Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were quite a number of downsides that came with being a snake.

Crowley had not started out as such. They had all been angels once, and he was no different.

When he had Fallen, he had burned from the sky like the stars he had once woven between his fingers, bursting with light that would have been beauty incarnate to an onlooker but was nothing but agony for the angel within. He had burned, thrashing and crying out and howling as his feathers crumpled to ash around him, and then he had landed with a deafening wail of anguish as he landed in the pools of boiling, bubbling sulfur and molten lava that was Hell before it had been bureaucratized. 

He had burned and burned and burned, and when he had eventually managed to drag himself out what felt like an eternity later, he had been nothing but charred remains of skin and bone. And so, in a desperate, subconscious effort to save his True Form, a corporation fit for Hell rippled into existence – sleek, black-and-red scales, the flickering hiss of a forked tongue, yellow eyes that gleamed and had slits for pupils.

And thus, the Serpent of Eden had been born. 

(For you were made from pain, and to pain you will return.)

He had slithered up from Hell on the orders of the self-proclaimed King of Hell, Lucifer (no one tried to fight him, they were all numb and in shock and pain even centuries after their Fall, and no one wanted to double-cross Lucifer, the one who had tried to overthrow God, when the rest of them were merely following in his footsteps) and his advisor Prince Beelzebub (they were more irritating, really, a buzzing fly that swarmed around Crowley’s ears like a pest, but Beelzebub had garnered respect for their attitude and their daringness to be close to Lucifer himself), told to ‘get up there and make some trouble’, as it were, relating to Earth. Relating to God’s oh-so-wonderful new Creations – Her people. 

Crowley – Crawley, then – had been dutiful to a fault when given his orders, because he would’ve done anything to get up and out of Hell, and because he wasn’t planning on crossing any authority again after his Fall, lest he saunter any more vaguely downwards. And seeing as there really wasn’t anywhere left to saunter, he had slithered up instead, crawling on his belly to Aziraphale’s side and then some, somehow becoming . . . whatever the two of them were now, even as ‘hereditary enemies’ and whatnot.

Spending six thousand-odd years around one another, with their Arrangement and then with stopping the whole blessed Apocalypse from coming to pass, Armageddon itself – that had to bring people together, you know? Even a bitchy demon and a fussy angel who should, by all intents and purposes, hate each other.

But somehow, they didn’t – and they worked. Their strange relationship, whatever it was, it worked. 

They weren’t so different, anyways. Crowley had quite liked the angel since they had first met in the Garden of Eden – or, was it the Garden? He had thought that he had had a sense of do I know you?, the sense that had pushed him to shuffle close to Aziraphale’s side when it began to rain and somehow knowing he would be sheltered despite Aziraphale being an angel – but, he had that feeling with a lot of things, and it hurt to remember, so he rather chose not to. He had been through too much pain in his existence to possibly try and put himself through any more.

Regardless, he did like Aziraphale. Quite more than he should, probably. 

But that was all besides the point. Ever since his Fall, ever since Eden, he had managed to maintain a rather human corporation since then, mostly.

He looked almost entirely human – save for the yellow snake eyes that he couldn’t rid himself of, the serpentine hiss that rolled from his tongue and the scales that prickled at his neck whenever he was upset, the way his body, as lanky and as limb-y as it was, felt so fluid, weightless, as if he was free of any bones but for a vertebrae.

He could choose to be a snake, if he so wanted to, but he didn’t, because for the most part, it was just a hassle. Unless he found a particularly nice spot in the sun, because he could never get warm in his human corporation no matter how much he tried – cold-blooded, and all that, and improper blood with organs or something like that, he didn’t know. The sun was nice and warm. Even if there was that one time Aziraphale had found him and had thought he was discorporated because for some reason, the angel hadn’t known that snakes don’t blink or close their eyes when they sleep.

But – that was neither here nor there, and was also besides the point.

The point was that Crowley had been tired lately.

Bone-deep tired, the kind of tired that dragged into every corner of his mind and pulled at him until he eventually collapsed onto the nearest surface and slept for a week. The kind of tired that he really shouldn’t be able to be. Demon, and all that. But there always had been something wrong with him. Or – multiple things, really.

And right now, one of those things was that he was completely and utterly exhausted.

He didn’t know why, really; he had just slept for almost an entire year when the lockdown had been really shit, and it wasn’t like he was even doing anything. He was living out of his Bentley, since Shax had taken his flat, and the only thing he really did at all was wait for Aziraphale to call so he could go to the bookshop, harass his plants for hours on end, and avoid Shax’s infernal blessed questions – and if he disliked someone for asking questions, he really didn’t like them. But in his defense, she did find his last bottle of Rüdesheimer Apostelwein wine from the 18th century and had emptied it down the drain thinking it was some sort of cleaner. So he was allowed to hold a grudge, thank you very much.

But he had just felt very . . . under the weather, as Aziraphale always put it whenever he himself felt gloomy. But rather than gloomy, Crowley felt exhausted, but despite that, sleep was coming not easy to him; his body itched and ached and throbbed, his skin seeming to tingle.

He knew what was happening, very logically he did, but he very much refused to let the realization come to fruition in his mind. 

And so he put off thinking about or dealing with it, and of course, it became abundantly clear what the problem was when he woke up, bleary and dizzy, in the middle of the night in his car, and everything felt like it was burning, just as it had when he had tripped, stumbled, and sauntered downwards from Heaven. 

He groaned aloud, drawing out the noise into a litany of curses and hisses. His back arched with discomfort as the scales that had risen to pebble along his back ached and burned, sending throbbing pains throughout his entire body. 

Fucking fucking fuck. 

Crowley swore aloud, the sound garbled and agitated, and twisted around without preamble, peeling off his chafing jacket and shirt almost frantically, desperately, and fumbling his way into the backseat, flopping down onto the floor and rubbing his back along the edges of the plant pots and the grooves on the inside of the door. He dug his nails into his sides and pressed down hard, trying to alleviate the itchiness and achings with pressure and a different kind of pain.

It didn’t work (he had known it wouldn’t), and he moaned, curling up on the floor of his car and shoving a fist into his mouth to muffle a cry of pain and distress.

He was fucking shedding. 

And there was a severe downside that came with being a snake.

Shedding wasn’t a frequent thing for him – it was really only every century or two, sometimes three if he was lucky. He was itchy and burny and in pain for about a week – the worst days were the last few, when the shed climbed up his body to his eyes, and he went into the blue stage while the shed peeled and his eyes clouded over and he couldn’t fucking see – and then it went away, and he was perfectly fine, and looked quite sleeker, really, so it was fine in the end.

But in the moment, it was absolutely fucking awful, and he hated it. It was just a reminder of his Fall – of plummeting from the Heavens like a burning star, sobbing and screaming and praying for help, please, it hurts, it hurts, and my God, my God, why have you forsaken me? 

(Cursed are you above all the livestock and all the wild animals – you will crawl on your belly and you will eat dust all the days of your life.)

The reminder of it all hurt more than the pain itself. But he had suffered through it for six millennia; it was no different now, he could handle it.

He was used to it, to the pain, to being alone as he waited it out. This was no different than any of the other times he had shed, alone and curled up in one of the cabinets in his flat, rubbing against the scratchy wood and biting his fist to keep back wails of uncomfortable pain. This was something he was used to. Something he could handle. He was a fucking demon. This was just his penance for it.

(Even if he somehow felt more alone than ever before – silently longing for something, someone, but refusing to let the thought come to fruition in his mind. Though, as with ignoring the recognition of his impending shed . . . that would not go well for him when those thoughts finally surfaced and he was forced to confront what he was hiding.

For now, though, he was fine to be miserable. He was used to it.)

Crowley curled in on himself and dragged his scaled back along whatever edge he could find, whining and hissing as his body seized uncomfortably, and he squeezed his eyes shut – already feeling the strain around them with his impending blue stage – before digging his nails into the back of his neck, tucking himself into a tiny ball, and beginning to wait for it to be over.

Chapter Text

Crowley stayed curled up in the backseat of his car for a while, maybe a day or two (or three), as the shed crawled its way up his legs and back and to his neck, the scales flaking away and crumpling to nothing as they chipped off of him with some stray red hairs falling out alongside them as shed prickled at his scalp.

His nails were caked with dried scales and blood from where he had scratched too deep, and his plants trembled around him –  not out of fear of him, but out of fear for him. They had never seen him like this, so vulnerable and exposed; he had slept through his last shed in the 19th century, and then before that, he had usually tried to isolate himself the best he could, just like he was doing now, hiding alone in his Bentley, his knees pressed against his chest and his head tucked under his elbow, his chest heaving as he trembled with the exertion and the stress.

He had managed, at least, to have the wherewithal to mumble at the Bentley to drive himself to a secluded area; he had shrouded it from sight, patted it gratefully on the top of the front seat with a weary hand, and had then proceeded to strip down to his underclothes and curl up in a miserable heap on the floor, scratching his bare skin and flaking scales against anything and everything he could touch even if it made everything hurt worse. At least it took the itch away, if only for a few painful, but somehow blissful, moments. 

