’not her fault,” Aziraphale cried.

Feeling more than a bit helpless, Crowley wrapped himself around Aziraphale’s shoulders as they shuddered, wracked by long sobs.

As a general rule, the serpent despised using his demonic wiles. His own Fall was terrifying, and still gave him waking visions — he supposed they were similar to what humans called nightmares — but he had asked questions of his own agency. Despite his nefarious tasks from Hell, Crowley bristled at the idea of taking away the will of a human, never mind an angel that he had grown to care about.

He looked at Aziraphale, blond curls drenched in sweat and spilled alcohol, upper body sprawled across the table.

“Go to bed, angel,” he hissed, knowing that this phrase would sound irresistible to Aziraphale by design — a pleading, harmonious chorus pooling in Aziraphale’s ears with a hint of pleasure.

The angel hummed with a sleepy smile. He rose from where he had sat, Crowley still draped across his shoulders, and stumbled up to his rented room above the taverna.

“G’night,” Crowley hissed again, releasing Aziraphale as soon as the angel had fallen somewhat gracelessly onto straw pallet.

For the next nine months, humans of Nazareth who insulted Mary frequently found themselves suddenly beset by a great black snake, hissing and spitting with rage.

“Protecting the sullied and unclean. Utterly demonic if you think about it,” Crowley would say years later when Aziraphale asked.

Chapter Text

“They’ll be bringing in more of the mingqi soon, angel,” Crowley said as a shadow fell over him.

He had known the approaching figure was Aziraphale for quite some time. The angel had walked slowly, suppressing his existence as much as he possibly could given the limitations of his corporation.

Crowley wondered — not for the first time nor for the last — if his own demonic essence leaked out of what was effectively the body of a medium-sized snake, or if this was his default form as a demon. He couldn’t recall his true form, before or after the Fall.

Low flame flickers caused the shadow to dance on the walls. In the dim light, Crowley could see the heat of Aziraphale’s human body. It was brighter than any flame. Aziraphale was always warm, radiating heat. Like most snakes, Crowley was cold-blooded. He basked in Aziraphale’s warmth when he could.

They hadn’t seen each other in nearly a hundred years. Since Golgotha.

“The northern corner of the sky,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, reaching forward to brush his stubby fingers against a ceramic watchtower. “That’s you isn’t it? The dark warrior.”

“I might be,” Crowley said. “I don’t really know.”

Aziraphale stepped next to one of lanterns, illuminating a small smile, as if he wasn’t certain whether he should take Crowley at his word, but was amused all the same. Due to their time as ambassadors for their respective sides, the two of them could already be found in countless human myths and pieces of art.

As the angel drew closer, Crowley could see the shadows of wings flickering on the walls, despite the absence of them on this human plane of reality. Crowley had seen his own shadow and it didn’t have wings. It was that of a simple snake, although it could make him look far larger than he actually was.

“You would have liked her, angel” he said softly with a low hiss. “She was a librarian. And a poet.”

“I’m surprised you were friends. You’ve not had much patience for literature.”

“They called her Cao Dagu,” Crowley continued as if Aziraphale had said nothing at all. “I taught her about the stars.”

“Quite an honor,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure she’ll be remembered.”

“The Empress Dowager is beside herself,” Crowley said. “She’ll try to hold onto things for too long, like most humans.”

Aziraphale’s hum echoed in the room, accompanying the moving shadows.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, holding out his arm. “I shan’t stay long. They’ve been watching me more closely since, well, the Annunciation nearly went awry.”

Crowley’s tongue darted into the air, taking in the scent of Aziraphale before crawling up the angel’s proffered arm.

They found themselves on the banks of the Wei River, water lapping patiently at the shores. Aziraphale gasped as he looked up into a sea of stars.

“I made thossssse, you know.”

Crowley couldn’t keep the pride from creeping into his soft hiss as he moved closer to Aziraphale’s ear. To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale immediately turned his head and stared. Crowley didn’t blink.

“You helped create the stars? Before…?”

Crowley nodded his head slowly. His tongue continued to dart out at short intervals, nearly grazing Aziraphale’s long curls.

“I don’t remember much, but I remember that.”

“Oh, Crowley. Now I’m certain she’ll not be forgotten.”

The angel looked back up at the sky, leaving Crowley to study his profile.

For over a millennia, Crowley had watched humans develop words and expressions of longing. He had watched them permeate human creations — found it in wide-eyed drunken fumbling at the Greek’s hedonistic gatherings and in between the whispers of ladies-in-waiting at the courts. None of that could describe this: a dull, aching loss that never vanished, and only lessened in the presence of one specific angel. He yearned for a human vessel so he could at least touch Aziraphale as humans did — express himself in the most obtuse of human ways, keeping a respectful distance lest either of their sides discover any relationship outside of great animosity but an expressive touch all the same that didn’t come from the tongue or scales of a snake but warm, fleshy fingers and lips.

How could any human want compare to this ceaseless and fruitless desire that had only grown over the centuries?

“Crowley?”

The serpent hissed in response.

