Chapter Text
1.
Most London locals remained blissfully unaware that a certain unassuming second-hand bookshop on a bustling Soho corner was, in fact, the most splendidly tranquil bolt-hole in the entire city.
At this very moment within its dusty confines, the gentle light of a Sunday afternoon was pooling quietly on floorboards that had seen a bit of life, to put it mildly. The ancient shop door, looking every bit its age, performed the minor miracle of muffling the street's clamour, leaving only the occasional rustle of turning pages to break the silence. The premises were unattended, the few patrons all being of the regular sort. Should they require anything, they knew precisely where to locate the proprietor.
The door creaked open a sliver, nudging the bell that hung upon it. The groan of the aged wood and the faint tinkle caught the eye of one customer, but seeing no one enter, he put it down to a sudden gust of wind. He was just about to immerse himself once more in the thrilling history of sixteenth-century Dutch finance when a flicker in his peripheral vision revealed something he would never in his wildest imaginings have expected to encounter in this establishment: a black serpent, the thickness of a dinner plate, was sinuously making its way along the base of the bookshelves, heading in the general direction of the bookshop's upper floor.
Aziraphale was drawn to the stairwell by a cacophony of startled yelps and the muffled thud of collapsing book stacks. “What in the blazes is going on? Fire again, is it? For goodness’ sake, and this time I had the extinguisher all read– oh.” He peered down to see a substantial snake rapidly attempting to bury itself within a precarious mountain of books. The very tip of its tail remained stubbornly exposed.
“No fire, sir, but there’s a snake! It’s gone upstairs, I think you ought to call the police!” several flustered customers chimed in with breathless additions. “Good heavens, I’ve never seen one so thick, not since that school trip to the reptile house in Year Three–”
“Gentlemen, ladies, please, do keep calm, and absolutely no need for the constabulary, Miss Potter,” Aziraphale soothed, his tone a masterclass in forced serenity. “That snake, ah, is not at all dangerous. You see, a great many people nowadays keep them as, well, pets. I imagine it’s merely an escaped pet, and I shall see to its… its safe return. I assure you I wouldn’t dream of harming him… it.” Aziraphale endeavoured to reassure the wide-eyed and thoroughly unconvinced clientele. “However, just to be on the safe side, I think it best if you all vacated the premises. We shall be closing early today. Snakes, you know, prefer solitude and dislike being disturbed. Too many people might make him, er, skittish. My apologies for the fright. Good day to you all!”
Having gently but firmly ushered the last bewildered customer out of the door, Aziraphale flipped the “Open” sign to reveal a rather more definitive “Closed,” and finally turned the key in the lock with a sigh of relief. He then began to excavate the chaotic pile of books. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at, Crowley? You can’t just pop into my bookshop in that… that *form*! You’ll give my customers the vapours. Oh, for crying out loud, where are you?”
“So terribly sorry to intrude during your… *crucial*… business hours,” Crowley drawled, slithering languidly out of an open, rather alarming-looking medieval tome entitled, rather directly, *To Hell With the Bible*, and settling himself with a contented sigh onto Aziraphale’s favourite armchair. “But I’m afraid I might need to… slightly inconvenience your schedule, dear shopkeeper. I appear to have encountered a bit of a snag.”
Aziraphale ignored the blatant sarcasm. “Are you intending to conduct this entire conversation in that… that reptilian manner? What is this, some sort of bestial hellish messenger? The latest underworld fad?”
“That’s rather the point,” Crowley hissed, sounding distinctly put out. “Azi, I seem to be… stuck.”
“Stuck?” Aziraphale wrung his hands, a distinctly worried expression creasing his cherubic features. “You mean… you can’t perform miracles?”
“Of course I can perform miracles, otherwise how would a ruddy snake be holding a conversation in perfectly good English?! Look, everything else is perfectly tickety-boo, it’s just… the human bit. Not happening.” Crowley flicked his tail with an air of considerable irritation. “And it’s not like I *miracle* myself into shape, is it? It’s more… imagining. Picturing the body, the details, the sheer audacity of occupying that space. That’s how I sometimes dream I’m a snake, dreams being all about imagination and not terribly amenable to control. Waking up to find a snake in my bed? Happens. No big deal. But not being able to *wake up* as human… that’s a first. You understand, I’m… marooned.”
