Archive of Our Own

The serpent of Eden lurks in the shadows for a long time.

He 'tempts' the humans, and they leave the garden, and only then does he re-emerge from his warm, comfortable hiding spot. He is aware that there is an angel guarding the gates, aware too that Eden won't be a refuge for him much longer, and he'll be sorry to leave the sun and the plants behind.

The serpent, Crawley, stops when he spots the angel. He's standing looking out at the horizon, and he's a sharp contrast to Crawley. His robes and wings are heavenly white, and Crawley lets out a small hiss. It's more curious than malicious.

The thing is, he hasn't had a proper conversation in years. Good company is far and few between in Hell, and sometimes Crawley just wants to have a chat. Even if it is with an angel, who will probably be as stuck up and snobbish as the rest of them.

On second thought, perhaps engaging an angel in conversation is a bad idea. But Crawley is a demon, so shouldn't bad ideas be his speciality?

Crawley hesitates, considering his approach. After a long moment he slithers towards the angel and takes on his human form.

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon." Crawley says casually, as if he hadn't spent the last five minutes coming up with something clever to say.

From that moment on, it becomes a pattern. He finds Aziraphale in every corner of history and he always, always hesitates to greets him. Then he does it anyway.

It's 3004 B.C, and the sun is beating on Crawley's back. His dark robe does nothing to sate the heat, and he can feel his long hair sticking to the back of his neck.

He looks around curiously, and it's then that his eyes catch on the angel from Eden. After a moments hesitation, wherein he considers all of the reasons he probably shouldn't continue their acquaintance, Crawley slips through the crowd. He's serpent-like as he smoothly appears behind Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Hello, Aziraphale." He says warmly. He learned the angel's name in the garden, when he had sheltered Crawley's from the rain with an extended wing.

"Crawley." Aziraphale returns, with a frown.

Perhaps Crawley is a little too enthusiastic about meeting the angel again. But he's been rather bored lately, and running into Aziraphale was a nice distraction. After all, in Eden their conversation had been a pleasant surprise. When Aziraphale had said, I gave it away, Crawley had been terribly amused. Who knew angels could be interesting?

He can't help but bring it up again. He's smug and smirking as he drawls,

"So, giving the mortals a flaming sword, how did that work out for you?"

In Aziraphale's personal space, looking directly at him, Crawley continues the conversation for as long as he can. Aziraphale tells him all about the ark, and Crawley feels a wave of shock and even a little grief. Aziraphale wears a matching expression. And an understanding grows between them.

Again in 33AD, with a man pinned to a crucifix, Crowley sees the angel again in the crowd of onlookers. The air is solemn and quiet and Crowley thinks if he were to slip away, no one would ever know. He doesn't have to speak to Aziraphale. He's here to mourn, and Aziraphale is probably here to gloat.

But despite this, Crowley steps silently around Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Come to smirk at the poor buggar, have you?" He drawls. Aziraphale is less surprised to see him this time.

Surprisingly, the interaction turns out to be comforting. There is something less horrific about the scene in front of them when he can discuss it with Aziraphale, who, despite being an angel, is well-intended and clever. There's a growing kinship between them, a sense of understanding. Crowley stands beside him and watches Jesus of Nazareth be raised into the air.

8 years later, and Crowley, in a terrible mood, just wants a strong drink. So when Aziraphale comes up to him, and smiles as if he's happy to see him, Crowley is not particularly welcoming. His irritation at being sent to Rome lingers, and he doesn't indulge in conversation, or greet Aziraphale as he usually would. Frankly it's been a long week and he wants nothing more than to drown his sorrows in whatever is drinkable.

But the angel is insistent. His smile never drops, and his sweetness is contagious. Crowley should know better. He tries to keep the frown on his face for as long as he can. But it's impossible. Aziraphale is softening him.

"Oh, well let me tempt you to-" Aziraphale cuts himself off, realising his mistake.

Crowley looks at the angel, a smirk on his face. The conversation has cheered Crowley greatly, and he gazes at Aziraphale with something akin to fondness as he takes a swig of his drink.