He was trying very hard to resist going full snake. It did usually make his sheds easier and quicker, but as a form in general, it was terribly bulky and inconvenient (especially when he didn't even have the wherewithal to control his size; he wouldn't be surprised if, should he choose to go full snake, he emerged as that same enormous serpent from Eden and not the more 'pocket-sized' version he much preferred when his miracles allowed it), and he didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with all of that right now, because everything was itchy and felt like ughhhh and he just wanted to curl up in a tiny ball and never emerge. 

Crowley loved snakes. He very much did. All sorts and species and morphs and hybrids, all that grand old stuff.

But what he did hate was him being a snake.

It was mostly fine, but it was also irritating, with his eyes and his uncontrollable hiss and the scales that pebbled on his skin whenever he was stressed, and now this stupid, stupid shed that he could do literally nothing about except for wait for it to be over, and somehow, when he was shedding, everything seemed slow and drawled out, because of course it fucking did.

Really, Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if it was God playing some sort of trick on him for Her own amusement. It would be just like Her – She wasn't satisfied just by hurling him from Heaven without so much as a preamble, no, she had to just go and make his existence a million times more miserable. Why couldn't he have been a bird? Or a tiger? Or, for Satan's sake, just a regular damn demon?

God was laughing at him, he was absolutely certain. 

“S’not funny,” he had mumbled aloud on the second day when he had really started to lose it, clawing weakly at his knee, scales chipping away. Scratching made it hurt worse, but he didn’t care, or maybe he just couldn’t. “S’ not. You’ve got a shit sense of humor, f'you think it is. Utter rubbish.” He had rolled his head around, glaring in the general direction of up.

“God, you listening?" He had called out, his voice cracking slightly, his eyes squinting as he scowled upwards. "You’re a wanker!”

There was no response, but then again, he never did get one, so he wasn’t surprised.

His legs and midsection had almost fully shed by the fourth day, thank Someone (certainly not God), and Crowley, whose aching body pains had only gotten worse from how long he had been curled up on the floor wallowing in his own misery and feeling very sorry for himself indeed, had climbed back to the front of the Bentley in a mess of flailing limbs, groaning and whining and just generally miserable.

“Urghhh,” he moaned, squinting and rubbing at his face with an agitated hand, his fingers trembling as he brushed over the patches of dried scales on his cheek, crawling towards his eyes.

He shouldn’t scratch it, he knew he shouldn’t, but he did it anyway (demon, after all, never did what he was supposed to), his nails digging into his flaking skin and scratching insistently until it began to bleed. He did stop, then, and curled up into a tiny, miserable ball in the front seat of the Bentley, squeezing his eyes shut, unable to stop the tiniest of whimpers from choking up from his throat.

His eyes hurt, and the feeling of it made dread drop in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it.

His car hummed its engine sympathetically at him, and he snapped his teeth weakly in response with a muffled growl. It hummed again, more reproachfully this time, and then the low, crooning voice of Freddie Mercury singing Queen’s You Take My Breath Away, one of their softer ballads, filled the stifling car.

Crowley sighed, mumbling what could have been a quiet thank-you to his car before tucking his head underneath his arm, squeezing his eyes shut tight, and falling asleep.

When he woke up later, exhausted and out of it, it was to a hazy, blurry world around him.

Crowley swore, fumbling around blindly and yelping as his head collided with the handle of the window. He raised a trembling hand to his aching, throbbing eyes, running the tip of his finger along the hollow of his eye and immediately jerking it away with a grimace of pain.

He fell back against the seat, tears that physically could not fall prickling at the corners of his cloudy blue eyes, so dissimilar to his usual yellow, slitted gaze.

Of course, he thought, verging on hysteria, completely overstimulated and aching and in pain. Of fucking course he had to go into blue now, in his stupid fucking car – he winced at the thought, he did love his car, but everything hurt too badly right now, and he already couldn’t see well with his serpentine eyes, so the blue stage, when he really couldn’t see anything, just made him angry and freaked-out and scared – without any sort of thing to make him comfortable, and now he couldn’t even see on top of everything else hurting and everything hurt and ached and itched, and what he really needed right now even if he couldn't stand to admit it to himself was -

There was the sudden sound of a light rapping of knuckles against the window to his right, and Crowley very nearly yelped aloud, his hands flailing as he snapped his head around wildly, baring his teeth in an instinctive display of defense.

His tongue flicked out on instinct, tasting the air, and he nearly swore again when he realized where he was (the stupid Bentley must’ve driven him there, the absolute gall of his car, he was going to play fucking Vivaldi nonstop until it turned into fucking Queen just for that), and who exactly was the one knocking on his window. Probably watching him convulse and writhe and whine and generally be pathetic.

“Fffffuck you,” Crowley hissed under his breath to the Bentley, gritting his teeth together and clenching his jaw, his hands trembling where they were balled up over his knees, which were, thank Someone, clothed, not stripped bare like a couple days prior – but he was wearing fucking joggers (the cotton of them was soft against his newly sensitized skin), so really, it was more of a pick-your-poison, which-one's-worse situation. The car merely hummed smugly, the engine purring so loudly that it nearly drowned out the sound of a familiar concerned voice.

“Crowley?”

And of fucking course, it was Aziraphale.

Because apparently, while he had been wallowing in his misery, curled up with his body practically folded in on itself in an attempt for him to not go insane and rip all of his skin/scales off, the Bentley had brought him to the fucking bookshop. 

He had never told the angel about his sheds, preferring to keep that particular vulnerability to himself, not wanting Aziraphale to see him like this – and now, thanks to his car (who he was now on very tense terms with, and regretting giving sentience to), that was going to apparently waltz straight to Hell, and Aziraphale would see him so weak and pathetic, and he would pity him, and that was quite literally the last thing Crowley wanted.

“All right, angel?” He managed after a moment, somehow keeping the croak out of his voice as he swallowed tightly and stared straight ahead, keeping his face turned away from where he could feel Aziraphale’s gaze boring into him.

He didn’t wear sunglasses when he was shedding, especially when he was in blue – they chafed at his sensitive skin, and were too much of a further impairment on his shitty vision, since right now, he could barely even see blurry outlines, and wearing his shades would get rid of even that – but he suddenly wished that he did have them, because Aziraphale was a very observant angel, he always had been.

Bastard.

“You didn’t call,” the bastard in question said in lieu of a response, the words not accusatory but curious. Aziraphale’s voice was unmuffled, now; the Bentley must have lowered the windows while Crowley was busy trying to not have a panic attack. He was going to have to give his car an extremely stern talking to. Lots of threats that both of them knew he would never carry out would be made.

“Is something the matter? I haven’t seen you for a little while; I was getting a bit worried, seeing as how our get-togethers have been more frequent as of late, but simply assumed you had fallen asleep.”

“Nah, m’good, just peachy, angel,” Crowley snapped back, unable to stop his temper from flaring as that itchy, painful feeling burned up his neck. His hand twitched with effort to not dig his claws into his skin and tear his scales away, and he instead turned to scratching it angrily, biting back a curse as he felt the pebbling of dry, flaking scales underneath his fingernails. “I did fall asleep, anyway. Dunno why m'car brought me here.”

He attempted to look like he was glaring at the wheel of the Bentley, but probably ended up looking very pissed off in the general direction of a lamp post. 

Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment, giving no response, and Crowley flicked his tongue out tentatively, ears pricked, checking that he was still there; he was.

“Aziraphale . . .?” Crowley winced at the uncertainty he heard in his own voice, his heart jumping to his throat, making his throat constrict.

He hated not being able to see; the world was just a blur around him, and it reminded him far too much of when he had hurtled through the universe, Falling down to Hell, everything passing him by (or, him passing them by) in a haze of color and light. His breath hitched; he swallowed it down, digging his nails into the back of his neck.

“I'm right here, Crowley." The angel's voice was carefully smooth, his tone almost calming. Crowley heard his fingers tapping along the edge of the car door, his golden ring making a tip tip tip noise. It was simultaneously irritating and grounding, and Crowley's claws stilled for a moment on the back of his neck, only to resume their scratching as Aziraphale spoke again.

"Why don’t you come inside, dear?” His voice was soft and probing, almost placating, and Crowley gnashed his teeth together, his skin prickling and itchy, his eyes burning. 

“M’fine,” he responded with a locked jaw, hissing in between his teeth. “Just – just gotta go –,"

Back to my flat, he almost said, and then his gut clenched. Fuck. Shax is there. He was not about to reveal his biggest weakness to the demon who was sent to fucking replace him. He supposed he would just have to drive back to some abandoned alley and sleep the rest of this off. He was in blue now, it wouldn’t last much longer – he didn’t need Airaphale’s pity, and he said as much, though not in as many words, still staring straight ahead unseeingly, trying not to have a fucking panic attack. How he was able to have a panic attack when he didn't even need to breathe was beyond him. 

“Yes, well, perhaps I would like some company, if you would be amenable,” Aziraphale dared to counter to Crowley's growled-out I don't need whatever you're trying to offer, angel, and Crowley could feel him, he realized with a sudden start – his senses always became heightened, when he was shedding, especially when he was in blue, unable to see. Crowley could feel the heat pulsing from the angel, so different from the coldness in his own body; the warmth of his breath, the feel of his gaze, the general air of Aziraphale that was almost stifling.

