Work Text:
Suggestion Box Playlist
- Don’t Stop Me Now-Queen
- Turn the Lights off- Tally Hall
- French Suite No.1 D Minor - Bach
- The Aquarium-Carnival of the Animals
- Like Real People Do - Hozier
- Meet Me in the Woods - Lord Huron
- Butterflies - AURORA and Tom Odell
It had been another gloriously drunken evening. Their conversations had drifted so far from the original point that neither remembered what the point had been or what had started it in the first place.
‘Lissstin ” Crowley slurred as he tore off his sunglasses and squinted towards the chair Aziraphale occupied. Crowley staggered towards the couch with drunken determination, flinging himself into the cushions in a sprawl. He looked like someone had been in the process of tossing him out a window and got distracted halfway through.
“ All I'm sssaying is...I mean…err…what was I sssaying? His voice slurred into a low hiss as he stared at the couch’s faded floral pattern. He began tracing one of the flowers with a single finger, brows furrowing in deep concentration. Whatever he had started to say evaporated. You could practically hear the thought pop out of existence like a soap bubble.
Empty bottles of wine and whiskey cluttered the floor and desk of Aziraphale’s backroom. They had been drinking solidly for five hours, which would have killed several humans several times over, but for them, they had reached that hazy stage of drunkenness where every thought seemed revolutionary –at least to them.
“Donn you think She ever gets bored?” The demon eventually asked, his voice muffled by the cushions “I mmean, just look at the blobfish”
Aziraphale frowned, gazing into his wine glass and catching his reflection in the wobbly red surface. His cheeks flushed and puffy, feeling all too blobfish-like. He’d been there in the beginning, during the design phase. The Almighty’s creativity was sometimes…unconventional. The aye-aye, aardvarks, the dugong-which looked like someone confused a Manatee with a vacuum cleaner. It was as if She was assembling creatures with spare bits. He took pity on the poor angel who had to stand there with a clipboard scribbling down every requirement of the Lord without a single complaint.
“Funny thing bees, Don’t you think?” Aziraphale mused aloud.
“They are”. Crowley nodded thoughtfully. However, at this stage, he could have agreed to the possibility of birds being able to fly spaceships and would not know the difference.
“Turkeys! ” the demon suddenly exclaimed, raising his head as if he had made an epiphany.
“Looks like She took the peacock, gave it an existential life crisis, and stuck a nutsack on its face”
Crowley patted along the couch, searching for his wine glass-which he was still holding in his other hand.
“Angry Noodles! The Aziraphale blurted out as if he had suddenly discovered Crowley’s secret identity.
“ You wot?”
“ I said angry noodles. That’s what you are!” he repeated with conviction, waving an accusing finger at the demon.
“Mm not! Crowley protested, indignant “You, with your million eyes and wings and whatnot–you're practically a disgruntled chandelier! He waved a hand vaguely.
“Disgruntled chandelier?” Aziraphale squinted
“All, I dunno, shiny, dangly bits and judgment”
“Well,” Aziraphale sniffed, clutching his wine glass to himself while attempting to straighten up in his seat.
“ I’m eath–etheal– etheral-…er” Aziraphale struggled as if being ethereal would be his closing argument.
They sat in quiet drunken contemplation of their ethereal and demonic natures for quite some time. Eventually, Crowley’s head had lolled back over the arm of the couch, his neck bent at an impossible angle.
Aziraphale sighed, realizing it was time to sober up and make some tea. He rose, waving a hand over the demon to miraculously vanish the collection of empty bottles and the inevitable hangover they would otherwise have tomorrow. He gently tucked Crowley’s head forward to keep him from choking on his tongue. The demon dozed there, snoring softly. For a fleeting moment, the angel thought he looked rather sweet, even peaceful. Had the angel not just regained his senses, he might have given in to the urge to lightly brush his fingers against the demon’s cheek or tuck that wayward lock of hair behind his ear.
Remembering the tea he scurried off to the kitchenette, busied himself with the kettle, and took out a few biscuits. Just as he began humming a Bach fugue, a thud echoed from the back room–a sound like the toppling of books. Startled, he darted to the back room to investigate. There, sprawled on the floor in a tangled mess of limbs, in a position that could only be described as a crime against gravity, lay Crowley.
“Oh for someone’s sake,” he huffed. Wanting to save what little dignity was left for the demon he stepped closer and assessed the situation. He knelt by Crowley’s side and tugged his arm free from under his chest with some effort.
“Let’s get you to the couch”
He hooked his hands under Crowley’s arms and heaved him into a somewhat upright position, propping him up against the couch. For one gleaming moment, he thought he had succeeded, but no sooner he let go, Crowley collapsed face-first into the angel’s chest like a particularly rebellious sack of potatoes. Aziraphale had no choice but to let the demon flop back onto the floor with a plop.
Determined, Aziraphale carefully flipped Crowley on his back, attempting a different tactic: sweeping one arm under his knees and the other around his shoulders, bridal style. He strained lifting the demon off the floor, only for one foot to get tangled in the blanket under the couch, while the other got trapped under the cushions.
