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Crowley felt claustrophobic. She’d become habituated to having a certain amount of room to tuck her multidimensional body in, and the space she’d got stuck in didn’t offer enough of it, nor did it provide the usual equipment, and she couldn’t get out. She’d always feared this would happen one day. How could she have been so careless?
“Technically, it’s my fault,” Aziraphale said, her face showing that little self-incriminating frown that broke Crowley’s heart every time she witnessed it. “If I’d just remembered to lock the door, none of this would’ve happened.”
That reasoning was, needless to say, utterly ridiculous. “That’s bordering on butterfly effect logic, angel.”
“Well, then. I suppose we could take the traditional course and blame the alcohol.”
“Poor alcohol. Always gets blamed for everything.”
They’d spent the morning manually stacking books into boxes. Aziraphale had insisted the containers be human-made instead of miracled up from raw firmament, and Crowley had grumbled as she’d helped the angel seal them with sellotape.
“It’s not like a bit of magic would hurt them.”
Aziraphale tutted. “That’s true, but I prefer not to use it when it isn’t at all necessary. They’ve already been through a lot.”
Crowley sighed and handed her a meticulously taped-up box. “I know.”
Aziraphale had no intention of surrendering even a fraction of her book-keeping principles, as much as they slowed the process. The way she kept getting distracted by every other book certainly didn’t help either.
“You’ll have all the time in the world to read after we move, you know? Just, please, let’s finish this,” Crowley tried to persuade her, over and over, in various renditions. It stressed her out how many books were still left, and they were getting nowhere.
When the demon realised her argument had no effect whatsoever, she’d taken to just slowly enunciating Aziraphale’s name whenever Aziraphale got absorbed in yet another tome, as if trying to wake her up. After that, she settled on merely snickering, and when she was ignored, draped herself around Aziraphale from behind, hoping the angel would get the hint.
The only reaction it produced was Aziraphale lifting one hand to absent-mindedly stroke Crowley’s forearm whilst she continued reading.
“Angel. This is driving me nuts. If you don’t hurry up, I’ll just snap my fingers and be done with it.”
Aziraphale looked up from the book, glancing sideways at Crowley, who’d buried her face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck lazily.
“Ah. I’m so sorry, dear,” said the angel.
“Whatever. What would you say to some lunch, huh? Can’t say we’ve earned it, but I’m bored out of my skull.”
After lunch, they relaxed on Aziraphale’s sofa and had a glass of wine, which turned into two.
“So, whatever are we celebrating?” Aziraphale asked as she watched Crowley fill their glasses for the third time.
Crowley hummed in thought. “Repairing the cottage? It was hard work, after all. Had to learn all of those things about insulation so I’d get it right. We deserve a celebration.”
“We indulged ourselves quite a bit after we bought it,” Aziraphale countered, although her protest was visibly half-hearted and, as they both knew, completely for show. “And then when we cleared the clutter and rearranged the rooms.”
Crowley shrugged. “Any excuse for drinking is a valid excuse.”
“That doesn’t sound very healthy, dear,” Aziraphale remarked, as she lifted her glass to her lips. It was one of those oversized glasses which could technically fit the content of an entire bottle in them, though of course, Crowley didn’t do that; she wasn’t a complete barbarian. Or, at least, she didn’t do it in company.
“My liver hasn’t complained yet,” Crowley said. “Probably won’t, if it knows what’s good for it. Cheers.”
Neither of them got in the mood to continue packing up as the day progressed. Instead, they nursed their drinks and squabbled over the interior design of their new home. For some reason, the drunker Crowley got, the less adamant she became about refined minimalist aesthetics, and the more she daydreamed about cuddling up with Aziraphale on some tasteless, floral-patterned settee with an excessive amount of blankets and cushions.
It was early evening, after the wall clock had struck seven, when Aziraphale thought she could hear faint knocking. A few seconds later, the chime above the front door tinkled.
An annoyed frown crinkled Aziraphale’s forehead. “Don’t tell me I’ve forgotten to lock the door.”
“Hello?” a high-pitched voice called from the main area of the shop.
Aziraphale sighed and started to lift herself up from the sofa. Crowley stumbled up as well, grasping the angel’s forearm.
“Wait, wait,” she whispered conspiratorially and then giggled. “We’ve got to scare them off. Prop’ly. Wait.”