Crowley clawed at the scales crawling along the back of his neck, grinding his teeth together, furious with himself for feeling that he needed to be near that warmth. No, he didn't need it; he craved it. 

“I am not going to force anything upon you, Crowley,” Aziraphale added on earnestly, his voice slightly muffled through Crowley's dazed thoughts, and for a moment, Crowley thought he felt the brush of the angel’s fingers along his shoulder, before Aziraphale was pulling back again, his voice carrying a hint of hesitancy. “However, I can sense your distress, dear boy. Something is . . ." Aziraphale stopped, hesitated again.

"Please, come in," he settled on eventually, his voice coaxing. "It’s nice and warm, and I can make you hot cocoa . . .”

Crowley’s lip curled, struggling between feeling anger and resentment at being treated like a child and feeling aching gratefulness and relief for the angel’s kindness, kindness that he so often felt that he did not deserve and could not reciprocate.

The latter won, in the end, his resolve weakened along with his corporation by his shed (and with the pulsing feeling of Aziraphale's warmth, Aziraphale's closeness, Aziraphale, the feeling that he was so desperately craving, so desperately needing), and he sighed, slumping over slightly, keeping his face turned away from Aziraphale but angling his words towards him. 

“Ffffffine,” he hissed out. The single word seemed to take everything out of him, and he growled weakly, gnashing his back teeth together. If he had been able, he would have rolled his eyes. “‘Kay. Whatever.”

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale responded cheerily, tapping his hands affectionately along the top of the car, and Crowley could practically feel him beaming, like a ray of sunshine on his sullen face. The ring on his pinkie finger went tip tip tip again, and the corner of Crowley's mouth twitched upwards.

Bastard.

Chapter Text

Crowley realized that he had not, in fact, at all thought this through when he stood to get out of his car as per Aziraphale’s coaxing and immediately smacked his head against the top of it and stumbled, his head whirling. 

He hadn’t stood in days, and the rush of blood straight to his head was almost enough to make him pass out, but he managed to stay upright, gripping tightly to the car door and gritting his teeth. He swore under his breath and rubbed at the top of his head where he had hit it with his free hand – the motion forced him to stop scratching at his neck, which made him feel like he was about to crumble to pieces, because fuck, he was so itchy.

Thankfully, Aziraphale, after fondly patting the top of the Bentley, had turned on his heel to open the door to the shop, and Crowley had managed to straighten up and appear more put-together before the angel could notice he had hit his head like some sort of helpless human child. 

Crowley let out a long exhale and made his way from the Bentley to the sidewalk by his sense of smell alone and only the faint accompaniment of hazy, blurry, vague outlines of shapes through his clouded eyes. He felt along the edge of his car with an uncertain hand, trying to not look too much like he was groping to feel for something as he half-stumbled up the walkway to the bookshop, his chest heaving with the effort of it alone. 

At his current moment in time, his thoughts consisted of something like this: 

Fuck fuck shit fuck fuck SHIT 

Shame and humiliation and guilt snagged in his chest, and he thought he would choke for a moment. This was so pathetic, so shameful.

What was he doing? What was wrong with him? He was a fucking demon, for Satan’s sake, not some – some child or cherub to go running to Aziraphale’s feet at the slightest of inconveniences -

A sudden flare of pain coursed through Crowley’s body, and he gasped, his eyes stretching wide as a strangled cry forced its way up his throat. He stumbled over the concrete, tripping over his own feet (his corporation always tended to be less functional when he shed) and nearly falling, the feeling of it rushing in his ears and sending panic coursing through him.

Just before he fell, though, he felt the sudden gentle brush of an arm against his own, and inhaled sharply as he was overwhelmed with the feeling of Aziraphale, of warmth and heat and home. Instinctively, Crowley seized Aziraphale’s arm with shaking hands, gasping hoarsely and gripping to him tightly, holding himself upright.

After a moment, when his mind caught up to what the fuck he was doing, Crowley began to pull away, but Aziraphale – in a silent, wordless it’s okay – rested his palm on top of the demon’s, and he forced himself to relax even as his thoughts screamed in violent protest. 

He couldn’t pull away. He needed Aziraphale. Needed the warmth and comfort that the angel offered. Craved it.

It was a shameful feeling, but one that he found he couldn’t quite stave off, and that feeling just made him more ashamed.

“My dear, I truly do hate to impose,” Aziraphale murmured softly, allowing Crowley to lean heavily against him and supporting him with a firm hand wrapped around his waist, "but – you seem to be quite in pain, and – and your – your eyes . . .”

“S’all cloudy, I know,” Crowley grumbled in a rasping response, turning his face away with a deep scowl but still leaning into the angel’s touch as they made their way into the bookshop. He shuddered at the feel of it; it was warm and homey, somehow soft, comfortable and warm and familiar. It was exactly what he needed to feel safe, and his lip curled at the thought; ugh, he hated how shedding made him feel, all emotional and whatever the shit. So goddamn pathetic. 

When Aziraphale squeezed his shoulder a little, Crowley realized he was prompting him to continue, and he winced, clearing his throat painfully – he hadn’t spoken save for yelling hoarsely at God for the past week – and resisting the urge to lift his hand and scratch at his face. Aziraphale must have seen the dried patches of chipping scales by now, Crowley thought; the angel was smart, and he knew Crowley, as much as the demon tried to deny it. He could put together the dots. But, for whatever inexplicable rhyme or reason, Aziraphale had always wanted Crowley to be the one to say when something was wrong, perhaps only to keep himself from overstepping, or something of that nature.

Perhaps he thought that that would make it easier, if he himself didn’t jump to conclusions, and let Crowley speak for himself. But really, it just felt more embarrassing, more shameful. 

“I’m . . .” Crowley heaved a heavy sigh, gnashing his back teeth together. “I’m shedding.”

His lip curled as he spoke, humiliation burning in his cheeks, but he felt Aziraphale perk up beside him, his voice rising.

“Oh! Oh, of course!” 

“Shhh,” Crowley whined in protest at Aziraphale’s pitched tone, his ears – which, he registered vaguely, had morphed to being their more pointed, demonic form, something that he further hated himself for – swiveling downward, pinning to the sides of his face.

7“Sorry, sorry,” he tacked on quickly, wincing. “S’just – it’s – loud, s’all.”

“Oh, yes – sorry, dear,” Aziraphale whispered, his voice thick with sympathy that made Crowley’s jaw tick. But he didn’t protest as the angel maneuvered him towards the couch, lowering him down.

The moment his body was given the grateful reprieve of not having to stand, Crowley’s hand snapped right back up to the peeling scales, scratching and itching, unable to satiate the pain crawling over his skin in prickling psoriasis. It was also a good distraction, he thought vaguely, to the fact that he was now here, vulnerable and completely to Aziraphale’s mercy, blind and sightless. 

Aziraphale seemed to hesitate for a long moment, long enough that it was starting to make Crowley antsy, and then his hand ever so gently came up to grasp Crowley’s wrist with warm fingers, pulling his hand back, stopping him from scratching at the shed that was peeling along his lower jaw and neck, flecked with chipped skin and faint trickles of blood. 

“I do not believe that that is healthy for you, Crowley,” Aziraphale pressed gently, and there was a dip in the couch beside him as the angel sat down. “I’ll admit that, of course, you likely know more about this than I do, but – oh, for Heaven’s sake, you’re bleeding, my dear.”

Crowley whined again, squirming with discomfort, his head snapping back and forth on instinct as his eyes stretched wide and his nostrils flared, trying to take in as much information from his limited senses as he could. “M’ itchy,” he managed, muffling a whimper of genuine pain. He had torn at a shed that hadn’t been ready to come off, and – damn the bastard – Aziraphale was right, he could feel the flecks of blood underneath his fingernails. He felt so fucking helpless – so fucking pathetic, especially as he hissed out, “Hurtsss, angel.”

Aziraphale carefully and slowly reached down to place his free hand on Crowley’s knee, squeezing gently for comfort. The demon registered what exactly he was wearing at the feeling of soft cotton on his sensitive skin, and he winced again, shrinking in on himself; he vaguely recalled changing a couple of days prior when his midsection had been mostly done shedding, and pressing against the coarse floor of his car had hurt.

He was wearing an embarrassingly well-worn pair of dark joggers and a T-shirt that almost definitely had a Queen logo on it, and that was honestly more humiliating than all of this put together – that being just how not-put-together he looked. He didn't even want to consider the state of his poor hair, and he snarled under his breath, his lip curling with hatred.

He was supposed to be a demon. Instead, he was acting like a human on their damn menstrual cycle.

Hmm. He considered that for a moment, his thoughts drifting; that was easier to do when he couldn’t see anything around him. Perhaps that was what this was. In a way. If that was so, then he could actually fully blame God. She had been the one to curse Eve to have that sort of pain, after all.

So really, this was in fact all Her fault. At least that was a nice thought. In a way.