He warns himself though that their acquaintance is very quickly becoming a friendship, and indulging in Aziraphale's company any longer might become dangerous for both of them. But the hopeful look on the angel's face is far more convincing than the tiny voice in his head.

"So." Crowley says, after a moment's hesitation. "Patronius' new restaurant, then."

It is here, in Rome, that Crowley secretly begins to think of Aziraphale as a friend. He won't admit it, even to himself. It's an annoyance, more than anything. But it's the truth.

Once The Arrangement begins, Crowley's self restraint becomes almost non existent. After all, it's much easier to approach Aziraphale when he has the perfect excuse: a mutually beneficial agreement, purely professional.

And because of The Arrangement, Crowley soon becomes well acquainted with the delighted look on Aziraphale's face whenever he shows up. It becomes a sort of game. He is always seeking out Aziraphale, who will umm and ahh before finally giving in to him. It feels like an elaborate dance.

It is not until the 1793 that Crowley hesitates again.

When he hears of a strange British man, captured on the border in ridiculous attire, Crowley immediately knows it's Aziraphale. Who else would it be? At his lodgings near the Bastille he thinks he should probably leave it well enough alone. It's none of his business. Helping Aziraphale get out of trouble isn't part of The Arrangement. The angel can just miracle his way out of it. Surely Aziraphale will escape - the beheading and the subsequent discorporation wouldn't be worth the trouble.

Even still... It's been miserable in France lately, all gloom and violence, and Crowley doesn't know the language well, so it's been a little lonely too. It wouldn't be wise for him to save Aziraphale. He would have to step outside of the role he's been playing, the nonchalant demon, and for what? Just to speak to the angel for a little while? It's ridiculous.

Crowley goes to rescue him anyway.

At the Bastille, Crowley hesitates once more when he sees the guillotine, and shudders. It's an awful thing, sharp and noisy. Inside of the barracks he hears Aziraphale's voice, and the voice of the executioner. He listens for a while, trying to think of a way he can insert himself into the conversation. He wants to be witty and suave as he rescues Aziraphale.

The time he spends there listening and waiting reminds Crowley of Eden. Back then he had wanted to be clever too. How little things change. This urge he has to impress Aziraphale is irritating and troublesome, yet he indulges in it anyway.

"Animals don't kill each other with clever machines, angel, only humans do that."

The word slips out, angel, far softer than it ought be. He had meant the word to be distant, to be nonchalant and matter of fact, as if they were still just an angel and demon and not Aziraphale and Crowley. But instead, Crowley fears he may have just created a new term of endearment.

Oh, buggar.

He lounges there, looking completely unconcerned, and he congratulates himself on how calm he seems. And the idiotic angel, dressed as ridiculously as Crowley had feared, is delighted to see him. Crowley is furious with himself for being happy. Furious with himself for even coming here.

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the chains fall from Aziraphale's wrists. It's embarassing, how pleased Aziraphale is, how warmly he speaks, and Crowley finds himself biting when Aziraphale mentions saying thank you. They're an angel and a demon. This is dangerous, he reminds himself. The more he indulges Aziraphale the more trouble he gets himself into.

But Aziraphale is unbothered by his attitude. Very grateful. Ha!

"What about if I buy you lunch?" The angel smiles.

Yes, Crowley thinks, he's in a lot of trouble. And the worst of it is that he could never say no.

In 1800, Crowley glares at a market stall in Soho with the sort of wrath that would make a hellhound whimper.

He has never bought anyone a gift. The act of giving is not demonic in the slightest. But there he is, considering it, because Aziraphale has finally opened his bookshop.

He ought to leave London. He's meant to be miles away. And anyway, what does it matter to him what Aziraphale does?

Even as he thinks it, Crowley knows he'll give in and buy the damned gift. It's just that Aziraphale has always loved books, and he had been so excited about opening a bookshop. It deserves celebration. And so, instead of leaving, Crowley walks up to the market stall and buys a box of chocolates with the intention of giving them to the angel. A housewarming gift, of sorts. It's completely embarrassing, though Crowley softens when he imagines the delight on Aziraphale's face.

The angel really does love his desserts.