Aziraphale stared at her blankly, eyebrows slightly raised. “Yes, dear, I’m waiting.”
Crowley closed her eyes and waved a hand. “Gotta concen– concentrate.”
Aziraphale continued watching her expectantly. It took about three attempts in her inebriated state, but at last Crowley achieved her transformation.
Now a twelve-foot-long black snake of undetermined species, she looped across the floorboards. Lifting her head from the ground, she waited until Aziraphale leant down and offered her her arm. The demon twined around it, slithering up and winding herself around Aziraphale’s shoulders. She draped the rest of her body across Aziraphale’s chest like a sash, twisting around her soft torso.
Aziraphale staggered under the added weight. “I can’t guarantee I won’t topple over if I attempt to walk,” she said. “You are quite heavy, you know.”
Unblinking yellow eyes stared at her blearily. Alarmingly, the pupil was alternating between contracting and dilating. It probably wasn’t a good idea for a snake to imbibe alcohol. “You’ll be fine,” Crowley assured her in a low voice.
“Hello?” the voice came again, melodic and tentative.
“Just a second!” Aziraphale called back. She stumbled into the main body of the bookshop.
The customer – a tall, serious-looking person in a fashionable autumn coat – stared at her with wide eyes.
Aziraphale lacked quite a portion of self-reflection in her current state and therefore couldn’t properly appreciate the sight she must have made just then – a middle-aged woman in slightly rumpled trousers and waistcoat, wobbling unsteadily from the back of the shop with her eyes tellingly glassy. And of course, there was the venomous-looking serpent wrapped around her person, with its closed mouth pressed practically directly against her jugular.
“How can I help you?” Aziraphale smiled amicably.
I’m in the presence of a lunatic, the customer thought, their own neck tingling in alarm at the sight of the bookshop owner potentially a millisecond away from having her throat ripped out. No rapid movements, they told themself.
Crowley raised her neck in a languid motion, stretching it forward and flattening it menacingly. She fixed the customer with her disconcerting stare.
“Oh, I was…” the person stammered, “I was looking for…”
They tried to keep their eyes on the bookseller’s face and ignore the reptile hanging off of her. It didn’t help that said reptile’s eyes peered at them from right beside the woman’s head.
“I’d like – I’m looking for an original French copy of Nostradamus’ Prophecies. A friend told me you might have it.” Said friend had also warned them about the crazy person who ran the place.
Crowley let out a slow hiss and swiftly slithered down Aziraphale’s frame until she touched the floor. Her sleek scales shimmered in the dim yellow light of the lamp hanging in the centre of the room. She raised her head in the shopper’s direction, tongue flicking out repeatedly. She noted with satisfaction that they were looking at her and opened her mouth a fraction, enough to show sharp fangs.
The person took a step back. They had the distinct impression that the serpent was grinning at them. The bookseller appeared entirely unbothered. “Or, or you know what, I’ll come back another time,” they babbled, chuckling awkwardly. “It’s late, isn’t it? I’d better go. Yeah.”
“No problem,” Aziraphale beamed. “Have a nice evening.”
“Yeah. You too,” the customer called over their shoulder as they retreated towards the exit, and then the door clanked shut behind them. Aziraphale teetered over, checking the sign hanging on the door. The side proclaiming “OPEN” was facing the inside of the shop.
“The nerve of some people,” she muttered, locking the door and pulling down the blind.
She clasped her hands. “Well, that’s that. Thank you, dear.”
She crouched down next to Crowley and petted her head for a while. Crowley leant into the affectionate touch.
“Do you want to change back now?” Aziraphale asked. “I doubt anyone else will be coming in.”
“Yeah, I’d better. ‘Sss not much fun being like thisss after drinking.” Crowley’s voice sounded different than it did when she dwelled in her usual body; it remained a whisper no matter how loudly she wished to speak, and her forked tongue tended to draw out sibilants.
Aziraphale regarded her expectantly, waiting for her to morph into humanoid form.
“It’s not working,” Crowley hissed after a few moments.
“It isn’t?” Aziraphale kept her own voice low to match Crowley’s.
“’M too drunk,” Crowley sighed. There was forced calm in her voice. “Gotta wait to sssober up.”
“Can’t you speed that up?”
“It’s difficult to do when I’m like this,” Crowley explained.