Aziraphale pointed up at the sky, still looking into Crowley’s eyes.

“Tell me about them. And then tell me about her.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale sniffed as he trudged through the darkness.

Someone was crying. It was a low, guttural sound as if the act itself was choking the human as sobs rose from their body. The angel wanted to go to this person, but he had long since learned that humans weren’t receptive to what they presumed to be a stranger — and Aziraphale had to admit that he was exactly that —intruding on their private emotional moments. It didn’t matter how much said stranger wanted to help, Aziraphale had discovered through trial and significant error. It simply wasn’t done.

Aziraphale squared his shoulders and walked past the sound. It faded quickly as he strode through muddy shallows, stained with brackish pools of blood mingling with rainwater on the floodplain. He longed to return to the city and soak his aching corporation.

It smelled like death.

Aziraphale sniffed again. His eyes began to water, blurring his vision. Thousands of years had passed since he received this particular vessel and he still struggled with the basics. Theoretically, he could turn off his tear ducts and sense of smell. He remembered Michael discussing this at length in her crisp staccato the last time he was discorporated. She hadn’t said this aloud, but Aziraphale had the distinct impression that she was trying to remind him, in her own way, that he was still an angel despite his lengthy assignment on Earth. Aziraphale had appreciated this, even if her demeanor had seemed a bit condescending. It made him feel included in their heavenly plans despite the isolating circumstances of his current post.

In the distance, on the rolling crest of the hill, a cry of victory rose above the decay. Aziraphale’s sense of time was spotty at best. He couldn’t remember when the battle had started. The sun was rising over Badon Hill. It lingered on the young man who had led the charge, highlighting his hair with golden streaks.

From Aziraphale’s vantage point at the base of the hill, it looked like a halo.

The sun reflected off of the metal tips of spears and pikes. It lit up the banners painted with a white cross, flanking the man, as if to herald his kinghood. Aziraphale had been told that this man was chosen by Her, and had spent many hours at his side prior to this battle teaching him Her words. Now the young man was a king anointed by battle.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he? Inssssspiressss devotion and all that.”

The sibilant lilt could only belong to one being on Earth. Aziraphale looked down at his feet to see the black snake slither out from under a muddied banner of the Anglo-Saxon armies.

“Oh hullo Crowley!”

Although he hadn’t seen the demon in nearly 400 years, Aziraphale had known that Crowley still existed. When he concentrated there was an oddly satisfying buzzing sound he could hear in his mind, alerting him to the demon’s presence. He supposed that this was so he could thwart Crowley if necessary. They were hereditary enemies and all that.

“Congratulations.” Crowley tilted his head in the direction of Badon Hill. The sun had fully risen and the young man had dismounted, congratulating his men with an eagerness that only human youth seemed to possess.

“He’s one of yours then?”

“Arthur Pendragon, yes, he’s one of ours. But Crowley where—“

The demon interrupted Aziraphale immediately.

“Angel I’ve been thinking,” Crowley said as he nodded again, this time in the direction of Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale pouted but found himself holding out his forearm to the demon all the same. He relaxed as Crowley became a pleasant weight on his shoulders.

“Our orders have us crossing paths fairly often,” Crowley continued. “We’re just cancelling each other out, really. Wouldn’t it save time if we worked together? I do some blessing, you do some tempting, and in the end the humans do whatever they want anyways. Saves time and a trip for one of us.”

“I hardly think… What you’re suggesting is just…well it’s beyond the pale! Directly disobeying orders! And both Gabriel and Michael said that they’re constantly watching!”

“When was the last time they responded to a report of yours, angel? When was the last time one of them even came down here? The Crucifixion? Oh wait no, it was just you and me there at Golgotha. And then later at the tomb, just you and me again. Downstairs hasn’t responded to one of my reports since the desert!”

Thoroughly agitated, Crowley’s tail twitched as his voice rose, brushing against Aziraphale’s cheek.

“Almost received a demotion for that one,” Crowley added.

“Well,” Aziraphale said primly. “You really should have known he wouldn’t fall for your temptations.”

“Orders, angel. Orders.”

“Crowley, this is a very bad idea. Besides, this was certainly a win for the good side.”

Aziraphale pointed at Badon Hill where Arthur was still celebrating and smiled triumphantly. Bemused, Crowley slunk from Aziraphale’s right shoulder to his left. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Crowley’s scales were soft to the touch. Yet, Aziraphale shivered.

“He’s going to commit adultery,” Crowley said flatly. “As is his wife. She loves one of his men, you know.”

“Crowley! How awful! That’s highly inappropriate to discuss.”

“It’ssss true angel,” Crowley hissed. “And you know it."

“I don’t even know if I can curse anyone,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley flicked his tail again towards the battlefield, littered with bodies and pools of blood. Aziraphale was certain that if Crowley had a human corporation, he would have quirked an eyebrow, or smirked in a sarcastic fashion.

“I shan’t do it,” Aziraphale said. “That’s the end of this discussion. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a king to advise.”

