The Rose and the Serpent

by

Atalan

A fanfic based on Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

2020

Read more by Atalan on Archive of Our Own

This is a work of fanfiction. The author makes no claim on the characters, setting, or concepts from Good Omens, which have been used without permission.

Table of Contents

Title Page

AO3 Rating and Tags

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

License Notes

About the Author

Also by Atalan

AO3 RATING AND TAGS

The Rose and the Serpent

Fandom:

Good Omens

Rating:

M (Mature)

Warnings:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Wordcount:

55,795

Relationships:

Aziraphale/Crowley, Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer

Characters:

Aziraphale, Crowley, Anathema Device, Newton Pulsifer, Gabriel, Adam, Raphael (OC), Lucifer

Tags:

Romance, Fluff, Angst, Happy Ending, Snake Crowley, Fairy Tale, Beauty and the Beast, the fusion that actually quite a few people asked for, not the disney version though

CHAPTER 1

It was uncharitable at best, downright wicked at worst, but Aziraphale couldn’t help thinking that things would have been a lot more pleasant if Gabriel had, in fact, remained lost in the woods. True, it would have left Michael as head of the family, but in some ways she was easier to deal with, even if she terrified him.

As it was, Gabriel was here in the too-small house, two days late, dripping all over everything as he paced in agitation, loudly bemoaning the confirmed loss of two ships and the unexplained failure of a third to arrive in port. There was a lot of sidetracking onto minutiae, and Gabriel was very quick to blame the captains (all of whom he had insisted on hiring himself), and by the time he got onto something about a castle in the woods, Aziraphale had stopped listening.

He’d surreptitiously gone back to his book, carefully propped beneath the table out of view. It had taken him weeks to get hold of this one, cost him money he didn’t really have to spare, and it was always a toss-up as to whether the brown paper package would even arrive on the mail coach. Who knew how long he’d have to enjoy it before something happened to it? All sorts of things happened to his books. It was remarkable how, in a house crammed with the belongings of an entire family, it was always Aziraphale’s books that got pitchers of water spilled on them, or accidentally knocked out of windows into deep, sucking mud, or - on one memorable and particularly unlikely occasion - catapulted directly into the open fire with allegedly no witnesses.

It took him a moment to realise that Gabriel had spoken his name. He jerked his eyes up from the page in a panic. They were all looking at him. Uriel was smirking. Oh dear.

“What was that, Gabriel?” he tried, hoping against hope that Gabriel had taken his distraction for distress over the terrible tale of woe unfolding before him.

“You see?” Gabriel said to the others. Michael was frowning in the worrying way she frowned when one of the others had suggested something distasteful, but she’d decided it was still the most practical option. Uriel was smirking openly. Oh dear, oh dear. “We can spare him.”

“Sorry?” Aziraphale clutched his book tightly like it would protect him from whatever Gabriel was planning to do to him this time. “Spare me? From what?”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about providing any sort of contribution to the family?” Gabriel snapped. “It won’t make a difference if you’re not here.”

“Not... here?” Aziraphale looked between the three of them. “What?”

“It’s not like you’re here most of the time anyway. You’re always somewhere else,” Michael said. She jarred the table, causing Aziraphale to fumble his book and almost drop it on the floor. Uriel sniggered. “You may have a point, Gabriel. Still, you don’t have to honour the bargain. It’s not like the snake can do much about it.”

Aziraphale was beginning to have serious regrets about tuning out the previous conversation.

“Snake?” he echoed weakly.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Aziraphale, weren’t you listening at all?” Gabriel reached across the table and yanked the book out of his hands. “What is this drivel, anyway? Across the Moonlit Moor - another one of those trash novels you insist on wasting money on?”

“It’s not trash,” Aziraphale protested, even though he’d already had and lost this argument with Gabriel more times than he could count. “It’s rather poetic, actually, and it has some fascinating things to say about the concept of loneliness—”

“Fascinating,” Uriel said in poor imitation of his voice, and started to laugh. It wasn’t a very nice laugh. It never was, when it was directed at Aziraphale. “I say we do it. Give him to the snake. He’ll probably get kicked out after a week anyway when the bastard realises how useless he is.”

“What snake?” Aziraphale demanded, trying not to watch nervously as Gabriel flipped the pages with rough hands. “Why are we talking about a snake?”

“The snake in the castle in the woods,” Gabriel said, as if that explained everything.

It did not explain anything.

“All right,” Aziraphale confessed desperately, “I wasn’t listening, I’m sorry. You just— you were talking about the cargo manifest on the missing ships and I— my mind wandered...”

“Your mind never stops wandering.”

Gabriel grasped the book vengefully and for a horrible moment Aziraphale thought it was about to take a swan dive into the fire. Instead, Gabriel tossed it blindly over his shoulder. Seeing it land face down on the muddy floor, pages bent every which way, was almost as bad as seeing it burn. Aziraphale bit his lip and stared at the wooden table top. He’d polished it up all clean just yesterday, but somehow Uriel had already covered it with dye stains again while working on her latest batch of silk samples.

“You must have heard the story about the cursed castle,” Gabriel continued with a scowl. “Even you’re not that oblivious.”

“Well... yes...”

Of course Aziraphale had heard the story. Deep in the woods, there was a castle under some sort of enchantment, ruled by a mysterious lord. You couldn’t find your way there unless you got lost, and you’d better hope you didn’t get lost, because the castle laid claim to those who stepped inside. Aziraphale had never put much stock in it. There weren’t many actual enchantments hanging around these days, and besides, he’d always thought, if you could never leave the castle once you’d entered, who was bringing back these rumours about it?

(Aziraphale loved novels and tales and songs and poems but he also had a very keen sense of logic. Sometimes he thought that was the true reason his siblings disliked him. He’d pointed out one too many flaws in their grand plans to increase the family fortune. On the other hand, he couldn’t argue that they had a lot of options to choose from, when it came to finding him wanting.)

“It’s... are you saying it’s true?”

“Yes, Aziraphale, that is exactly what I have been saying for the last half an hour,” Gabriel snapped. “The damn horse got spooked and bolted—”

“Not Sappho? She’s usually so calm - is she all right?”

“Is she— is the horse— I have no idea how the horse is, because I never saw it again after it dumped me in the middle of the woods to be chased by wolves—”

“You mean you’ve lost her?” Aziraphale was horrified. Sappho had always been his favourite. She let him hide in her stall sometimes when he wanted to read uninterrupted, and she very rarely tried to eat his books. “Oh no!”

Gabriel turned his eyes heavenward as if praying for strength, although Aziraphale was fairly certain he’d never prayed a day in his life before anything other than the altar of his own ambition.

“Forget the horse,” Gabriel gritted out. “The horse isn’t important. What’s important is that I ended up at the gates of the castle, and it is definitely a real place, and it is definitely cursed.”

Aziraphale most assuredly would not forget the horse, but he did let it go for now, hoping fervently that poor Sappho hadn’t been eaten by wolves.

(Wolves? In the woods? He’d never heard that before. It wasn’t the right climate for wolves, and surely the sheep farmers would have had something to say before now if so...?)