“I hate to see you in such discomfort, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, pleasantly pulling Crowley from his bitter thoughts about how much the Almighty had fucked him over. Crowley’s tongue flicked out, tasting the air. Feeling for warmth, and relaxing slightly when he found it, letting his humiliation over his appearance fade as he sank deeper into that warmth that he so craved. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Aziraphale was saying as he continued, and Crowley forced himself to focus. “I unfortunately am not the most knowledgeable on snake shed cycles, but what I do know –," His voice took on a hint of a reprimand here, and he squeezed Crowley’s knee in a chastising sort of way – “is that scratching at it most definitely makes it worse.”

“Hrnggsskkk,” Crowley groaned, forcing his eyes to squeeze shut even as it made him ache and burrowing in between two couch cushions, rubbing his neck against them as the itchiness and pain flared up but forcing himself to stop as Aziraphale squeezed his knee again in gentle reprimand. Besides, he didn’t want to get any of his gross mess onto the angel’s couch.

“S’almost over, anyway,” he managed eventually, his nails digging into the edge of the couch, limbs trembling with the effort to not scratch. “Been happening for a few days. Only happ’ns ev’ry few centuries. S’fine,” Crowley hurried to add as Aziraphale inhaled sharply with distress, his gut twisting with guilt. “Been dealin’ with it since I Fell, and m’fine, ang’l.”

“My dear, you are very plainly not fine,” Aziraphale stated exasperatedly, but his tone was thick with fondness, as well as a sympathy that made Crowley want to hiss. “Please, Crowley, just . . .” Aziraphale sighed sadly. “Just let me help you.”

Instincts and emotion warred and screamed inside of Crowley – let him help, he cares about you, just trust someone for once in your life, you stupid bastard fighting with no one cares about you, let alone the angel, you’re right not to trust, it’ll only get you hurt, leave while you still have some semblance of dignity – but eventually, he caved, giving into his sentiment, giving into his stupid heart, over his logic and his head.

Though, the pain was a pretty considerable factor as well. Aziraphale always made things better, even now, when everything felt so awful. Even if it was extremely fucking humiliating.

“Fine.” He spat out the word, doggedly locking his jaw and ignoring the way he was shaking, both from the strain of not scratching at his shed, and from that same fear of vulnerability that he had carried since he had Fallen from the sky crying out my God, my God, why have you forsaken me? 

Thank Someone, Aziraphale ignored the way he trembled, too, if only squeezing his knee a little tighter in an attempt at comfort. His nails just barely pressed into Crowley’s skin through his trousers, and the demon winced, hissing on instinct, his new skin flaring with pain.

The angel immediately retracted with a hurried apology, but Crowley whimpered in protest – he really, really hated sheds, because what the fuck was he whimpering for – and the hand returned. 

“Sorry,” Crowley grunted out, his words mumbling. “S’just sensitive. Shed down there alr’dy. Just’m’neck, n’eyes left, really. Arms a bit, but they don’ hurt as much.” He felt that he owed an explanation to the angel, who was offering all of this comfort that Crowley was still hesitant to accept because it was so unfamiliar. But, he supposed – this was Aziraphale. 

“Are your eyes . . . alright?” Aziraphale asked tentatively, and Crowley lifted his head a little, pricking his ears as he heard the concern thick in the angel’s voice. “They look very, very – erm – blue.”

“Mhm, yeah, yeah,” Crowley reassured quickly, stumbling over his words and hissing with agitation, slowly emphasizing as he continued to speak. “S’normal. Part of the shed. It’ll go away by tomorrow, or the day after. Jus’ hurts, and I can’t see for shit.” 

He attempted to blink on instinct, but found that he was suddenly unable, his lids plastered wide open and straining with pain every time he tried to close them. Shit, that meant that that part of the shed would come tomorrow, then. That was good, he supposed, but – Jesus, he must look like a creep. The thought made him wince.

He wondered if Aziraphale was judging him. Then cursed the thought – Aziraphale wouldn’t. But still. This was humiliating.

Crowley was about to turn his face away as shame and embarrassment squirmed in his gut, but then Aziraphale’s hand cupped his cheek, warm and soft and home, and he was unable to stop himself from leaning into the touch. It was soothing against his dry, chipping skin and scales, Aziraphale’s thumb probing carefully along the hollow of Crowley’s eye, making him shiver, his lips slightly parted. The smallest of whimpers fell from his mouth, his breath shuddering.

Shit fuck fuck SHIT FUCK shit FUCK

Crowley swallowed tightly, his mouth dry, and Aziraphale’s hand stroked down his cheek, resting just above his collarbone, gently thumbing over his jaw.

“You can’t see?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and kind, and filled with sympathy. Crowley exhaled a long, shuddering breath, his chin trembling just slightly. 

“Nope,” he managed to respond weakly, popping the ‘p’ even as he trembled. “S’fine, just – kind of –,"

Crowley struggled to find the words, his mouth opening and closing like some sort of fish. “It’s – it’s –,"

“Scary?” Aziraphale interjected gently, smoothing his thumb over the demon’s sigil, and Crowley’s jaw clenched, a muscle in his neck twitching.

“S’ppose so,” he ground out begrudgingly, and if he hadn’t been cold-blooded, his cheeks would have been flushed. “Just . . . unfamiliar, s’all. Never’ve really gotten used to it, y’know?”

(Yes, Crowley’s heart cried out, yes, it’s scary, and I hate it, and it’s just a reminder of all of the sins that led to my Fall, all of the questions that never got answered, and it’s like I’m on fire and it hurts, and I’m so scared, and no one’s ever cared like you before, and I don’t understand.)

“And that’s alright, dear,” Aziraphale soothed him, clearly noticing his tenseness. “Is there nothing I can do to get rid of it for you?” He asked a moment later, his voice impossibly soft. “No miracles?”

“Miracles don’ work,” Crowley rasped irritably, and then was angry with himself for being irritated; Aziraphale was just trying to help. Something that he didn’t quite understand for himself. He had helped Aziraphale an uncountable number of times, sure, but that didn’t make it any better when the shoe was on the other foot. He cleared his throat, the corners of his stretched-open eyes twitching. “S’my True Form. So. Yeah. Nothin’ I – or you – can do ‘bout it.”

Aziraphale seemed to perk up at that, and the warmth that rolled from him nearly making Crowley suffocate, wrapping around him like the warmest of blankets on the coldest of days. “How about you transform into your True Form, dear?” He suggested brightly, as if it was the simplest of things to say. “Perhaps that would help?”

Crowley’s nose scrunched up with distaste, and he hesitated. “Dunno,” he mumbled, his eyes twitching on instinct to blink, but finding themselves unable to. “I mean, I – I guess I could, but it’s –," He shifted, folding in on himself. He pulled his legs up to his lap, picking at dried scales on one of his wrists and frowning deeply, his slender fingers trembling. He firmly ignored the sensation of Aziraphale’s hand resting gently between his shoulder and the curve of his neck. 

“It’s demonic,” he said finally, wincing a little at the word. “Y’know? Don’t wanna – don’ wanna make you – uncomfortable, angel.”

“Oh, dear, please do not fret,” Aziraphale soothed gently, his voice sad and sympathetic. “You would not make me uncomfortable, never and not at all, and if it would help you, I encourage you to try it. Only if you are amenable, of course, darling; it’s up to you.” 

Crowley tilted his head to stare sightlessly at him, his body screaming at him to just do what the angel told him. This was a place where he was warm, where he was safe, where he was protected – but he was still, as shameful as it was – afraid. Afraid of Aziraphale’s rejection; afraid of making everything worse; afraid of making the angel realize what he was. A demon. 

Terrified would be a better word for that last one, really.

He hadn’t realized he had gone quiet until Aziraphale’s hand moved suddenly to brush up to his cheek, and he jerked back on instinct with a defensive hiss, eyes stretched wide as his tongue flicked out from between his fangs, a growl rising in his throat. 

“Sorry!” Aziraphale hastened to say, guilt thick in his voice. “Sorry, so sorry, Crowley – I didn’t mean to startle you, my dear boy.” 

At the sound of his voice, Crowley deflated, muscles twitching in his jaw and neck, tremors running up his spine. Aziraphale. It’s just Aziraphale, he reminded himself dazedly, his heart pounding ridiculously fast in his chest for someone who didn’t need it at all. Aziraphale, who is warm and safe and home.

He was fine, Crowley reminded himself sternly, even if the pain and itchiness in his scales flared up to contradict that, and he gritted his teeth. He was fine. He was fine. Well – if only a little bruised around the ego. 

“Are you – are you alright?” Aziraphale asked tentatively, breaking through the demon’s frustrated, cycling thoughts, his hand ever so carefully coming back up to rest on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley whined, deep in his throat, as conflict tore into him, and he had to physically wrench himself back to keep himself from leaning into Aziraphale’s welcome touch. He bit hard into his bottom lip, his fangs gnashing together.

“Are you sure this is fine, angel?” He rasped out in lieu of a response, itching agitatedly at the scales creeping up his neck as tears that could not fall burned behind his eyes. “You’re – and I’m – I’m –," He cut himself off with a growl, jerking his head away from Aziraphale, not letting him see the expression that he was sure was twisted across his face. “It’s not pretty,” he managed at last, his voice hollow.