He bent towards the ground to usher Crowley from his shoulders, but the serpent held fast.

“Wouldn’t you know, I’m headed in the same direction. Lead the way, angel.”

Aziraphale sighed and stomped up the hill, the demon still perched on his shoulders.

Chapter Text

A beautiful voice rose above the cacophony of soldiers drinking, tankards clanking with laughter and tears in their eyes. Standing next to the fire, the man sang poems of King Urien of Rheged.

He was called Taliesin. After Arthur’s reign and demise had heralded in a new wave of believers, Aziraphale had lingered on the island. It felt comfortable to him in a way that many places on earth hadn’t.

Smiling while drinking his own fill and reveling in the joy wafting from the celebratory campfire, Aziraphale failed to notice the black serpent moving soundlessly through the group, eventually coming to rest at the angel’s feet.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed happily.

In that exclamation there was a delight that Crowley was still here and relief that he hadn’t left after causing chaos in Arthur’s court, although Aziraphale was still rather cross about that. He frowned as he looked down at his own reflection in his tankard of ale. There was another reason he was angry at Crowley, but he couldn’t recall it in this moment.

“Angel.”

The snake drew himself up onto the log next to Aziraphale, perching and stretching so he could almost look the angel in the eye. Firelight flickered off of his scales, causing the black ones to shimmer while his red underbelly burned as if he was part of the fire itself and his eyes glowed.

Unbidden, Aziraphale reached across to touch Crowley’s scales. Aziraphale watched as the serpent’s eyes widened at the contact, but didn’t move.

An image appeared in Aziraphale’s head quite suddenly, almost like a prophetic vision that humans claimed to have from time to time. Next to the Welsh bard sat a man, lithe and dark with a shock of auburn hair and amber eyes. His head was tipped back in hearty laughter as his toe tapped and hands clapped along with the poem. He jostled against Taliesin in a friendly manner as the two burst into song again, eyes wild and sparkling.

He shook his head and the man vanished. Perhaps he’d had significantly more to drink than he thought. Blinking, Aziraphale shifted his focus to Crowley, who was watching him with confusion, eyes still glowing in the low light.

“He’ll be singing of your Arthur one of these days,” Crowley said, nodding at Taliesin. “They’ll even say that he was part of his group.”

Humans often blurred events together to fit their whims. Aziraphale laughed at the thought and took another large swallow of ale, wiping his mouth daintily with a sleeve.

“They certainly do,” Crowley responded.

Aziraphale hadn’t realized that he’d said that thought aloud.

“Do you know what the humans call this place?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer immediately, still distracted by how the serpent’s words sounded like a musical three-part harmony. Crowley waited another moment before answering his own question.

“The Vale of Eden.”

“Really?” Aziraphale perked up at the mention of The Garden, and then seemed to wilt a bit.

“You miss it, angel,” Crowley said. It wasn’t a question but an assertion of fact.

“A bit,” Aziraphale said. He couldn’t put into words what he felt about The Garden exactly. It was a mixture of love, regret, hope, and myriad other emotions that Aziraphale brushed aside with another drink.

“This Eden has no relation anyway. The etymology isn’t even biblical, isn’t that fascinating?”

Aziraphale didn’t wholly believe Crowley, but was too polite to refute his statement.

“Really?” he asked again

The snake tilted his head in a slight nod.

“Comes from a word for ‘water,’” Crowley said. “The humans did it all themselves. It makes you think, doesn’t it?”

The words wound around Aziraphale like a spell. Thoughts tugged at his mind. That was blasphemy. This Eden had to have come from his side somehow. The entire exchanged, coupled with the odd vision, made him curious as to whether Crowley was trying to tempt him.

“Are you using your wiles on me?”

Aziraphale hadn’t meant to say this aloud and immediately regretted it. Crowley was suddenly hissing and spitting in disgust.

“Is that what you think of me, angel?” his melodic voice was discordant. Aziraphale winced at the sound.

“You mean you haven’t?”

It was a thought given weight by Aziraphale speaking it into the damp night air more than a question to Crowley specifically. If Crowley hadn’t actively tried to tempt him in a demonic way, it went against everything that Heaven had told him about demons, although his experiences with Crowley on Earth hadn’t exactly lined up with Heaven’s descriptions since they met on the wall.

Crowley’s red scales flashed angrily and his tail swung back and forth. The serpent continued to sputter. It was a bitter, harsh, and guttural sound that hurt Aziraphale’s ears as much as Crowley’s usual voice soothed them. The entire exchange was painful and more unpleasant than anything Aziraphale had experienced on Earth thus far.

“If that’ssssss what you think of me, then I’ll be on my way,” Crowley hissed. With a flick of his tail, there was a loud crackling sound and the serpent disappeared entirely.

Aziraphale blinked at the spot where Crowley had been seconds ago. The air smelled like ozone and sulfur.

Chapter Text

“You mean you haven’t?”

It hurt more than Crowley was willing to admit.