“Then how did you get away?” Aziraphale asked, as Gabriel clearly wanted him to. “I thought no-one could ever leave.”

“As it happens, I am very cunning,” Gabriel replied proudly. “I outwitted the snake! It had to let me go.”

Michael did not roll her eyes, because Michael never openly disrespected Gabriel, but Aziraphale saw the little twitch that meant she wanted to.

“You keep talking about this snake—”

“It’s the monster that guards the castle,” Gabriel explained. “Huge, ugly brute, longer than this table - longer than this room! All black and red with evil yellow eyes, nasty poisonous thing—”

Venomous, not poisonous, Aziraphale thought but didn’t say. He rather liked snakes, but Gabriel had had an unfortunate childhood encounter with one in the privy, and never really got over it.

“— and it can talk!” Gabriel finished with triumphant horror. “That’s how I bargained with it.”

A slow, cold sensation took hold in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. He was starting to guess at the shape of things, and he didn’t like it at all, not when Gabriel was such a notoriously poor negotiator.

“I told it that it had to let me go, because without me, the rest of you would starve—”

There went the eye-twitch from Michael again. Aziraphale had to struggle to keep his own face neutral. Gabriel might be thinking of the household income, but it was Aziraphale who did all the cooking. He was unsure if Gabriel knew how to boil an egg.

“Laid it on thick, really got its sympathy—”

(Sympathy? From a giant evil monster? Aziraphale was starting to wonder if Gabriel was simply making this up. Perhaps he merely fell asleep in an abandoned shack and had an upsetting encounter with a grass snake?)

“Anyway, long story short, it agreed to let me go as long as I sent someone back in my place. And we all vote for you to be the one to go.”

Gabriel raised both hands and pointed at Aziraphale like he was awarding a prize. Aziraphale stared at him, too gobsmacked even to be upset.

“Gabriel,” he started carefully, “are you sure you didn’t— hit your head, or something? It’s just, this is a little difficult to—”

Gabriel held up one finger, turned, and rummaged in the travel pack lying at his feet. He pulled something out, a flash of velvety red in the lamplight. He laid it on the table: a single, perfect long-stemmed rose.

“There,” he said. Aziraphale blinked at the flower. It was the wrong time of year for roses, but some of the richer folk had hothouses, these days... “That’s the token. The snake said to give it to whoever I send back, and they’ll get safe passage to the castle.”

Aziraphale stared at the flower for a few more seconds, then looked helplessly at Michael and Uriel. It wasn’t that he expected them to stick up for him, but surely they could see how ridiculous this was?

Michael returned his gaze implacably. Uriel grinned, and Aziraphale realised that she didn’t believe a word of it either, but she was just thrilled at the idea of sending Aziraphale traipsing off into the woods in February to meet a non-existent giant snake. While clutching a flower. In fact, he began to wonder if this whole thing was a setup, a prank Uriel had somehow talked Gabriel into.

“You can’t be serious,” he said finally. “Gabriel, really, you can’t expect me to—”

“I can, and I do expect you to do your duty for the family,” Gabriel said, suddenly cold and stern. “It’s not like you pull your weight around here. You might as well do something useful.”

There was something in his tone, something in his face, that forced Aziraphale to reconsider his story. Something like real fear, the hunted look of someone who had made a bargain they dared not break. And Gabriel didn’t have the imagination for something like this. Nor the dedication to let himself get so damp and dishevelled just to embarrass Aziraphale.

Cautiously, Aziraphale reached for the rose. There was enough space between the thorns to hold onto it without hurting himself. He touched the petals, and was stunned to feel them warm beneath his fingertips, as if they had been basking in full sun only a second ago. There was something about the rose, something he could feel in his skin, something not quite natural. Enchantments were rare, these days, but you did come across them now and again. He’d touched the ancient horseshoe above the smithy door once. It felt like this.

“And what exactly happens to me?” Aziraphale found himself saying, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. “Do I get... locked up in some dungeon? Does the snake eat me?”

“Good Lord, no,” Gabriel replied with genuine dismay. “It said you’d be its honoured guest.”

“And you believe the giant talking snake on that point, do you?”

“It kept its side of the bargain,” Gabriel said bluntly. “It let me go.”

In exchange for someone else, Aziraphale thought, and a terrible sadness seized him, not so much for himself - he’d long since lost any hope of winning Gabriel’s good opinion - but for the way that Gabriel didn’t even see a problem with it. He was, in his own mind, so self-evidently so important that it made perfect sense to get someone else to take the fall for him.

And Aziraphale was, after all, the useless sibling, the one who didn’t conduct trade meetings like Gabriel, or maintain the ledgers like Michael, or experiment with new dyes and fabrics like Uriel. No, he just cooked, and cleaned, and looked after the horses and the chickens, and made sure the house didn’t fall apart, and went to town to buy the groceries, and drew water from the well every morning, and chopped the firewood, and then when he’d done all that, if he was lucky, he might find a bit of time to read a new book, or an old one, if any had survived the latest run of ill fortune, and if he could avoid being spotted by any of his siblings. And not a one of them ever said thank you...

He made up his mind with a suddenness that left him breathless.

“I suppose I’d better pack, then,” he said, grasping the rose just tight enough to feel the thorns prick his palm. “You won’t mind if I wait until morning to set off, will you?”

Gabriel glanced out at the darkening sky, and said grudgingly, “Oh, well, I guess so.”

“Right, then,” said Aziraphale, and rose from the table, the rose carefully cradled in his hand, its warmth and its sharpness both oddly comforting. He stooped to retrieve his book on the way to his tiny room; for once, none of the others commented. Uriel looked like her birthday had come early; Michael still looked like she was calculating profit and loss in the ledger she kept in the back of her head. Gabriel just looked self-satisfied. “I’ll say goodbye before I leave.”

The woods were exactly as cold, wet, and unpleasant as Aziraphale had imagined, but he found himself oddly cheerful all the same. It was quite exciting to simply pack a bag and walk away from all his daily chores, and even the damp air was rather pleasant, loaded as it was with the earthy smell of the forest floor.

He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting. A night’s sleep had brought him back around to doubting Gabriel’s whole story, even with the rose held carefully in one hand. He thought he’d probably spend the day wandering around in the trees, and then go home at the end of it. Gabriel would be annoyed, but it was still a kind of holiday, even if it wasn’t exactly the activity he would have chosen.

It occurred to him briefly that he could just find a nice dry sheltered spot and read for the day, then head home and tell the others he couldn’t find the castle. It wasn’t like they’d know. But there was still a little trickle of curiosity and uncertainty beneath his cynicism. The rose was still warm in his hand. And what if there was a castle? What if there was a snake? What if Gabriel really had bargained him away to eternal imprisonment in the depths of the forest?

(He felt a flicker of fear when he considered that possibility. Was he walking himself into a trap? Should he try to find the road that passed through the forest, travel on to the next town? Run away to sea like Raphael? Oh, but he’d be even more miserable on a boat, wouldn’t he? And probably just as useless...)