“Never mind, dear,” replied Aziraphale. “We can talk this way just fine. Although, it’s probably not a good idea for you to continue consuming alcohol.”
“No ssshhit, Ssshherlock.”
“Would you mind if I picked you up?” Aziraphale asked tentatively.
Crowley replied, “‘S fine.”
Aziraphale took her in her hands and carried her into the back room. She seated herself on the sofa, and Crowley coiled up in her lap.
“Could you read me something from that book on permaculture Anathema forsssed on me?” Crowley requested. “I’ve been meaning to check it out.”
“She hardly forced it on you,” Aziraphale huffed. “As far as I recall, you seemed quite interested.”
Crowley squirmed and got comfortable. Not long after, Aziraphale’s lilting voice recounting who-knows-what about mulching lulled her to sleep.
When Crowley woke up, the first thing she noticed was that her skin felt too tight, and when she wanted to shift her body into a more comfortable position, she found it wasn’t moving the way she’d expected it to.
It took her a few confused seconds to find her bearings. She’d never woken up as a snake before – she’d taken care specifically not to fall asleep like that.
She focused on transforming back to her preferred shape. For some reason, nothing happened, and oh, shit. This was one of her deeply buried fears. It was happening, wasn’t it? She wasn’t able to change back, just as she’d feared she wouldn’t be able to one day.
Panic seized her. Fuck, fuck. She’d known it. Whenever she’d spent time in this body, she’d always felt as if she were in danger of getting stuck in a locked room whose keys she didn’t have.
“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale greeted when she noticed Crowley had started shifting. “I wasn’t sure if you were awake. It’s hard to tell when you don’t shut your eyes.” She paused. “Is there something wrong?”
“Of course something’s wrong.” The hissing made it difficult to get the words out, which only added to her irritation and anxiety. “I’m a sssnake.”
Aziraphale smoothed a hand over Crowley’s dorsal scales. “I thought that was rather a part of your existence.”
Crowley let out a stream of air. “I’m not able to change back.”
Aziraphale’s hand stilled. “Perhaps it’s the hangover?”
Crowley swayed her head from side to side. “That’s never prevented me from exssecuting any miraclesss.”
“Well, changing your shape isn’t a miracle sensu stricto, is it? It’s far more complex.”
“I suppose,” Crowley said in a dejected hiss. “I’m cold, though.”
“Oh dear. Of course,” Aziraphale said guiltily, turning up the nearest heating with a snap of her fingers. Crowley wasn’t sure the heating had physically been there before, but the temperature rose, so there was nothing to complain about.
Her head hurt as if she’d drunk a great deal more than she had in reality, and she felt overall miserable. She lay curled in an armchair while Aziraphale shuffled around the shop, attempting to get on with the packing.
The headache and nausea gradually receded, and by noon Crowley felt right as rain, except for the frustration that stemmed from suddenly not having limbs at her disposal. The ability to revert to her bipedal form still seemed out of reach, and at this point, panic had seeped between her scales and had a grip on her every thought. Her heart would’ve been beating rapidly had she been in an endothermic body, but as it was, it didn’t seem to have got the memo, leaving Crowley with no outlet for her mounting terror.
She’d always been careful not to remain in this form for too long. The fact that her foreboding had been justified didn’t bring much comfort.
At least she’d retained the ability to speak.
Aziraphale hadn’t yet seemed to realise how serious Crowley’s predicament was. She’d made cocoa and resumed where she’d left off the day before, standing in front of the bookcase and getting lost in stories and treatises. Occasionally, she surrendered one of the volumes to the cardboard box.
Crowley glided over to her, wrapping a part of her body around one of her legs. She knew her grip must’ve been a shade too tight, but she was unable to help herself. At least she got Aziraphale’s attention immediately.
“I can’t change back, Asssiraphale,” she told her, voice a wobbly rush of air. “I’m serious. I can’t do it.”
Aziraphale peered down at her, forehead creasing as a serious expression overtook her face. She relinquished the book she was currently holding, placing it into the box, and bent down. She held out her arm, and Crowley detached herself from Aziraphale’s leg to curl around her upper limb. She settled in her favourite spot on the angel’s shoulders.
“Has it ever happened before?” Aziraphale inquired.
“No. Haven’t been ssss – fuck – ssstupid enough to fall asleep, drunk, like this yet.”
Aziraphale frowned. “Now, don’t talk about yourself that way, dear.”
