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Chapter Text

“I GAVE IT AWAY!”

“You WHAT?!” Crawly barely heard anything else the angel said, his pulse pounding in his ears. 

He had slithered up to the top of the wall prepared for a showdown, be it physical or verbal. He was still angry. He wanted to show off. Look what I did. I broke your perfect little members only garden with its moronic rules. What are you going to do about it? He had crept up behind the angel unannounced, transforming right next to him, bracing himself at any moment to block a strike from that flaming sword. When none came, and he found himself unsure what to do next, he had cracked a joke. He hadn’t expected an entire, mostly civilised conversation to come out of it. He had snarked and jibed, but the angel hadn’t taken any of the bait. Any other exchange Crawly had had with angels was always short and ended violently. Why was this angel not cursing him for questioning God? Smiting him into the ground for mocking Her decisions? Striking him down - in fact, where was that flaming sword? That was when the truth came out and Crawly’s heart went into double-time.

Crawly stared at the angel in wonder. He had a gentleness to his features he hadn’t seen in the other angels, a soft-focus look, all white-gold with a nervous energy. He was no renegade angel, that was for sure; Crawly could tell by the blinding-white shade of his wings. Yet he had given away a celestial sword... but he wasn’t Fallen because of it? Any tiny hint of resentment was quashed by Crawly’s piqued curiosity. This angel was different. 

The first droplet hit Crawly square on the cheek, the second on the nose, and he went to lift his black-feathered wing over the angel, only to find a canopy of the angel’s own white feathers already over him. He ducked and huddled closer to better stay out of the rain. Looking up at the strong downy mass, a little more than shocked that a Principality would stoop so low as to shelter one of the Fallen, he turned his gaze back to the angel with a half-heartedly sarcastic, “Should I say thank you?”

“Better not,” the angel pouted, eyes fixed with anxiety on the distant pair running through the desert.

Chapter Text

The second unicorn had bolted and thundered after the first, but Crawly was too busy to go looking for them. There was still a breeding pair in Scotland, after all. He had flown up high that evening, just before the rain started, and realised they were in a big basin – the floodplain. Once he knew where the water should end, he dove back down to earth and started to gather families together to explain what was coming. Most didn’t believe him; some saw him for what he truly was and threw things, slamming doors and yelling curses. He considered willing everyone to safety, but the energy required for even a couple of hundred would discorporate him, and he was no use to any of them that way. In the end he had only been able to send a few disparate bands of orphans to a village just over the edge of the basin, forty-three children out of thousands.

Aziraphale had turned back to their conversation in the pen that afternoon to find an empty space, only to see Crawly running towards the village. A little later, he saw great black wings flapping upwards before swan diving back to earth and knew there was no bird that size in this part of the world. What was that pesky snake up to now?

The angel hovered above the flood water now as it grew dark, his own strong wings beating to keep him aloft in the wind, as he scanned the water for any survivors. The weight of the rain on his feathers was becoming a concern. A bolt of lightning broke the horizon and the ark became visible for a moment, a behemoth mass tilting on the waves. Aziraphale hoped everyone inside was alright. He might check in on them later. He turned back to the water, watching. He really should get out of the storm, but he felt the need to stay, just for a moment. The orders from Above were that only Noah and his family were to survive. Aziraphale bit down on the thought of what he might have to do if he actually found anyone, and whether or not he could do it.

As if God Herself had heard him and decided now was a good time for a test, a pale arm reached up out of the water, followed swiftly by a head and shoulders. Aziraphale didn’t hesitate; he dove down and plucked the thin body from the violent currents, cradling the man in his arms as he beat his wings to get them out of danger. 

Once they were high enough, he looked down at the figure and started the stock speech, “Be not afraid, for I mean you no – Crawly?!” Aziraphale almost dropped him in shock. The demon coughed and spluttered in his arms, bringing up water. Aziraphale flew faster, rushing them to the edge of the flood waters, landing gracefully and setting the demon down beneath an olive tree. Irritated, Crawly snapped his fingers and found he could breathe again. A relief, since this corporeal form was so used to it. Aziraphale first shook and then tucked his wings away, glancing incredulously at the demon, “Crawly, what on earth were you doing down there? You do realise you could have been discorporated?! Do they not have paperwork for that in Hell? I hear it can take months to get back from Heaven with a new body.”

Crawly stood, ignoring his questions, and ran clumsily to the edge. Aziraphale moved to grab him but Crawly didn’t jump. He stood there, shoulders tense, watching the sea of water surge beneath them. The angel moved gently beside him, risking small glances at the demon’s face. Crawly’s expression looked tormented, his reptilian eyes wet.

“I couldn’t save them all,” Crawly croaked. 

“Well of course not, there were thousands of people down there.”

“Not everyone,” he barked, his mouth twisting as tears began to make tracks down his face. “The kidssss,” he hissed, “I couldn’t... I only got a few out.” 

Aziraphale swallowed hard, no longer wanting to look at the water. With a fleeting glimpse skywards, as if to check no one was watching, he turned to Crawly and gingerly placed a hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort, “I’m so sorry, Crawly.” 

The demon buckled and turned towards him, and Aziraphale squeaked as he found himself locked in a trembling embrace. He had never been hugged by a demon before. It didn’t feel that much unlike any other hug, though perhaps a little warmer. Aziraphale slipped his arms around the demon’s shoulders and held him close as he shook, pressing his cheek against Crawly’s wet cheek. When the demon let out a shuddering breath against Aziraphale’s shoulder, the angel felt a pang of grief in his chest. He screwed his eyes tight shut, sighed, and gently kissed the demon’s temple.

Crawly bolted backwards, watching Aziraphale carefully as he wiped a sleeve over his face. “Right.” What he wanted to say stuck in his throat. I can’t believe you let this happen. “Well. Anyway.” I thought you were different. “Best be off.” You gave away a flaming sword, but you wouldn’t stop a massacre, you coward. “Lots of work to do.” Your side are bastards, all of you. “Getting the neighbours to turn away from a murderousss God sssounds like a big job. But then again, maybe it won’t be so difficult now.” He looked to see if that got any reaction from the angel, smirking as he saw that it had; Aziraphale looked horrified. Before the angel could retort Crawly gave a perfunctory wave farewell and began to run towards the nearest village. In reality, the Satanism could wait; he had an orphanage to set up.

Chapter Text

Crowley and Aziraphale stayed almost to the end, but it was Jesus’ mother Mary’s heart wrenching crying that finally drove the demon to the nearest tavern. The angel had simply followed her there and Crowley had no energy to object. Huddled into a corner they looked not unlike any other couple finding solace in drink that day. 

It was around the sixth mug of wine that Crowley really began to cry. It reached such a volume that Aziraphale sobered up and moved them rapidly to one of the inn’s rooms upstairs, which had miraculously become free. Crowley curled up on her knees beside the bed, looking almost in desperate prayer, as the sobs wracked through her thin body. Aziraphale knelt beside her, placing a hand gently on the demon’s shaking back. “Crowley?”

“I couldn’t sssave him. I tried to ssshhow him what was coming, what they – what they had planned for him. It was like he already knew, like he – ” Crowley’s words dissolved into gibberish as she began to sob again. Aziraphale’s chest ached for her. Sides be damned, he thought, this was a Being in distress. Comfort in times of need was an angel’s area of expertise. Aziraphale wrapped her in a hug, turning them so he could sit against the bed frame and cradle the demon close. 

“Crawly…” Jesus mused as they stood together in the desert, as he looked over the demon’s huge black wings, her noble profile and slender hands. He had expected demons to look a bit more…demonic. 

“A bit too squirming at your feet-ish, isn’t it?” Crawly answered, meeting the man’s gaze with those startling reptilian eyes, the only things beside the wings that really gave the game away.

Jesus nodded, looking at those coal-black wings again. He reached out with curiosity and ran a rough hand down the feathers. Crawly poorly suppressed a squawk. Jesus laughed, stroking again just to see the reaction, “You seem more crow-like to me.” His dark eyes sparkled as he took the demon in. 

Those dark eyes haunted Crowley now as she cried herself dry, throat too hoarse for words, her eyes red around the edges and fully amber now, no whites left. She had barely noticed Aziraphale placing a kiss on her forehead, a hand twisted in her hair in an attempt to steady her trembling form. Another kiss blessed her cheek, gentle and feeling unbearably close to what Crowley remembered of God’s all-encompassing Love. Looking up to meet the angel’s gaze she found bright eyes hooded, wet too, a perfect pout falling slightly open as they watched each other. Crowley reached up and pulled the angel’s mouth to hers.

“But you could go anywhere else in the world!” the demon cried, waving at the horizon, “You don’t have to go through with any of this. Please, listen to me. You can carry on teaching and living and - ”

“Crowley,” Jesus said, a warning delivered with a soft smile. His rough hands gripped Crowley’s arms, and she sagged, her head down. 

“Please,” she whispered.

“Crowley,” Jesus repeated, lifting the demon’s chin with a finger until their eyes met, “It’s alright.” When her lips trembled, Jesus steadied them against his own.

Crowley broke from the kiss, startled to see bright angelic eyes staring at her instead of dark sparkling ones. It ripped something in her soul to shreds. She wept for a long time in the angel’s arms, neither of them saying another word. 

Several hours later, still sitting against the bed with an aching neck and back, Aziraphale woke alone.

Chapter Text

The walk to Petronius’ restaurant allowed the pair to catch up. Crowley listened to the angel recounting some of the places he had been in the last few years since they had seen each other, and he watched Aziraphale’s easy expression, the smiles he flashed his way. Something had changed between them after that mortifying night in Golgotha, Crowley thought. Aziraphale was no longer edgy around him, though that in itself made Crowley feel edgy around Aziraphale. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol were required.

The oysters were delicious, though Crowley didn’t really care for the texture. He was more interested in the ecstasy with which Aziraphale devoured them. Soon the demon stopped eating, distracted, hearing the angel moan as he ate. Reaching for the last oyster, Aziraphale realised Crowley only had a few shells on his plate, and withdrew his hand, “Oh, goodness, I appear to have had the lion’s share. Would you like any more?”

The demon shook his head, “No, angel, it’s all yours. I’m ready for more wine.” Too miraculously on cue, the serving boy passed the table and refilled the demon’s cup. Crowley almost spilled it when Aziraphale groaned again, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. 

“That was wonderful,” he sighed, sipping his own replenished wine. Crowley had already drained his and was waving his cup about for another, keeping his face turned away until his blush faded.

As the night wore on and the wine flowed, they talked. Never about Eden, or the Ark, or the Crucifixion. About anything and everything else. 

“Been to China lately, angel?”

“Not at all.”

“Wonderful, ingenious place. Made bellows and starting sm- sssmle- melting iron.”

“Quite.”

“Fire and liquid metal. Wonderfully hellish.”

“I’m sure. I was in Japan recently. Got fields now fulled – filled with rice. Remarkable feat.”

“Mmm. So, Rome now? I got a commendation for Caligula’s mock campaign.”

“Did you really?”

“Yuh huh. And his asss-”

“His ass??”