Aziraphale scoffed, actually scoffed, at that, and Crowley was almost certain that he was rolling his eyes – the thought almost made him smile. He really was a bastard.

“Oh, please, darling,” the angel scolded lightly, patting Crowley’s cheek gently, thumbing over the sharpness of his jaw and brushing away dried, flaking-off pieces of shed. “You are beautiful in any form you take. I do not and will not think of you any less, not for your pain, not for your fear, and not for your True Form.”

Crowley’s heart jumped to his throat, and he swallowed it back down, letting out a long, shuddering breath. He couldn’t close his eyes, so he simply turned his face away, tugging away from Aziraphale’s touch even as it seemed to physically burn to do so.

“Okay,” he breathed out, coiling in on himself, inhaling deeply. “Just . . . don’t look.”

And as Aziraphale obeyed, Crowley allowed his scales to begin to shimmer in earnest over his skin.

Chapter Text

Crowley couldn’t stop the smallest of whimpers from choking up his lengthening throat and through his scaly lips as he allowed his True Form to overtake him at last.

He hated how right it felt, as his pale skin rippled into black-and-red scales, usually sleek and shiny but for now chipped and dry and flaking away, and as his body morphed into that of a massive snake, the very same serpent that had tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden, draping over the top of the groaning couch as he shuddered with a mixture of self-disgust and utter bliss.

Crowley felt his body stretch and lengthen, scales rippling along his belly and his spine, his tail flicking into existence and his head narrowing, hair and clothes trickling into nothingness. He let out a hiss of pure blissful relief as the pain aching through his body dulled away as he returned to his natural, basest form. He gave a raw, full-body shiver, coils and coils of scales slithering over one another, and he tucked himself into a small ball (well, as small as he could be with how enormous he was, unable to control his size in his current state), scales sliding and rubbing against each other and, for once in the past week, not sending pain raking throughout his entire body. 

He tried to summon up even a scrap of the guardedness that had been wrapping tendrils of thorns around him ever since he had stepped foot in Aziraphale’s bookshop, but the natural relaxed state that had overtaken him physically wouldn’t let him drum it up, and he let out a long, blissful sigh in between his fangs, his tongue flickering out to taste the air.

Even his sightlessness, the blurred cloudiness of the world that remained, couldn’t manage to stir up the dreadful anticipation that had led up to him finally allowing this shift. He felt calm, he felt at ease, in a way that he hadn’t for so long, let alone in the last week as he had suffered through his shed.

After fully coiling up into a tight ball, Crowley raised his head to face in Aziraphale’s general direction, his tongue flashing into view for a moment as he scented for the angel. He shivered, full-body, at the warm, welcoming, loving (ugh) smell that painted his tongue, that clouded his entire being until he could feel nothing but the presence of Aziraphale, of his angel. 

And he allowed himself to trust, for what felt like the first time since his Fall.

Crowley slid his tail out from his scaly coils, wrapping it almost shyly around the edge of Aziraphale’s wrist. “You can look now,” he croaked out through his fangs, his voice such an animalistically serpentine hiss that only someone who cared to take a moment to decipher it – like Aziraphale – would know what he was saying.

He felt the angel shift to face him – thank Someone, he thought fleetingly, it was so much easier now to feel through his other senses in this form without the overwhelming pain and confusion and roiling emotions that he had shed just like another skin when he had shifted into this form – and the warmth that seemed to pour from Aziraphale was almost enough to drown him.

“You are just as I said,” Aziraphale murmured, so fondly and softly and kindly that Crowley’s breath hitched, and he almost choked, his body coiling and uncoiling in rapid succession as the angel continued. “Beautiful, my dear boy.”

Crowley hissed softly, his nostrils flaring and his forked tongue slithering out from in between his fangs as a shudder ran along the length of his scales, seeming to make them flutter. He snatched a sudden burst of craving that warmth that Aziraphale gave him and moved forward without a thought to butt his flattened head against Aziraphale’s general shoulder area, his long neck swaying, his tail flicking where it rested beside the angel’s knee.

He nudged his nose along the edge of Aziraphale’s soft jaw, his tongue flickering out for a moment, making the angel let out a tiny giggle that oozed with warmth, and if Crowley had been able, he was sure he would have had the stupidest smile on his face.

After a moment’s hesitation, Crowley quashed the slight anxiety that was attempting to rise within him once more, letting himself sink into the angel’s warmth and slithering his way around the curve of Aziraphale’s shoulder.

 “Can I?” He hissed out as he nudged along the back of Aziraphale’s neck, the words garbled on his forked tongue. He felt Aziraphale nod, and then the angel’s hands were ever-so-lightly trailing along the coils of scales that was the rest of Crowley’s body, a small welcoming, inviting gesture. 

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale whispered, his voice earnest and gentle. “Whatever you need.”

Crowley mumbled out a near-incomprehensible thanks before he began to slither across the broad expanse of Aziraphale’s shoulders, around and around, careful to not hurt the angel as he wound around him. Most of his lower half ended up in Aziraphale’s lap, the angel’s hands roving over him ever so gently (“Is it okay if I touch?” Aziraphale had prompted softly, and Crowley had uttered out a broken, mangled “Please”, only followed by a more reluctant, “jus’ be careful,”), Crowley’s tail flicking lazily and winding around Aziraphale’s wrist. Crowley’s head was resting in the fluffy halo of Aziraphale’s curly blonde hair, and he was nuzzling into it, breathing it in with his tongue. 

“Sssss’nice,” he managed to mumble in a low hiss, a shiver passing through his thick body as Aziraphale trailed a finger down his belly scales. It wasn’t a sensation he had ever experienced before, someone touching him there, but it felt nice, strangely so. “Thankssss, angel.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley, despite not being able to see, could picture the angel’s smile. “Do you feel any better?”

“Mrhrhmm,” Crowley growled in contented response, flicking his tail lazily and feeling dried, chipped scales from days ago drop off. He squirmed a little at the feeling, hissing quietly. “Ssssstill itchy, though.” It was duller now, less achy, but still there, even if everything did seem more . . . muted, somehow, almost muffled. Like it was blurred, in a weird way. Perhaps it was being in his True Form, or just the feeling of safety, here in the bookshop, with Aziraphale.

Fortunately, it didn’t hurt anymore, just itched a little, and even then, it was manageable, just a little irritating. But at least it didn’t hurt. Probably because, he considered begrudgingly and with an annoyed little sigh between his teeth, he wasn’t scratching at it anymore.

“It’ll pass soon,” Aziraphale whispered, stroking a gentle finger along the ridge of Crowley’s back, trailing down his scales, seemingly marveling at the feel of them. Usually, right after a shed, Crowley would feel defensive with anything touching him, since it was so vulnerable to have new scales exposed – but with Aziraphale, it just felt like warmth and safety and home, and he shuddered happily, pressing into the touch as the angel continued. “And when it does, you’ll look even more handsome, won’t you, dear?”

Crowley let out a tiny little scoffing sound, nudging his nose along the crown of Aziraphale’s head, his tongue flicking out affectionately. Or – not affectionately. Demons didn’t do affectionate. It was a scare tactic. “More like ssssshiny,” he responded in his hissing voice, “or ssssleek. But, yurgh.”

“Yurgh?” Crowley could hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice. 

“Yurgh,” Crowley agreed sleepily. He shifted a little, curling up in Aziraphale’s lap, his scales sliding over each other in massive coils, his head nuzzling into the angel’s soft curls. He hesitated for a moment as he felt Aziraphale shift, adjusting himself. “Lemme know if m’hurtin’ you, angel.”

“Don’t you worry, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured to him, “you never, ever could.” He paused, and then, his voice impossibly soft as he stroked a gentle hand (Crowley vaguely registered in the back of his mind that the angel had removed his ring for him, to make sure he didn’t chafe anything, and the thought made him hurt) over the demon’s scales, “Is there anything else I can do for you? Please, Crowley, I would very much like to know if there is anything at all I can do for you to help ease your discomfort. You don’t have to go through this alone anymore.”

You don’t have to go through this alone anymore. 

Crowley allowed the last vestiges of him clinging to his pride slip away as he nodded vaguely, his head swaying as he nuzzled further into Aziraphale’s hair, his unseeing eyes stretched wide. The feel of dried shed prickled at his nose, and he made a very un-snakelike noise, more of a whimper.

“M’ a bit dry,” he admitted in a low hiss, his reluctance still hugging onto him, but Aziraphale’s warmth hugging tighter. 

The angel perked up at his admission, and Crowley could hear the smile in his voice as he murmured, “Thank you for telling me, my dear”, and then there was the faint sound of a miracle just before Aziraphale gently nudged his finger at the end of Crowley’s nose, wetting the dried scales there with water miracled onto the pad of his finger.

“How’s that?” The angel prompted softly. “I would offer to draw you a bath, but I doubt you’d be very amenable to to that, hm?”

“Nnnnn, this is perfect,” Crowley hissed, butting his head almost frantically against the angel’s hand, rubbing his dried scales along the water that Aziraphale was smoothing over him. “Thankssss, angel.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice gentle and so blessedly kind. He stroked his forefinger over Crowley’s serpentine head, wetting the dried patches of scales that had previously been on his cheeks and making Crowley shiver at the wonderful feeling of it. Some of the water dripped down over his stretched-open eyes, and he almost keened, his body coiling and uncoiling in Aziraphale’s lap with the utter bliss of being taken care of like this – or, of being taken care of, at all. 