“Good heavens!” Aziraphale felt a multitude of questions bubbling up, unsure where to even begin. He opted for the most pressing practical concern. “But… how did you get here? I rather doubt you can operate a motorcar in that… configuration, or indeed navigate public transport…”
“A great, slithering horror… bound to attract attention,” Crowley mimicked in a rather dreadful falsetto. “I thought you rather enjoyed that Potter chap.”
“Oh, yes, well, the sewers, naturally. I do hope you didn’t partake of any… rodent refreshments along the way! Come on, you must have a bath.” Aziraphale sighed, looking at the large serpent curled innocently in his armchair, golden eyes conveying a silent, “Do I *have* to?” “Very well, I suppose I shall have to… relocate you myself. Wouldn’t want you further contaminating my Aubusson.”
He reached out to lift the snake from its midsection, but its considerable length rather exceeded his reach, necessitating a rather awkward draping of serpent around his neck. Crowley, thoroughly enjoying the angelic service, then had the audacity to loop a further coil around Aziraphale’s waist. “You know, Azi, Gabriel might have had a point. You really could stand to lose a few pounds.”
Aziraphale resisted the almost overwhelming urge to simply drop Crowley on the spot.
By the time he had, with considerable effort, manoeuvred Crowley into the bathroom, the urge was becoming increasingly difficult to suppress.
“Could you, perhaps, refrain from… *gnawing*… on the rubber duck? And do try to keep your tail… oh, for pity’s sake,” Aziraphale gritted his teeth, nudging the stubborn tip of Crowley’s tail that trailed out of the bathroom door with his foot. This resulted in the large snake unexpectedly plunging into the bathwater, a sudden and dramatic increase in the showerhead’s output, and a bathroom that had moments before resembled a rather tasteful example of late nineteenth-century Art Nouveau domestic design now resembling a minor aquatic disaster. For a fleeting moment, Aziraphale felt a profound empathy for single parents attempting to discipline unruly offspring, and made a mental note to deploy a few extra miracles in their direction at the earliest opportunity, just to alleviate their seemingly endless daily tribulations.
“Sorry about your little yellow chaps. Hunting instinct, can’t be helped. Form dictates function, you know,” Crowley hissed contentedly, a thoroughly insincere apology even by his standards. “And, if you hadn’t noticed, I rather lack opposable thumbs at the moment, so a bit of assistance with the scrubbing might be in order. You might want to change your shoes, wouldn’t want those new leather ones ruined. Oh, and a touch of mint-scented bath salts would be rather divine, I know you have a rather impressive collection…”
Aziraphale mentally recited the “Sixteen Methods for Suppressing Violent Impulses,” a mandatory module from his long-ago Heavenly training, repeating the crucial mantra: *I am an angel (well, a non-operational angel, but still an angel), and he is my friend (possibly my only one), therefore violence, of any kind, is entirely out of the question.* The mental rehearsal was barely complete before the large snake in the bath resumed its self-absorbed monologue.
“…and until this… predicament is resolved, I’m rather helpless, you see. A snake’s life in the city is fraught with peril, unless you’re suggesting a stay at the local reptile house.” Crowley lifted his head languidly. “So, naturally, you’ll have to make some space for me. And perhaps keep an eye on the Bentley? Wouldn’t want her gathering dust in the garage. Oh, and my potted plants require daily watering and… conversational engagement. I’ll give you the specifics tomorrow–”
But something about this didn’t quite ring true, Aziraphale thought. Something was… off. This wasn’t quite the usual Crowleyan litany of self-serving demands.
“Listen,” Aziraphale interrupted the uncharacteristically loquacious serpent, “with something like this happening, do you have any idea who might be… behind it?”
Crowley’s flow of words was abruptly cut off, hanging awkwardly in the air. He submerged his head beneath the foamy water. The bath salts had created a veritable meringue of bubbles, and the once-animated serpent was now as still as if he’d vanished entirely.
Aziraphale said nothing, merely watching the occasional bubble break the surface.
“Azi,” the muffled voice came from underwater, “Beelzebub and the lot would be far more… direct about it. Gabriel and Michael don’t seem to have twigged about the body-swapping business, and the Upstairs lot haven’t exactly given me a reason to expect… this.”
“So that leaves only one possibility,” Aziraphale said slowly, a cold dread settling in his stomach.
“Azi, I actually…” Crowley felt a desperate need for air, and simultaneously wondered if simply drowning himself might be a preferable option. “I’m… rather frightened. I don’t know if this is just the first stage, I don’t know what else he might have planned, and my biggest worry is that he might do something to you as well–”
Suddenly, Crowley felt a hand beneath his jaw, lifting his head above the water. He gasped reflexively, the minty-fresh air flooding his lungs.