He kept a wary eye out for wolves, but wasn’t surprised when he saw nothing more sinister than the odd deer. At one point a fox stuck its head out of a bush and gave him a look so profoundly sceptical that Aziraphale felt like he needed to defend himself.

“It’s just to keep Gabriel happy,” he told the fox. “And it’s nice to have a bit of an adventure, isn’t it?”

The fox vanished without comment.

Aziraphale sighed and held up the rose again. He brushed it lightly against his own cheek, just to feel how soft the petals were. If it was supposed to give him some sort of sign about which way to walk, he hadn’t spotted it yet. There was a delicate fragrance to it, though, soft and sweet, and he smiled despite himself. He’d keep the rose after he went home, he thought, dry it out and preserve a whisper of that scent, keep it somewhere safe as a reminder of this whole strange episode.

He ducked under a low-hanging branch and found a narrow forest trail, the kind that might equally well have been made by hunters or their prey. For want of anything better to do, he followed it on its winding way for a little while. He began to hear a cacophony of crows, growing slowly louder as he walked, and a little shiver of dread took hold of his throat. They usually only gathered around carrion, didn’t they? He hoped he wasn’t about to find something unpleasant in the bushes...

And then he rounded a shoulder of mossy rock, and found himself staring at a set of wrought-iron gates, and he was so surprised he almost tripped over his own feet.

“Good Lord,” he said aloud. “It’s real.”

He approached slowly. The gates were polished to a gleaming black, not a hint of rust or wear. The high wall they were set into disappeared into the forest on either side. The trees grew close up against it, but on the other side, there seemed to be clear space. Aziraphale could see a wide, well-kept path beyond the gates...

... which swung open at his approach.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, stopping dead in his tracks, clutching the rose so tightly he winced as the thorns dug into his skin. “Oh dear.”

He stood there for what felt like a long time, staring through the open gates at the castle he could no longer deny existed. It looked rather lovely, with a couple of tall towers that must command an incredible view over the trees, and some fascinating gargoyles up under the roof. He’d half-expected it to be crumbling and covered in ivy, but it was as pretty a dwelling as any of the fine houses he’d seen.

It didn’t look particularly cursed. Aziraphale bit his lip. He urgently wanted to explore, to find out the truth about this place and its inhabitants, but he was suddenly terribly conscious of that part about never being able to leave once you step inside. Except Gabriel had managed it, hadn’t he? Though Aziraphale knew of no-one in the world who would willingly take his place...

And then he jumped as someone spoke from the top of the wall.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

When he craned his head to look up, at first he couldn’t see anyone at all. Then there was a sinuous movement, and a sleek, dark head dangled a bit further down over the stones, and Aziraphale saw the line of a long, scaled body behind the parapet. So there was a snake! It was certainly a large snake, but not nearly so huge as Gabriel had described, and there was nothing monstrous about it at all. It was a lovely, burnished black with a vivid red underbelly, and eyes that gleamed like amber. Aziraphale was quite charmed, as well as quite thunderstruck.

“Um,” he said. “Hello?”

“Did that idiot seriously—” The snake made a very human, very frustrated noise. “That’s it, next time someone comes barging into my castle in the middle of the night and upsets everyone, I really will lock him up.”

“Er. Sorry?”

The snake sighed.

“You might as well come in, now you’re here,” it said. “Have a cup of tea or something before you go back.”

“Go back?” Aziraphale looked again at the open gate. “But won’t I— aren’t I supposed to— what about the curse?”

“What about it?”

“I thought that anyone who enters can’t leave again.”

“Oh, so that’s why he was making such a fuss,” the snake muttered. “No, no, it’s not like that. You can leave easily enough. You just can’t come back once you’ve left. That’s how it works.”

“Then why did you make Gabriel promise to send someone to take his place?”

“I didn’t!” snapped the snake, sounding very offended. “That was all his idea! He wouldn’t shut up so I just agreed to whatever he was babbling about and sent him off. I thought he’d run for it and never come back. Never expected him to actually send someone else. What a wanker.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, paradoxically disappointed. “So I’m... I’m not needed here, then?”

The snake paused, tilting its head and eyeing him as if something in his face had given him away.

“Look, why don’t you come in?” the snake said after a moment. “It’ll take you longer to get back than it did to get here, trust me, and it’s going to rain any minute. You may as well sit down and rest for a bit. And tell me why you came all this way in the first place.”

“Are you sure I can leave again?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly. It did occur to him that the snake could be lying, but his instincts were already finding it a lot more trustworthy than Gabriel. “I can go back?”

“Absolutely. Anytime you like.” The snake began to haul itself in from the parapet and disappeared. “There’s cake,” it added temptingly from somewhere on the other side of the wall. “Or there will be, if I tell the kitchen so.”

“Won’t— er. Won’t the lord of the castle have something to say about that?”

The snake slithered into view on the other side of the gate with an amused snort.

“I am the lord of the castle,” it said. “Name’s Crowley. Are you coming or what?”

CHAPTER 2

The snake - Crowley - led him through the grounds and up the steps through the castle’s main door. It swung open just like the gate had, and Aziraphale found himself led into a cosy little parlour with a roaring fire that immediately banished the chill of the forest from his bones. He sighed with relief. Crowley detoured over to one side to draw Aziraphale’s attention to a handy coat-stand, then slithered towards a door on the opposite side of the room.

“Sit wherever you like,” he said, “just not in my seat.”

Aziraphale paused in taking off his overcoat and scarf. “How am I supposed to know which one is your—”

But Crowley had vanished through the far door. Aziraphale sighed again, finished divesting himself of his outer layers, and moved towards the fireplace. He anxiously considered the fairy tales he’d read, where seemingly innocent requirements were a secret test with potentially terrible consequences. Guess the wrong seat, and—

Then he saw the high-backed chair by the fire with the handwritten sign pinned to the fabric that read Crowley’s Chair, Hands And Other Appendages Off (This Means You, Witch).

Aziraphale stared at it for a few seconds, then put his bag down next to one of the other chairs, sat down with a sigh of relief, and stretched his cold feet out to the fire.

This was quite emphatically not how he had been expecting to spend his afternoon, but compared to wandering around in wet undergrowth, he had to say it was an improvement.

The far door nudged open and Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley re-appear. He really had the most beautiful scales, Aziraphale thought, glossy and glimmering as if freshly polished. Crowley crossed the room with surprising swiftness and easily hoisted himself onto his chair, coiling comfortably into the cushion and regarding Aziraphale with bright, curious eyes.

“Right,” Crowley said. “You want to tell me why you were walking in here like a lamb to the slaughter?”

“I was promised there wouldn’t be any slaughter,” Aziraphale protested indignantly. He was starting to feel rather silly about the whole thing. “Gabriel’s my older brother. He came back yesterday in a dreadful state. And told us all about this place...”

He quickly retold Gabriel’s tale of woe, and was secretly delighted by the way Crowley started hissing in outrage at every new revelation.