“Noooo his assassss- when they killed him.”

“Oh, I see. Wasn’t you though?”

“Nah. Humans managed all on their own.”

“What do you make of Claudius?”

“Hngk.”

“Rather. I’m supposed to be off to Jerusalem next. You?”

“Sssscotland. Got to… got business back there.”

“I might detour north myself. ‘pparently they’re doing wonderful things in Gaul with baked eggs.”

“Eggs ?”

“Yes, eggs.”

As their conversation tailed off into drunken babblings, Crowley glanced about the room. Pairs of young men were wrapped closely together at the surrounding tables, many in passionate embraces. It looked nice, Crowley thought, blearily, swaying back to bestow a lopsided smile on his companion. This silly rule-abiding angel who made the lewdest noises about something as basic as mortal food. This spectacularly rule-breaking angel who gave away celestial swords. This almost renegade angel who had tempted him to lunch. An angel tempting a demon. Maybe, just maybe, they weren’t so dissimilar. Gripping him by the front of his toga, Crowley landed a messy kiss on the angel’s soft lips, tasting saltwater and wine.

Aziraphale flinched back and tilted his head like a confused animal, blinking. He stammered, “My d- uh, Crowley, are you al- okay?” As realisation sank in the angel’s eyes blew wide, and he leaned sharply away, his mouth gasping open. “You’re trying to tempt me!” he stage-whispered, “You – you wicked demon, you’re trying to corrupt an angel!”

“Look, I wasn’t trying to - ”

“Oh, you’d get a top notch comm- congr- oh, they’d really thank you for that down there. Dragging a Princi-” hiccup “-pality down to your level. Oh, you wily, treacherous creature, you tricked me!”

“Angel,” Crowley growled, almost falling from his chair as he floundered, looking around for an explanation. Seeing many couples still entwined he gestured frantically at them, “I was just trying to blend in!!”

“That’s what happened in Golgotha,” the angel cried, sounding hurt, “You weren’t upset, it was all a trick! You played on my good nature!”

Something vulnerable and raw moved painfully in Crowley’s chest at the memory of that night, and he snarled, “I was upset.”

“To think I shared my oysters with you,” the angel lamented.

Crowley had heard enough. He immediately sobered up and stood, making the ceramic on the table rattle, “Must be off, lots of tempting to do. See you around, angel.”

Chapter Text

A wave smacked Crowley in the face and he gasped, flailing about in the bone-chilling deep water. 

Seconds ago, he had been standing at the edge of a woodland, smirking as he planned to introduce new taxes on the villages below, planning for each to think the other settlement was the cause. No one would think to accuse ‘the wizard in the woods’. There would be arguments for weeks and no one would know who had implemented the laws but, as humans always are, they would be quick to assign blame. They wouldn’t start a war – it wasn’t enough for that – but Crowley could guarantee there would be low-level conflict between the two settlements for at least a millennium. It would be wonderful. Strictly speaking, it was not the exact order he had been sent here with, but Crowley had begun loosely interpreting his orders over four centuries ago and hadn’t run into trouble yet. As he raised his hand to snap his fingers, something or someone had slammed into him from behind, and in an instant here he was trying to stay afloat in the middle of the sea, miles from shore, his task left unfinished. His heavy wool tunic was pulling him down. His glasses were missing. The taste of salt was so strong it was almost metallic.

Spinning around, trying to get his bearings, Crowley spotted hills rising out of the sea. He could feel without summoning them that his wings were too wet to fly that far. They would take forever to dry and would need grooming after all this, which would take even longer. Ridding himself of his ruined heavy clothes with a thought, leaving only thin undergarments on, Crowley willed himself a little further east. He materialised just above the waves and fell under again with a splash.

The demon was cold and very irritable as he surfaced to see he had reached the edge of the bay. Diving down, he swam towards the headland amongst a group of inquisitive grey seals. Surfacing to check his progress, he swam a few strokes to clamber up onto the rocks at the base of the cliffs, shivering in the wind. A couple of the seals bobbed up to watch the demon. A gull called overhead, swooping down for a better look.  Crowley hissed and batted at it. He just wanted a moment to rest in peace and to figure out what the Heaven had happened. 

“A Selkie!” cried a voice out on the water, “I told you I saw one!”. The seals dove below with soft splashes, and the gull glided away. Crowley’s head snapped up to see two men in a small boat had rounded the headland. One of them had unnaturally white-blond hair. “Oh n-n-no…” he groaned through chattering teeth.

“Don’t be silly, there’s no such thing as Selk- Crowley?!” the angel leaned over the side of the boat, almost capsizing it, “Finbar, get us closer!”

“W-w-what are y-you doing h-here?” Crowley shivered violently, clinging on as a wave hit and splashed up at him. 

“Never mind that, you’re half frozen,” Aziraphale scolded as he began searching through items on the bottom of the boat.

Crowley manifested his wings, inspecting them before shaking the saltwater out and flapping them a few times, hoping the meagre amount of sunlight through the clouds might dry them a little.

“Finbar, do we still have a blanket with us?” the angel asked, “Oh! Never mind, I found it.”

There was silence. 

“Finbar?” Aziraphale turned around and gasped. “Um… Crowley…” Aziraphale said pointedly, nodding towards the other man, mouthing, “Human! Your wings!”

“What??” Crowley snapped, squinting at the angel.

The human in question had turned a shade of pale grey, his eyes big, taking in the dripping black wings sprouting from the being before them. “Manannan Mac Lir preserve us,” Finbar whispered, “It’s not a Selkie. It’s an Adhene^[1]."

“Demon,” Crowley corrected, a fiery glint in his yellow eyes, his fangs glinting as he smiled maniacally. Finbar made a strangled noise and grabbed the oars, poised to row away. 

Aziraphale tutted, “Really, Crowley.”

The demon rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. The waves around them stilled, frozen in their peaks and troughs, the clouds hung in the sky, and the human stilled, oars aloft.

The angel gazed out towards the horizon at the motionless sea and smiled a little, “Do you know, that’s actually quite beautiful.”

“Ngk- Never m-m-mind b-bloody beaut-tiful, angel, where the H-Heaven am I?”

“Presently, on a rock in the sea,” the angel replied, stepping out of the boat and walking across the still waves to place the woollen blanket around the demon’s shoulders. He sat next to Crowley on the cold stone, just close enough for the demon to leech a little warmth from his radiance.

“Oh, r-really I thought I was on a horse,” Crowley countered, his teeth chattering less already.

“Is there any need for sarcasm,” Aziraphale retorted, lips pouting slightly, glancing down Crowley’s shivering body, his undergarments soaked through. He reached out as if to touch the demon’s arm but hesitated before gesturing to the headland behind them, “The Roman’s called this island ‘Insula Manavia’. The locals call it Mann.” 

“Thanks for the lesson in colloquialisms,” the dripping demon snarked. 

“This is the second time I’ve found you in trouble at sea. Care to tell me why you were swimming this early in the morning? In your underwear no less?”

The demon spluttered, incredulous, his wings flapping slightly, “I wasn’t swimming. I don’t swim. I wasn’t even anywhere near the coast and then something hit me from behind and here I was, in the middle of the freezing pissing sea!”

“Oh?”

“Couldn’t have been another demon or I’d just be in Hell,” Crowley wondered aloud, thinking about how he hadn’t planned to strictly followed his orders. He shook his head, continuing, “Almost felt like a... like a wave hit me.”

“Where were you when it happened?”

“That way,” Crowley waved an arm and a wing westward. 

Dawning spread across the angel’s face, and his expression was dreadful for a moment, almost as if he had remembered something vital he now realised he really should have recalled earlier. “You were still in Ireland?” he asked quietly, trying to look nonchalant.

“Yes.” 

“Oh bother,” Aziraphale muttered, pretences abandoned. His hands moved about nervously, and he wouldn’t meet the demon’s eyes as he spoke, “I am sorry, Crowley, truthfully I am.”

“This is your fault??”

“No! Well, maybe. Only, when Saint Patrick said he was going to ‘banish all the snakes in Ireland’ I didn’t th- ”

“HE SAID WHAT?!”

“Well I didn’t think he was serious! I thought it was just something he was going to say to sound, well, I don’t know, Saintly. I didn’t even think there were all that many snakes in Ireland to banish in the first place. But, you see, well, you must understand, dear boy, I truly didn’t think it would affect you and I didn’t think you were staying that long - ”

Crowley rose; any mortal would have slipped on the wet rock, but Crowley stood tall. The now cornered angel tried to move away from the advancing demon, but fell backwards from his perch, landing with a small splash, sprawled on top of the still waves. He stared up at the now irate Crowley.

“I am a snake, that’s what I am, how in the entire bastard universe could you think that wouldn’t impact me? You didn’t think to check if I was still in Ireland? You were only there last month!”

Aziraphale scrambled to his feet on the water, “I am sorry, Crowley, really.”

“I suppose you did it on purpose,” the demon snarled.

“Crowley, no! Of course not.”

“Real feather in your wing that, defeating the treacherous demon Crowley, ooh, promotion for you Archangel Aziraphale.”

“What??”

“I bet you were sailing out to search for my drowned body, take it back as a prize.”

“Crowley, stop it!” the angel commanded.

“You know they’ll send someone worse in my place. You want to deal with Hastur?”

“No, I - ”

“Because he’s awful you know. Likes tempting priests far more than I do. Or you might get Ligur. Very into killing, loves gore and blood.”

“Crowley, listen - ”

“Maybe they’ll send Beelzebub. Get used to constant buzzing in your ears forever.”

“Crowley, I swear, I didn’t know it would cause you any harm!”

The demon scoffed, tucking his still dripping wings away and vanishing them to another plane. Stepping over the edge of the rock, he stood momentarily atop the waves, holding the squirming angel under his serpentine gaze. “You’ll have to try better next time, angel,” he snarked, and with that he snapped his fingers, setting the world back into motion. The waves lapped over Aziraphale’s feet as he watched the demon’s pale body disappear under the inky green water.

A squeal from the boat brought the angel’s attention back. Finbar was shaking, gazing with fearful reverence at this Being standing upon the sea without sinking. “You… but you’re… my lord, Manannan Mac Lir!” He prostrated himself as best he could get down in the small boat.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

Crowley pulled himself onto the shore, shivering again. A taint of regret loomed in his stomach as he played back over their conversation. He had mentioned to Aziraphale the last time they spoke that he wouldn’t be staying in Ireland long. The angel probably had assumed he was already gone. Perhaps Crowley shouldn’t have… He swallowed, pushing the feeling down. All these arguments were getting on his nerves. He didn’t need some holier-than-thou Principality constantly popping up, getting in his way. They needed some sort of agreement, a way to know where the other was so they could stay out of each other’s hair. Some sort of arrangement between them. That could work.

Chapter Text

“Explain how it works, one more time,” Aziraphale whined, eyebrows knitted together. 

Crowley suppressed an exasperated noise and started over, “We’re both headed for the same Abbey, correct?”

“Correct,” Aziraphale replied.