Of course Aziraphale would have assumed that Crowley was using his demonic wiles consistently. Aziraphale was different than the other angels Crowley had met — and Aziraphale didn’t at all line up at all with the cold, sterile impression of Heaven that was somehow imprinted in his mind, refusing to fully leave his thoughts, even after all this time — but he was still an angel. In constant communication with Heaven, Aziraphale likely received a steady stream of propaganda daily.

Crowley hissed into humid night. The dampness amplified the sound, carrying it through the nearby field where Crowley had unceremoniously deposited himself, overcome with a burst of annoyance at Aziraphale and self-hatred.

He had so preferred and had delighted in using Aziraphale as a method of transit that he wondered if the angel was aware that he too could transport himself at will. Aziraphale’s reactions to Crowley climbing onto his shoulders through the years had evolved from startled curiosity to fond acceptance at a more rapid pace than Crowley had anticipated, if he had anticipated his odd friendship with Aziraphale at all.

Crowley’s tail twitched, shaking drops of dew back onto the grass.

To his chagrin, the more he tried to deny that Aziraphale had, completely unwittingly cut to the core of him, the more Crowley’s anger rose. Aziraphale’s face swam in front of Crowley — flushed, his curls a bit more haphazard thanks to humidity, quizzically tilting his head to the side and asking an incisive question that sliced through Crowley cleanly with a halfhearted curiosity more suited to inquiring about the weather.

“You mean you haven’t?”

The truth of the matter was — at least the truth of this entire situation according to Crowley, which was oddly rigid in this specific scenario when compared to Crowley’s loose interpretations of truths elsewhere — he had used his wiles on Aziraphale exactly once. He couldn’t deny not having used them ever.

It sickened him. He slowed his pace through the wet grass and looked up at the stars.

“Go to bed, angel.”

He should never have done it.

Although Crowley liked to pretend that he didn’t know what Aziraphale was talking about, he knew his voice was aurally pleasing by design. He took perverse pleasure in how frequently the angel commented on it, and had taken to perching on Aziraphale’s shoulders to speak directly into Aziraphale’s ear for this reason. It had taken very little effort to call upon his demonic powers to send Aziraphale to bed and this had disgusted Crowley to the point where he had been more hesitant to use them even on humans, in service of his never-ending conscription to Hell.

“You mean you haven’t?”

“Oh yes, angel, I have.”

Crowley whispered into the night.

Agitated and a bit nauseous, Crowley slithered through the grass, dew still rubbing against black and red scales. He was cold, yet didn’t shudder or shiver, and this thought made Crowley wonder how he could remember having these natural human reactions to a chill, but couldn’t replicate them while stuck in the body of a serpent.

Throughout his existence on Earth, Crowley couldn’t shake the feeling that he could transform into a human. Crowley frequently dreamed. Asleep or awake, visions constantly plagued the demon of having a slim human body. Yet if he had been able to transform once, the question of why he couldn’t presently do so loomed in his mind. It lingered in the air, draped in heavy humidity.

Chapter Text

The reed bed was thick with waterbirds. It was shallow, barely up to Aziraphale’s ankles, but broad, stiff reeds battered Aziraphale’s human corporation as he fruitlessly tried to lift his robes above the water. He was sure that he made quite a scandalous image and a small, pealing laughter behind him confirmed this suspicion.

Truthfully, this was much more Crowley’s domain, not only because he was a serpent, but the demon was far more interested in the pettiness and manipulation of court politics. Crowley would have thrown himself into this assignment with vigor, whispering sibilant hisses in the correct ears, devising complex machinations to pit players against each other at the demon’s whims.

Yet, Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley in over four-hundred years. It had stung at first, and he had thought of apologizing but hadn’t really known for what exactly he should apologize. Recalling the conversation as he waded back out of the water, reeds slicing at his feet, Crowley had seemed to take offense at the notion of using his demonic wiles. Aziraphale remained confused. Why on Earth would Crowley take offense at the suggestion that he was doing his job?

Aziraphale sighed. It was a touch more melancholic than the exasperation he had meant to express — he had just waded into a lake for Heaven’s sake! — but dealing with people and nature were becoming all the more taxing as years passed. He appreciated byproducts of humanity: poetry, literature, art, even the fine robes that he currently wore, yet couldn’t truly connect with humans beyond passing curiosity and pride.

Had Aziraphale been able to disguise himself as a lady-in-waiting, his task would have been infinitely easier and far more pleasant. Instead, he’d resigned himself to being an odd advisor to the empress. At the current moment, this meant retrieving scattered scraps of paper from the Lake Biwa shallows.

He heard a soft rustling behind him. The Empress of Inner Palatine, second wife of Emperor Ichijou, Fujiwara no Shoushi, stepped forward from the shadows on the lengthy veranda of her family’s Biwa-ko home. She was flanked by four ladies-in-waiting, who arranged her robes prettily across the wooden porch.

“Are you scared, my dear?” he asked. Now that Shoushi was of age, her task had changed from establishing herself as the second Empress on at least equal standing as the first — a feat that had yet to be accomplished by any other Emperor’s wife or consort — to siring a desirable crown prince.