“It wasn’t like that at all,” Crowley interjected, rearing up indignantly. “That bastard. I let him stay the night, and the witch found his stupid horse and everything—”

“You found Sappho?” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Is she all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine, she’s in the stables. You can take her back with you, not like I need a horse.” Crowley settled back down sulkily. “Why’s it only the weird ones who turn up here, anyway?”

“Um,” said Aziraphale.

“Not you!” Snakes couldn’t blush, but Aziraphale thought this one was making a valiant attempt. “Sorry, just meant— I don’t get many visitors—”

“That might have something to do with living in a cursed castle in the middle of an enchanted forest.”

“It’s not like I chose to,” Crowley snapped, as if Aziraphale had hit a nerve. Then he looked away. “Anyway, do you have a name?”

“Aziraphale.”

“That’s... an unusual name.”

“Says the talking snake.”

“Hey, my name is the most normal thing about me.” Snakes also could not grin, but Aziraphale had the distinct impression that Crowley was, anyway. “Your brother said he had a whole family depending on him—”

Aziraphale made a face.

“I have three other siblings,” he explained. “Though Raphael left home years ago. Michael and Uriel help Gabriel with the family business. I wouldn’t say any of us depend on him...”

“Oh, I’m seeing the naming theme now.” Crowley flicked his tongue out thoughtfully, a gesture both serpentine and oddly human, like tapping one’s fingers on one’s knee. “So ‘Aziraphale’ is an angel as well, then?”

“One of the lesser known ones,” Aziraphale replied with a sigh. “It was my mother’s choice. I don’t really know why. I didn’t know her, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” There was a quiet understanding in Crowley’s voice. “Yeah, I... lost mine when I was pretty young, too.”

Before either of them could think of something to say to break the slight awkwardness of the shared moment, the far door swung ponderously open, revealing a gangly young man pushing a wheeled trolley with exaggerated care. It was so laden with different cakes that Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. Crowley regarded the approaching feast of confectionery and sighed.

“You forgot to tell it how many cakes, didn’t you, Newt?”

“I tried,” replied Newt with glum resignation. “I asked for tea for two, and a cake, but it didn’t—”

“You have to use numbers, we’ve been over this, it doesn’t understand a cake, only one cake or two cakes or—” Crowley paused, counting. “—seven cakes, apparently.”

“Good heavens,” said Aziraphale, still staring raptly at the tray and quite unable to stop himself licking his lips, “is that tiramisu?”

“That’s not even technically cake,” Crowley muttered, but he seemed less put out than he had been a minute ago. “Oh well. There’ll be something there you like, at least.”

Newt poured two cups of tea, placing one on a little side table by Crowley’s chair. It was at just the right height for him to dip his head down and drink from it. Aziraphale tried very hard not to stare, but the sight of a snake sipping daintily from a china cup with a rose pattern on it was quite something. Then he was faced with the ordeal of choosing among the selection of equally enticing cakes. The tiramisu called to him, but there was also a moist, fluffy vanilla sponge that was just oozing raspberry jam, and something dark and dense with chocolate... oh, it was a trial.

In the end, it had to be the tiramisu. Maybe there would be an opportunity for seconds? Indeed, to his delight, Newt left the trolley behind when he was done serving the tea.

“Is Anathema still ruining my herb patch?” Crowley asked as the boy headed for the door, causing him to very nearly trip over his own feet.

“Er. I. I’m sure I don’t know, sir. Haven’t been paying attention. To where she is. Or isn’t. I was just... polishing the silver.”

Crowley rolled his eyes where Newt couldn’t see.

“Why don’t you go and find out, then?” he suggested. He snickered to himself as Newt vanished through the door as if pursued by a bear. “Polishing the silver,” he muttered. “It’s a magic castle, the silver doesn’t need polishing...”

“So that’s your... valet?” Aziraphale hazarded.

Crowley gave him a flat look.

“What does a snake need a valet for?” He snorted. “I don’t even need a servant, not really, the castle does everything... but he’s so desperate to earn his keep, I have to let him do something around the place.”

“How do you mean?”

“He wandered in about a year ago. Didn’t have anywhere else to go, no-one would take him on as an apprentice - he’s a bit, uh, clumsy - so I said he could stay here as long as he liked. He’s trying to learn to be a butler.”

Crowley didn’t sound particularly optimistic about Newt’s prospects on that front.

“And... Anathema?”

“Oh, the witch just comes and goes as she pleases, the enchantment doesn’t stop her. More’s the pity. She has a cottage in the forest somewhere, though I don’t know when she spends any time there, seems like I’m always tripping over her around the castle these days...”

Aziraphale took a careful sip of his tea. It was perfect, brewed to just the right strength and temperature. He eyed his tiramisu with anticipation.

“So... this curse,” he asked. “Is that why you’re a snake?”

Even as he spoke, he realised it was rather tactless, but Crowley just sighed.

“No. Yeah. Sort of. It’s complicated.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows enquiringly as he took another sip.

“I was always a snake, kind of.” Crowley settled himself more comfortably on his cushion. “Family thing, shapeshifters, you know.”

“I had no idea anyone still had those abilities in this day and age!” Aziraphale was already lining up the questions. “So you can change—”

“Not anymore.” Crowley’s voice was curt. “That’s the curse part. Can’t change back. So I’m stuck here.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale put his teacup down on its saucer. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Crowley managed a good impression of shrugging with his coils.

“It’s not so bad,” he said, overly casual. “The enchantments on the castle take care of everything. I get the occasional visitor. Better than being hunted down as some sort of monster.”

“But before that, you were—”

“No-one important,” Crowley said firmly.

Aziraphale gave him a long, disbelieving look, then glanced around at the well-appointed parlour, the old and solid stonework of the castle. This was not the abode of no-one important, even - or especially - a no-one important who had become the victim of some seriously powerful magic. He finally reached for the tiramisu, scooped up a spoonful, and lost himself for a moment in the explosion of sweetness.

There was a sudden patter of rain against the window, the sky outside darkening as heavy clouds sweep in. Aziraphale heard the crows again from somewhere above, cawing a protest at the rapidly intensifying downpour.

“Oh dear,” he said. “I hope that stops before I need to head back.”

“If it doesn’t, you can stay the night,” Crowley offered with an easy generosity. “Plenty of bedrooms in this place. Just don’t shout foul fiend and try to hit me with a poker like your brother did, would you?”

“Did he really? I’m so sorry. He’s a bit—” Aziraphale gestured helplessly.

“You’re telling me.” Crowley reared up and regarded him thoughtfully. “You’re not at all like him.”

Aziraphale blushed; it should just be a statement of fact (he really was nothing like Gabriel) but he could tell it was intended as a compliment. He took another bite of tiramisu to cover his reaction. It was truly excellent, creamy and sweet like a little piece of heaven on his tongue. His eyes fluttered closed for a second.

“So, uh... so what’s your family’s deal?” Crowley asked, sounding suddenly flustered for some reason. “What sort of brother hands you over to the first giant snake he meets?”

Aziraphale felt his shoulders tense. He scraped his spoon nervously against the bowl, and winced at the sound it made.