Aziraphale seemed to share his thoughts, as he continued speaking after a moment, his voice sad: “I hate to think of you suffering like this, all alone.” His words were pensive and distant. “We trust each other, Crowley. We’re – well, we’re friends, aren’t we? Perhaps we haven’t always been, but . . . well, what I mean to say is, you can come to me, during things like this. I will not judge you, or treat you differently,  or – or hurt you, if that is what you are afraid of.”

Aziraphale sounded horrified at the very thought, his fingers stilling where he was petting over Crowley’s head, and the demon bobbed his head, hissing a little, his tongue flicking out with his displeasure over the angel’s distress.

“I know,” he managed eventually, hissing through his teeth, nosing at Aziraphale’s trembling fingers. “S’okay, angel,” he added, attempting to soften his voice. “Jusss’ hard. Trusting.”

(In Crowley’s experience, trusting got you being hurled from the pearly gates for asking a question. It had never been like that with Aziraphale – he knew it hadn’t. But it was still so hard.)

“I know,” Aziraphale murmured sadly, his finger gently stroking over Crowley’s nose, almost unconsciously. “But . . . you can trust me, dear. I promise you.”

(“You said ‘trust me’”, Crowley remembered saying, not even a century ago.

“And you did”, Aziraphale had responded, with such adoration in his eyes that it felt impossible to believe that he was looking at Crowley.)

Crowley hummed in vague confirmation in lieu of a response, not trusting him to try and speak. He swayed for a moment, contemplating, before moving his head down to tuck underneath Aziraphale’s neck, casting his blurred vision into complete darkness and shifting his body so that Aziraphale had access to his other dried patches of scales.

The angel was so warm, so soft, and it was such a sharp contrast to when Crowley had been curled up on the floor of his Bentley, shivering and moaning with pain as he curled around himself with misery, or any of the other countless times it had happened over the millennia, when he had been hurting and in pain and oh so alone – but he wasn’t, anymore.

He was still exhausted, and achy, but at least he didn’t hurt anymore, didn’t itch as badly. And at least he had Aziraphale. That was really the most important thing. Crowley thought that he would endure the agony of a thousand crucifixions, if only to be able to sit by Aziraphale’s door.

Crowley pressed into the folds of Aziraphale’s neck with a shuddering breath, seeking out the warmth there – the warmth that he craved, and that he finally had.

“Sleep, dearest,” he heard the angel murmur, as gentle fingers trailed over his scales, wetting them and taking away the last vestiges of pain and discomfort. Crowley obeyed, tucking himself closer to Aziraphale, coiling up his tail amongst the rest of his scales, and dozing off – not painfully or agonizingly, but peacefully – as he waited, no longer desperately, for it to be over.

Chapter Text

When Crowley awoke, it was with the sudden startling realization of someone who had slept with their eyes stretched wide open, and had only realized that they were seeing when their brain allowed them to do so in an rather abrupt awakening of the body and mind.

He whimpered at the sudden brightness of the world around him, grumbling and groaning as he very slowly blinked one eye after the other, asymmetrically. His eyes were sticky with sleep and residuals from his shed, and there was wetness leaking from the corners, trickling down his cheeks and giving the illusion that he was crying.

He squirmed around, his limbs that he suddenly registered as being attached to him again flailing beside him as he tried to figure out where he was and what was going on without opening his eyes again and being assaulted by the light – the irony of which, as he himself had been the one to breathe it into existence before the Beginning, was most certainly lost on him in his disorientation. 

Crowley frowned at the sudden feeling of a soothing hand smoothing over his trembling shoulder, his mouth half-hanging open as his mind scrambled to catch up to his body – and then his eyes snapped back open as the memories of what had happened in the last few days of his shed crashed back down on him in a wave, his jaw fully dropping.

He groaned loudly, stretching it out into an incoherent mumbling string of curses and covering his face with his hands but not moving away from Aziraphale as the angel continued to stroke a gentle hand over his shoulder.

“Good morning, my dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice hushed and gentle with obvious intentional care. His fingers were carding through Crowley’s mussed-up hair, his thumb stroking over the coiled snake sigil below his ear. “I hope you slept well.”

Crowley made an unintelligible moaning noise before heaving himself upwards with a whine, rubbing at his face with his fists and half-falling over as he turned to face Aziraphale with bleary eyes. Before he did, though, he glanced downward with a sudden spike of anxiety, and was relieved to see that he was fully back in his human corporation, all skin and no scales.

He reached deep within himself and almost smiled at the feeling of his True Form settled back within, not pulling and pushing to be released anymore. He felt whole, completely rejuvenated, and at peace. And he could see. He could fucking see again, and it didn’t hurt, especially now that he was adjusting to the light of what was clearly morning streaming through the bookshop windows. It didn’t hurt – thank fuck.

All of those positives were, however, completely overshadowed by the utter embarrassment that was Crowley having allowed Aziraphale to help him through such an excruciatingly vulnerable process. Crowley thought for a moment that perhaps God had orchestrated it for Her own amusement, and he thought, not for the first time, it isn’t funny, you big pissing wanker, and you can go right to Hell. 

(He thought he might have heard a laugh in response, a familiar sound of genial amusement, but he ignored it.

Good ol’ God, getting off on his suffering. What else was new.)

“Ughhhhhrghh,” he moaned out, a sound that was somehow more comprehensive than the gibberish splutters that had been falling from his mouth for the past five minutes as he reoriented himself. He dropped back against the couch and wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing his slender fingers over his skin, which was smooth, scaleless, and almost soft.

Newly shed skin was nice – it was almost like a baby human’s, brand-new and clean. Crowley’s gaze tipped upward, and he stared at the ceiling, reveling in the soft beige color of it – reveling in being able to see any color, or really in being able to see, at all.

He felt, admittedly, wonderful.

Sheds were like that; agony for about a week (or seven days, if he was being biblical about it), and then he felt renewed, restored. It was the same sort of relief he had first felt when he had clawed his way up from the pools of boiling sulfur and magma in the depths of Hell and had first allowed his True Form to overtake him, to heal him, to replace his anguish and agony with the momentary bliss of not feeling pain, something that had become a rarity after his Fall. 

So, yes. He felt wonderful. 

But at the same time, he felt completely and utterly wrecked with humiliation, because out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale – who looked like he hadn’t moved since Crowley had fallen asleep on him for Satan knew how long – was watching him with an expectant gaze, a sympathetic look, and a mug in his hands that he was now offering to Crowley, his expression sympathetic and his eyes pitying. Crowley frowned, a muscle in his jaw ticking as Aziraphale spoke.

“Hot Toddy?”

“. . . Please,” Crowley grumbled begrudgingly, his voice coming out as a low growl. He snatched the mug with slightly trembling hands and lifted it to his lips, sipping grumpily, his face flaming. He shivered a little at the hot liquid, squeezing the mug in his hands and closing his eyes with a long, shuddering sigh.

His eyes, he noted faintly, that didn’t hurt anymore, not even from the bright light, nor did any of him; he almost smiled at the thought, but he didn’t, because Aziraphale was still there. 

Aziraphale . . . oh, he really was a bastard.  

(Crowley hated how the thought made his heart squeeze in his chest.)

“Why, there’s no need to be embarrassed, my dear.” Aziraphale’s words were gentle but with an edge of genuine affront as he let out a tiny huff, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Crowley just scowled deeper, glaring angrily into his mug as if the drink had personally offended him. He was glad for the ability to glare again.

“S’humiliating, it is, so yeah, there is,” he insisted with a curl of his lip, and Aziraphale sniffed haughtily, sounding almost offended.

“It really, truly isn’t, darling.” The angel gently patted Crowley’s knee before straightening up where he sat, folding his hands together in his lap and smiling kindly; Crowley didn’t look at him as he continued. “Just so that you are aware, Crowley – I know how much you love being knowledgeable of the passage of your time – you were asleep for what I believe to have been around two or so days, and in your True Form for most of that time. You only turned back around an hour ago, when you were first beginning to awaken.”

Crowley winced, making a face and glancing offhandedly at Aziraphale, thumbing over the handle of the mug in his hands. The angel, of course, looked perfect, and utterly, unfairly, stupidly gorgeous (as always) – his soft, striped woolen jumper, his reading glasses perched on his nose, his curly blonde hair swept to one side, his legs crossed primly in front of him and his hands folded in his lap – and Crowley momentarily allowed himself to be soothed by the mere sight of him.

But Aziraphale’s organization and general composure of himself (and of course his stupid, stupid beauty) reminded Crowley of how disgruntled he himself must look, and he let out a long-suffering sigh as he snapped his fingers to correct it, cringing as he imagined how he must have looked as he had slept.

Luckily, his miracles had been replenished along the rest of his body, and the dark gray joggers and Queen tee (specifically for their album Sheer Heart Attack) were instantly replaced with a sleek black-and-red turtleneck sweater, as well as dark trousers that hugged his figure nicely.