Empress Shoushi shook her head.

“They say that I am dull,” she said. “I shall pluck these weeds by their roots before they sow seeds of dissent on my fields.”

Aziraphale thought the mention of plucking something by the roots was rather unseemly, and this wasn’t a direct answer to his question, but answered it all the same. This was much like the Empress, who he couldn’t help but think of as simply “Shoushi” and had almost gotten himself in trouble because of this. Aziraphale feared for her adversaries, who would certainly underestimate her due to her young age and somewhat scholarly reputation. Aziraphale allowed a slightly uncharitable thought for the briefest of moments: Shoushi was indeed dull, but not in the way that most humans perceived dullness. Despite her increasingly strong education, Shoushi was quick to judgment and rigid in thought. Had he been human, perhaps he wouldn’t have found Shoushi as intimidating as she seemed in this moment, and her demeanor filled him with an odd sense of pride. Certainly he didn’t envy her task, especially with the heavenly knowledge that it would be quite difficult on her body.

Regardless, Aziraphale wasn’t here for Shoushi, and quickly bid his unkind thoughts farewell. By all accounts she would surpass her father’s machinations, taking his placement of her as a dual empress and wielding it with a formidably steady hand, securing her family line for several more generations.

He was on a direct assignment, the end result of which would hopefully become — if his orders were correct — an iconic landmark in Japanese literary history: Lady Murasaki Shikabu’s Tale of Genji. Lady Murasaki herself sat beside Shoushi and seemed ready to begin Shoushi’s Chinese lesson for the day. Aziraphale excused himself after returning the papers, disappearing into the maze of hallways. He wasn’t exactly certain as to what he was supposed to do here, other than ensure that Lady Murasaki could continue to write.

Aziraphale sighed again. Surely Crowley would know what to do.

Lady Murasaki died nine years later. In the following year, while watching the Danish-English conflicts with varying interest, Aziraphale found a giant manuscript at his front door. A cursory glance revealed that it was a copy of Lady Murasaki's memoirs. There was no indication of the sender outside of a scribbled “Sorry angel.” on a small note pinned to the ribbon tying the pieces of paper together.

For the first time in what seemed like five-hundred years, Aziraphale genuinely smiled.

Chapter Text

“To Cnut the Great,” Crowley said solemnly. “On the auspicious day of his coronation.”

Had he been human, he would have raised a glass in time with Aziraphale. Instead, he flicked his tail upward, mimicking a toast.

Crowley had, out of curiosity, tried alcohol before in a controlled experiment of his own, far away from the angel lest he let something slip about the plans of Hell — or, more importantly, confess the depth of his affections. He had found that it took surprisingly more alcohol than expected to intoxicate him — being a snake, and a medium-sized one at that, Crowley had incorrectly assumed that it would take a glass, maybe two at most — and more importantly, the he despised losing control of himself.

Perhaps this too would have been different had he a human corporation. There was a limit to how dignified he could be as a snake sober, never mind drunk.

Aziraphale, in Crowley’s experience, seemed to enjoy it when he could. The angel was currently well on his way to already being drunk and wrinkled his nose in response to Crowley’s toast as he drained his glass. He then immediately poured another one.

An image of Aziraphale, intoxicated beyond coherency, rose to the forefront of Crowley’s thoughts, uninvited. He could still see the angel’s blond curls stained with spilled liquor on the table, tears streaking down his face at Gabriel’s cold treatment of Mary.

Gabriel was a right arsehole. A remarkably pretty one, but sanctimonious and awful, everything that Crowley despised about Heaven in an imposing, glorious figure.

“You alright there, angel?”

Aziraphale nodded, but still took a large gulp from his glass in lieu of a verbal response. Crowley continued to push, somewhat against his better judgment. He had desperately longed for the return of these verbal sparring patterns that he and Aziraphale had fallen into over the years and couldn’t help prodding at the angel a bit.

“He’s one of yours, isn’t he? At the very least, he’s a ‘true believer.’ I’m certain that they love him up there.”

Crowley pointed his tail at the ceiling of the small tavern where they had, days ago, decided to meet for drinks and discussion. For his part, Aziraphale looked a bit queasy. As queasy as a celestial being could look while still radiating goodness that Crowley couldn’t help but bask in, also against his better judgment.

“Wouldn’t be so certain about that Crowley,” the angel finally responded. Aziraphale stumbled over his words slightly with a genuine frown as he stared off towards something behind Crowley. “He’s, he’s a bit too ruthless for even their tastes.”

The serpent smiled and flicked out his forked tongue, delighted at the opening Aziraphale had provided him.

“A bit too ruthlessssssssss for the likes of Heaven? Why he must be quite something! But he is Christian, yesssssss?”

Crowley was so excited for the impending debate that he couldn’t keep himself from hissing excitedly.

Aziraphale nodded and took another long swig of alcohol. Crowley watched, enraptured, as a some of it dribbled out of the corner of the angel’s mouth and down his chin.