“You’re going to the Monastery, I’m going to the Nunnery, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And your next assignment after this is in…”

“China. And you have business there too, Crowley?”

“Yes! So, what I’m saying is - ”

“That I go to the monastery and the nunnery, and you go to China alone?”

“Exactly! You don’t have to travel so far; you can extend your stay at the monastery and do even more good.”

“And you can spend more time in China doing bad?” The angel quirked an eyebrow in the busty nun’s direction. Crowley made a noise in response, focussed on lifting the hem of her habit up as they tiptoed around a large muddy puddle.




The angel shook his head, his mouth twisting and hands wringing, “No, Crowley. I don’t see how it can work. It means whatever extra good I do in England, you’ll be doing extra bad in China.”

“Angel, ” Crowley growled, cajoling, “It’s like we’ve said so many times before – we balance each other out overall anyway. What’s the point in both of us hauling our arses about all over the world trying to out-do each other - ”

“When it all balances out in the end…” the angel finished his sentence, and his steps slowed until his hesitation brought him to a halt. “So, this… temptation at the nunnery,” he said, glancing up at the nun, “What does it entail?”

Crowley scoffed “I - pu- bu- well - pfft - I mean that’s the beauty of it really, angel, it’s nothing like last time.” 

Last time had been a disaster. The angel’s first temptation was more of a whimper than a shout. Crowley had had to make up a grandiose saga in the report to Hell about why the temptation had failed. They bought it, enthralled by the fantastical gore and engaging characters Crowley created. No one even came to check. Crowley had a headache for a year just thinking about the whole ordeal. 

“Barely even a temptation,” the demon grinned, “It’s just…getting the nuns to start composing their own music.”

“But the humans here don’t let women compose music!” Aziraphale cried, “There will be uproar. No, Crowley, please, let’s just both go to the Abbey and both go to China.” He started off down the path again.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley grinned, following, “You of all people know that music is a divine pastime, right?”

“Not with you involved,” the angel snarked.

Crowley pressed on, “Exactly! With me out of the way, what could be more Holy,” she gagged, “than getting more of God’s devotees to write and sing Her beloved celestial harmonies? And I’m sure you know the best of them to pass on.”

The angel paused again, glancing between the floor and Crowley. He opened his mouth to speak a couple of times but kept stopping himself. The demon rolled her eyes, continuing, “And don’t worry; I’ll do a full, proper blessing on the Emperor. Appear to him all angelic and glowy like you.”

“I’m not ‘glowy’,” Aziraphale huffed, “I’m radiant.”

“Fine, radiant. My point is - it’ll be done. Full, proper, Heavenly,” Crowley wretched again, “blessing on the old dude, long may he reign as emperor, blah blah blah.”

“And your business afterwards?”

Crowley’s expression hardened a little, “Nothing that concerns you, angel.”

Aziraphale turned away, sighing softly, “Well I suppose I could spend an extra couple of weeks at the Monastery. Only small things of course. Can’t be noticed I’m not in China, not really.” He looked up to the Heavens, closed his eyes, and sharply turned back, “Alright, fine!”

Crowley grinned, and with a snap of her fingers changed both their outfits. Aziraphale wore the nun’s habit, and Crowley felt his chest flatten and his shoulders broaden against the silk of the high court dress of the Song dynasty. 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, pulling at the habit, “Do I really have to wear this??”

Crowley shrugged, smirking, “How else are you going to infiltrate a nunnery? Have fun singing!” Snapping his fingers, he vanished, leaving the angel alone on the cold road. Aziraphale huffed, adjusting the habit and wimple. This was going to be a long week.

***

Crowley performed the blessing on the Emperor when he arrived in China a few nights later. As promised, he appeared radiant, a bright figure surrounded by golden fire before the Emperor; no need to point out it was hellfire. 

The following day Crowley altered his dress to something more casual, and made his way to Yīngshān county, making enquiries as he went, careful to keep his glasses high on his nose and his hat low on his head. He paused at a market stall to admire some silk that was a familiar shade of greyed blue-green. The merchant startled him, and he cleared his throat, declining their generous offer. Crossing town, and entering a small workshop, he bowed to the shopkeeper.

“Bi Sheng?” he asked.

“Yes?” Bi Sheng replied.

“I have a proposition for you,” the demon smiled, “An idea for a new type of printing. It will help spread more knowledge and wisdom faster than ever before across all of China.”

 If upstairs thought a bitten apple was bad, just wait until they saw this.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s kirtle itched against her arms and waist and chest and everywhere^[2]. Her purse slapped against her hip under her surcoat, her braided hair hitting her ears beneath the fabric covering her sweltering head as she stomped through the mud, her leather shoes safe only because the demon willed it so. Crowley hated the 14th century, and they were barely a quarter of the way through it. All the men were still marching off and dying in the crusades, and Crowley wanted absolutely nothing to do with any of it, damn them all. 

Crowley had spent the start of the year in Tuscany, tasked with tempting a writer into falling for a young girl. It hadn’t been difficult with Crowley as wingman. The sonnets and poems Petrarch churned out were evidence enough of Crowley’s temptation being successful, and so overnight Crowley changed form again, swapping dress-like tunic for kirtle, and had made her way north. There was a teenage king on the English throne, so Crowley figured she might go unnoticed by the bag of hormones were she to slip into the royal court and cause some mischief.

Not wanting to risk the close quarters of the channel crossing, Crowley used sheer power of will to hop from Calais to the white cliffs. This turned out to be quite the effort, and the tired demon had been walking ever since. It was growing warm now, and the wool and linen - while breathable - was still unbearable in so many layers. Crowley longed to cool off. 

Perhaps Someone was listening and took pity because there in a clearing Crowley stumbled upon a beautiful large pool, crystal clear with water lilies floating on the surface. “Oh,” she breathed in relief, and unceremoniously began to rip the ridiculous layers from her body until she was as naked as Eve, loose wavy hair swaying against the top of her pelvis.

The water was cold enough to elicit an all too snake-like hiss from the demon as she slipped in. Auburn hair pooled around her as she shivered, floating on the surface, her small breasts and toes visible above the water, her eyes gazing at the blue sky above. Content now in the coolness of the lake, she began swimming about lazily and dipped her head under. Resurfacing, eyes still screwed shut, she ran a wet hand down her face and smiled. 

A horse whinnied too close, followed by the clank of metal, a deep chuckle. Crowley froze, sinking back down into the water, only her reptilian eyes staying above the surface, blinking to regain their vision.  

“What have we here?” a voice called, and Crowley’s eyes came into focus on a knight, kneeling at the water’s edge, not five feet away, “A little nymph all alone taking a swim?” Remembering how crystal clear the water was, Crowley hastily looked down at her naked form, and manoeuvred one of the large lily pads in the way; the knight had already seen more than enough. He began removing pieces of his armour one by one, a lecherous grin on his mucky face. Crowley swam backwards towards the other side of the lake, but the knight laughed, low and hard, “Don’t you go anywhere little lady!” the knight jeered. Crowley hissed and began to wonder if transforming back into a snake would be a good idea right about now. Her eyes pooled full yellow around her slit pupils, her fangs became a little longer than usual for effect, and Hellfire began to spark around her as she prepared to change shape. The knight, now shirtless, faltered for a moment, taking a step back. “What are you?” 

The knight’s horse bolted suddenly, as there was a crack of thunder and a bolt of lightning out of the clear sky that landed just close enough to the knight to make him scream. A great ball of searing light and wings and eyes was floating above the water, and it spoke in many voices all at once as it commanded, “LEAVE THIS PLACE, MORTAL!” The knight shrieked and ran, abandoning his discarded armour, disappearing far into the surrounding woods. 

The ball hovered over to the grass and manifested into an armour-clad angel, wings out. One final eye disappeared with a blink from the centre of his forehead, and a single pair of wings flapped a couple of times before dissolving away, still visible if you looked hard enough at the patterns of light. 

“Crowley, dear, are you alright?”

“Warn me before you do that, angel, nearly blinded me!”

“A ‘thank you’ would suffice,” Aziraphale retorted as he knelt down, extending a hand towards the flustered demon, who was still needlessly holding a lily pad over her breasts. 

She reached a pale hand out of the water, hesitating a moment, “I could have handled myself, you know.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that, my dear,” the angel replied, “Although I am beginning to think you ought to keep away from bodies of water. I always seem to find you in trouble in them.” 

Before she could think up a witty response, the angel had grasped her hand and pulled her clear out of the water, naked form almost pressed against the cold metal of his armour. 

“He didn’t hurt you?”

“No, but I think he would have tried. I was about to transform back into a snake when you arrived.”

“I expect that would have given him quite the shock.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were searching Crowley’s face for any signs of damage or distress, but Crowley’s gaze was fixed on the angel with some sort of veneration. It had been decades, nearly a century since they had last seen each other. The angel looked different somehow. Wiser, more battle-worn. The way he had pulled her out of the pool effortlessly gave away an increased strength in his corporeal form. He was still holding Crowley’s curved body close in those strong arms and Crowley felt her pointless heart skip a beat. Aziraphale’s eyes paused on her full lips, before meeting her gaze. A warm feeling spread in the back of Crowley’s mind. Oh. That’s different.

They both seemed to remember Crowley was still naked in the same instant and quickly parted. Crowley willed all of her clothes back on in one go, instantly just as hot as before she had started swimming. She cleared her throat, “Crusades still going on then?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, dear,” Aziraphale exhaled, a sigh from the depths of his immortal soul, “I keep trying to negotiate peace talks, but it’s been difficult. I’ve been stuck there for quite some time.”

“What brings you here?”

“Assigned job,” he grimaced. Crowley returned the expression, wringing out her long hair before willing it back into braids and fastening her headwear in place.

“Heading to the Royal Court myself,” Crowley murmured, in a stiff tone of voice that meant, best be off then, no need to talk about this ever again, guess I’ll see you in another hundred years.

“Oh!” Aziraphale cried, in a familiar tone, “My assignment is meant to be there. A blessing for the new reverend in the palace chapel.” He made eyes at the demon who made an exasperated noise. Their fledgling arrangement had lately been heavily in favour of the angel having time to disappear off around the world in search of new delicacies, and Crowley recognised this particular expression as meaning something akin to but I’ve heard about this wonderful new almond pudding in Germany that I really want to go try.

“I suppose…” Aziraphale began, wiggling a little as he wrestled between his sense of duty and his sweet tooth, “I mean really I ought to - ” He looked at the demon again, eyes sparkling.

“You’d owe me one angel,” Crowley grumbled, acquiescing, “And I can’t bless him in the chapel. Consecrated ground.” 

“Naturally,” he replied, “It’s just a standard blessing, anywhere will do.”

“Hnmf,” she responded in confirmation.

Aziraphale suppressed a smile, resisting the urge to say thank you. “Do try to stay out of trouble.”

“Trouble is a demon’s middle name, angel.”