“Well, given the... the misunderstanding about the curse, it was the only practical solution. I’m not... well, I’m not really very useful, when it comes to keeping the business going and so on... or for anything, really... so if one of us had to go—”

“And you were okay with that?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“I wasn’t sure how much of it was true, to be perfectly honest. And once Gabriel and Michael have made up their minds about something, there’s no point in arguing.”

He didn’t mean for the words to come out so weary, tinged with bitterness. He hastily spooned up some more tiramisu, took comfort in its rich flavour. Gabriel didn’t approve of wasteful indulgences like pudding, and Aziraphale had never really got the hang of baking, so his opportunities to enjoy this sort of thing had been rather limited. He was already wondering if it would be terribly rude to offer to take one or more of the spare cakes off Crowley’s hands.

(Er. Figuratively speaking.)

“And they’re just—” Crowley sounded thoroughly appalled, but then, he couldn’t be expected to understand the complexities of the situation, or how the whole family had to pull together in these difficult times. “They’re expecting never to see you again?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Aziraphale poured himself some more tea. It was so lovely to have the chance to get a second cup before someone called him away and the pot went cold. “I don’t think Uriel believed any of it, and Michael seemed to think it would be a temporary arrangement regardless of what Gabriel said... they won’t be particularly surprised when I come back. Disappointed, perhaps.”

Before Crowley could answer, the door flew open and someone stomped soddenly into the parlour, her dark hair dripping and her spectacles spattered with raindrops. Crowley reared up indignantly.

“Don’t you dare track mud all through here again—”

“Why not? It cleans itself.”

The woman had a rather lovely, melodic accent and the tone of someone who Knew Her Own Mind And Would Not Hesitate To Speak It. Aziraphale assumed this must be Anathema. He was surprised by how young she was: ‘witch’ tended to conjure up a rather specific image, though now he thought about it, that was probably as much a stereotype as assuming snakes were evil.

“That’ssss not the point.”

“Oh, fine, I’ll take my boots off, hold on.” Anathema sat down on a cushioned stool near the door and started wrestling with thick laces. She stared at Aziraphale with undisguised interest as she did so. “Who’s this, then? Newt said you had a visitor.”

“None of your business,” snapped Crowley.

“I’m Aziraphale,” Aziraphale said before he could stop himself. Crowley sighed. “Er, nice to meet you, Miss—?”

“Device, but Anathema’s fine.” Anathema dumped her boots in the corner and swept over towards the fireplace with the eagerness of someone whose clothes were unpleasantly damp. The muddy hem of her skirt dragged across the rug and Crowley hissed at her. Anathema ignored him and flopped down on a nearby settee. “Lost in the woods, or running away from something?”

“Er—”

“Lost,” Crowley said. Aziraphale frowned at the lie, but didn’t correct it. “I suppose you’ll be expecting a bed for the night, witch?”

“Unless you want me sleeping in your stables—”

“Oh no, not after last time. You can have the usual room. Just leave the furniture alone.”

“I was only trying to see if there was a secret passage behind the wardrobe—”

“I keep telling you, there are no secret passages—”

“What if they’re so secret even you don’t know about them?”

Crowley groaned like this was an argument he’d had before and was tired of losing. Anathema leaned forward to look at the tea tray, frowned when she saw there were only two cups, and turned her head towards the far door.

“NEWT!” she yelled, loudly enough to startle Aziraphale into dropping his spoon. “Bring me a teacup, would you?”

Then she started helping herself to a slice of fruit cake. Aziraphale watched the knife cut into the moist, dark block of it and sighed longingly.

“Want some?” Anathema asked, as she plonked a thick slab onto a plate for herself.

“I— probably shouldn’t, I’ve already had—”

“Oh, eat it, for heaven’s sake,” Crowley interrupted. “It’ll go to waste if someone doesn’t.”

Anathema cut another generous slice and offered it to Aziraphale. In the face of such unanimous encouragement, it would be downright rude to refuse, wouldn’t it?

Newt reappeared clutching a third teacup, his eyes rather starry and fixed on Anathema from the moment he entered the room. Aziraphale expected Anathema to be as brusque with him as she was with Crowley, but in actual fact she smiled sweetly and warmly at him and thanked him for the cup, which Newt promptly almost dropped.

“You might as well join us, Newt,” Crowley said in a resigned tone. “Since we’re having a tea party now.”

“Are we?” Anathema grinned wickedly. “Shouldn’t there be scones, then? Crumpets? Hot buttered toast?”

“We don’t need any more food,” Crowley retorted. “There’s enough cake there to feed an army.”

“Man cannot live by cake alone, and witches certainly can’t.”

“I’ll get some toast from the kitchen,” Newt said immediately, almost running from the room in his eagerness to please.

“Don’t forget to tell it how many slices!” Crowley yelled after him, slithering up the back of his chair and glaring at the doorway. “Oh bugger, I’d better go and make sure he doesn’t bury us in bread products...”

He wriggled hurriedly down to the floor.

“Ugh, it’s wet,” he muttered, glaring at Anathema, before heading after Newt. His belly left a trail through the spattered drops of water on the floor, and Aziraphale was abruptly a lot more sympathetic to his insistence that Anathema take her boots off, magic self-cleaning floor or no magic self-cleaning floor. “Be right back.”

The moment Crowley’s tail disappeared around the door frame, Anathema was leaning forward to peer intently at Aziraphale through her spectacles. Her dark hair was starting to dry into a halo of frizz that made her look slightly alarming, if he was honest.

“There’s no way you got lost in the woods,” she said. “You aren’t even dressed for travelling. Why are you really here?”

Aziraphale hesitated. Having told the story once, he found he didn’t quite want to go over it all again. He compromised with something that wasn’t too far from the truth.

“My brother Gabriel was here yesterday,” he explained. “I came to see if there really was a castle.”

“That asshole was your brother?” Anathema asked incredulously. Then she looked slightly guilty. “I mean, uh... look, he didn’t make a very good impression, okay?”

“So I gather,” Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley said that you found our horse?”

“Yes, she’d had quite a fright, poor thing, but she’s fine now.”

“Gabriel was going on about wolves.”

Anathema looked even guiltier.

“There aren’t any wolves in the woods,” she insisted, and Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Anathema grimaced. “Okay, so I might have a few wards up around my place, and they might sometimes take the form of illusions, and the illusions might sometimes get a bit carried away with making sure people don’t barge into my house—”

“So it was your fault he got lost in the first place?”

“No! He was already lost, my house is nowhere near the main road. Normally the wolves just chase people back to the path, I have no idea how he managed to get turned around and end up here....”

“He’s never had much of a sense of direction,” Aziraphale admitted. “Well, thank you for finding Sappho, at any rate. I’m rather fond of her.”

“You’re welcome.” Anathema peered at his bag. “How long are you staying for?”

Aziraphale blinked, then glanced out of the window, where the rain seemed to be settling in for the rest of the afternoon.

“I suppose until this stops? Though it seems terribly presumptuous to stay the night—”

Anathema snorted in amusement.

“Why? I do it all the time. Crowley won’t mind, he likes the company. It’s lonely for him out here, you know.”