“He was christened ’s Lambert,” Aziraphale said. The angel’s words were beginning to slur together and he let out a loud hiccup before continuing.

“Oh ‘nd he’ll be generous.” Here Aziraphale paused, frowning again as he found that his bottle of wine was completely empty. He upturned it over his face for good measure, peering up into it somewhat despondently. “He’ll donate land and relics and money to ens— ensure that people know of his devout nature.”

“Well then,” Crowley said. “What does it matter his intentionssssss if it helps the church?”

“My dear boy he’s a tyrant!”

Aziraphale slammed his fist on the table angrily, drawing the stares of several nearby patrons. Crowley diverted their attention with another flick of his tail.

“But he’ll gift relics and money,” Crowley continued, grinning as broadly as a snake possibly could.

“Crowley ’m not about to get into another philo— pil— phil-o-sophical debate with you.”

Crowley’s tail twitched back and forth as if he was extremely agitated. Internally, Crowley was delighted. He had missed this during his lengthy sulk, and while he was still a bit put-out that he was the one who had eventually apologized first, he couldn’t help but forgive Aziraphale’s assumptions.

He ultimately blamed those presumptions on Heaven as well. Aziraphale couldn’t have possibly known that he had only used his wiles on the angel once in his life for the purpose of forcing Aziraphale to sleep.

Despite the intent, Crowley still hadn’t truly forgiven himself, and that too was not Aziraphale’s problem. Intent, as Crowley had quickly learned, didn’t always justify the action.

“But that’s what we do, angel. It’s our thing.”

Snakes couldn’t pout but Crowley was doing as close to an impression of a human pout as he could manage.

“We meet for food and drink and debate philosophy or spirituality or whatever random bit of uninteresting human literature it is that you’ve been consuming lately.”

Crowley thought that Aziraphale would latch on to the “uninteresting human literature” part of the statement, but instead he beamed fuzzily at Crowley swaying a bit as he sat.

“I missed you, my dear,” Aziraphale said.

“Ngkk.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say to this, and wasn’t at all proud of the noise that came out.

“Th-thank you for the manuscript,” Aziraphale continued. Crowley knew better than to stop the angel when he was in one of his more maudlin moods. “Lady Muraski was quite a lovely woman.”

“Sssss’nothing, angel. Nothing at all.”

Chapter Text

The walls of Bianjing rose in the distance. Dust rose from the road only to fall quickly back to earth in the humidity. Aziraphale withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, mopping his brow. It was a different humidity than that of England; cloying and sticky. His wrinkled clothes stuck to his corporation and he could feel beads of sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

“You don’t have to visit the largest city in the world every year, you know.”

Crowley’s musical lilt rose from beside Aziraphale’s trunk. The angel closed his eyes. Sometimes the serpent’s voice still sounded like a chorus. A heavenly chorus, if Aziraphale was being honest with himself, but that was impossible due to the fact that Crowley was, in essence, a snake, and additionally a demon.

Aziraphale shook his head before he could further blaspheme.

He pressed the soaked scrap of cloth to his brow, wiping away fresh sweat. Human corporations were rather obnoxious, and he didn’t know how to turn off this particular function.

“It’s tradition,” he finally said, with a large amount of conviction.

“It’s your tradition.”

Aziraphale sniffed at Crowley’s emphasis on “your.”

“It’s tradition,” he repeated with another sniff. “Anyway, I’m meeting Gabriel this afternoon so do make yourself scarce until then.”

Crowley tilted his head slightly, drawing himself up from his resting coils. Had the serpent been human, Aziraphale knew he would have rolled his eyes.

“What is old Gabe up to these days? Ensuring that you’re doing your job like a proper angel should?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact he is,” Aziraphale said. “He’s read my reports and he wants to come, ‘see for himself’ as it were.”

Puffing out his chest with pride, Aziraphale sat up a bit straighter, as proper as he could be when hitching a ride in the back of an ox cart.

“I’m fairly certain they just throw mine in a bin downstairs,” Crowley said. He sounded a bit put-out and his tail twitched rapidly.

“And I spend so much time making up the perfect lies,” the serpent continued. “Taking credit for this and that. Adding in even gorier details, although the things humans are coming up with these days are remarkable as is. They could at least put in half the effort into reading them as I do in writing them.”

Aziraphale shook his head. Despite having spent more time with Crowley than ever before, he was still unable to understand the serpent’s penchant for making up stories. Reading them was one thing, but attempts at producing them himself had only led to mounting guilt and riotous laughter from Crowley, who had declared them not nearly interesting enough.

The cart gave a sudden jolt, sending Aziraphale tumbling into his own trunk and Crowley coiling around his shoulders. As Aziraphale sat up, he pried Crowley off.

“It’s too hot for that, Crowley.”

“Sssssuit yourself.”

Aziraphale patted his forehead again. It was a purposeful gesture to keep Crowley away.

Ordinarily he didn’t mind Crowley’s presence. It had been wonderful to have Crowley so close these past few years, making their time apart even lonelier in retrospective and relief. Yet, Gabriel would be here any minute. He couldn’t be seen fraternizing with Crowley at all, lest he be forced by Gabriel to do something cruel.