Aziraphale wasn’t listening, his eyes wandering down Crowley’s figure, not particularly well hidden under all those layers, and Crowley thought she once again saw something oddly like desire in that gaze before it came back up to meet hers. “Don’t take this the wrong way but… well, it’s just that – given the situation we just dealt with, well I would have thought – um, to my mind – ”

“Out with it, angel,” Crowley growled.

“Quite… I just think – until you get there – I mean it’s one thing for me to worry about other demons getting ahold of you –  ”

“N’awww, angel” Crowley mocked, suppressing a genuine smile, “you worry about me?” 

“What I’m trying to say is that demons are one thing, but there’s a very immediate threat from the humans here and, well, I just think it may be safer for you to… travel… well, to travel appearing as a man, you know,” he winced. 

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as sexist.”

“Crowley! You know what I mean! I’ve been living with these knights for decades, some of their behaviour is, well, it’s wildly unacceptable.”

The demon rolled her eyes, a small laugh escaping her. There was a very special place in the deepest pits of Hell for some of those knights; Crowley had made sure of it. Wildly unacceptable was possibly the biggest understatement the angel had made in his existence so far.

“You can’t expect me to accompany you the entire way there, Crowley, what if we were seen together?”

“Oh no, the world might end,” she said high and teasing, and waved Aziraphale away with sarcastic farewells. 

As she rounded a corner out of the angel’s sight, she spotted more knights coming down the bridleway. They sounded loud, drunk and bawdy even from here. She sighed; maybe Aziraphale had a small point. Moving off the path for a moment, the demon snapped her fingers and transformed, slithering off into the undergrowth on her red scaled belly. Crowley really hated the 14thcentury. 

Chapter Text

They could still hear the cheers with each fall of the guillotine. The chef, who was the only one in the café, was shocked to see them waiting at the door for a table, and he gestured for them to go back outside, exclaiming, “Messieurs! Tout le monde est au spectacle aujourd’hui. Vous allez rater le meilleur moment!”

“Oh, yes, oui , but um, we… nous a , uh, faim, um, avec tout le …excitement!,” Aziraphale smiled politely.

The chef looked perplexed. As they passed him to sit at a table, Crowley slipped him a coin and jerked his head towards the door, “Allez voir. Profitez bien. Nous nous occuperons du café.”

The door swung shut less than a second later.

“Oh, Crowley!” the angel whined, “What about the crêpes?”

Crowley held up a hand before he slipped back into the kitchen. He emerged seconds later holding two large plates of crêpes, still hot. “All prepared by our bloodthirsty chef. Little demonic miracle of my own.”

As Crowley gingerly bit into a crêpe – actually they weren’t too bad, he thought – his mind drifted. What had the angel meant by that remark in the Bastille? He had sounded thrilled to see Crowley. The obvious joy in his voice had made the demon’s heart thump loudly against his breastbone. But then he had turned, and something had happened to the angel’s face. “Oh, good Lord!” he  had said, a disapproving tone to his voice. His eyes were everywhere, and he looked… Crowley didn’t know what he looked, but it wasn’t what he was going for. 

He looked up at Aziraphale now, a chuckle threatening to form in the back of his throat as he realised the angel had kept his aristocratic ruffles despite changing into a revolutionary outfit. A smile attempting to spread across his face was hidden by a larger mouthful of crêpes. Whatever the angel had meant, it was good just to see him again. When had they last had lunch? When had they had the time to just sit and enjoy good food and better wine together?^[3]

“I’ve never had an oyster.”

“Oh well, let me tempt you. Oh…”

The angel moaned, “These are wonderful, Crowley, dear.”

“Mmgkfff,” the demon mumbled, mouth stuffed, trying not to blush.

“Been to China lately?”

“Not at all.”

“Wonderfully hellish.”

“‘pparently they’re doing wonderful things in Gaul with baked eggs.”

Aziraphale had polished off his own crêpes and seemed to be asking Crowley if he was done with his, shuffling his seat closer and leaning in. Crowley, miles away, stared at his plate, still piled high.  “Uh, yep. Yeah.” 

He pushed the plate towards the angel. Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled, so close Crowley could see little wrinkles in the outer corners as he bestowed a smile upon the demon and whispered, “Oh, thank you, dear boy.” His hand lay barely two inches away from Crowley’s on top of the table.

Crowley glanced around the room behind his mercifully dark glasses. Phantoms of young men in togas were embracing in the empty chairs around them. One couple looked nauseatingly familiar, mirroring the angel and demon’s current positions. A blonde with plate piled high, face lit in ecstasy; a redhead lounging back, watching his companion with a hunger not for food. The latter grabbed the former by the toga and pulled him into a messy, wine-fuelled kiss. Crowley cringed. He turned back and his shoulder bumped the angel’s, closer than before, and their eyes met over the dwindling pile of crêpes. 

“My d- uh, Crowley, are you al- okay? You’re trying to tempt me! Wicked demon!”

Crowley stood, knocking his cutlery onto the floor, scaring away the phantoms around them and startling the angel next to him. 

“Everything all right, dear boy? Have you had too many crêpes?”

“Something like that. Got new orders,” he tapped his head needlessly, “Got to go. See you around, angel.” He looked down at the knife and spoon on the floor. He left them there, disappearing with a pop. 

Chapter Text

Nothing could have been worse than the 14thcentury, but the 19th century was certainly trying. Crowley had attended Beethoven’s funeral in 1827, watching a pale and sickly Schubert act as a torchbearer. Only 18 months later he stood with Aziraphale at that talented, gentle young man’s funeral, Aziraphale comforting Ferdinand and Elisabeth while Crowley stood alone with his mounting grief. 

Leaving the graveyard in the dusk, Crowley froze when he heard a rasping voice on the path behind him.

“Hail Satan!”

His eye roll was mercifully hidden by his glasses as he turned to face the figure, “Hail… Satan. Yeah. Who’s that?”

“Dagon,” the graveyard caretaker replied, his eyes glazed over, his jaw a little slack as he approached from the gate.

“Of course, wonderful, uh, what…news?”

“I deliver unto thee the highest commendations from our Dark Lord for thy success in prolonging the Spanish Inquisition.”

The Spanish what?? “Oh yeah… love a bit of inquisiting in Spanish. Fluent these days... Olé.”

“The Dark Council is inordinately impressed,” the caretaker carried on in a very unimpressed rasping monotone, his jaw moving at an odd angle as he spoke, “thou hast prolonged much torture and pain for over three centuries!”

Torture… centuries?? “Oh yeah, worked really hard on that one.”

“Thy endeavours claimed a record number of souls for our cause.”

“Great,” Crowley drawled, shuffling his foot along the ground. The caretaker had gone quiet, but his head was still at an inhuman angle. A couple of women rounded the corner a hundred yards away. Crowley adjusted his hat, “Well if that’s everything, great to hear from you as always. Give my best to Beelzebub.”

“Wait!” the caretaker rasped, grabbing Crowley by the collar, “The Enemy is moving!”

“Enemy moving, got it, listen - ” Crowley tried to pull away from the old man’s surprisingly strong grip, glancing at the approaching pair, “I really need to get going now.” The women slowed as they neared, whispering to each other.

“The Enemy is moving to bring thy wicked endeavours to an end! Investigate this!”

“Dagon there are humans coming, you’re going to give us away!”

“Keep the Inquisition going!”

“Yep, I will, fine, message received.”

“Hail Satan!”

There was a whimper behind Crowley followed by two soft thuds of bodies collapsing amongst petticoats. Crowley growled and turned back to the old man, “For Hell’s sake, Dagon, can’t you just send a messenger pigeon with a note next time like everyone else??”

“Very well,” the man croaked, and then his head straightened up and he blinked at Crowley, letting go of his coat.

“Oh! Was war das…?”

“Vergessen Sie es,” Crowley grumbled, waving a hand over the man’s face and turning him around. The man stumbled a little, shook his head, and ambled back in the direction of the churchyard gate. Crowley examined the two women on the floor, checked to make sure no one was looking, and snapped his fingers. He watched from the shadow of a tree as they rose, dusted themselves off, and scurried homewards.

Figuring he should know what on earth it was that he was being commended for, he did a little research. He sincerely wished he hadn’t. Aziraphale found him in a public house, playing Impromptus and Pathétiques on the old piano in the corner very well for someone who had tried to drink the bar dry all on his own. Aziraphale took him home and tucked him into bed, only managing to miracle some of the alcohol out of the demon’s system before Crowley yelled at him to leave and then wished he hadn’t.

Crowley slept restlessly as the remaining alcohol bubbled around his system. He woke a couple of years later to go to the toilet and, seeing nothing outside to interest him, fell back into a deep sleep. 

Nightmares plagued him. Beelzebub and Dagon kept finding him, torturing him, laughing and yelling at him in Spanish^[4], telling him they knew he had nothing to do with the Inquisition, that he was a traitor to Hell itself for fraternising with an angel. Only one punishment fit for an angel lover. Hastur and Ligur appeared with the bucket of holy water and threw it over Crowley as he screamed.

Crowley woke with a gasp, scrambling to sit up and waving the gas lamps on. Seeing that he was alone in the room, he sank back down amongst the silk pillows, rubbing his eyes. There was light shining around the edge of the black curtains signalling morning. How many mornings later he wasn’t sure.

Dressing himself and shuffling outside, Crowley frowned at the bright world around him. The women’s skirts were much larger than the last time he had been outside, their bonnets noticeably smaller. He grabbed a newspaper from a young boy, flinging a coin at him, and stared open mouthed at the date. He had been asleep for almost thirty years? 

A researching look around the street and a snap of the fingers subtly updated his own clothes. Crowley immediately sent word to Aziraphale to meet him at his earliest convenience at the main rendezvous point. 

Thirty years. He had never slept that long. He had tried to sleep that long 500 years ago but had woken up after only a few weeks. Thirty years was a long time to be under. What if someone had found his body, unconscious, defenceless? Would he have woken up in time? Or would he simply wake up in Hell, Hastur laughing in his face. Hastur… Crowley felt his stomach churn as he recalled his recurring dream. What if while he slept someone attacked him?  He had no weapons at his disposal in the flat, certainly nothing strong enough to tackle other demons. Rushing back to his flat he scribbled a request on a scrap of paper.

Crowley was throwing bread at a black swan while he waited for the angel. Aziraphale arrived next to him just as a white swan approached the black swan, who lost interest in mocking Crowley’s poor aim and turned to examine his new companion. Crowley barely acknowledged his. The conversation was stilted, steely yet nervous, and Crowley felt himself spiralling off into tangents about ducks and nonsense. A familiar word from a fresh nightmare cut through the noise of his mind. “FRATERNISING??” he hissed sharply at the angel, his fangs bared.

He fell asleep on the ceiling at the end of that night, awaking about twenty years later to fall onto the bed with an idea stubbornly set in his mind. A few hundred years earlier a particularly astute Italian painter and inventor, who had known precisely what Crowley was, had sketched Crowley’s portrait as a woman, and gifted it to him. The subsequent painting based on that sketch was now world famous. Aziraphale had even mentioned it once. If the world had been so enamoured with that painting – if Aziraphale had been – perhaps it was time for an update, Crowley thought vainly. 