His hair, which had been messy and falling over his eyes, was pulled back into a tiny bun with stray pieces of hair still dangling stylishly over his face and framing his sharp jaw (now clean-shaven), and his sunglasses had been summoned to his lap. He merely held those, however, fingering them gingerly in between his hands.

He noticed with a rather pleasant, warm feeling that the aching, prodding pains that had plagued down on him since he had last been taken in and ‘dealt with’ by Hell had cleared away, like gray clouds after a storm, and he let out a deep, shaky sigh at the relieving realization, hoping fleetingly that the scars from those punishments were gone, too.

He also hoped, more worriedly, that those same scars hadn’t shown up on his True Form, even though Aziraphale had undoubtedly seen them before in the past century – either way, he hated worrying the angel, especially since he really didn’t deserve Aziraphale’s concern – but he considered that since his back and torso had already shed by the time he had allowed the transformation, that they had not. Thank Someone for the small mercies. 

Crowley let out another sigh, more agitated, and slumped over in his usual sprawl that could really only loosely be defined as ‘sitting’, cradling the mug in his hands and shooting furtive glances towards Aziraphale, who was waiting patiently for him to speak. The demon opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again, struggling to figure out what the Heaven he could even say to this.

Thank you was on his lips. You didn’t have to do that, on his tongue. I can’t believe someone as perfect as you cares about me, on the very outline of his pulsing, thudding heart, clawing up at his throat, desperate to find its purchase.

“Did I have my eyes open the whole blessed time I was asleep?” Is what Crowley said when he spoke at last, shoving everything else down past his heart, crushing the unbidden words into the curve of his ribs, allowing them to crack into his bones, because he would rather do that to himself than allow himself to voice what he knew to be true with every fiber of his soul. 

Beside him, Aziraphale hesitated, wincing a little as if not knowing how to respond, and Crowley groaned, his face flaming, his gaze lowering to the ground as his lips twisted into a pained grimace. He must have looked disgusting. Freakish. “Dammit, I’m real sorry, angel,” he griped, his voice slightly strangled. “You must’ve been -,”

“I was, and still am, perfectly happy to take care of you,” Aziraphale interrupted firmly, his voice no-nonsense and leaving zero room for any sort of argument. “And, my dear -,” He replaced his hand on Crowley’s knee, though it seemed to be, or perhaps this was simply Crowley’s imagination, higher up towards his thigh, resting on the curve of his upper leg. “I am very proud of you for allowing me to do so.”

Crowley whined and growled, a muscle jumping in his neck. He turned his face away, burying his nose in the mug, letting the steam warm his nose and take the credit for the heat creeping in his cheeks. “Wasn’ even me, ang’l,” he mumbled in weak response, his face burning with embarrassment. “S’the Bentley’s ssstupid fault.” 

“Well, then I am very grateful to her, as well,” Aziraphale responded primly, “but you do not give yourself nearly enough credit, darling.” His hand pulled back, his fingers lingering over Crowley’s tightly-clothed knee for just a moment, enough that it made the demon shiver, his mouth going dry. “You are much too hard on yourself, my dear.”

Realizing that he was getting nowhere with this (besides being reduced to a mess of incoherent babbling), Crowley crammed Aziraphale’s kindness into a cabinet in his brain labeled things aziraphale says that make no sense but make me feel things (???) and locked it, then threw it into the room in his mind that was where he put all of his compartmentalized shit, and locked that, too. Then, he lifted his head, placing the mug off to the side and getting back to the matter at hand as he roved his newly-replenished gaze over Aziraphale’s exposed skin, intently and with enough urgency and wariness that one would think that the angel in front of him was about to catch fire.

“I didn’t . . . hurt you, did I?” Crowley attempted to sound flippant and offhand, but the tremble in his voice revealed the true fear there. He knew how heavy his snake form was, how if he had been prone to any nightmares that he didn’t remember while asleep he could have thrashed around. He didn’t know how he would ever handle being able to slip back into his True Form, had he harmed his angel in any way.

But Aziraphale – the absolute and utter bastard of him – just rolled his eyes with a fond shake of his head and the smallest of smirks, though it was a gentle one, understanding for the demon’s terror showing in his gaze.

“Crowley, you quite underestimate me,” he said in a tone that had the suggestion of being smug. “You do recall that I was the one who parted the Red Sea for the Israelites in their escape from Pharaoh of Egypt, correct? And held it up as Moses and his people moved through? That I was the one to roll the stone from Jesus’s tomb, to move mountains in the Lord’s name?” His smirk grew, and Crowley’s heart did something in his chest that felt akin to giving a very undignified squawking sound. “I believe I am quite capable of holding you aloft, my dear.”

“I know, angel, I know,” Crowley grumbled, stealing a glance at Aziraphale, who was sitting with his chest puffed up, looking very affronted. His cheeks were still warm, but he thought that perhaps it was from something other than embarrassment, now. He squished that thought into a tiny ball and through it into the compartmentalization room in the back of his brain. “Jus’ making sure.” He paused, and then, quieter, as he stared purposefully down at the floor: “Don’t wanna hurt you, y’know?”

Aziraphale’s gaze softened. He hesitated for a moment before reaching forward with intentional care and brushing his knuckles softly over Crowley’s cheek, over the smooth, unblemished skin there. “You could never hurt me, dearest,” he murmured, his voice so unbearably kind that it hurt. 

Crowley hissed quietly, his stomach twisting uncomfortably and his breath catching behind his teeth, but he did not draw back even as his body trembled. His yellow, slitted eyes darted up towards Aziraphale’s face – drinking in every curve, every fold, every little detail that he had memorized over millennia, every detail that his mind had deemed appropriate to forget the moment he couldn’t see his angel.

It was all suddenly too overwhelming, too much, and Crowley yanked away to jam his glasses rather harshly over his eyes, his eyes that revealed everything, everything that he crushed into his cracked ribs and forced deep away from his heart, everything that he locked into the shadowy corners of his mind where the things he couldn’t think about went. He was breathing too hard, his throat convulsing and making his chest tighten, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the emotion clawing up his throat, burning on his tongue, aching on his lips.

“I – I’ll – nnnn, I’ll go,” he managed jerkily, not looking at the angel, swallowing down the bitter tang on his tongue that was the emotion that he shouldn’t even be able to feel. Guilt and shame rushed up in his chest and he growled, gnashing his back teeth, his canines clacking together, digging into the edges of his frayed soul. “Sorry I’ve been – been – I – hrnhhguh -,” 

Crowley attempted to stand, and his knees immediately gave out, his legs buckling and making him fall back to the couch. His legs, he supposed, were not used to being . . . well, legs. He glared at them. They did not look frightened. It was fucking annoying, that legs couldn’t look frightened. Or maybe he just couldn’t glare as well as he thought he could.

“Just – give me a moment,” he ground out through gritted teeth. He swallowed the burning feeling in the back of his throat, crushing the thing that thrashed in his chest and in between the cracks of his aching ribs, flush with his unbeating heart. Crowley, in his state, still wasn’t looking at Aziraphale, but his eyes darted back instinctively when the angel spoke, voice soft but edged with alarm and urgency.

“No, no, dear, please stay – I – I didn’t mean to frighten you -,”

“You didn’t, angel, s’fine,” Crowley whined, his lips trembling, but Aziraphale shook his head and hurried to continue, his hands spreading out beseeching in a silent plea for him to listen. And so he did, because who was he to deny his angel of anything?

“If you truly do want to leave, I will not force you to stay, but – well, I read about snake sheds while you were sleeping, you see,” Aziraphale explained, his voice rushed and his words tripping over one another as if, should he slow for even a moment, Crowley would flee before he could fully say his piece. “Everything I read detailed that it is good for snakes – for you, that is – to rest after a shed to such an extent. Particularly since it seemed to be ever so stressful for you.” 

The angel’s voice became more coaxing, and he placed his hand on the couch, just beside where Crowley’s thigh began. “You can stay around the shop, rest up,” he persuaded, in a voice that almost made it sound like a Temptation, “. . . and perhaps, should you not need it for yourself . . . well, perhaps I would like the company.”

At that last bit, Crowley, who had been half-rising from the couch already in preparation to indeed flee, caved. Because of course he did. Because if his angel wanted something, of course he would do it – even if, he subconsciously admitted to himself, Aziraphale was almost definitely using that irritating admission, of Crowley’s unflinching desire to do whatever the angel should ask of him, to his advantage, as some sort of very, very annoying reverse psychology.

Crowley would judge him for it, but first of all, it was literally impossible for him to judge Aziraphale for anything, the angel could bring about Armageddon by his own hand and Crowley would find a way to justify it, and second of all, he had done the exact same thing over the years, most notably in Rome when he had commented ‘I’ve never eaten an oyster’ and easily gotten the angel to perk up and invite him to luncheon, so in summary: he really couldn’t.

Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest with a heaving, dramatic sigh, and glared very glarefully out of the corner of his eye in the angel’s general direction.

“Fine,” he growled out begrudgingly, slouching over and scowling deeply. But he couldn’t stop the warm feeling from rising in his chest, up from the crevices between his heart and his ribs, as Aziraphale beamed at him, practically glowing, the look on his face priceless and gorgeous and perfect . . . just as he always was.