There was an unexpected compassion in her voice, belying the way the two of them had been needling each other. Before Aziraphale could enquire more about the nature of their relationship, Newt appeared with another, larger trolley. Crowley was riding on top of it, coiled tightly around one of the handles. As far as Aziraphale could see, the trolley contained a perfectly sensible supply of toast, scones, and crumpets for four people, although there did seem to be rather a lot of jam.

“Right,” Crowley said, affecting a put-upon air that couldn’t quite conceal how much he was enjoying himself. “Since I seem to be stuck with the lot of you for the rest of the day, we may as well do this properly.”

The rain continued unabated. The afternoon tea eventually turned into supper at a very long table in a nearby dining room. They clustered around one end and shared a delicious spread of roast guinea fowl and root vegetables. Crowley didn’t eat - “nothing anyone wants to see at the dinner table, trust me” - but happily partook of the wine that turned up with the food. Newt poured it into a tumbler for him, which scandalised Aziraphale until he really thought about the logistics of a snake trying to drink from a long-stemmed glass, at which point he was embarrassed by his own snobbery.

“I don’t like it either,” Crowley said, seeing his expression, and Aziraphale wanted to sink through the floor. “Better than sticking my tongue into the bottle though, yeah?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale agreed, and focused firmly on his plate to avoid any further inconsiderate reactions.

At the end of the evening, he’d lost all self-consciousness about staying the night. It was clear from the conversation that Crowley offered hospitality freely to anyone who stopped by, and that overnight guests were a common occurrence. Aziraphale almost spit wine over his waistcoat at Crowley’s hilarious story about a rowdy group of travelling nuns; Anathema reminisced about the time a local witchfinder turned up and quickly decided, after being menaced by illusory wolves and a real, outraged talking snake, that he wasn’t as interested in finding witches as he thought. Newt was the quietest, but he warmed up as the night went on. He’d once wanted to be a blacksmith, he confided to Aziraphale, but after the, well, incident in his home town, he was reconsidering his options. Aziraphale didn’t enquire further about the incident, given how Newt twitched when he referred to it.

Eventually, Newt started yawning and Anathema declared that she was now more full of wine than rainwater and therefore ready for a good night’s sleep. Aziraphale hesitated as they shuffled off. He was realising that he didn’t want the evening to end. He’d been having such an unexpectedly lovely time.

So when Crowley said, “Fancy a nightcap in the parlour?” he accepted immediately.

Anathema was a fascinating (and slightly alarming) young woman, and Aziraphale was hopeful that Newt had hidden depths, but all evening it had been Crowley who’d drawn his ever-increasing interest. Given his seclusion, he was remarkably well-informed on current goings-on in the world, and he had opinions, and he wasn’t shy about them. Aziraphale felt obliged to tut disapprovingly at some of the things he had to say about the local nobility, but was secretly delighted to hear someone criticise them so freely.

Crowley was so animated and full of personality that Aziraphale kept almost forgetting he was a snake. He’d be listening to Crowley talk, gazing into the fire or his glass of extremely fine whiskey, and he’d glance up fully expecting to see a man sitting opposite him, leaning forward and gesturing with his hands to make his point. It was a slight shock every time to take in Crowley’s coiled form, his gleaming scales, his yellow eyes that glowed faintly with reflected firelight.

Finally, Aziraphale started to doze off in his chair, and Crowley insisted on showing him to his room. They walked - well, slithered, in Crowley’s case - in companionable silence through the dark halls and up a flight of stairs, Aziraphale carrying a candle in one hand and his bag in the other and taking very great care not to step on Crowley with feet that were somewhat uncooperative after wine, whiskey, and far more walking in the woods than they were used to.

“Here, you’ll like this one,” Crowley said, coming to a stop before a door that looked like all the other doors they’d passed. He glared at it, and it swung open to admit them. “It’s cosy, got a nice view of the rose garden...”

“Oh!” Aziraphale had all but forgotten the rose. He put the candle down on a side table and rummaged in his bag. The rose was still perfect as he held it up triumphantly. “Are they all like this?”

“Nah, I’ve got all sorts of colours.”

“No, I meant magical.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess.” Crowley did his serpentine shrugging motion. “Most things are, around here. Showing off, if you ask me. Anyway, good night. Sleep as long as you want, just come down and shout for Newt when you want breakfast. Or have a go with the kitchen yourself, just remember what I said about numbers, I don’t want to almost drown in porridge again—”

“Again?”

Crowley laughed.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” he said, and the promise of it was warm enough to bring a flush to Aziraphale’s cheeks. “G’night.”

Crowley vanished into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him with a flick of his tail. Aziraphale looked around. There was a gloriously decadent four-poster bed, and the banked embers of a fire giving off a comforting warmth. A tray held a jug of water, a couple of glasses, and a small tea set; Aziraphale saw there was a kettle ready by the hearth.

He was too tired to explore properly. He found his favourite pyjamas in his bag and quickly got ready for bed. Before he slipped under the covers, though, he poured water into one of the drinking glasses, and propped the rose up in it. He didn’t know if the enchanted flower needed such sustenance, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

CHAPTER 3

By the time Aziraphale woke the next morning, the sun was high, and it was a beautiful, clear day. A ridiculous sense of disappointment seized him at the sight of the cloudless sky. He shook his head at his own foolishness and reluctantly dragged himself out of bed, wincing at the slight headache left by the whiskey.

His clothes had somehow been cleaned and pressed overnight, though they were lying exactly where he’d left them. There was a bowl of warm water on the washstand, still steaming, along with a fresh bar of soap and a fluffy towel. Aziraphale looked around nervously, then cleared his throat.

“Ah, thank you very much?” he offered. There was no reply, but he half-imagined that the castle was listening, all the same. “Well. Anyway. I do appreciate it.”

He washed, dressed, and wandered off in what he thought was the direction of the parlour. Twenty minutes later, having travelled through what felt like every corridor in the castle and up and down three different staircases, he was no closer to finding it. Just as he was starting to get anxious, he heard soft music from somewhere around the corner. He followed the sound to a half-open door, and stopped in surprise and delight.

There was a huge ballroom beyond, with extravagant crystal chandeliers, sweeping stairs that led to a balcony above, and enormous windows that were letting in great floods of winter sunlight. It was everything Aziraphale had ever wistfully dreamed of, when reading his novels of court romance and high society. He could just imagine it crowded with people in beautiful clothes, could just imagine the talk and the laughter, the dancing, the music...

The music was still playing. He looked around and saw a harp almost as tall as he was. No-one was plucking the strings; they were moving seemingly by themselves, picking out a soft melody with a sad echo to it. Aziraphale started to walk towards the harp, fascinated, then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up in time to see Crowley’s wedge-shaped head peering down through the balcony railing. It reminded him of the day before, except this time he smiled automatically on seeing those vivid eyes.

“Morning,” Crowley said. “Had your breakfast already, have you?”

“Er. Well. No,” Aziraphale admitted. “I sort of... I’ve been, er, looking around—”

“You got lost, didn’t you?” Crowley sounded thoroughly amused. “Happens to everyone. I should get Newt to draw a map for visitors or something. Hang on, I’ll show you the way.”