If snakes could roll their eyes, Crowley would have. “What else am I supposed to say? Oh, hooray for getting an idea so brilliant that it landed me in a situation where I can’t shapeshift?” Crowley’s hiss gained a strangled, high-pitched quality.
Aziraphale stroked her coils. “I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”
“What if it won’t, though?” Crowley said, leaning her flat head against Aziraphale’s collar bone. “I feel like there’s a… barrier blocking me from changing. Every time I try, it just stops me.”
“It might be easier if you weren’t so stressed.”
Crowley exhaled, forked tongue fluttering. “I’m not sure if I can be anything but stressed right now. It feels like I’m locked up in a very small spassse with no way of getting out.”
“Oh, love,” Aziraphale cooed, an unhappy crease between her eyebrows. “Is there something I can do to help?”
“Don’t think so. You do your thing. I’ll just… rest, I guessss,” Crowley hissed unhappily.
Aziraphale’s shoulders remained tense under Crowley’s body, and she now piled the books into their temporary storage at a faster pace, as if the distress prevented her from losing herself between lines of print.
Crowley didn’t dare nap, as she feared that sleeping would somehow strengthen the wall that had arisen between her two corporations. Her current form felt separated from her usual one in a way it hadn’t done before.
“If I’m too heavy, I can get back down,” Crowley hissed into Aziraphale’s neck a few hours after she’d made the angel’s shoulders her residence.
“It’s all right, dear,” Aziraphale assured her. “It’s not like I can’t help myself with a miracle or two.”
Crowley relaxed. Lying on the angel’s shoulders soothed her, as did the light movements of Aziraphale’s hand on her scales. She still couldn’t figure out how to transform, but found the panic it invoked easier to quash, simply settling into Aziraphale’s warmth as if wrapping herself in a fluffy blanket.
Crowley didn’t sleep a wink during the night. She had no intention of detaching herself from her personal walking heater, who sat in an armchair until the morning with a book on her lap.
Dawn returned the panic full-force. She felt trapped. Tears of frustration and fear built up behind her eyes, but she couldn’t even cry in this form, bless it.
She partially slid down from Aziraphale’s shoulders, wrapping herself around the angel’s torso. It felt nice but still rather unsatisfying compared to the way Crowley could wrap her arms around the angel when she possessed a pair of said appendages.
“Perhaps Anathema could help,” Aziraphale suggested.
Anathema had somehow become their personal advisor, relationship counsellor, therapist and décor specialist – or more accurately, the décor conciliator. Their tentative friendship had started when Aziraphale had bullied Crowley into driving them over to Tadfield so that she could offer the witch biscuits by way of apology for stealing her book. She hadn’t felt particularly guilty about it, all things considered, but had concluded apologising was the proper thing to do. Anathema had had a whole list of questions prepared for them and had launched into an interrogation while they’d snacked on the biscuits Aziraphale had grudgingly miracled dairy-free.
“Aziraphale, hello,” Anathema’s voice rang out from the receiver. She sounded out of breath. “Could you call later?”
“Oh. Oh dear,” Aziraphale stammered, face heating up. “Of course. I’m so sorry.”
On the other end, Anathema rolled her eyes. “I’m in the middle of my morning jog. You know, just because some people are more active in bed than you two old fossils doesn’t mean they have sex all the time.”
“Ah, certainly,” Aziraphale conceded. “Terribly sorry.”
“So, what is it?” Anathema prompted long-sufferingly.
“Well, Crowley’s got into a bit of a predicament. She seems to be stuck as a snake and isn’t able to change back as she normally would.”
Crowley, coiled in Aziraphale’s lap as the angel made the call, tried not to wait too eagerly for Anathema’s reply.
“And you think I’ll be able to help why, exactly?” the witch asked evenly.
Aziraphale shrugged before realising Anathema couldn’t see her. “It was just a… just a thought, really. I thought you might have some information.”
“On people changing into animals? Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t know anyone who can do that.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said in a very small voice.
Anathema sighed. She still wasn’t quite sure why a six-thousand-year old ethereal being came to her for advice. And don’t even get her started on the occult entity visiting to deplete her alcohol stash and wail about her surely unrequited love. They seemed to have sorted that out, at least. “Well, have you tried the traditional method?”
“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, hope already sparking in her chest.
“The Frog Prince?” Anathema said, the “duh” remaining unpronounced.