“You outrank him you know.”

Crowley’s voice was soft and impossibly beautiful. It cut to the heart of Aziraphale’s fears and he was immediately reminded of how competent Crowley was at his job. He could easily see any manner of human following that voice instinctively.

It made Aziraphale ache.

“Yes, well, you know. I simply want to give a good impression,” he said lamely.

“Because he’s read your reports?”

“Yes, because he’s read my reports.”

“So you’re, what, showing him the best of humanity here in Bianjing?”

Aziraphale nodded, scratching at the back of his neck where his collar was chafing against the sweat.

“Angel,” Crowley said, his voice slipping back into mockery. “They’re not even Christian.”

“But it is the largest city in the world.”

Crowley nodded his head, forked tongue flicking out, sniffing the air.

“It is the largest city in the world,” Crowley said.

Chapter Text

“Did I put brandy in this already?”

Crowley flicked his tail back and forth in response, indicating yes.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to put that much brandy in, angel.”

Aziraphale sniffed, still looking at the bottle.

“I’m certain I didn’t.”

“You marinated the fruit in it hours ago, remember?”

Aziraphale shook his head at Crowley’s insistent tone but refrained from adding any more to the and poured himself another glass, draining nearly half of it before setting it beside his small hearth.

He had been inspired this year to stick to a Christmas tradition with Crowley. The serpent had initially protested, but this particular tradition required no effort but his presence — Aziraphale had ensured this, since he knew how lazy Crowley was at times — and provided food, so Crowley’s chances of actually declining were slim to none.

And Aziraphale rather hoped the serpent enjoyed the company as well.

After attending Mass alone — he had tried to invite Crowley once years ago and had been met with the most ridiculous laughter, really the idea wasn’t that funny and couldn’t a demonic serpent get up to a variety of mischief at Mass? Crowley should have begged him to go, actually — he had returned to his home where the two were to make Christmas pudding together.

At the very least, Aziraphale was to make Christmas pudding and Crowley was to make sarcastic comments about the process while watching.

“Mass was lovely, Crowley, you really should have come with me.”

Crowley made a hissing noise that sounded suspiciously dismissive.

“How is dear old Henry anyway?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow at Crowley’s familiarity with the Holy Roman Emperor.

“He’s in Ravenna,” Aziraphale said. “For the Christmas Mass. He’s in the middle of his third, no fourth military campaign It’s going quite well.”

Interrogating Crowley about how he knew people or places or secrets rarely turned out well and usually ended in an argument. Instead, he lifted the bottle of brandy closer to the flickering lamplight.

“Did I put brandy in this already?”

“Yes angel, you did.”

“Well there’s no need to be snippy about it.”

Aziraphale noticed his glass was empty and poured another. Crowley’s tail twitched slowly before he uncoiled, making his way up Aziraphale arm. He smiled at Crowley once the serpent was perched on his arm, hiccoughing softly.

“Which way is east?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well how would I know?”

“They say that every family member must stir east to west to honor the Magi.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” Crowley hissed.

“You’ll need to stir too, you can do it with your tail.”“Are you sure you’re not drunk, angel? This sounds like one of those daft human things that they do to make sense of it all.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest Crowley’s accusation, but it only resulted in a loud hiccough, drawing out a knowing hiss from the serpent on his shoulder.

“It’s tradition,” Aziraphale said.

“You say that so often that I wonder what ‘tradition’ truly means,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale lifted his nose in the air.

“I’ve dropped it in the pot,” he primly, after a pause and what he hoped was a withering stare at Crowley. “You may give it a stir in a moment.”

Crowley appeared as if he was biting back another sarcastic remark, but settled for flicking his tail forward.

“I’m ready when you are, angel.”

Hours later, after the pudding had been lit on fire with more brandy, the two had retired to Aziraphale’s sitting room, where both became successively more and more intoxicated.

Aziraphale was secretly delighted to watch Crowley loose control of his tongue like this. He knew the serpent loathed not having control over himself and couldn’t help but feel pride well up in his chest that he was trusted enough by Crowley to be present.

“He wasssssssss a good man,” Crowley was saying mournfully. His body had uncoiled almost completely and he lay across a wooden sofa, somehow managing to take up every last bit of space. Crowley’s tail twitched languidly as he spoke.

“Ah, this is why I, I dessssspisssssse drinking, angel,” Crowley said. “Excessssssively maudlin, that’ssssss me.”

Aziraphale wanted to say something to the effect of, “Well then you never should have tempted him in the desert if you liked him so much,” but was taken aback by Crowley’s general sadness. The brandy had made him equally loose-limbed — if Crowley’s body counted as a limb and wasn’t that a bit funny — so he simply laid back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. After a few moments, he heard soft hissing sounds from the sofa.
Crowley had fallen asleep with his eyes open, a sight that Aziraphale usually found disconcerting. In this particular moment, he couldn’t help but find Crowley remarkably charming.

