Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Angel? Angel! It’s alright, I’m here, it’s all ok.”

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale looked up, hands dropping from his head, where he’d been cowering beneath his arms. He was crouched in a corner, balled up as tightly as his limbs would allow, trying to make himself small enough not to be perceived, holding his breath against the chance it would be heard, willing the traitorous heart of his corporation to stop, stop! lest it attract their attention.

“Crowley, what are you doing here?” Aziraphale hissed, eyes darting wildly, “They’ll get you, they’ll get you too—”

“Woah, hang on angel—” Crowley shuffled closer. He too was crouching there in the gloom beneath the eaves, in the garret of this drafty tenement. “No one’s coming to get you. Just me. You called out for me and I came, right?”

“I did?” Aziraphale stared. He remembered racing wildly through the corridors, up the stair with the voice and shapes and windy, whispering hands clutching at him; he’d felt like screaming, terror gripping every part of him. In his panic and fear he must have cried out, with his mind or with his voice— or maybe both, he thought, gulping and feeling the rawness in this throat. “I suppose I must have.” Crowley’s eyes gleamed gold in the breath of moonlight that filtered through a nearby window, and Aziraphale realised he wasn’t wearing his glasses. “But Crowley, they—”

“Who?” Aziraphale gulped again, and a third time, before he managed to croak in shaking tones,

“Ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” Crowley straightened up sharply, tilting his head up as if he could scent something on the air. After a moment’s silence, he gave a small nod. “Ah, them.”

“Them?”

“Ghosts,” Crowley confirmed, “It’s alright, angel. They don’t mean you any harm.”

“How do you know? They chased and hounded me and I’m sure they would’ve—”

“Demons are closer to these kinds of things than angels. Let’s get you out of here, can you stand?” Crowley unfolded himself and rose, but Aziraphale trembled, unwilling to move from his corner of seeming security. Crowley’s lips twitched upward. “It’ll be okay, Aziraphale. Just take my hand.”

Aziraphale looked at the hand, proffered toward him at just the right height, then at Crowley’s face, where even in the dimness he could see kindness circling. He took Crowley’s hand. With a heave Aziraphale was on his feet, but Crowley did not let go.

“Listen,” the demon said quietly, holding up his free hand, “Just listen.” Aziraphale tried to listen, over the beating of his heart and the shortness of his breath. Both quietened, and as he concentrated, suddenly Aziraphale could hear—

“Children?”

“Children.” Crowley confirmed.

“But I thought—”

“Ghosts. Children.”

“Oh.”

They stood in silence, listening together to the faint, shivery voices, piping as if from behind a sheet of water, and the sound of footsteps with no weight behind them running up the stairs. A curl of wind swept around them, and a distant peal of laughter.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, and suddenly his chest was tight again, but this time with the weight of the water behind his eyes, “Children!” Crowley’s hand squeezed his.

“I know, angel. Why did you come here in the first place?”

“I was passing, and I thought I heard someone calling out for help, so I came in. I could tell the place was abandoned, you know, likely to be dangerous— but then they started throwing things and grabbing and chasing me and I lost my wits completely, I can’t think why—”

“I told you, angel. Demons are closer to this sort of thing than you. I can’t explain, and you can’t explain, and no one I’ve ever talked to can properly explain, why this happens. But lost souls, or impressions of souls, caught between worlds? Sounds like a fairly demonic existence to me. And these— they’re just kids.” Crowley shook his head. “Who knows whether they were angry you came into their house, or whether they were just messing with you, or whether they smelled an angel and revolted against whatever religion their parents told them would take care of them.”

“I wonder—”

“Best not to ask. Not just now, anyway. Come along, angel.” Crowley pulled gently at Aziraphale, and hand in hand they left the room, winding slowly down the spiral of the central stair. Voices and footsteps and what felt like small bodies brushing past accompanied them, while seeming to pay them no attention. Crowley was smiling, looking about almost as if he could see the beings behind the sounds, and Aziraphale stared in wonderment. When they reached the ground floor and started down the narrow corridor that led to the main door and the street, the patter of small footsteps began to retreat up the stairs. Abruptly Aziraphale turned, a cry bursting from him,

“Goodbye!”

“Goodbye!” a piping voice replied. Then it, and the footsteps, were gone.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was spying on Adam and Eve from the bushes.

Well, not spying, exactly; more watching. Watching over, with care; guarding, one might say, a natural extension of his position here in Eden. However you chose to quantify what he was doing, Aziraphale was crouching slightly to conceal himself behind a tall bush that hadn’t been named yet, peering through a gap in the foliage at the two humans who this had all been made for. He considered his own corporation as he watched them, and how very like (and yet unlike) theirs it was. Especially Eve’s.

Impulsively, Aziraphale pulled of the long white robe that was the current fashion among angels, hanging it neatly on a nearby branch. His flesh prickled for a moment in the air, then relaxed again, and he looked down at his body. His hands moved over it slowly. Yes, his chest was quite different from Eve’s, though very like Adam’s, if a little less defined. He seemed to have more hair on his body than either of them, and as his hands drifted lower, one of them arrived at that place just above the juncture where his legs met. Oh yes, that bit was very different than Eve’s.