Aziraphale gently cradled the large snake’s head against his shoulder, a pair of pristine white wings shimmering into existence, wrapping tenderly around the damp and decidedly mismatched pair.
“We shall get through this. It’s not like it is the end of the world, which we *had* survived, together, if you remember.”
Hearing the angel’s voice, Crowley felt the tension and apprehension slowly drain away. The weeks of being trapped in serpentine form suddenly felt… real. He felt, for the first time, utterly exhausted. A comforting sort of exhaustion.
And so, he drifted off to sleep.
The minor inconvenience, of course, was that he missed the subsequent lengthy process involving the angel carefully extricating him from the bath, a considerable amount of towelling and hairdryer usage, and finally being unceremoniously dragged into the bedroom and tucked into bed, all accompanied by a muttered string of rather well-enunciated “fucks.”
2.
Customers who made a habit of browsing a certain second-hand bookshop in Soho on a Monday would find the establishment once again closed. This, of course, was hardly unusual. The bookshop was notorious for its capricious opening hours, and even the most seasoned regulars would occasionally be met with a bewildering array of excuses for its unavailability.
This time, however, beneath the usual “Closed” sign, a small handwritten note declared: “Proprietor away returning escaped pet snake.”
In reality, at that very moment, the proprietor was in the bookshop’s first-floor bedroom, while the theoretically “returned” pet snake was currently occupying the four-poster bed and engaged in urgent strategic discussions regarding the aforementioned unforeseen circumstances.
“I think we ought to ask Agnes,” Crowley said hopefully, his serpentine body agitatedly twisting the pillows. “After all, she was the one who gave us the… suggestion… for the last body-swapping incident. Well, she provided the *hint*, at least.”
“‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch’ concluded at the End of the World, remember?” Aziraphale, propped up against the headboard, rescued the rapidly suffocating pillow from Crowley’s coils and tossed it onto a nearby stack of rather alarming gold-embossed volumes (*Common Demonic Curses and Their Reversal*, *Demons: What They Are and Why They Can Be Exorcised*, *Demonology: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Such Beings*). “I did hear that she actually left behind drafts for a sequel, but Anathema, on Newton’s advice, *burned them*! That foolish boy… I mean, not wanting to live one’s life according to prophecy is perfectly understandable, but they could have at least entrusted the manuscript to someone… reliable…”
“Reliable? Like some avaricious antiquarian bookseller salivating over a previously unknown book of prophecies?” Crowley deflated onto the bed. “Alright, stop obsessing over your precious books and help me think.”
“I was thinking we should consult the Antichrist,” Aziraphale announced with a surprising degree of confidence. “Last time I was… incorporeally inconvenienced, forced to share a body with that rather unfortunate woman, didn’t he conjure me a new physical form in an instant? The boy could surely help. He has the… ability. We simply need to persuade him–”
“The reason I’m in this scaly predicament in the first place is because *he* wasn’t exactly thrilled about my… extracurricular involvement in his son’s upbringing. If I continue to drag the lad into our little dramas, what do you think awaits me? It certainly won’t be a polite request to book a session with a child psychologist to address some minor paternal friction.”
Crowley wound himself forlornly around the antique four-poster’s bedpost, resting his head on the black velvet curtains with a dramatic sigh. “Azi, I’m doomed.”
“…Now, don’t jump to conclusions. According to your account, this… state of affairs has persisted for several weeks, is that correct?” Aziraphale endeavoured to maintain a tone of calm objectivity. “Which implies that, during this period, he hasn’t exactly rushed to… do anything further. Perhaps this was merely a… small warning? Nothing more will come of it.”
“You don’t understand him, Aziraphale! He doesn’t *do* small warnings! He simply enjoys watching you squirm with apprehension. Like a cat toying with a mouse. How many times have I seen it? Now, if you’ll excuse me, let’s discuss the Alpha Centauri system…”
“Actually,” Aziraphale interjected, pointedly ignoring the latter part of the sentence, “not wishing to pry, but… your and his, er, personal relationship? What’s it like?”
“Why do you ask?” Crowley responded quickly, sounding more amused than surprised. “Are you… jealous?”
“What— why— I— I am not jealous! Why would you think I’m jealous? I am an angel, I am incapable of such a base emotion! Besides, what is there to be jealous of?”