“Honestly, Crowley you are like an overcooked noodle” he muttered, brushing a curl out of his face.
After several failed attempts–one of which involved Crowley nearly falling off the back of the couch, almost bringing the angel down with him–he was finally able to settle the demon on his side. Crowley’s back pressed snuggly against the cushions, his legs tucked under him.
Aziraphale straightened with a triumphant sigh. “thwarting the Second Coming was easier than that,” he said, wagging his finger at the demon.
Satisfied, Aziraphale carefully removed Crowley’s shoes and draped a blanket over him. He stood back thoroughly flushed, and a little more disheveled than how he started. Adjusting his bow tie and running his fingers through his hair, he convinced himself the demon wouldn’t move (or fall again) he resumed making his tea, taking a few extra shortbreads, and plopped himself into his chair.
From the couch, Crowley shifted slightly, muttering something unintelligible, like one last protest. Aziraphale glanced over, smiling despite himself, and tsked dryly.
Midnight in the Bookshop
Aziraphale does not sleep, not even after an evening of indulgent drinking. Instead, he just miraculously sobers himself up with a faint wave of his hand and returns to his work. Now that heaven no longer loomed over his shoulder, he had embraced his passion for restoring old books, becoming something of a legend in the literary world.
Scholars and historians sought him out from across the globe, entrusting him to repair ancient manuscripts and decipher long-forgotten languages. He seemed to speak every language known to mankind and was a walking encyclopedia of historical knowledge, so much so people liked to joke he lived through the ages.
He loved the craft of bringing long-dead books back to life- the delicate tools, the feeling of supple leather under his fingertips, the artful gilding of letters in gold– It was a craft that required patience, precision, and a deep reverence for history. He had become the Book Angel, a name whispered among collectors like a secret code.
Tonight, the angel worked on a 1778 edition of Shakespeare’s plays. It was not the worst he had come across but that did not bristle his celestial sensibilities any less. The leather had come away from the spine, a few pages had come loose, and most egregious of all, someone had placed a hot mug onto the cover, leaving a ring-shaped scar on the once pristine surface.
Why would anyone do such a thing?
It was well past midnight, and Aziraphale had just finished buffing the leather back to its blemish-free glory. The restored gold-embossed lettering gleamed in the warm lamplight as he admired his finished work with a satisfied hum. Stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders, he glanced over to where Crowley was curled up, seemingly undisturbed. Yet something about him seemed…off.
Frowning, Aziraphale stepped closer. Crowley’s shoes were neatly placed under the coffee table, his sunglasses had been forgotten somewhere amidst the chaos from earlier. Deciding it was nothing urgent, Aziraphale turned back to his desk and began gathering his supplies to put them away.
It was only a few moments later did something shifted out of the corner of his eye, and he paused again.
Aziraphale tilted his head, studying Crowley as though he were a particularly puzzling piece of art. It wasn’t immediately obvious, more like a faint tickle in the back of his mind, counting down: three, two, one… And then he saw it, or rather the absence of it.
The serpent tattoo that curled right beside Crowley’s ear, the one proclaiming him the Serpent of Eden was gone!
How is that even possible?
'How in the heavens–” The angel murmured, stepping closer.
To his right, something shifted under the blanket. The angel’s eyes trailed downward. From beneath the folds of the blanket, a sinuous form emerged. Aziraphale froze, holding his breath, daring not to move.
The snake lifted its head curiously, flicking its tongue out, to taste the air surrounding the angel looming over him. It was no more than three feet long; its scales were patterned with black and red diamonds down its sleek body. It was exquisite.
“Well, hello there You little beauty!” Aziraphale breathed, beaming in awe of the little creature… Never, in all his thousand years had he thought Crowley could still surprise him. But this? This was enchanting.
Slowly Aziraphale crouched down to get a better look. The snake lifted its head, swaying gently to meet the approaching stranger.
“You don’t bite, do you?” he asked, his eyes flicking between Crowley and the serpent. The snake gave a slight swish of its tail.
“Was that a yes or no, my dear?” Aziraphale mused. He gently offered his hand and the serpent gave it a curious lick,
“Oh, aren't you kind” he cooed. The snake responded with an indignant hiss, making a show of its tiny fangs.
“Ho-ho, my mistake” chuckled the angel. “You definitely belong to Crowley don’t you?”
The snake assessed the angel one last time before slithering up his arm and winding itself around Aziraphale’s bicep. Its head was now at eye level.
Aziraphale settled at his desk and leaned back as the snake gazed at him with the familiar golden eyes as they glowed in the lamplight, he could not help but be mesmerized.
“You are lovely,” he whispered.
In response, the snake gave an affectionate flick to his cheek before dipping beneath his chin, slithering to the other side, and flicking his ear playfully.
“Ha! that tickles!” Aziraphale giggled, bringing his hand up to gently stroke the snake’s narrow body.