Adam had one, though, and oh goodness, what was he doing with it? Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat up, though he wasn’t quite sure why, as he watched the humans pressing their bodies together. They seemed to be enjoying it. Eve’s body in particular looked soft and flushed and happy, and she was making happy little sorts of noises. Aziraphale made a decision. With a brief flick of the fingers, his corporation shifted. Suddenly it had all sorts of interesting curves, and his chest swelled into what he was certain, despite the small sample size, were generously sized breasts. The bit between his legs vanished, replaced by something different; a strange sort of vacancy within, and a soft warmth between, with a pale and curly thatch of hair to shelter it.

“This is new.”

Aziraphale shrieked and jerked around, hands flailing over his body with moderate uselessness. Crawly stood there, the wily and apparently silent serpent, leaning against a tree. As usual, he was swathed in black, but his golden eyes were dancing with amusement as they took in Aziraphale’s shape.

“You— how dare you!”

“What? It is new! You’re experimenting! Just like them.” The demon pointed to where, beyond the bush, Adam and Eve had moved their activities to a mossy patch of ground. “Well. Maybe not just like them.” Abandoning his attempts at covering himself, and seeming to have forgotten about his robe entirely, Aziraphale huffed, putting his hands on his hips. It was much more satisfying when they were this shape, he had to admit.

“Alright, fine, you caught me.”

“What, is it a crime? Not been struck by lightning yet, have you?” Aziraphale looked up nervously, but after a moment, shook his head.

“I suppose not. Well, then,” he said, taking a deep breath and mustering up a far more blasé tone than he felt, “what do you think?”

“Mm. Job’s a good ‘un,” Crawly nodded, “Give us a twirl, then.”

Aziraphale spun slowly on the spot, tossing the hair he’d only just realised now fell about his shoulders.

“Very nice,” Crawly said appreciatively, “very nice indeed.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale woke to the sound of a repeating pattern of bass, the strident clashing of a high hat, and the strains of a distinctively feminine voice. He blinked and listen more closely: yes, that was true, but rising up reedily to join it was, unmistakeably, Crowley’s voice. Utterly bemused, Aziraphale rolled over and threw his legs off the bed and into their fuzzy slippers. His hearing sharpened as he came fully awake, and his brow creased.

What fresh be-bop is this? He wondered, and pushed open the bedroom door. Descending the stairs, the music grew louder, and he recognised the voice— but he scarcely recognised Crowley, who came into view as Aziraphale reached the bottom of the stairs. The demon was prancing about the kitchen in his swivel-hipped fashion, singing along with full-throated enthusiasm.

“Oh, oh-oh-oh-oh, oh my Lord, never made no one like you before, you had to make your own sunshine, but now the sky is opalite! Oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!” On each oh Crowley conducted the music with his spatula, pointing at the glorious dawn beyond the kitchen window, painting the morning clouds over the Downs a riot of pastel perfection.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, entirely without meaning to. Crowley jerked around, spatula flailing, Kiss the Cook apron swishing in surprise, voice shutting off abruptly.

“Angel!”

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, sure there was some mischief behind Crowley’s sudden enthusiasm for a certain musical megastar.

“What? I don’t need a reason. Why shouldn’t I.” Crowley gabbled, and his neck flushed. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, his own cheeks pinking as he took in the demon’s embarrassment, to the background of the ongoing upbeat song.

“Oh, well. I’m certain Ms. Swift would be flattered to know you’re a fan.”

“I’m not a fan.”

“Crowley, you’re dancing around the kitchen singing along to a song that has just been released.”

“Well— ok, fine. It’s catchy!”

“It certainly is.” Aziraphale chuckled, crossing the kitchen with a squeeze to Crowley’s arm in passing, and leant over to look with interest at the track list of the new album on the demon’s phone, where it lay on the counter beside the sizzling pan of bacon and eggs. “Oh, this all looks very interesting! She must know you’re a fan, look, here’s a song about plants.” Crowley followed behind, leaning to see what Aziraphale was pointing at. It was his turn to chuckle, as he poked a finger out to tap on the track entitled Wood.

“In a manner of speaking, angel.”

Chapter Text

“Can you hold me?”

“What?”

“Can you hold me, Crowley?”

The demon lurched up the steps to the bookshop’s gallery with a perilous speed, at any point half a step from splatting onto his face as he hurried to answer his angel’s call. Hold him? Was Aziraphale asking what he thought he was? It seemed so sudden, so abrupt, but Crowley wasn’t about to question it. He had reached the top of the stairs and trotted in the direction Aziraphale’s voice had come from, past a large shelf, and into view came a window, with a round angelic bottom sticking out of it.