“Oh, plenty,” Crowley said, with considerable enjoyment, observing Aziraphale’s flustered little gestures. “Jealous of all the delightful, shared memories I have with him that you can’t possibly replicate. Like, say, falling from grace together… Just a jest!” he added hastily, before the angel’s withering gaze could fully take effect. “Must remind you that wrath is also one of the big seven.”
“Thank you. I am perfectly aware,” Aziraphale said stiffly. “And you haven’t answered my question.”
Sensing the shift in the angel’s tone, the large snake instinctively tightened his grip on the bedpost.
“Look, he’s my boss. I follow orders. Went on a few… assignments with him, that’s all. Then he decided to take a more… behind-the-scenes role, establishing his… management structure, leaving Beelzebub to handle more of the day-to-day drudgery. Haven’t seen much of him since. I’m not exactly a bigwig down there, you know.”
“Really?” Aziraphale looked genuinely perplexed. “Well, it’s just… the way you speak of him, I assumed you were rather well-acquainted. I have heard certain… things. Generally, demons who displease him don’t seem to get a second chance. You yourself have mentioned he’s not the sort to send a strongly worded memo. But this… this whole business strikes me as rather… warning-like. And they did entrust the Antichrist to *you*, didn’t they?”
“Couldn’t tell you why. Figured I had the… relevant experience, being the Infernal Liaison for the Earth-based operations and all that,” the large snake said dismissively, idly nibbling on a tassel from the velvet curtain, while in some forgotten corner of his mind, a voice, faint and distorted from a long-ago car radio, whispered, “…why, it’s because they love you down there, Crowley.”
Blast it all. Beelzebub must have actually submitted his resignation notice. And apparently, the higher-ups hadn’t exactly rubber-stamped it.
3.
Heaven, with its customary blend of the celestial and the bureaucratic, furnished its Earth-bound angels with sigils for urgent top-floor communication. Hell, naturally, had its own channels, and as ever, they were considerably more in tune with twenty-first-century user experience than anything dreamt up in the higher echelons.
The slight hitch was the initial requirement of plugging into a telephone network.
Aziraphale was hunched over his desk, nose practically touching the mildewed pages of some truly alarming grimoire. Following a day and night of utterly unproductive debate, the angel had dug his heels in about consulting his cherished collection of genuinely ancient black magic books for a solution. Crowley, with a theatrical flourish of interest and fervent support, had pointed out that snake-eyes weren’t exactly ideal for prolonged bouts of reading, leaving the task squarely in Aziraphale’s capable hands. Once the angel was thoroughly lost in a veritable Everest of dusty tomes, Crowley slithered quietly downstairs and deployed a miracle with the sort of nonchalance usually reserved for choosing which brand of existential dread to embrace that morning.
A steaming mug of hot chocolate materialized on the desk. Aziraphale gave a small, book-induced yawn.
Halfway through the mug, the angel was sound asleep.
Crowley switched on the gramophone, the familiar melancholic strains of Stephen Sondheim filling the bookshop. Satisfied that the angel was beyond the reach of earthly sounds, Crowley navigated his serpentine form over to the shop’s antique telephone, nudged the receiver off its cradle with his snout, and with considerable effort, used the tip of his tail to laboriously dial a number (“Oh, I do loathe being a ruddy snake”).
Many assumed Hell had a dedicated, easily remembered telephone number, perhaps something involving sixes. This was not the case. The important thing wasn’t what number you dialled, but what you said. In other words, any telephone number could be a direct line to the infernal regions, provided you knew how to phrase your request with the appropriate level of damnation.
For demons, of course, it was simpler. One merely had to utter one’s demonic name after dialling, and the signal would be duly dispatched. Should Hell deem it necessary, a response would follow.
Crowley tentatively spoke his true name. It had been a while; the pronunciation felt oddly foreign. He was just idly wondering why Hell couldn’t adopt something a bit snappier when a voice that sent a shiver down his nonexistent spinal column crackled through the receiver. A voice like moonlight on a bottomless, still pool, with a lethal sort of allure.
“At last. Crawly.”
Crowley felt an irresistible force yank him from one end of the telephone line to the other. It took him a few disoriented seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and a few more to realize he was sitting in human form on cold, unforgiving tiles, watching a London Underground train thunder past. Standing at the edge of the platform was a figure in a long black coat and a dark blue scarf, who seemed to be observing the dilapidated station sign on the opposite platform with considerable interest.