Utterly, unfairly, stupidly perfect, in a way that Crowley could never dream to deserve. Even as he found himself doing it anyway.

(He crushed that thought in between his fingers, crumpled it into a ball, and hurled it quite violently into the room in the back of his mind where he compartmentalized anything that felt even the slightest bit like it could mean the word love.)

“Wonderful!” The angel exclaimed happily, still beaming, and Crowley felt a sudden sense of déjà vu to when he had first allowed the angel to guide him into the bookshop, just a few days ago. Just a few days ago, when he had been cold and trembling and hurting, and Aziraphale had wrapped him up in warm arms and soothed his pain with kindness and gentleness and something that neither of them knew to call love, so they chose to label as ineffability.  

Crowley found himself thinking fleetingly that he was glad he could see Aziraphale this time around. The angel looked so happy. And if his staying in the bookshop, even just for a little while longer, gave Aziraphale that happiness, the happiness that made him light up and beam and shine with joy, the happiness that made Crowley’s heart seize in his chest with that emotion he refused to name, well . . . who was he to leave, and muck it all up?

“If you are up for it, dear, perhaps you could slither back into that pretty serpent form of yours and spook away any customers that try to come in,” Aziraphale commented rather dryly as he stood and stretched, tilting his head to one side, rolling his hips. Crowley did his best (or really, he more accurately gave in to the temptation after about half of a second, because he was a demon, after all) to not ogle from the corner of his eye as the angel’s jumper hitched up, revealing his warm, soft belly and hips and the curve of his thighs.

He barely heard Aziraphale as the angel continued, “I have been keeping it closed so as to have no disturbances, and I daresay there may be an influx of customers attempting to buy my books.” 

Aziraphale’s words were more of amused, offhand comments (with that endearing hint of real offense when speaking of customers, as if he hadn’t been the one to choose to run a bookshop in the first place) with no real sincerity behind them, but Crowley, with a sense of renewed determination – Aziraphale had seen him motionless and dead asleep with his serpentine eyes stretched wide open and dried scales chipping from his skin, so he considered that there really was no lower he could possibly fall from that – smirked broadly, and stood in one smooth motion, moving hips first, not missing the way Aziraphale’s eyes darted to watch him. His smirk grew, confidence flaring, and he dared to speak.

“Well. If you insist, angel darling.”

At that, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, took a breath, and allowed himself to morph into his True Form, albeit of a smaller size, perhaps only half of his usual size. He grinned, all fangs, and flickered his tongue, before bobbing his head and slithering up Aziraphale’s broad, warm shoulders, flicking his tail lazily around the angel’s neck and bumping the edge of his flattened nose to Aziraphale’s round one.

“Like thisss?” He hissed smugly, for once feeling entirely in control and comfortable in his True Form as he teased the angel, so familiar and with such normalcy that it made him feel almost all the way alright. Aziraphale smiled at his antics, looking quite flustered, his cheek warm against Crowley’s scales. It was a pleasant feeling.

“Very nice,” Aziraphale managed, rather breathlessly. He stroked a hand over Crowley’s spine almost reverently, marveling at the shimmering black-and-red scales that shone all along the length of the demon’s serpentine body. Crowley’s forked tongue flicked out, and his nostrils flared as the warmth of the angel washed over him until all he could feel was Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale, the feel of it all settling deep in his chest.

“You know,” the angel continued, and Crowley’s head swayed as he listened, “you look much brighter, much – what was the word you used? – oh, much sleeker, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled brightly, his very being seeming to glow. “Very beautiful, indeed.” I told you so, his expression announced smugly.

Crowley hissed with mock disapproval, flicking his tongue out to tickle at Aziraphale’s neck and tapping his tail irritably along the angel’s collarbone. Aziraphale just giggled, raising his hand to gently stroke a finger over Crowley’s pointed nose. The demon allowed it, albeit grumpily.

“You’re so cute,” Aziraphale cooed, and Crowley hissed with distaste at the offending description. The Serpent of Eden was not cute. He would have scowled if he had had the facial capacity to do so, but he couldn’t, so instead he snapped at Aziraphale’s finger; it was a playful snap, and Aziraphale didn’t even draw back or flinch, only tapping Crowley’s nose with the tip of his index finger in rebuke and making the demon coil his head back with affront. 

“Angel. If you call me cute again, I will turn back,” the demon growled in his hissing tone, though his heart was only half in it. Something about the way Aziraphale had said it – you’re so cute – had made that warmth burst inside of him, and he felt all wiggly, like he had too much something-or-other in his heart that wouldn’t get out and wouldn’t settle in his ribs, fluttering around and making him shiver at the feeling.

“Nooo!” Aziraphale protested in a whining sort of tone, hugging Crowley close to him. He backtracked, his petulant tone becoming more serious; “Well – if you truly do want to, of course, but I was just teasing -,”

“I know, I know, angel, s’all good.” Crowley butted his nose affectionately against Aziraphale’s warm cheek, nuzzling at the folds of his neck, not bothering to ask himself what the fuck he was fucking doing because if he did then he would be Extremely Embarrassed again, and him being Extremely Embarrassed apparently made Aziraphale all grumpy, and Crowley would not stand for that, even if the angel was a bastard.

Aziraphale cheered up considerably at his words, going back to beaming so brightly that it nearly hurt Crowley’s eyes to look at him, and he hummed to himself as he moved effortlessly through the bookshop, flicking on a Brahms record and placing the kettle on the tiny stove in the kitchenette. All the while, Crowley remained looped around his neck, nosing at the angel’s soft blonde ringlets of hair, indulging himself in the warmth and safety and familiarity that was Aziraphale – and he decided, vaguely, that perhaps he wouldn’t need to punish the Bentley for bringing him here, because, well . . . 

It was rather nice, being taken care of. If anything else, because it felt like defying God’s Plan for him. 

You will crawl on your belly and eat dust for all the days of your life, the Bible said, and God had said to him, all the way back in Eden, through the voice of Her Holy Light. You will grovel on your belly, God had said to him, in some versions of his hazy memory, always so blurred when it came to Her words. You will worship dirt. For all the days of your life. 

Well, he certainly wasn’t crawling now. Here he was, coiled on the shoulders of an angel. Held with reverence, treated with care, kindness. Love, because even if that particular emotion was kept buried in the back of his mind and the depths of his heart, it was there all the same. 

He wasn’t crawling. He wasn’t groveling. He was soaring, on newly-molted wings, and Aziraphale was there at his side to steady him should he ever falter. 

This really was nice, Crowley thought distantly, as he and Aziraphale settled into a comfortable silence, the angel offering him a sip of his rose-lavender tea and smiling endearingly when his forked tongue slipped out to taste it, reveling in the warmth.

They settled back into Aziraphale’s reading chair, decidedly not opening the shop as Aziraphale pulled out Miguel de Cervantes’s Don Quixote and sipped calmly on his tea. But that was perfectly fine with Crowley, who was just happy to curl up on Aziraphale’s shoulder and drift into a snooze as his angel began to read, some passages aloud, all the while holding onto Crowley as if he were the light of a dying star clutched in the grips of a greedy nebulae. 

Yes, Crowley decided. This was nice. He didn’t hurt anymore, didn’t even itch. He felt wonderful – not just physically, but down to the very vestiges of his soul. He was happy.

And happy, to Crowley, was something to be cherished, because it had been so rare for him, ever since that moment when he had strayed from his path as Starmarker and had paid the ultimate price for it. Happy was an emotion that was more foreign than love itself, to Crowley. Happiness was something to be gripped onto as tightly as possible, lest it slip through the cracks of slender fingers and dissolve into nothingness, as it had been so known to do whenever Crowley tried to seize it in his grasp.

And yet. Here he was. Happy. 

Aziraphale did that to him. Aziraphale was the one to pull him up from where he crawled flush to the ground with his nose in the dirt, to cradle him in gentle hands and murmur kindness to him, to treat him as if he were a precious thing. To cherish him, to hold him, to care for him. To love him, even if Crowley didn’t have the words to say that yet. And Crowley, as he allowed some of that ineffable emotion of love trickle from his cracked ribs to the frayed edges of his aching heart, was happy, and that was so rare, but it was so real. 

(Neither of them acknowledged it when Crowley slid back into his human corporation and remained clinging tightly around Aziraphale’s neck, curled up at his side, listening to him read aloud and occasionally taking offered sips of hot tea, and neither of them acknowledged it when Crowley pressed his face into the side of Aziraphale’s neck and nuzzled there – but it happened, all the same.

Neither of them acknowledged it, when Aziraphale stopped reading for a single moment to press a kiss to Crowley’s hair. But it happened, all the same.)

Chapter Text

Hi, guys! I'm sure this is a quite unexpected notification for the few of you still subscribed to this story. Just wanted to pop back in and say that this story now has a sequel/counterpart! It takes place 100 years later in their cottage, when Crowley sheds again and lets himself be taken care of, properly this time, with a lot more caretaking, intimacy, and whump. The link can be found here; I believe it will be three or so chapters, and the first has already been posted! (:

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!