From 1800 Crowley picks up this annoying habit of giving gifts. The last slice. The final glass of wine. He feels this natural instinct to give and to give and Aziraphale always takes what he offers willingly. In 1941 he saves the books of prophecy, of course he does, and though he can't look into Aziraphale's face as he hands them over he knows how meaningful the act is. That was the whole point.

So it is something of a surprise when, in 1967, Aziraphale gives him something in return.

Since their argument about holy water, Crowley hadn't considered bringing it up again. The angel had made his opinion very clear, and Crowley is fine with it. Aziraphale is stubborn when it comes to his core values, and Crowley knows better than to push too far.

But then, against all of the odds, Aziraphale gets into his car and passes over a tartan flask. Crowley takes it from him and looks down at it in shock.

"After everything you said." He says softly. Aziraphale won't meet his eyes, and the moment feels so fragile, so fraught with unsaid things.

"I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go." Crowley insists. All he wants is to give back, to say thank you, to somehow put into words or actions how moved he feels.

"You go too fast for me, Crowley."

Crowley stares as Aziraphale leaves the Bentley, his eyebrows furrowed. The words sting, just a little, terribly bittersweet.

Too fast? Too fast? He has spent centuries hesitating and making excuses, wanting desperately to spend time with Aziraphale yet not allowing himself to do so. For the best part of 6000 years he's been trying to convince himself that his feelings for Aziraphale are not as deep as they are, and that they shouldn't be friends, and that all of it, all of this, was a terrible mistake.

He had failed, every time. He had ignored his own warnings, the threat of hell finding out, the sheer absurdity of it all, because all he wanted was to be by Aziraphale's side. He had never really wanted anything else.

Crowley stares down at the tartan flask, feeling rather out of his depth.

It is only when the apocalypse looms that Crowley's hesitance finally sprouts demonic wings and flies out of the window.

He can't let the world end. He won't. The threat of it all just ending like that makes him reckless and desperate and yes, perhaps he is more urgent than he should be, perhaps he shows all of his cards when he asks Aziraphale to run away with him, but it all works out alright in the end.

When he had stepped into the burning bookshop he had thought to himself that he should've hesitated less, he should've been bolder. But once they are safe and the world is no longer ending it's much harder to be reckless. Crowley has so much to lose now that Aziraphale has finally accepted his friendship.

It's the evening after their celebratory dinner at The Ritz, and slightly tipsy on wine, Crowley watches Aziraphale stand by the window and look out at the night sky. The angel is quiet, but he turns his head to send Crowley a sweet smile.

"To think all of this might've been gone." Aziraphale says. Crowley is unsure what he's referring to - the earth? the stars? the bookshop? But it doesn't matter. He understands the sentiment.

Slowly he steps forward, until he is just behind Aziraphale, looking out into the night sky too. He wants to set a warm, comforting hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, but his hesitance returns... Everything has been so lovely between them tonight. It would be a shame to ruin it by moving too quickly.

But Crowley has never been good at self restraint. His hand settles on the back of Aziraphale's shoulder, and Aziraphale doesn't turn away from him.

"I should thank you," Aziraphale continues. There's a smile on his lips, and his gaze is awfully soft. "For everything you did."

Crowley shakes his head. He has never wanted the angel's gratitude. Everything he gave, he gave willingly, without any real hesitation. Instead of responding, he squeezes Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Do you think we're safe?" Aziraphale asks.

"Eh, for now, at least."

It isn't particularly committal, but Crowley thinks they've finally got breathing space, at least until heaven and hell figure out their trick.

"We have all the time in the world." Aziraphale says warmly. "Oh, Crowley, I'm so glad."

Crowley can't help but smile. He, too, is glad, mostly that the world will keep spinning with the two of them in it.

Together, they look up at the stars that might have been lost forever.

"You know," Crowley says casually, attempting to sound cool and distant and failing miserably. "When I saw you in the Garden of Eden, I spent ages trying to come up with something to say. I couldn't have imagined that-"

He swallows. His lip trembles just slightly, and he presses them together, gazing idly at the constellations. Aziraphale glances at him, his eyes warm.