“…Lord, if you wouldn’t mind, it’s Crowley,” he said, bowing with as much exaggerated deference as he could muster while trying not to dwell on the distinct feeling of spiritual oppression. “You see, when we last met in Paris, I informed you that I had rather…“
“Human niceties are of little consequence, as you well know. You’ve spent far too long on this mudball, picking up their tiresome little habits,” the figure turned, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his long, sharp features. His pale green eyes seemed to shift and shimmer in the dim light.
Crowley instinctively reached for his sunglasses, only to remember, with a pang of something akin to phantom limb syndrome, that he wasn’t currently wearing his usual attire.
“If you wished to see me… a more direct method would have sufficed, Boss. I am, as always, at your disposal.”
“But that wouldn’t be nearly as fun, would it?” the figure tilted his head, idly twirling a pair of sunglasses that seemed to have materialized from thin air.
A familiar, nicotine-withdrawal-esque agitation prickled up Crowley’s spine. He decided a proactive approach might be prudent. Best to get the unpleasantries over with.
“Look, I know the Adam business was a bit of a… kerfuffle, and I’ll accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate. But if you had the full debriefing, you’d see it was entirely Hastur’s fault, really. I had no intention of–”
“Adam? No, my concern is not with Adam,” the figure raised a hand, and Crowley, with a surge of relief, stepped forward to accept the offered sunglasses.
“My rebellious offspring foolishly believed he could make choices. He chose to become human, and in his human years, there was little I could do. It was quite unnecessary, of course. A human lifespan is but a blink, a mere century at most. What is a century to us? I have patience. Once his mortal coil is shed, I shall have ample time for a… thorough discussion. Though perhaps I won’t even need to wait that long. The whims of children are notoriously fickle. Rebellion might merely be a… fleeting adolescent phase.”
“Precisely, classic teenage angst, you’ve hit the nail on the head,” Crowley said quickly, mentally scrambling for other potential transgressions. “Was it… did Beelzebub happen to mention anything? You see, Beelzebub has rather… initiated proceedings for my, er, expulsion from the infernal realms. Rest assured, no matter how dire my circumstances out here, I wouldn’t dream of returning to cause any further… inconvenience…”
The figure gave him a look that could curdle lukewarm holy water. Crowley promptly shut his mouth.
“This is a reminder, indeed, for you. I want you to remember what you once were, what you now are, and what you will ever be. Crawly.”
“Come back to me. Before my patience, which is considerable, should happen to… fray. Rejoin the Dark Council. Embrace your ducal responsibilities, as you should have millennia ago. Hell is your home. Only Hell can be your home. Isn’t that right, my star employee?”
For a fleeting moment, though Crowley would rather chew gravel than admit it, he felt a distinct kinship with his neglected houseplants back at the flat.
“Lord, I understand. If you could just… grant me a little time.”
The next moment, Crowley found himself back beside the precariously balanced telephone receiver. Still very much a snake.
“…Bugger.”
“You see, evil always contains the seed of its own destruction. It is inherently negative, and therefore, even in its apparent successes, it sows the seeds of its own undoing. No matter how grand, how meticulously planned, how seemingly foolproof an evil scheme may be, its inherent wickedness will, by definition, turn upon its master. No matter how superficially successful; in the end, it will destroy itself. It will topple from the rock of its own iniquity and plunge headfirst into the ocean of oblivion.”
Crowley, draped rather dramatically over the armrest of the sofa, recalled Aziraphale uttering those very words in the Bentley some time ago. He supposed that rather grand pronouncement of heavenly wisdom was a surprisingly accurate summation of his own demonic career. Put in more infernal terms, he was a demon who invariably managed to shoot himself in the foot, often with a rather elaborate, self-designed blunderbuss.
For instance, he’d painstakingly designed the M25 motorway around London, only to find himself trapped within its endless loop at crucial moments.
Then there was his diligent work (alright, perhaps his attitude wasn’t always exemplary, but his efficiency was undeniable), achieving results that other demons could only dream of, which had now resulted in his inability to simply bugger off, Hell being rather unwilling to accept the resignation of its star performer, much to Lucifer’s apparent delight.
And then, of course, there was the rather significant incident, ages ago, when he’d decided to slither up to the surface and tempt an angel, only to find himself hopelessly, irrevocably, in love with the silly creature.