Switching forms again, the demon made her way to Paris, befriending a young painter who was more than happy to acquiesce to this striking woman’s request. Whether it was a revenge thing – look what you’re missing, angel – or a temptation, or maybe a peace offering – please come back to me, angel – the finished piece was more stunning than Crowley could have hoped. Her regal profile pale in comparison to the deep light-sucking black of the dress, her glasses hanging delicately from her hand, her black wings barely visible but definitely there, flickering against the wall behind. 

***

An anonymous invitation arrived at the angel’s shop in London a week before the painting’s debut in the exhibition at the Paris Salon. Aziraphale had puzzled over the invitation for days. He had no acquaintances in Paris anymore, not that he could think of. Was it someone from the Gentleman’s Club playing a trick on him? Or perhaps genuinely inviting him for a trip away? It was a beautiful invitation, printed, not handwritten, the edges stamped with little images of fruits, creatures and flowers^[5]. At their weekly gavotte night, Aziraphale had tried to subtly glean clues, but got nowhere. No one at the club was going to or had recently been to Paris. None of them had even heard of the painter, Sargent. As the day approached, Aziraphale found himself between assignments and with a craving for eclairs. No harm in a little trip out, surely.

The Salon was packed, a crowd gathering around a curtain concealing a large painting awaiting its debut. Aziraphale glanced over the figures immediately around him but recognised no one. How odd, he mused. When the curtain was drawn back and visitors around him audibly gasped, there was no mistaking who had invited him, or indeed who it was a painting of. The pale skin, the sharp angular jawline and nose, the faint impression of wings, the soulless shade of black only a demon could conjure, one strap of the dress hanging loose, fallen seductively from the shoulder. “Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered with no small amount of exasperation. The demon always had to make a statement. The attention the Mona Lisa got and was still getting surely was more than enough, not just for Hell’s requirements of inciting temptation and lust, but for bolstering the demon’s ego. Apparently not. Aziraphale sighed as he examined the life size portrait and listened to the chaos around him as patrons expressed their objections. Why did the demon have to use such a beautiful medium to spread such wicked sentiments? Was it not effective enough to… to… well, Aziraphale barely knew what Crowley did do these days to spread evil. Now apples were widely eaten and humans seemed to do a lot of evil all on their own, and with this Industrial Revolution in full swing Pollution and Death were having a field day with the rising body count in the cities. Crowley must have to be very creative to come up with new ways to secure souls for Hell nowadays. Creative indeed, Aziraphale smirked at the Crowley in the painting. At least this proved Crowley was still alive. It certainly didn’t look like a death portrait. 

The crowd were growing restless, with increasing shouts about the scandalous nature of the portrait. Aziraphale felt a slight pang at those; even if the desired effect was to cause a hellish riot, he hoped Crowley was not present for these criticisms of her form. He moved from his spot, out of the crowd, and circulated the gallery, watchful for the tall demon’s presence, but Crowley never appeared.

***

Crowley had watched nervously from the corner of the room, back in his sideburns and top hat, blending in with the masses. He spotted the alarming shade of white blond hair in the midst of the crowd. He was so fixated on the back of the angel’s head that he didn’t realise the painting had been unveiled until he heard the murmurs and then shouts of dissent. They were many. The portrait was vulgar, over-sexualised with too much skin showing, an outrage; it had no place in the exhibition. The angel was still, head tilted a little, gaze seemingly fixed on the painting. When the crowd got rowdier, the angel moved on. 

Crowley left swiftly through the main doors, returning to the comfort of his dark Paris townhouse with a snap of the fingers, not caring if anyone saw, not caring how tired he now felt from the effort. 

He materialised in the middle of the entrance hall. A faint tingle at the back of his neck implored him to open the front door. Upon doing so, he found a dead carrier pigeon on the ground, its neck broken at a gruesome angle, a small scroll attached to its leg. He swore, rubbing a hand down his face. Dagon had taken his suggestion a little too seriously. Untying the piece of paper, he gently lifted the bird and blew softly across it. The bird righted itself, blinking and shaking its wings. It took one tilted look at the demon and cooed loudly, eyes wide, before fleeing down the street. The demon grumbled and unrolled the note. 

Crowley tossed the note into his fireplace, lit momentarily by a burst of Hellfire. This had all been a terrible idea. Collecting his belongings, he returned to London as quickly as he could, and on arriving home, he stripped off all the ridiculous layers of clothing and crawled back into bed. He should have just stayed here.

Chapter Text

The Cote d’Azur was living up to its name, Crowley thought as she sat on the balcony in large sunglasses, soaking up the late afternoon sun, sipping champagne and watching swell of the azure water moving in gentle waves.

Maggie appeared, running a slender hand along Crowley’s lace-covered shoulders. “Antonia, daaaaarling,” she drawled, “Lord, I slept so late, why on earth didn’t you wake me?”

Not my job, Crowley thought, but gave a close-lipped smile. The demon caught Maggie’s hand and massaged it gently, “Oh Maggie, you needed the sleep, you had far too much to drink last night.”

“Well those boys were so lovely and considerate,” Maggie pulled her hand away, flopping down into the other chair, giggling as she remembered the highs and lows of the previous evening. Crowley simply smiled and returned her gaze to the water. Maggie began to huff and puff next to her. Crowley waited. Finally, Maggie spoke, “I got a letter from Charlie today. Just finished reading it now.”

“Oh?” Crowley feigned interest. She had seen the envelope by the door. She had known what it said without the need to open it.

“He wants me to come home. Says I’ve been away too long. Carrying on out here like a Babylonian Whore. Not that he said those words exactly, but I know that’s how he feels.”

“Oh Maggie, darling, noooo,” Crowley cooed, leaning forward to catch Maggie’s hand again, internally smirking as she recalled the actual Whore of Babylon.^[6]

The brunette looked out across the water, and then smiled lasciviously as she raked her eyes up Crowley’s long, slender legs. She sprang up, wrapping her previously captured hand around Crowley’s wrist, and yanked the redhead out of the chair and back into the flat. “To hell with Charlie and to hell with London,” she announced, positively bouncing as she walked, “Come along, Toni darling. Let’s go swimming.”

Crowley had woken up in the winter of late 1918 to a commendation for something called the Battle of the Somme two years earlier. He didn’t risk researching the erroneously bestowed honour this time; he garnered more than enough from conversations he overhead as he made his way back out into the world. He had recently been tasked to come here and tempt one Margaret Howard out of her engagement to one Charles Pulitzer the Third. Something about politics and power plays and big scale long-term evil. Crowley didn’t bother asking too many details of Dagon, mostly because he was still too groggy to really care. Pulitzer was a rich American with whom Margaret’s family were besotted; Crowley was adamant they would be less smitten were dear Charlie penniless. This would be easy enough, Crowley mused, bored already. 

However, upon arriving, Crowley quickly realised Maggie’s tastes. She entirely ignored Crowley for two nights as the demon stood at the bar, hair coiffed and tuxedo spotless, smoothly offering to buy her drinks. Watching her from afar, Crowley noticed how she doted on her female companions, brushing fingers, gentle touches, speaking just a little too close, wildly dancing with them as the nights wore on. 

On the third night Crowley entered the bar and felt the murmur of whispers flutter around the room, saw eyes stare and fingers point. Perfect. Her red hair was short with stylized curls around her face, eyes smoked behind light sunglasses, deep plum lips drawn in a pout, a crimson dress that gave the illusion of her being thinner and taller. Maggie had almost dropped her drink in her hurry to approach this bright young thing before anyone else. Crowley had been the fun new toy ever since. Maggie was supposed to have returned home the following night; they had been here for two weeks.

They both hissed, Crowley’s more serpentine than Maggie’s, as the cool water of the Mediterranean Sea pooled around their ankles. Maggie was in a lovely green suit and Crowley in a deep red and black number, fitted around her body made thin and sporty, small busted and lithe following the fashions and, more importantly, Maggie’s pleasure. Both suits were short enough to get them arrested – something Crowley had made sure of. The water quickly felt warmer as they acclimatised, and they lazily moved about, letting the waves sway them as they floated on the surface. 

“Oh Antonia, darling , this is glooorious. I could stay right here forever.”

“You might get washed out to sea,” Crowley mused, thinking of her past watery misadventures, and trying not to think about her light-haired saviour. Definitely not thinking about him in a suit of armour.

“Oh, let us! Just me and you, Toni, drowning together. How dreadfully, horribly romantic. How Charlie would miss me,” she cackled. Crowley smirked. She had absolutely zero tempting to do here; Maggie was dreadful all on her own. She could have spread quite a wide-ranging low-level evil through being married to a powerful politician, Crowley pondered. Perhaps Hell had someone even worse lined up for Charlie Pulitzer the Third.

They rose from the waves as their limbs grew tired and their bodies grew cold. The evening sun still carried some fading heat and the breeze felt warm on their cool skin. Crowley emerged first, surveying the beach as she stood in the shallows. Her eyes fell on a shock of white blonde hair over sunglasses facing her direction. She looked away. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t have wished him into being here. People said ‘speak of the devil’ not ‘speak of the angel’ for a reason. She snuck a look back at the soft body stretched out on a beach towel under a parasol. The faint impression of white wings flickered in the air around the figure. The shorts were tartan.

What the Heaven is he doing here?

***

Gabriel himself had come to Aziraphale’s shop that morning, materialising in the middle of the main room and terrifying the only customer into running for their life out of the door. For once, Aziraphale almost thanked him.

“Aziraphale, buddy, how goes the, uh, the booook selling?”

“Ah yes, very well, thank you.” By ‘very well’, the angel meant he had not sold a single book in two months and was thrilled about it.

“Good to hear you’re fitting right in down here,” Gabriel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, and the angel didn’t like the tone he used on ‘fitting right in’.

“Quite,” Aziraphale returned the smile, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Gabriel?”

“So just a heads-up really – I’m sure you’re keeping tabs on the demon Crowley?”

“Ah, yes!” Aziraphale tried to frown angrily, “Wily, treacherous demon!” In reality he had not seen Crowley in person for over half a century. His face softened a little as he wondered, for the thousandth time this decade alone, whether the demon was alright. The war had been hard enough for him without a drinking companion, and he knew the demon tended to take these sorts of atrocities to heart.

“Undoubtedly,” Gabriel continued, “It really is remarkable you thwart his every move.” I wouldn’t have put you down as someone who was capable of that, was what Aziraphale heard.

“Evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction,” Aziraphale replied, peacocking his chest out, “It’s not that difficult to topple. Like a house of cards in the wind.”

“Cards to build a house?” Gabriel frowned.

“Yes, it’s a human game where you have to build a high tower out of paper cards. ”

“But paper is so flimsy, why would you build a tower of paper?”

“Well that’s the fun, it makes it more collapsible, so you have to have great skill - ”

“Sounds fascinating,” Gabriel fake-chuckled as he interrupted, “But, listen, we’ve received word that the demon Crowley is in the south of France.”

“France?” Aziraphale tried to say seriously, but his mind drifted. Crêpes, croissants, beef bourguignon.