He slithered his way to the staircase and down the velvet-carpeted steps, pausing by the harp to nudge its base with his nose. The music stopped mid-chord.

“Is that—?”

“Magic harp,” Crowley said nonchalantly. “Yep. Come on.”

“I never knew there was this much enchantment left in the world,” Aziraphale said wonderingly, following him out of the ballroom. “I’d always heard it had sort of... trickled away, since the old days.”

“No,” Crowley replied, a note of some emotion in his voice that Aziraphale couldn’t place. “Most of it’s been hoarded, is what’s happened. Bound up in places like this. Can’t have the common folk messing about with magic, can we? They might use it irresponsibly.”

It was bitterness, Aziraphale realised. He shot him a startled glance, but somehow they had arrived at the dining room, and Crowley was already on to another topic, explaining that there was far too much bacon, probably an entire pig, but if Aziraphale wanted anything else, anything at all, just say the word and the kitchen would provide. Aziraphale was struck again by his generosity. True, it was easy to be generous with a magical kitchen that obeyed your every whim, but Crowley might just as easily have left Aziraphale to his own devices instead of trying to ensure he had everything he needed.

It was... nice, to have someone care so much about what he wanted, even when it was just a question of tea or coffee (or champagne, if he wanted to have that sort of morning, Crowley added).

“You know,” Crowley said as Aziraphale was digging into a plate of bacon, mushrooms, scrambled egg, and toast, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Hmm?”

Crowley had wound himself around the back of one of the chairs and was resting his head on the tablecloth, watching Aziraphale eat.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go back today.”

Aziraphale swallowed rather hastily, coughed, and took a large gulp of tea to wash it down.

“Oh, I— I—” he stammered. “That would be— but I mean— you’ve been more than accommodating, I couldn’t impose—”

“You wouldn’t know how,” Crowley muttered. “Look, I’m serious, I’m—”

He scowled, inasmuch as a snake could scowl.

“I’m not a big fan of your family sending you out here as a hostage,” he went on bluntly. “I think it would serve them right if you didn’t go straight back. Give them a chance to miss you.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, terribly tempted even as he laughed internally at Crowley’s naivete.

“That’s not likely, even if I stayed forever,” he said lightly, taking another sip of tea. “They’ll just be cross with me when I do go back.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed in a way that made Aziraphale nervous. He had the sudden vivid image of fangs sinking into Gabriel’s ankle.

“Sounds to me like they’re always cross,” Crowley said. “So you might as well get to have a bit of a break.” He paused, seemed to lose confidence. “If you like. I know it’s not much of a holiday spot—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s perfectly lovely here!” Aziraphale protested with far more passion than he’d intended. He felt himself redden further. “I, that is— you’ve really been very kind—”

“Ugh, stop it, I’m not kind, I’m bored,” Crowley retorted, ducking his head like he couldn’t stand any sort of praise. “This is entirely selfish. Gives me someone to talk to for a bit. I can give you the tour, show you the gardens, the library—”

Aziraphale’s breath left his body with an unseemly gasp.

“You have a library?” he squeaked.

Crowley shot him an intensely knowing look.

“Oh yeah,” he said nonchalantly. “Great big one. So many books. Floor to ceiling. I never use it myself, of course, but if that’s your thing...”

“I suppose I— I mean, if you’re sure— it couldn’t hurt to stay another day— if you really don’t mind—”

“Good, that’s settled then,” Crowley said with a big, fanged grin. “I’ll take you up there after breakfast, shall I?”

The library was beyond anything Aziraphale could possibly have imagined. His fevered thoughts of what “floor to ceiling books” might look like had been limited by the fact that he was picturing a room perhaps the size of the parlour. The library was, instead, almost half as big as the ballroom, with high ceilings, rolling ladders, plush carpets, and books, books, books.

For his time and place, Aziraphale was rather well-read. For all Gabriel’s snide remarks about his novels, he’d devour anything he could get his hands on, from medical treatises to historical records to translated Greek poetry. He had always known intellectually that there must be a great many books in the world, but he’d never seen so many gathered together, and had certainly never been confronted with the promise of being able to whichever of them he liked.

He was in such a daze, turning on one spot in the centre of the room, that he was only vaguely aware of the first two times Crowley tried to get his attention.

“Angel,” Crowley said finally, with a sort of friendly exasperation, and Aziraphale blinked at him like he was just waking up. Crowley laughed at his expression. “I was gonna show you the rest of the castle, but I’m not getting you out of here any time soon, am I?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth and shut it again, still trying to wrap his head around so many books.

“What did you call me?” he managed after a moment.

“Your name’s hard on a forked tongue,” Crowley replied with a sinuous shrug. “Wasn’t sure if I’d got it wrong, when you didn’t reply.”

“Oh, no, I—” Aziraphale really couldn’t remember if Crowley had pronounced his name right. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he finished vaguely. He’d spotted a title on the nearest shelf that had his heart racing. It couldn’t possibly be a complete edition of— “Oh, good Lord.”

He was drawn to the shelf like it was something magnetic, reverently touching the spine of the book, then drawing it out from its place. It smelled divine, and when he opened it up at random, the type was crisp and black on the page, the margins straight, the paper thick and luxurious. It was a far cry from the flimsy, roughly-stitched volumes he kept at home.

“I’ll leave you two alone, shall I?” came Crowley’s voice, and Aziraphale returned to himself with a start.

“I— no, I’m sorry, you wanted to show me around, I— I can always come back later—”

“No, no, you take your time.” Crowley looked, if anything, deeply amused and satisfied by how enraptured Aziraphale was. “Just ring the bell if you need anything, Newt or the castle will respond.”

He started to slither towards the door. Aziraphale looked down at the book in his hand. He wavered, just for a moment. Then he closed it, firmly slid it back into its place, and hurried to catch up with Crowley.

“Would you show me around?” he asked. Crowley craned to look up at him, surprised. “I’d love to see your home.”

“You sure? I think I just witnessed love at first sight,” Crowley teased with a fanged grin. “I can show you around later.”

The books were calling to him, but Aziraphale resolutely pushed them from his mind. He very much wanted to spend more time with Crowley before he had to leave. He liked Crowley, he realised with a kind of shock. It was a strange thought. He liked a lot of people - most people, in fact, in a general sort of way. Liking people was his default setting. But he’d never met anyone like Crowley, and never been so eager for someone else’s companionship before.

He liked Crowley enough that he’d rather delay the pleasure of diving into the library until Crowley inevitably grew bored of him, rather than waste a moment of his company.

“I’m sure,” he said firmly. “Where shall we start?”

They started with the gardens, which Crowley claimed was to take advantage of the good weather, but which Aziraphale quickly realised was because Crowley loved them. They weren’t like the gardens Aziraphale associated with stately homes; there was very little grass, for one thing, very few wide open spaces, absolutely zero croquet lawns. It was all winding paths and delightfully overgrown nooks, a little bridge over a tiny stream, a perfect stand of silver birches huddling around a carved wooden seat, and even though it was still winter, everything was green and growing. Aziraphale didn’t bother to ask this time if it was enchanted. He was beginning to understand that almost everything here was.