The silly creature in question was currently snoring softly on the desk, oblivious, his head pillowed on his arm like a tired schoolboy, one hand still resting on the open book before him. The effects of Crowley’s miracle hadn’t yet worn off. He’d rather expected the infernal consultation to take longer.
He could wake the angel now, tell him the outcome of the conversation, but for the moment, he didn’t particularly want to.
Crowley simply watched Aziraphale. The record had long finished, and the two of them, angel and serpent, sat in the quiet air.
If the angel were to wake up and find him staring like this, Crowley thought, he’d likely jump a mile, then huff and say it was all rather too creepy for a demon. Crowley would probably just shrug (in his mind, anyway, as actual shrugging was currently beyond his capabilities) and say something along the lines of being a big fan of creepiness, before redoubling his efforts to persuade Aziraphale about the undeniable merits of a trip to Alpha Centauri.
Alternatively, the angel could wake to find the demon gone. He might panic, might be sad, might even cry and curse his abrupt departure, much like his own reaction to the bookshop fire. But at least the angel would be safe. And besides, Crowley himself wouldn’t be around to witness any of the angelic distress.
As it was, Aziraphale showed no signs of stirring. The last rays of the evening sun caught the pale gold of his curls, making them appear almost translucent. The sharp angles of his features were softened by sleep, lending his face the serene beauty of a religious icon, albeit one with a rather more approachable air than cold marble usually allowed. And, Crowley thought, in a small, secret corner of his being, that when the angel slept, the faint shimmer of his halo and wings would often manifest, pulsing gently with his slow breaths. Like some sort of uniquely angelic form of snoring.
Did sleeping angels dream of demons who made them smile?
It wasn’t until the last sliver of sunlight had been swallowed by the encroaching streetlights that Crowley roused himself. He slithered off the desk, nudged a blanket closer with his snout, and then, with a surprising degree of agility, scaled the adjacent armchair and rested his head on Aziraphale’s lap.
He decided a nap was in order. Hell could wait a little longer.
4.
When Crowley finally de-slumbered, he discovered his head nestled on a rather surprisingly yielding cushion, his serpentine form thoughtfully draped with a small, lace-edged throw. “What does he think I am? A bloody cat?” he grumbled, carefully nibbling the blanket free (making absolutely sure no delicate lace snagged on his precious fangs), and then craned his neck to locate the source of this unexpected domesticity.
The ground floor of the bookshop was still and silent, devoid of any angelic hum. The first floor offered a similar lack of celestial vibes. It was only upon his ascent to the third floor, negotiating the narrow, creaking staircase with a surprising degree of serpentine grace, that Crowley finally spotted Aziraphale, his back to the room, contemplating the London skyline from the attic window.
Crowley wriggled onto the dusty windowsill, joining Aziraphale in observing the city’s transformation as twilight bled into the gaudy luminescence of electric lights. He found himself at a loss for words, a rare and slightly unsettling state, and so elected to wait for the angel to initiate the conversational gambit.
“Well,” Aziraphale said eventually, his voice carrying a certain contemplative air, “thank you for the hot chocolate.”
Crowley wasn’t entirely sure if there were hidden layers of angelic meaning embedded in that simple statement. “Don’t mention it,” he replied with a cautious flick of his forked tongue.
“While you were… *recuperating*,” Aziraphale continued, his gaze still fixed on the distant cityscape, “I perused a number of, ah, ancient records – mostly rather fanciful tales, truth be told – and examined their commonalities and, shall we say, their relative believability. It seems to me that to achieve a… permanent resolution to your current predicament, we shall have to confront him directly. Lucifer, I mean.” The angel turned, bestowing upon Crowley a look of profound significance.
Crowley very nearly executed an unplanned dismount from the windowsill.
“What? What am I supposed to do? Go ahead and tell him, ‘Hey old chap, I’m ever so fed up with this snake business, any chance of getting the old human chassis back? Jolly good, thanks awfully, cheerio’?” Crowley hissed incredulously. “I rather doubt he’ll respond with polite enquiries about my well-being.”
“Of course not, you silly serpent!” Aziraphale leaned down, resting his chin on his hand, his bright blue eyes now level with Crowley on the sill. “I simply need to know more. Like, what is the thing that you fear the most about him, deep in your infernal little heart? His power? But why can he exert such… dominion over you? Don’t fret, my dear boy, you can tell me everything.”