He could not help but get the impression the snake knew him. Its movements were deliberate, those golden eyes studying him with an all too familiar intensity. There was something almost…conversational in the way it tilted its head, tongue flicking as though tasting not just the air, but the angel’s presence.
Aziraphale hesitated. Was the snake part of Crowley, like an extension of himself? Or was the snake its own entity, separate yet connected? Something stirred in Azirapahle’s chest he could not name.
Carefully, he ran the back of his finger along the soft, black underbelly, relishing the warmth of its scales beneath his touch. The snake didn’t recoil-instead it stilled-lifting its head slightly to meet the angel’s hand.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmure, his voice barely above a whisper.
The snake blinked slowly, those eyes gazing at him with an almost human patience. Then, as if answering a question Aziraphale had not asked, it nuzzled his finger.
The snake coiled around the angel’s neck and then slipped below his collar where he had loosened the top three buttons of his shirt. It rested its head against the collarbone, seeking warmth. By any other measure, having a strange snake wrapped around your neck would cause concern, but not for the angel. He trusted Crowley implicitly, and this creature-whatever it was- was part of him. The comforting weight and gentle pressure gave him an odd sense of comfort, like wearing a favorite turtleneck or scarf.
As he settled further into his chair, the soft lamplight and the soothing added presence of the snake made Aziraphale feel…uncharastically drowsy. His eyes grew heavy, his head lolling back, despite his efforts to stay awake.
The last thing he remembered before dozing off was the soft warmth of the snake against his skin. For the first time in centuries, the angel allowed himself to sleep.
Morning Breaks
When Aziraphale awoke the next morning, the snake was gone, replaced by a familiar weight; a blanket tucked snuggly around his shoulders. Early morning sun streamed through the curtains, dust motes capturing the hazy light as he heard the faint clink of china nearby.
Movement caught his eye as he became vaguely aware of Crowley striding up to him.
“Morning, angel,” Crowley drawled, handing Aziraphale the delicate cup as the steaming rich scent of creamy bergamot filled the air.
“Oh thank you, my dear” Aziraphale chirped fondly, sitting himself up and taking his first sip.
It was perfect, two sugars, a splash of milk, with a hint of vanilla. A practice Crowley had secretly perfected over time.
Something fluttered in Aziraphale’s chest, a warmth wrapping around him, which came from more than just tea.
Crowley lounged on the couch, balancing a cup of espresso in his hands, the steam swirling lazily upwards.
Aziraphale studied the demon over the rim of his cup. Something about Crowley seemed…softer. The sharp lines of his face and dark circles under his eyes had all but disappeared, even his lithe frame seemed less angular, now more fluid as though he finally began to relax into the space around him.
If Aziraphale didn’t know better, he might have said Crowley looked happy. Content even.
It had been four months since Aziraphale offered Crowley the upstairs bedroom and little by little the demon started to make it his own. The large windowsill had become a sort of mini conservatory, a jungle of lush succulents basked in the sun while jasmine vines climbed along the windowsill.
The demon’s albums- Queen, and The Velvet Underground found themselves peppered amongst Aziraphale’s Tchaikovsky and Leonard Bernstein records. One day, Aziraphale had walked into the kitchen to make tea, only to find an espresso machine that looked more like a robot nestled beside the toaster. He didn’t have the heart to move it.
Crowley had always been fidgety, restless. He had spent six thousand years looking over his shoulder, watching his surroundings for any reason to bolt -or run to the angel’s side. But now, here in the bookshop-his home- he hardly ever wore his sunglasses, now they lay discarded on the table, his golden eyes unshielded and warm as they caught the light.
It warmed Aziraphale to finally see this side of his best friend. Open. Trusting.
As Crowley sipped his six shots of espresso, Aziraphale rose and fetched the bag of pastries Crowley had brought over from the coffee shop across the street. As he returned to his seat, he noticed the little snake tattoo had returned, curling neatly next to Crowley’s ear, as though it had never moved.
Aziraphale almost commented on it.
“Oh look, your…”
Crowley lifted his head slightly, but his gaze remained distant as he pulled from whichever universe he had drifted off to.
“Hmm? What, sorry, Angel, what was that?
Aziraphale hesitated, then shook his head with a fond smile.“Oh, it's nothing”
A comfortable silence fell between them as Aziraphale savored the chocolate croissant while Crowley idly fiddled with his phone.
Eventually, Crowley broke the quiet moment, his voice lighter than usual, but still casual. “Taking the Bentley in for a wash and tune-up today. Fancy coming along? Perhaps grab lunch after?
“That sounds lovely, my dear,” Aziraphale beamed. Before he could stop himself, he added, “She will be a little beauty after that.”
Crowley froze, his head snapping up from his phone. He narrowed his eyes slightly, an eyebrow arching as something passed over a flicker of memory he could not quite place.
“Wot?
“Nothing, dear,” Aziraphale said smoothly, taking another sip of his tea. A knowing smile curled at the corner of his lips.
The End