“Yes, and word is he’s planning a big temptation. We need you to get down there and find out what he’s planning.”

“Oh yes of course, I’ll just finish up the assigned blessings here and - ” Fresh baguettes, macarons, salade niçoise, oh, soufflé!

“Oh no, Michael can finish those off for you; this is a top priority.”

“Naturally.” Coq au vin, Châteauneuf-de-Pape.

“I’ve told the Almighty I’ve got my top people on this, Aziraphale, and that’s true, right? You’re my go-to guy down here!” he grinned, giving a spirited one-two punch to Aziraphale’s chest, “You never let me down, do you?”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale beamed, “uh, absolutely not, I mean.”

“That’s the attitude!” he slapped Aziraphale on the shoulder, “And remember – evil doesn’t sleep.” He said the last three words like a slogan and laughed.

Aziraphale forced a giggle, “Very good. Oh, uh, whereabouts in the south of France?”

“Only information our reconnaissance team could gather is it’s a “nice” place. I’m sure a smart guy like you can figure it out.”

“Yes, of course,” That would be Nice then, you imbecile, Aziraphale thought. Nice was on the coast. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Crowley combined with bodies of water almost always spelled trouble. He knew he had best get down there quickly to make sure the demon didn’t need plucking from the waves yet again.

“I’ll get researching and be there in time to thwart his wicked plans, you can be sure of that,” Aziraphale said confidently.

“Wonderful. Get to it, Aziraphale. I look forward to that report!” Gabriel vanished with a pop, causing a young man who had just walked through the door to stumble back out and run away down the street. Aziraphale placed his bookmark back into The Little Prince and other short stories and was packed to go with a snap of the fingers . He made it to Calais in miraculous time, and he spent the rest of the day making his way towards the south coast.

The air was warmer in Nice, and everyone was in shorts. He huffed, and with a wave of the hand begrudgingly changed into a more appropriate attire, keeping his favourite waistcoat, bowtie and overcoat safe in another plane. Sensing no immediate distress, he decided the most sensible thing to do would be to set up camp by the sea, blending in amongst the late afternoon sun-worshippers on the beach, and wait for the inevitable water-based demonic trouble.

He read quite a way through The Little Prince and other short stories, engrossed, when he felt a tingling at the back of his skull. Looking up, he dropped the book, page lost, bookmark on the sand, mouth agape. He almost hadn’t recognised the demon, she looked so different. But the statuesque nose, the deep red hair, the sunglasses – and there! As she turned to look down the beach, there was the snake tattoo in front of her ear. Crowley was watching something further down the promenade and Aziraphale sat up to take in the whole picture before him, blushing when he saw how much skin she had on display. Imagine if he had had to rescue her from the sea this time. It wouldn’t be like Mesopotamia, all that fabric in the way. So much skin on skin. He wondered if it would burn... 

***

Crowley turned her head slightly away, but kept watching the figure through the side of her sunglasses. The angel was sitting up, now obviously staring at her, thinking she wasn’t looking back at him. Maggie splashed out of the water behind Crowley, who quickly started to stretch. 

“Coming back up for a splash of something cool and bubbly, Toni darling?”

“I’ll be right there, Maggie, just going to stretch a little. Pulled my hamstring.”

Maggie trailed a hand along the small of Crowley’s back, before running off up the hot sand in her short swimsuit. Crowley continued to stretch, drawing lustful gazes from several beach goers passing by. The angel’s gaze was unflinching, his mouth now only slightly open, a pink blush that was definitely not sunburn across his cheeks and nose.

Well that answers that, Crowley thought to herself, He certainly seems attracted to me like this. Watching Maggie get pulled away from the resort by the police, Crowley smiled and made a mental note to test her theories out more later on, but she didn’t see the angel again that night, nor for many years afterwards.

Chapter Text

Crowley felt irritable, so irritable in fact that he was beginning to feel itchy. He scratched the back of his neck, but the itch didn’t go away. In fact, paying attention to the sensation, he found it not to be an itch at all, but a tingling buzzing feeling. A familiar feeling. “Aziraphale,” he breathed. Something was wrong with Aziraphale. Crowley drove through the wreckage of London, following until the sensation was so strong the back of his neck burned, an energy almost screaming in his mind. He looked up at the building, shaking his head, his eyes rolling up. A church. It had to be a blasted church the angel was in, getting himself into trouble. 

In the rubble and aftermath, Crowley felt his hand tremble as he cleaned his glasses off, waiting for Aziraphale to realise the books were missing, feeling the hero of the century when he handed them over. The angel just stared at him. Crowley waited a second for any sort of reaction, but the anticipation became too much to bear under that wide-eyed ocean-blue gaze. “Lift home?” he offered too quickly, slinking off towards the Bentley. 

Aziraphale was silent all the way back to the bookshop. Pulling up to the kerb, Crowley shut the engine off and went to climb out. Aziraphale didn’t move, staring at the bag in his lap. Crowley paused, “Angel? Everything alright?”

Aziraphale jumped, meeting Crowley’s gaze fleetingly before turning away, “Yes! Yes, dear boy. Yes, positively marvellous. Tickety-boo.” He climbed out of the car and the demon got out too, leaning on the roof, waiting for the usual invitation to come in and at least discuss business. They hadn’t seen each other in 20 years. They hadn’t spoken in nearly 80 years. There was a war on; surely there was business to discuss, wasn’t there?

“Yes, well, um, b-best be off,” Aziraphale stammered, still not meeting Crowley’s eyes for long, “See you about I’m sure. Tinkety tonk and all that. Goodnight.” 

The bookshop door slammed shut, the curtains obscuring any view inside. “Right,” Crowley said, adjusting his jaw and tapping the top of the car. His feet were still burning and he seemed to notice the sting more now. “Right. Fine.” His mind played spitefully over Aziraphale’s reaction to the name ‘Anthony’. Not so much this form then. 

Crowley drove home at 120mph through central London, only stopping to steal a crate of wine from the delivery entrance of a local pub. It’s their own fault for leaving it there, he told himself.

Aziraphale was still leaning against the front door of the bookshop, staring at the bag of precious books, his eyes overflowing with tears as his heart grew at the thought of a particularly nice demon.

Chapter Text

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Crowley’s mind was going too fast for him now. It was going over every possible meaning of that phrase, all at the same time, all at full volume. It was distracting enough to cause Crowley to drive at the speed limit for once. 

“Too fast for me.”

Crowley stared ahead unblinking, barely feeling his hands on the steering wheel. The Bentley knew the way home. 

“Should I say thank you?”

“Better not.”

Unfortunately for everyone nearby, an upset demon doesn’t have to lift a finger to spread discord. It permeates the surrounding area, saturating the air and the concrete. 

An art gallery he passed lost a small contract for a new exhibition and would have to start researching anew in the morning. A department store found there was six pound, six shillings and sixpence missing from the tills and couldn’t close until it was accounted for. 

“We could go for a picnic.”  

A group of lads on a stag do lost one of the groomsmen – not as big a deal as losing the groom, but still concerning.  Two ladies found they were a few coins short of being able to pay for coffee and had to go home for one instead. 

“Dine at the Ritz.”

Internal flights were cancelled and international flights delayed throughout Heathrow airport. All the taxis in central London found their fuel tanks empty.

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

By the end of the night, everyone in the Greater London area had suffered a minor-to-moderate inconvenience.

“Evening, Mister Crowley,” George the concierge said flatly as the demon walked numbly through the foyer, clutching a tartan thermos to his chest. George’s wife had been one number off the jackpot at bingo, and his own car had a small puncture in a new tire.

***

Across the city, somewhere in the back room of a Soho bookshop, an angel sobbed into his cocoa as he scoured the Bible for any comforting passages, any sign he was doing the right thing. Aziraphale had to protect Crowley from self-destruction or demonic intervention, but more importantly he had to protect himself from discovery too. Michael had been sniffing around ever since Aziraphale blessed the thermos of water earlier that week. Hello Michael, what a lovely surprise. Oh, this old thing? Just a precaution. Can never be too careful with wily opponents like the demon Crowley lurking around. Cup of tea? Biscuit? Gabriel had even dropped in unannounced yesterday evening for a “surprise appraisal” You’re doing great Aziraphale, buddy, truly amazing job, but maybe find a sport to take up? Gotta keep that lean fighting machine in top condition.

It was too risky right now. They couldn’t be caught together. It would be disastrous for them both. He hoped he had done the right thing. Scanning through the book his eyes fell on a couple of lines in Romans, chapter eight.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God…

“Neither angels nor demons…will be able to separate us from the love of God…” Aziraphale read aloud, his tears subsiding. He closed the Bible and placed it back on the shelf above his desk. He was a Principality. An angel of the Lord God Herself, placed upon this Earth to do and spread Good. He had to focus on that. It was the Right thing to do.

Chapter Text

Now that they were not so much on good speaking terms, but on let’s-get-drunk-and-discuss-sea-creatures terms, and they were going to be working and living on the same estate, Crowley decided it was time to conclusively test some theories. 

Crowley had purposefully over-sexualised her Nanny Ashtoreth outfit, and felt a smug satisfaction as she saw the weather-worn gardener choke on his tea when she first brought Warlock out into the garden for a turn about the grounds. There was something about the strength of the deep red corset holding her serpentine spine straight that gave her far more confidence than any other form had in 6000 years. 

In their fortnightly midnight meetings to discuss Warlock’s progress, making sure they were balancing each other out, Crowley was domineering, confident, and Aziraphale was jovial and open to conversation. In their monthly meetings on their joint day off both of them were quieter, hesitant even as they moved through London, talking about anything else – the weather, the politics, the state of the roads, the new restaurants springing up that they might like to try. Aziraphale smiled at him the same way Brother Francis smiled at Nanny Ashtoreth, but the demon barely noticed. Being in character was so much easier, somehow.

The fortnightly meetings at the house soon became weekly, moving from the house kitchen to Brother Francis’ cottage at the edge of the grounds. Quickly they began to involve great quantities of alcohol, as over the months the discussions of Warlock’s progress became more honed, and they could swiftly deal with business and get on to the much more important matter of getting very, very drunk on the ambassador’s exceptionally good wine. He was never home long enough to drink it anyway. 

Aziraphale had begun these meetings in character across a table, then in costume across the room in an armchair, and lately he often ended up out of the smock altogether, perched on the long sofa next to the demon, who usually ended up sitting legs akimbo, blouse unbuttoned enough to reveal the top of her corset, skirt riding up as she curled up on the sofa in an impossibly serpentine position. Aziraphale had pressed a hand to her knee one night as he said something he thought particularly profound^[7]. A few nights later his hand had accidentally landed on the demon’s thigh when he exclaimed a point, garnering an interesting look from Crowley over her glasses. She had lingered that night as she left, watching the angel’s drunk eyes trying to focus on her face but constantly falling to the visible top of her lingerie, an obvious blush growing across the bridge of his nose. 