“Angel!” Crowley hurried forward, reluctantly averting his eyes as the polished boots at the end of Aziraphale legs scrabbled against the floor. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, Crowley!” Aziraphale half-straightened, panting, turning as he leant his arms onto the windowsill. He was astonishingly dressed down: jacket removed, and waistcoat, braces visible over his crisp shirt with its sleeves rolled up to just under the elbows. Crowley thought he might faint. “I’m trying to put this little fellow back in his nest,” Aziraphale held up one hand with a rather woebegone looking half-fledged bird in it, “which his irresponsible parents have decided to build in my gutter for some reason, but I can’t quite reach. Can you hold me so I don’t take a tumble and become inconveniently discorporated?” With his other hand, Aziraphale pointed at his braces.

“Wha— yeah, sure, angel.” Crowley slouched forward. He curled his fingers until the sturdy braces, feeling the warmth of Aziraphale against his knuckles.

“Excellent, thank you!”

Aziraphale dove forward again, practically hanging out the window, and Crowley flung out a leg to brace himself, taking the weight of the angel into the braces in his hands, and gulping as the round bottom now bumped up against his thighs. He stared determinedly at the ceiling, counting swirls in the plaster.

Chapter Text

At the edge of the swirling abyss, the angel with the scarlet hair turned to look desperately up at Lucifer. The golden angel, lightbringer, star of the morning, was staring grimly back at the advancing heavenly host, lip curled in a defiant snarl.

“But you promised!” the angel whispered, “Lucifer, you promised! You said this would— you said they would listen, She would listen. You said it would all be better if we—”

“Silence,” Lucifer cut him off, “Don’t let them hear you beg. Don’t show them your weakness. Don’t give them that satisfaction.”

Angelic swords and spearpoints grew closer, and the other rebels clustered ever closer together, trying to edge away from the gaping nothingness, even as their heels were pushed towards it. The angel with the scarlet hair swept the heavenly host with frantic dark eyes, catching only for the briefest instant on a pair that were sad and blue behind a flaming sword. He turned back to Lucifer.

“You promised,” he pleaded, and his heart was broken. Something wet and hot and burning ran down his face and he knew only that it did not hurt as much as the indifference that rolled off the Morningstar in waves. Then suddenly his head was being jerked back; Lucifer’s fingers wound in his scarlet hair, bending back his neck and pressing close to his body at once.

“Oh, sweet starmaker,” Lucifer murmured, swiping a thumb across his cheek, “angels don’t cry.” He put his thumb into his mouth and sucked away the angel’s tears. Fear and desire and confusion and agony and questions swirled inside the angel, but it was too late for questions.

The host had come so close now that they could no longer be avoided, and even as Gabriel’s mouth opened to give the final command, Lucifer’s arm clamped around the angel’s waist. In a final defiance he stepped backward out of heaven before he could be forced, and together Morningstar and Starmaker plummeted into the endless dark, a flash of gold and scarlet in the void, forging the way for those who would be demons to follow.

Chapter Text

Crowley had been having such a pleasant dream.

Now and again he dreamed that he was once more the Serpent of Eden, slithering about under orders only to cause some trouble, which were easily thwarted when there wasn’t much of anything to cause trouble about. The garden had been a lovely place, all warm and nice-smelling and full of interesting plants. Back then, before the whole thing with the apple, he’d enjoyed sliding slowly about the place, feeling the different textures of the earth beneath his scales, tasting many fruits on the air, and idly observing the humans as they figured out who they were and what their bodies were for.

Crowley had always been a vivid dreamer— it was one of the reasons he enjoyed sleeping so much. And films. Whoever had been responsible for the invention of what was basically a giant dream you could share with other people deserved a medal. In any case, unless he chose to shut them out deliberately, Crowley’s dreams were always vivid, as if he was right there. This did, however, lead to occasional unintended side effects.

Such as waking up in a flowerbed in St. James’s Park, suddenly covered in mulch and damp and a nonzero amount of swan poo when the dream wore off and the giant serpent that had sleep-slithered his way out of doors in search of plant life reverted to one’s ordinary corporation. Crowley made a prolonged eugh sort of noise as he clambered to his feet, muttering,

“Well, this is annoying.”

Chapter Text

“You’ll have to try harder than this.”

Aziraphale looks up, defiance all that his eyes speak. The manacles that keep his miraculous powers in check clink against the chain that joins them. Demons surround him, their laughter rippling, first scathingly, then with unease, as the angel refuses to lower his gaze. He bares his teeth in something between a grin and a threat, and sweat trickles down his brow. The fires of hell are hot, but nothing so hot as Aziraphale’s determination to free Crowley from his torment.

“I haven’t yet begun to try.”

Chapter Text

“Surely not.”

“I know it sounds impossible, angel, but I swear.”

“There’s simply no way! You would explode, actually explode.”

“Do you think I’d lie to you about something like this? Really?”

“Not lie, no, but perhaps exaggerate…”

Which is how it came to pass that Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves skulking in a farmyard under cover of darkness late one night, having fortunately happened upon a recently deceased cow, whereupon Crowley transformed into the Serpent of Eden and unhinged his jaw, ready to prove an intestinally perilous point.