“It’s not merely a question of raw magical oomph…”
Held captive by the earnest intensity of the angel’s gaze, Crowley found himself inexplicably unable to look away. He felt a sudden, almost desperate yearning for his sunglasses, and yet, paradoxically, a strange sense of liberation, as if there was nothing left to conceal. He flicked his tongue again, a soft, almost sighing hiss escaping his scaled lips.
“You see, when Hell was… incorporated, all the chaps who’d taken the big tumble – the demons, that is – had to sign a sort of… joining agreement with Lucifer, in their own name, naturally. We’d just been given our marching orders from Upstairs, needed somewhere to hang our pointy little hats, and all that. Lucifer, you know, rather fancies himself a CEO. Terribly charismatic, frightfully persuasive, even for a demon. We… knew each other back in the heady days before the big kerfuffle. And well, seeing as we’d both gone down the chute, I just thought I might as well stick with him. Not that I didn’t have the occasional… pang of regret regarding that particular career move…”
“And the specifics of this… agreement?” Aziraphale prompted gently.
“Lucifer offered us… protection, shielding us from, well, your lot, in exchange for our… continued employment. Back in the early days, you know, after the Fall, there were whispers, rumours about how the Heavenly Host were planning a bit of a… clear-out. Most of the time I didn’t give such baseless tittle-tattle a second thought, or indeed, Lucifer’s self-proclaimed… royalty in his rather dismal little dominion.
But I did rather fancy continuing to exist. I was in a bit of a temper, truth be told. Felt… abandoned, bewildered, thoroughly cheesed off, brimming with a rather unhealthy dollop of resentment towards Him, towards heaven, towards all ang–”
Crowley cut himself off abruptly. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to meet Aziraphale’s unwavering blue eyes, and so waited in silence for the inevitable barrage of questions, criticisms, or possibly even a mild angelic tut-tutting.
But Aziraphale remained silent, his expression thoughtful. Crowley glanced up to find the angel still regarding him with that same gentle, almost concerned look. He decided to take it as a sign to proceed with caution.
“I wanted to live, live long enough to… achieve certain objectives, find answers to a few nagging questions, and perhaps indulge in a smidgen of well-deserved retribution. But I was rather on my own down there in the fiery pit, burnt to a crisp, smelling faintly of sulphur, and generally cursing every blessed soul that crossed my mental landscape. Until Lucifer found me, called me by my proper name, and offered a… helping hand, as it were. I recognized him, of course, from the old days, so…”
“Better the devil you know,” Aziraphale murmured, shaking his head with a hint of melancholy.
“So you see, I’m rather… bound by this contract to work for him, not that I have any particular enthusiasm for the arrangement. If I’m not… pulling my weight, the contract allows him to do… well, pretty much anything. I rather suspect that’s the crux of his… leverage.”
Crowley and Aziraphale shared a few more moments of quiet contemplation, the sounds of the London night seeping into the attic.
“A sweat contract!” Aziraphale declared suddenly, breaking the silence with a note of almost academic fascination. “So the very foundational principles of Hell’s management structure are inherently flawed, destined for eventual collapse! Any establishment that relies on such draconian measures to motivate or retain its workforce is clearly not fostering a healthy or indeed, *liked*, working environment.”
“After hearing all those deeply personal and frankly rather harrowing details of my miserable little origin story, *that’s* your takeaway?!” Crowley exclaimed, the phantom sensation of his eyebrows shooting skyward. “And yeah, we both know how much you adore your lot and your boss, except for the bit where they rather spectacularly kicked you out and sentenced you to eternal damnation, if my memory serves.”
"...Well, isn’t it the point?” Aziraphale countered, a touch of asperity in his tone. “Listening to you, one might have assumed Lucifer was a comrade-in-arms, when in fact, Crowley, the supposed Prince of Darkness-adjacent, is little more than Lucifer’s… house-elf.”
“A house— a house what?!”
“Never mind. So you signed this… this infernal dotted line, granting him the authority to… well, to exert control, should the fancy take him?”
“Yes. Though to be fair, it’s not entirely watertight. There have been demons who’ve… gone rogue over the millennia. Hell’s HR department, you know, isn’t exactly renowned for its meticulous record-keeping. And demons, being what they are, tend to multiply rather enthusiastically. Losing a few low-ranking malcontents doesn’t exactly trouble the Dark Lord’s sleep schedule. But–”
“——you rather suspect he does take a proprietary interest in his favourite little house-elf.”
“If you insist on the analogy. If I could somehow wriggle free of this blasted agreement…”
“This agreement,” Aziraphale said slowly, taking a deep breath, “perhaps… I might have a solution.”