“I do know The Frog Prince,” Aziraphale said, dismay leaking into her voice. “If you mean to solve this the way they did in that fairy tale, then I’m not sure I…” She leant over Crowley slightly, gathering her closer with one hand as if trying to protect her from the very idea.
“Look, I’m not trying to tell you how to navigate your relationship,” Anathema replied slowly, “but I’m sure it isn’t that much of a hardship?” Attempting to keep the cheeky grin from her voice, she added, “I mean, I could do it for you if you really don’t want to.”
“She’sss probably talking about the modern version, angel,” Crowley interjected.
“Oh. I assume there’s not the part with the princess tossing the frog against a wall, then?” Aziraphale said.
“Nope,” Crowley confirmed.
“Yeah, definitely not what I meant. No chucking animals against walls on my watch,” Anathema’s tinny voice assured her. “Not even if they’re demons. Especially if they’re demons, in your case, of course.”
“Oh, thank the Lord,” Aziraphale exhaled, caressing the black scales under her palm absent-mindedly. “For a moment there I worried you were suggesting…”
“What I meant was... in the modern version, the princess kisses the frog,” Anathema said. “Have you tried that?”
“I haven’t,” Aziraphale said. “And come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I have heard of this modern version you’re talking about. I just didn’t immediately connect it.”
“Yeah. Well, I really can’t think of anything else to advise you.”
“That’s all right. Your help is very much appreciated. Toodle pip.”
Aziraphale hung the receiver onto the hooks, looking down at Crowley.
“Well, that’s a load of bollocks,” Crowley hissed. “But I won’t say no to a kissss.”
Aziraphale gave her an affectionate smile and leant down to press her lips lightly on the crown of Crowley’s head.
The following second, she had a lapful of awkwardly sprawled human-shaped demon, sliding halfway off of her. Crowley’s limbs didn’t register the change fast enough to gain purchase, and she landed in a heap on the floor.
“Fuck,” she muttered, feeling highly ungraceful (and not only in the day-to-day sense).
“Are you all right, dear?” Aziraphale asked, pushing her chair back and offering a hand to Crowley.
Crowley took it and scrambled up. “Yeah. Although, I don’t know if I want to acknowledge it actually worked.”
“I’d say it’s –”
Crowley groaned. “Please, spare me. I’d prefer if you kissed me again, for good measure. I’m not completely sold on just one kiss cutting it.”
Aziraphale’s lips quirked and creased in the way they did when she was amused and full of emotion all at once. She cupped Crowley’s face and kissed her gently. Crowley wound her arms around her, overjoyed that she’d regained the ability to do so.
“Shit,” she mumbled then, hugging Aziraphale close, “I got a bit scared for a moment there.”
Aziraphale rubbed her back. “So did I. I’m so glad you’re all right again, dear.”
“Mhm. I’m still not feeling entirely up to snuff. I think I need another kiss or two.”
“You don’t have to trick me into kissing you, you know,” Aziraphale said before pressing her lips against Crowley’s anew.
It was a damp afternoon, the sort that abounded in autumn, and colourful leaves glistened underneath the footsteps of a group of eight- and nine-year-olds. They headed into the forest to play an outdoor version of hide-and-seek whose defining characteristic was that it was played in an unrestricted area. You can imagine how well that worked – it was great fun for everyone except for the one who did the counting.
A frog hopped across the path in front of them. Its leaps had an air of aggressive annoyance about them.
“Hey, look at that frog,” said one of the kids.
“I’ve never seen a frog that big,” piped up a short child with blonde hair, who was a new addition to the group and therefore would be picked for counting. They didn’t know that yet.
“Or so ugly!” exclaimed another kid.
A rascal with a crew cut and glasses immediately descended upon the animal to catch it. Before the amphibian could register what was going on, the child, whose name was Ady, had enclosed it firmly between their palms.
“You should kiss it,” suggested the kid who’d spotted the frog first. “Maybe it’s an enchanted prince.”
The rest of the gang began cackling and cheering Ady on.
Ady had never been one to back down before a challenge, so they grinned and kissed the frog’s slimy green back as the other kids made retching noises.
The frog started growing in size at a startling speed, and Ady dropped it in shock. A person, who looked nothing like a prince, appeared where the frog had been. The kids shrieked.
Hastur shrieked back and ran off, disappearing between the trees.