Aziraphale looked back up to the ceiling and closed his eyes.

Sunlight filtered in far too quickly after this, as Aziraphale lay awake for a short time. He had managed to close his eyes and sleep for at least a half hour, a very human accomplishment he told himself with pride while dusting off his bedclothes.

He turned to greet Crowley and promptly fell off of his chair onto the floor with a loud gasp.

The morning light shone through the window behind Aziraphale and onto a sleeping man. His skin was a dark olive colour, clashing with a shock of auburn hair. The sun glistened off of red highlights and illuminated the man’s mouth, which twitched in sleep in time with the flutter of dark eyelashes.

He was beautiful.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked slowly.

Chapter Text

“How did you do it?” Aziraphale asked breathlessly.

“I dunno. I didn’t do anything. It just happened.”

“Maybe it was the brandy?”

“I’ve had brandy before, angel. Just because I don’t like alcohol doesn’t mean I haven’t tried it before.”

“Well if you didn’t like it then why did you drink so much last night?”

Aziraphale’s tone somehow split the difference between admonishment and pride. He couldn’t help but still be proud that Crowley trusted him enough to be his drinking partner. Crowley waved his hand in the air loosely. He moved too fluidly to be human. Aziraphale made a note to let him know about this before Crowley left the bookshop.

“Maybe it was the pudding?”

Crowley snorted.

“Angel, there’s no way it was the pudding. That’s ridiculous.”

“Well it’s the first time we’ve made it together. Maybe I put some sort of miracle in it?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. They were still a bright yellow with slit pupils, but somehow had more depth to them — gold and green flecks of colour — than they had when he was a serpent. It was particularly distracting because Crowley also refused to blink. Aziraphale didn’t know if this was a quirk of Crowley’s human corporation, or if he had simply forgotten that humans blinked fairly frequently.

“Did you?”

“Ah, did I what? Sorry my dear, I was a bit distracted.”

“Put a miracle in it.”

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands nervously. “Perhaps I did it without realizing that I performed one.”

“But wouldn’t you know? These things don’t happen by accident, angel.”

Aziraphale couldn’t recall ever performing an accidental miracle but perhaps he had and simply didn’t remember it.

“I don’t know. I would think I’d remember performing a miracle.”

Crowley appeared to be taking this under careful consideration, squinting as he draped himself over Aziraphale’s settee.

The sun peeking through the small window in Aziraphale’s bookshop was bright. It glinted off of Crowley’s hair in a way that nearly made Aziraphale see it refracted in red spots of light on the rug. In all the times that he had imagined Crowley in a human’s body — far more times than he would care to admit — he had imagined Crowley exactly like this: long and languid and impossibly beautiful. Crowley would have to be, Aziraphale reasoned, to do his proper job as a demonic tempter.

The demon shifted again and groaned loudly, shielding his eyes.

“Really, Crowley do sit up straight.”

Crowley licked his lips and stared directly at Aziraphale. He hummed tunelessly and shifted so that his body was in an even more precarious position, limbs poking out at odd angles in an inhuman arrangement.

“Not sure how to,” the demon said cheekily. “Besides, sssss’too bright.”

“You’re not a serpent anymore.”

“I’m always a ssssserpent,” Crowley said, exaggerating his sibilant hiss. He was morose as he said this, although he refused to look away from Aziraphale’s eyes. Aziraphale broke the stare first and turned towards his small kitchen.

“Well at least your voice hasn’t changed a bit.”

It was still rather distracting. Aziraphale supposed that he should tell Crowley to change his voice as well, if the demon was to go out in public as a human. If this spell as a human lasted long.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, angel.” Crowley smirked.

“Yes, you always do, my dear boy.”

Aziraphale returned with two cups of tea, handing one to Crowley, who was looking a bit forlorn again.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had asked Crowley if the demon had a human corporation — it definitely hadn’t been over the past century — but he remembered that Crowley had said something about Hell not giving him one.

“Do you think that hell decided you would do better as a human?”

“On Christmas? You think Hell decided to give me a little Christmas miracle?” Crowley scoffed. “They’re not that kind.” He gulped all of his tea down in one go. Aziraphale watched in disbelief when it didn’t seem to burn Crowley whatsoever.

“Well, don’t you care at all how this happened? This is important, Crowley!”

Aziraphale had moved past “merely put-out” and was well on his way to “mildly angry” at Crowley’s indifference. What if this was some sort of scheme from down below? What if Crowley was somehow in more trouble now?

The demon shrugged. Like most things Crowley had done in the past hour or so as a serpent-turned-human, it was heavily exaggerated.

“Not really, angel.”

Crowley flexed his fingers, moving them through the air in a way that Aziraphale was a bit loathe to describe as beautiful — before he admonished himself for his own pettiness. He’d not thought much about his own human corporation before, but looking down at his rumpled bedclothes and rather rotund midsection when compared to Crowley’s lithe form, Aziraphale couldn’t help but find himself lacking in the moment.

“Maybe it was the pudding,” Aziraphale said again. Crowley sighed.