That sealed it. Crowley thought it over that night as he laid against the wall. He didn't want to give up the changing back and forth; he liked the freedom of the choice. But if the angel was more attracted to Crowley as a female... Blast it though, he couldn't spend eternity in that corset and pencil skirt, and no matter what reaction it got that shapely figure was going to cause chronic neck-ache sooner or later, even on a serpentine skeleton. Lying on the ceiling, he sat bolt upright at 4am with an idea to test another theory. He went out alone the next day off and bought black women’s jeans, a waistcoat, and some sunglasses the sales girl insisted finished the look off nicely. Crowley was so enamoured with the way they suited his androgynous face that he bought every last pair they had in stock and piled them into the Bentley’s glove compartment. 

Meeting Aziraphale that afternoon for lunch it was evident that the angel was checking out the new pieces, his eyes flickering down more than usual^[8]. Crowley leaned back, trying to show off whilst looking nonchalant. The angel coughed as a piece of cake went down the wrong way. The demon hoped this was working. 

He hoped to get an answer that night when they returned to the angel’s bookshop to drink themselves into a stupor, Crowley too close and Aziraphale too handsy, but the demon passed out rather more quickly than usual and awoke on the sofa alone. Hungover, he dragged himself back to the Bentley, finding himself sober and tetchy by the time he reached the Dowling’s house, irritated that he still had no definitive answer to his theory.

An answer seemed to come a few nights later at the cottage. Aziraphale had started drinking before the demon even got there, and Crowley was whisked through the door and met with large ocean-coloured eyes, pinning her to the spot without the angel placing a finger on her body. Gone was Francis’ long overcoat and ridiculous face. The angel was for once in mercifully few layers, wearing only cream trousers and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. Crowley felt a flutter in her stomach at the sight, and decided she had had enough brushing of hands on knees, enough longing looks. Crowley smiled and span them around, pinning the angel where she had just stood against the door, and landing a harsh kiss on his sweet pink lips. 

Aziraphale may have ditched his Brother Francis disguise for the night, but Crowley was comfortable like this. Besides, she was getting far too good a reaction from Aziraphale as she placed his hands under her unbuttoned blouse and he moaned at the texture of the silk corset. Alright, maybe I will wear this forever. His lips were soft and beginning to part for Crowley, who wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her to deepen the kiss. She sighed contentedly. Was this finally happening? 

A knock at the door made both of them leap apart. In an instant Brother Francis had returned, waving at the demon to hide. She leapt behind the sofa, keeping her head down as she fixed her hair and rebuttoned her blouse. If this was Gabriel, she was going to lose it. Could no one give them five minutes of peace, just one night off duty, just once? Oh, how she wanted to say bugger it to all of this Armageddon malarkey and run far, far away with the angel. Introduce him to the constellations she’d made so long ago.

Aziraphale opened the door.

“Brother Francis?” came a small child’s voice. The demon froze, her chest constricting.

“Heavens, Master Warlock, what are ye doing out in the dark all on yer lonesome?”

“I had a nightmare and Nanny wasn’t in her room,” the child hiccupped, coming into the cottage. Francis knelt, letting the child rest on his knee. 

“There, there, Master Warlock,” he cooed, “It’ll all come to rights. I’m sure Nanny just went for a drink is all.”

“I know she comes here sometimes to see you at night, Brother Francis.”

If Aziraphale flinched the child didn’t notice. Crowley almost discorporated with embarrassment. Damn kids never miss a blasted thing, she thought.

“Oh, sometimes we take a walk about the gardens, Master Warlock. She’s very fond of the night-blooming flowers, ye know. Only don’t tell her I told ye so. Come along now, I’ll walk ye back to the house. I’ll bets we’ll find Nanny in the kitchen fixing a hot chocolate.”

Which was exactly where they found her. Nanny Ashtoreth cooed and fussed, scooping Warlock up in her arms and asking lots of gory details about the nightmare as she let him sip her hot chocolate, magically brewed at the perfect temperature with extra mini marshmallows. When the child finally slumped sleepily against her shoulder, her dark glasses met the angel’s eyes. Her mouth was set in a firm line, the child held tight to her chest. “Goodnight, angel,” she whispered.

“Goodnight,” he replied, resigned.

Crowley carried Warlock upstairs and tucked him carefully into bed, humming their lullaby as she pushed his hair back away from his eyes. Watching the boy until his breathing was steady, Crowley felt a steely resolve form in her chest. This was no time for distractions. She had a child to raise.

Chapter Text

Crowley woke when the bus juddered to a halt in London, his head on the angel’s shoulder, his neck stiff. “You should have pushed me off,” he mumbled, unravelling their hands.

“Nonsense, you were comfortable.”

“Hmm,” the demon cracked his neck. With no small amount of nerves, he turned a little in his seat, trying to look relaxed, “Coming up then?”

Aziraphale nodded primly and gestured for Crowley to lead the way. The lift took seconds to reach Crowley’s penthouse flat because the demon had no patience for it to take longer.

“Uh, make yourself comfortable,” he said, looking around at the bare furnishings and willing up a large soft sofa^[9].

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed as it appeared, then a sharper, disgusted, “Oh!”

“Well if you don’t like the style just say so and I can change it, you don’t have to sound so – oh.” Crowley’s eyes fell on the pile of melted demon in the office doorway that Aziraphale was staring at with horror. He cleared his throat and stepped towards it, “Sorry angel, forgot about that, I’ll clean it up.”

A hand thwacked into his chest, stopping him in his tracks. His eyebrows raised up as he turned to the angel. Aziraphale’s face was stony. “You used the, uh, the Holy water… to defend yourself?”

“Yes…?”

The angel nodded, his mouth a hard line, his eyes growing pink and shiny. His voice was a little thick as he spoke, “You’re not cleaning that up, it will still be dangerous for you. Have you got some gloves and a bag of some sort or a container?”

“Yeah,” he ran and fetched both items from the kitchen cupboards. When he got back and handed them over, Aziraphale gave him a heartfelt smile, “Thank you, dear boy. Now, while I sort this out, you run along and find us something good to drink – and lots of it.” He spoke like a parent trying to jolly a child through a horrendous situation. Crowley decided not to object.

  One cleaned office, a stolen Wet Floor sign, an industrial bin bag of demon in the skip outside, and five bottles of wine later, the pair were laughing heartily, almost giddy, side by side on the sofa with a small distance between them save for Crowley’s foot against Aziraphale’s shin. 

“But Crowley, what does Agnes Nutter’s prophecy mean?” Aziraphale finally asked.

“You mean you don’ geddit??” Crowley slurred.

“No??”

“I- asdjk – be– we have to choose our faces wisssszzely!”

“But what does that meeeean, dear boy?”

“We gotta ssswap… faceszz.”

The angel looked entirely bewildered, “HOW?”

“Like… you did with Madame Tra-”

“That wasn’t a swap face – uh, face swap. That was a possession.”

“Bussesssion same difference,” Crowley waved a hand around, blearily dismissing any concerns daring to arise, “’xactly the same. Easssszzy.”

“Easy for a demon maybe.”

“Pfffft. C’mere.”

“Hmm?”

“C’MERE.”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hands and pulled them both up. They stood together for a moment, holding hands, trying to stop the ground swaying beneath their feet. 

“Gotcha,” the demon said softly, stopping the angel from falling over.

“I know,” Aziraphale mumbled, too much of his weight in Crowley’s slender hands.

“Ok, focussss.”

“On what?”

“On me.”

“Oh… okay.”

It took a few attempts, and a begrudging half-sobering-up, but finally both felt a tingling sensation in their limbs, up their necks and over their scalps; the type you feel just before you realise you’re going to faint, or when you think there’s another step at the top of the stairs. When it faded each opened their eyes to see their own faces looking back at them.

“WAHOOOO!” Crowley screamed in celebration with the angel’s mouth, his beige-clothed arms raised in the air, and the effect sent them both into a fit of laughter.

“Do it again!” Aziraphale choked out of the demon’s cackling mouth, “Oh please do it again!!” But Crowley was bent double in the angel’s soft body, wheezing with laughter, begging Aziraphale to stop asking.

Hours later, having tutored and critiqued each other’s performances, the pair collapsed on the floor, propping themselves up against the sofa, both staring off into the shadows of the flat in quiet reverie. Crowley watched his own hand reach over and take the angel’s hand – now his – and lace their fingers together. He moved his ocean-blue eyes up to meet Aziraphale’s reptilian ones, staring back at him with an unfathomable emotion. He had never seen his own eyes so open. Somehow the angel’s radiance was glowing out of his angular demonic face. The sight froze the words in his throat, and he turned away, coughing slightly.

“Could we still go to Alpha Centauri?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley laughed softly, a bitter edge to the sound, “Bit late for that now I think.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale huffed, a sad smile uncharacteristic on the demon’s face, “Well. Time to get ready for the inevitable showdown, my dear. It’s almost sunrise.” Aziraphale said with Crowley’s voice, squeezing his hand, “I’d better head out, we can’t have it look like I stayed the night here… though I don’t suppose it really matters now, after all  they do know that we worked together.”

“Uh, angel,” came the angel’s own soft voice, “You have to stay here. This is my – uh, your – flat.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale laughed, a sweeter sound than Crowley’s mouth was used to, “Oh, of course! How silly of me.”

Crowley shuffled the angel’s weight, preparing to get up. He made the fatal error of glancing back into Aziraphale’s – his – face, and his breath caught as the thought crossed his mind that this might be his last chance. They had no idea how tomorrow was going to go down, just that for him at least it likely involved Hellfire. He leaned in and closed his eyes. His own hand pushed him gently away.

“Not yet, dear boy,” Aziraphale said softly. 

Crowley’s angelic mouth wobbled for a moment, a rejection by his own body and his own voice stinging just a little more than he felt it should. All too quickly Aziraphale’s hand was empty, and his body was gone, the door clicking shut.

“Not yet, dear boy,” Aziraphale repeated to the empty room, his head lolling back onto the sofa cushions, his amber eyes squeezing shut, “It feels too much like goodbye.”

Chapter Text

Fingers barely an inch apart on the white tablecloth, bright eyes met amber eyes through tinted sunglasses. Aziraphale had just finished recounting the story of his journey on the flying motorbike as Madame Tracy with Shadwell, and Crowley had been creased up laughing, wiping tears from beneath his sunglasses and garnering stares from the other patrons. Tonight he didn’t care. In the afterglow of the laughter swirling about as headily as the wine in his system, he took a steadying breath in and asked what he had been wanting to ask all evening, “Want to…stay at my place again?” Unblinking, Crowley tilted his head, watching Aziraphale with the tension of an animal prepared to bolt. 

The angel’s smile was incandescent as he closed the distance between their hands and squeezed, “That would be wonderful, my dear.” 

They walked back to Crowley’s flat from the Ritz, not wanting to sober up just yet. Aziraphale was humming a soft jazz tune Crowley vaguely recognised, from the 1940s perhaps, something about nightingales, as they passed the reception and swayed their way into the obedient lift. 