He reached up and pushed open the small skylight in the attic roof, allowing the soft glow of the moon to bathe the room in its ethereal light. The illumination wasn’t particularly strong, but it quickly picked out a series of intricate, shimmering patterns on the smooth, dark floorboards. A sigil materialized, glowing with a gentle, otherworldly luminescence. In its centre sat a small, white envelope, radiating a faint, pearlescent light, with tiny, feathered wings fluttering with an almost frantic energy.
“What’s that?! Tell me you didn’t…” Crowley stared, utterly aghast, as Aziraphale carefully picked up the white envelope from the heart of the sigil. The tiny wings gave a startled little flap, causing Crowley to recoil slightly.
“It’s a letter from heaven. That is. I… I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually. A few days ago, Metatron offered me a… shall we say… opportunity. Apparently, Upstairs wasn’t entirely satisfied with my previous… ah, fiery send-off. They want me back. To assist the Archangel in managing the Earth-based operations. If I accept this… proposition, I would be granted the authority to perform rather more… advanced forms of exorcism. In other words, the ability to… dissolve demonic contracts.”
“You haven’t accepted this… job offer, have you?!” Crowley hissed, his golden eyes wide with alarm.
“Well, not yet, no. I mean, if you were… vehemently opposed…”
“—Out of the bloody question. You’ll never be able to get out of that celestial nuthouse again, even if you develop a sudden penchant for hymns and halos. I’m not trading your eternal servitude for the temporary inconvenience of a few scales. I’d owe you far too much. You might as well just douse me with a bucket of holy water and have done with it. Now, put it back before I get any more drastic ideas.”
Crowley fixed Aziraphale with a long, unwavering stare until the angel, with a sigh that spoke volumes of inner turmoil, reluctantly placed the white envelope back onto the sigil. The sigil, along with its celestial missive, shimmered once more and then vanished without a trace.
“Then,” Aziraphale said, a newfound resolve hardening his gentle features, “it seems we have only one option left. We shall have to find a way to get Lucifer to give you a sock.”
“I am *not* a bloody house elf!” Crowley protested, raising his forequarters in a gesture that would have been far more effective had he possessed actual arms.
“We shall present him with an offer that even a demon of his… calibre… will find difficult to refuse.”
“Which is…?” Crowley hissed, a flicker of something akin to morbid curiosity in his reptilian gaze.
“A game. Let’s game him. We shall wager your infernal employment contract.”
“Why in the blazes would he want to play some ridiculous game?! He can summon me, torture me, or even… well, you know… anytime he jolly well pleases, as long as he’s got that blasted contract with my name on it!”
“Yes, indeed. But it wouldn’t be nearly as… *entertaining* for him, would it?” Aziraphale gave Crowley another of those intensely meaningful looks, causing the demon to briefly wonder if perhaps Heaven had finally cracked Hell’s rather rudimentary encryption methods. Though, on reflection, infernal communications security was hardly his primary concern at the moment. “Besides,” the angel continued, a hint of a knowing smile playing on his lips, “I rather think he’s always had a… certain fondness for you, in his own peculiar way, of course. After all, they really *do* love you down there, don’t they?”
Crowley feigned complete incomprehension at the angel’s pointed remark. “And what, pray tell, would he stand to gain should he… win this little ‘game’?”
“How about an extra angelic soul? Though I may no longer be strictly ‘on the books,’ as it were, I doubt he’d quibble over bureaucratic niceties. Demons, I understand, are rather cunning creatures – no offence intended – always adept at finding loopholes. And Lucifer… well, he’s the top of the infernal heap. But I happen to know that you, my dear Crowley, are rather adept at such… diversions yourself, are you not? We shall have to be exceedingly careful. But if you ask me, I rather think we stand a chance. You and I.”
“I’ve made up my mind,” Crowley hissed, his voice surprisingly firm. “It’s either this… game, or that infernal little white envelope. Either way, I will not lose you to him. Not again, at least.”
Crowley fell silent, the implications of the angel’s words hanging heavy in the air.
“The choice, as ever, is yours,” Aziraphale said brightly, as if the matter at hand were no more significant than deciding upon a suitable venue for supper.
“Then,” Crowley hissed, a strange mixture of trepidation and something akin to exhilaration coiling within his serpentine form, “let the game begin.” He hadn’t played a proper game in centuries, and he couldn’t recall ever feeling quite so… invested.