"And now you're here." Aziraphale says, sounding very pleased.

"So I am." Crowley murmurs. The hand on Aziraphale's shoulder trails softly down to his lower back, and Aziraphale sighs happily.

"You always showed up, when it mattered." The angel says. Crowley smiles to himself. Little does Aziraphale know how often he tried not to. "You always came for me, no matter what I said."

"Well, someone had to stop you getting into trouble." Crowley drawls. Aziraphale chuckles, and Crowley can feel his warmth, and the way he's leaning back into the demon's touch.

"You always will, won't you?" Aziraphale asks. "You'll always show up?"

Crowley's smile widens. As if he has a choice, he thinks.

"Unless you suddenly become spectacularly boring. Then I'll avoid you as much as I can." Crowley says, feigning nonchalance. "It's a big universe. Lots of places to hide."

Aziraphale steps closer to him, so their sides are pressed together, and Crowley feels smothered in him. Maybe that's what the demon wanted all along. To be this close to him, their fates completely intertwined.

"Don't avoid the question, you old serpent." The angel says, and Crowley raises an eyebrow. But the angel gives him a look that says, please, and Crowley sighs and concedes.

"You already know I will." He says, and Aziraphale smiles indulgently.

"Very well. Then I expect you to be on time for Lunch tomorrow, noon sharp."

"Yeah, yeah." Crowley grumbles. He grips Aziraphale tighter, and Aziraphale's head comes to rest on his shoulder. "When am I ever late?"

Crowley hesitates before stepping over the threshold of their home.

This is new. It's more than he ever expected. If you had told the serpent of Eden one day he'd own a house with an angel, he would've laughed in your face. But there the demon is, staring down at the welcome mat Aziraphale has placed in the doorway and feeling like he's missed a few steps.

Once he had wanted an excuse, any excuse at all, just to speak to Aziraphale. Now he never has to leave his side again. Funny, Crowley thinks, how little all of that hesitation mattered in the end.

Aziraphale is already inside unpacking his books. Crowley swallows. Somewhere between approaching Aziraphale for the first time and this very moment, Crowley had decided he would spend the rest of his demonic life with Aziraphale. Once he steps over the threshold, there's no going back.

Crowley lets out a bark of laughter. Self restraint be damned, he thinks, and steps inside.

"Angel!" He calls into the house. It smells old and bookish already. "I'm here!"

Crowley hears the shuffling of boxes and then a delighted exclamation.

"Crowley!" The angel calls back. "I'll just be a moment-"

The demon looks around the hallway, grinning widely. He takes off his sunglasses and puts them in his pocket. No need for them here. No need for any disguises, any pretence, any hesitation.

Aziraphale appears, smiling, and for the first time Crowley experiences the feeling of coming home.

"You're home." Aziraphale says warmly, as if he's said it a million times before, and Crowley melts. His heart splinters just a little when he hears the words, because he has been seeking out Aziraphale for so long, and now he is home.

"Huh." Crowley says thickly. He swallows, and averts his eyes from Aziraphale's. "Never gonna get used to that."

Aziraphale's smile widens.

"Fancy a cup of tea?" He asks.

"C'mere." Crowley says, and opens his arms. Aziraphale comes to him willingly.

When he's finally in Crowley's embrace, Crowley finds he can't even hesitate. He kisses the angel for a long time, still in his coat and chilled from the outside, feeling happier than he ever has. Aziraphale makes a content noise. Warm and willing, and always, always taking whatever Crowley offers him.

It dawns on Crowley then that from the very moment he saw Aziraphale in the garden of Eden, his fate was sealed. He couldn't forget the angel, or avoid him, or leave well enough alone, and he's glad for it. Love once irritated him, frustrated him, made him feel vulnerable and humiliated. In many ways, it still does. But now... now there's no reason to hesitate.

"Been a real nuisance, you have." Crowley mutters, pulling away to bury his face in Aziraphale's neck. "Getting on my nerves for 6000 years."

Aziraphale chuckles, running his hand up and down Crowley's back in soothing motions.

"But you come back anyway." The angel says.

The demon smiles.

"Yeah." He admits. "Always have, always will."