They were barely out of the lift and through the front door when Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the wrist. The touch felt like an electric shock and the demon felt his traitorous arm break out in goosebumps. Curse this corporeal form. He was internally damning it to somewhere when he looked up and met Aziraphale’s intense gaze. It felt like someone dropped a rock into his stomach. It was a lovely and horrible feeling all at once. He didn’t think the angel had ever looked at him this way when he was like this. He tried to pull his arm back and only succeeded in encouraging Aziraphale to follow, stepping to close the space between them. Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s wrist to slip his fingers through the demon’s, holding too tightly for him to escape. Aziraphale looked like he was about to cry. Crowley was thankful his sunglasses were still on because he probably looked more like prey about to be hit by a truck. 

“Crowley, dear, I must tell you - ”

“Angel wha- what are you doing?” Crowley said at the same time and instantly regret filled his veins, mixing horribly with the alcohol.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Aziraphale took a step back, removing his hand from the demon’s to wring his own together, swaying a little in the corridor. “Crowley,” he started again, glancing up before moving his gaze anywhere else, “When I was… well, when I was down there, and I saw what it was like and… and what they were planning to do to you with the… with the… water - I mean what they did to that poor little demon…” he shuddered, blinking hard, “I could have… we could have… lost each other today.” Aziraphale hiccupped, “I don’t want to let you out of my sight for a month. For a century. A mill - a millnn- Forever. I can’t lose you, Crowley. I care far too dearly for you, and...” His voice was too emotional; Crowley was too drunk for this. Aziraphale had moved towards him again, and now Crowley found him drifting back and forth in his blurred vision into two angels, then one, then back to two. Reminded Crowley of a brilliant dream he’d had once… 

“My dear boy, are you alright? Oh, you must be so tired, shall we go to bed?”

“Hhhngk,” Crowley choked, steadying himself on the wall until there was only one angel in front of him asking him to bed. One angel with bright eyes filled with more love than any eyes should be able to carry, with such soft hands reaching for Crowley, making him wonder if those pink lips were still as soft or softer. He began to reach for Aziraphale in return and paused, the memory of countless rejections making him distastefully more sober. “Hna – Hng – Hang on,” he managed. Cracking his neck and feeling just drunk enough to manage this, he snapped his fingers.

Nanny Ashtoreth crowded Aziraphale against the wall, sneering down at him from those four inches extra height the heels gave her. It boosted Crowley’s confidence to no end. The angel’s eyes were huge, and Crowley took the reaction as increased arousal, exactly the effect she had hoped to illicit. She scraped a perfectly manicured nail down the angel’s neck, practically purring wicked things into his ear as she aggressively pinned him. Aziraphale fidgeted, trying to form coherent words, eventually stumbling over, “Cr- Crow-OH-leeeeey, Crowley, please! This isn’t – oh dear, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Oh?” Ashtoreth’s crimson lips pouted, and her heels clacked on the hard floor as she stepped backwards, examining herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the front door. With a snap of the fingers Crowley was back in her seduction form from 1921, her long figure beautifully draped in crimson, her curls shorter and tighter. She twisted this way and that, looking in the mirror, and then turned back to Aziraphale, her nose scrunched up in distaste, “A bit old-fashioned maybe?”

The angel, still with his back to the wall, too drunk to follow what on earth kind of whim the demon was going off on now, simply watched. Crowley turned back to the mirror, considering her appearance with deep care. She couldn’t bring herself to try her form from the Madame painting, not after the bad reception it had received; and not even an invitation back to Heaven from God herself would make Crowley wear anything from the 14th century again. Although the long hair was nice, just updated a bit maybe… 

“Do you want something new, angel?” she finally asked, and with a snap of her fingers had transformed again. 

Aziraphale gasped. Crowley’s hair fell in stunning Pre-Raphaelite curls past her shoulders. Bright red lips fell slightly apart, and her amber eyes were dark, sunglasses forgotten. A flowing white blouse, hiding nothing of her lightly curved figure, was tucked loosely into a tight leather pencil skirt, and the heels were more comfortable though no less high. She towered over Aziraphale again as she came closer, her voice a softer and deeper drawl of dulcet Scottish tones, “What do you think of thisss then, angel? Will this fulfil your needsss for tonight?” This new Crowley bit down seductively on her bottom lip as her gaze dragged up Aziraphale’s soft body, “Or forever. I could ssstay like this forever, if that’s what you would prefer, angel.”

Aziraphale felt lost as he listened to Crowley go rambling on, her blush growing with every slurred sentence, the odd sibilant S betraying her nerves. He tried to interject a few times but given that Crowley had no need to breathe the angel found he had no chance. He firmly grabbed Crowley by her small waist to stop her moving around, trying to get her attention. He did, but not in the way he intended. She took his touch as an invitation and, with a quick questioning look into his eyes, leaned in to plant a bright red kiss on Aziraphale’s lips. The angel startled a little but then relaxed into it as, beneath the soapy taste of the lipstick, he could taste a familiar mixture of embers and burnt sugar and something that was just… Crowley, he thought, sighing into the kiss, oh my dear, dear Crowley, what on earth has brought all this on? He broke from the kiss, “Crowley dear - ”

“What?” Crowley’s voice cracked. Aziraphale’s eyes snapped up to meet the demon’s broken gaze. Her smeared red lips were downturned, as she gestured to herself, “I thought this was what you wanted.” 

“Crowley, dear, what do you mean?” 

“I don’t - ” the demon panted, “I don’t understand. Whenever I’ve been in this form you’ve... you’ve just always reacted better... or seemed to react better and…” Crowley struggled around syllables for a moment, before almost whispering, “I thought you preferred me as a woman.”

Aziraphale looked aghast, “What?? Oh, my dear Crowley!” He sobered up fully then, trying to search through all of their encounters in his long memory, still thoroughly confused. Aziraphale had barely noticed that much difference. Crowley was Crowley. But then his own love for the demon tended to cloud most things. “Give me an example?”

“Well – I – ” the demon sputtered, “Well for starters, Golgotha! Those little kisses!”

“I was trying to calm you. I didn’t know what else to do. You were beyond distraught,” Aziraphale stood a little taller, remembering that night, “And I seem to recall it was you who kissed me on the mouth and then never said a word about it afterwards.”

“Hgnk,” the demon replied, “In Rome I wasn’t distraught when I kissed you and you overreacted.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale almost whined, “We still barely knew each other then – I was extremely drunk. And so were you. You didn’t give me time to think it over. You nearly ran out of that place.”

“You accused me of tempting you!!” 

“You missed desert. The pears were lovely.”

“Angel,” Crowley growled. “AH! HA!! Nice! Nice, France!”

“I do know where Nice is, my dear.”

“You were ogling me on that beach. I saw you. You couldn’t keep your eyes off me.”

Aziraphale blushed beetroot red and shuffled, “You were putting on quite the show, my dear. All that stretching in that tight swimsuit. And if you’re going to bring up France, it was you who disappeared while we were having crêpes. I was having a lovely date with you.”

“I had orders,” the demon lied, ignoring the way the word ‘date’ made her heart skip.

“Oh, I’m sure,” the angel rolled his eyes.

“Well what about when I rescued you from those Nazis in that blasted church and you didn’t even invite me in for a drink?”

Aziraphale sighed, rubbing his eyes. That day had been very overwhelming; this day was looking to be equally so.

Crowley’s mind flashed over the greatest rejection, after Aziraphale handed over a tartan flask filled with a fatal insurance policy. Crowley chose not to bring it up, still feeling too raw from that particular conversation half a century later. “Couldn’t keep your hands off me when I was Warlock’s Nanny,” the demon continued. Aziraphale barked an objection and claimed the opposite - that Crowley couldn’t keep her hands off him - but Crowley carried on, “And what about last night? You turned me down again.”

Tears filled the angel’s eyes then, and his voice was thick and choked as he met Crowley’s gaze, “I didn’t mean to turn you down, Crowley. I…I couldn’t say goodbye to you. Not as simply as that.”

Crowley’s stopped for a moment, a little winded by Aziraphale’s candid clarification. She carried on, wanting after all this time to finish her point, “I thought we’d become… I don’t know, closer… recently…and anyway I figured it was because I was making more of an effort to be more…feminine, even when I wasn’t strictly speaking…”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Crowley, we’ve grown closer because we’ve been together almost every day for 11 years now!! What on earth could possess you to think it was only because I was more attracted to you in certain forms, I can’t believ- ” 

Aziraphale stopped as he realised Crowley had lost all her wind and seemed deflated. The angel’s eyebrows pressed together as he watched her crumpling face. Without much of his usual finesse, he wrapped her in a tight hug. “I’m so sorry if I ever gave you that impression,” he said, settling into the warm embrace against the tense demon. He leaned back a little to look at Crowley, running a finger along her sharp cheekbone as he gazed into those fiery irises, “For the record, Crowley, I like you. Always. Whatever form you’re in and whether you want me to call you Crowley or Anthony or Ashtoreth or whatever this new…” Aziraphale felt his throat tighten and he swallowed, resisting the urge to undress Crowley’s current presentation with his eyes, “well, you look quite… quite delectable in this particular form, my dear.” Crowley blushed. Aziraphale continued, “What I’m trying to say is, I love you. For you. As you. I just want you. In whatever form you’re most comfortable.”

“Oh,” Crowley breathed, blushing deeper red with the ridiculousness of centuries of thinking a specific effort had to be made to gain the angel’s attention. But, glancing down her current presentation, she felt her stomach drop at the thought of switching forms. Could she take another rejection? Her mouth wobbled and she sniffled.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, a hand on the side of her face, large eyes fixed on hers as he smiled. 

She nodded, nerves eating away at her. Only one way to find out. With a snap of the fingers, Crowley was back to how he had been minutes ago, flat-chested and skinny-hipped, all in black and leather, fitted waistcoat and short hair. “So… you would want me like this too?”

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically, wrapped an arm around Crowley’s thin waist and pulled him in for another kiss, this one slower and deeper and more reverential than the last. Crowley felt like he was being worshipped – a demon worshipped by an angel – and the thought made his knees weak. Feeling him slipping downwards, Aziraphale turned them around and hastily pushed the demon up against the wall, their hips bumping together. Crowley moaned into his mouth. Aziraphale broke into a wide grin, pressing their foreheads together.

“But equally,” the angel added, a little breathless, playing with the belt loops on Crowley’s tight trousers, “as much as I do adore you in this particular form, I want you to be happy and to be you, whatever that means for you today or tomorrow or for the next century. I don’t mind. Just please don’t ever change on my account. I’ll take you any which way you come, Crowley. Though if I do have any say in the matter, I would rather like to play with your long hair for a little while.” Aziraphale ran a hand through the short auburn locks, already missing those curls. 

Crowley’s brain had short-circuited at the words take you and come Crowley, even knowing their double meaning would be lost on the angel^[10], yet he somehow managed to pull himself together enough to summon back the long curls. Seeing Aziraphale’s face breaking into that smile only reserved for particularly excellent cake and Crowley, the demon was quick to find his way back into the angel’s arms, their sweet lips meeting in another moan-inducing kiss to explore, to worship, to take each other any which way they might come.