At one point, he was startled by a riot of sound overhead. He looked up to see black silhouettes whirling against the sky.

“They live in the western tower,” Crowley told him. “Rooks, mostly, a few crows, there’s even a raven or two, I think.”

“Really? All together?”

“Yeah, dunno if it’s something to do with the magic, or...” Crowley shook his head. “Maybe my family’s always had an affinity.”

Crowley saved the rose garden for last, and Aziraphale was utterly smitten with the sight. There was a blousy white English rose scrambling over the archway that led into the space, which was surrounded by high stone walls, and every wall was covered in climbing roses. There were carefully pruned rose bushes and freely sprawling rose shrubs and the centrepiece of the garden was what appeared to be two full-grown rose trees, one white, one red.

“How— is that magic, too?”

“Nope,” said Crowley, such pleasure and pride in his voice that it made Aziraphale’s breath catch. “That’s patience, that is. And a couple of very sturdy hawthorn trees as the framework.”

Now Aziraphale looked, he could see the frilly leaves of the hawthorn intermingled with the darker green of the roses, which had twined around the tree trunks and then spread out along every limb - like snakes coiling themselves around the branches, Aziraphale realised.

“You did this?” he asked, stunned.

“Yeah.” Crowley reared up to look at his handiwork critically. “Still needs some work, you can see the south side of the red one’s a bit bare and the white one needs a good prune at the top, but—”

“Crowley, they’re beautiful,” Aziraphale interrupted. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

He drifted closer to the red rose tree where the blossoms dripped down just far enough to brush his face if he turned it upward. The scent was glorious, heady and sweet without being overpowering. He had the sudden and nearly irresistible urge to pluck one of the flowers and tuck it behind his ear like he was a maiden in the spring pageant. He kept his hands to himself.

“How long must this have taken you?” he breathed.

“Oh.” There was a hesitation, a reluctance. “Ten years or so, I s’pose.”

“That’s how long you’ve been here?” Aziraphale guessed.

“Yeah.” A pause that was slightly too long. “I’m glad you like it.”

“How could I not?” Aziraphale turned to find Crowley in the grass. He felt suddenly self-conscious about the way he towered over him. He dropped down to his knees, careless of the wet that immediately began to sink into his trousers. “How did you manage it?”

Crowley shrugged - funny to think of a snake shrugging, but Aziraphale was quickly learning to recognise his all-too-human emotive responses - and coiled himself up a bit tighter.

“I have my ways,” Crowley said mysteriously. “Anyway, we should head back inside before I freeze to death.”

Aziraphale realised in dismay that where the rain-wet grass was only just now making his clothing unpleasantly damp, Crowley was absolutely covered in little beads of moisture, his skin glistening with it, and there was no mistaking the way he was huddling against the cold.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, thoroughly distracted from any gardening-related questions. “You should have said something! I didn’t mean to drag you through all this wet—”

“Nothing I didn’t do willingly,” Crowley countered. “Time to go and warm up now though.”

“What if I carry you?” Aziraphale suggested. “You can lie over my shoulders, it’ll get you out of the wet grass—”

“I’m not a pet,” Crowley snapped. Then he cringed slightly. “Sorry, I—”

“No, no, I quite understand,” Aziraphale said, blushing at his own lack of tact. “So sorry, I never meant to imply anything—”

“No, you weren’t, I know you weren’t, you don’t have to apologise.” Crowley ducked his head, seemed to hesitate, then suddenly rushed on, “You know what, do you mean it? Would you mind? Only I can’t feel my tail—”

“Of course I mean it.” Aziraphale held out an arm without a moment’s pause. “You’ve done so much for me already, it’s really the least I can do. Just— think of it as if I were giving you my coat.”

Crowley hissed softly. It was a self-conscious sound, so far from a threat that Aziraphale almost smiled at it.

“S’pose when you put it like that...” Crowley slithered closer and looked up at Aziraphale one more time. “You sure? I’m not light—”

“You can’t weigh more than a fractious goat,” Aziraphale said, “and I’ve had one of those over my shoulders before.”

Crowley laughed like he couldn’t help himself.

“Oh, you must tell me that story.”

Aziraphale smiled and offered his arm more pointedly. Crowley wound himself around it. It was a strange experience: looking at how Crowley moved, he’d have expected a loose, rippling, watery sensation, but instead, Crowley’s coils felt like solid iron, so rock-hard it seemed impossible that he could move, except that he was gently working his way up to Aziraphale’s shoulders with a series of graceful tectonic shudders.

His tongue flickered over Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale couldn’t stop his surprised laugh - more of a giggle, really, though he hated to admit it.

“Sorry!” Crowley protested, right next to his ear, sounding mortified. “Damned thing has a mind of its own, I swear—”

“It’s quite all right, only tickled a bit. Do make yourself comfortable.”

Crowley settled over his shoulders, a heavy, solid weight that was quite unlike what Aziraphale was expecting. He wasn’t warm, for one thing, and he didn’t feel scaly at all. He was like a smooth, cool, silky wooden carving that conformed perfectly to the curves of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulders.

He was heavy, too, heavier than Aziraphale might have expected - but indeed not nearly as heavy as a goat, and significantly less inclined to kick. Once he was sure Crowley was securely settled, he stood up. Crowley wound the rest of himself around Aziraphale’s waist for balance, and Aziraphale had a moment of sheer delight that he was able to give something back to someone who’d already done so much for him.

“Well, then,” he said a touch breathlessly. “Back inside?”

“Yessss.” Crowley rested his head just under Aziraphale’s chin. “Get warmed up by the fire, then I’ll show you the rest of the castle. You want to go left once you get out of the gate here...”

In the end, they spent the whole day wandering the castle. It wasn’t like Aziraphale forgot about the library, or lost the itch to go and start digging into its contents, but there was something so captivating about Crowley. He had stories about previous guests, about odd things he’d found in little-used rooms, about the enchantments woven into quite unexpected items.

Now they were out of the cold, Crowley travelled under his own steam, slithering with surprising speed over carpet and polished wood. Aziraphale tried not to miss the weight of him across his shoulders.

The castle wasn’t as big as it seemed, but it was laid out in such a way that its various hallways intersected multiple times, so that it was very easy to take a wrong turn and go around in a loop. Crowley showed him little marks on the wooden wall-carvings, a system of directions at a child’s eye level.

“Did you make those?” Aziraphale asked.

“No,” Crowley replied. He didn’t elaborate. “Oh, see that door up ahead? That’s the solarium, but funny story—”

(It was always a funny story. Crowley gave the impression that life as a snake in a cursed castle had been nothing but amusing anecdotes and interesting discoveries. Aziraphale would almost have believed it, except for the occasional pause when he asked the wrong question, the way that Crowley would sometimes change the subject in a hurry.)

They drifted back to the dining room for dinner. Anathema had gone home, apparently, but Newt joined them again, and Aziraphale found himself talking about his own life rather more than he’d expected. He tried to steer away from the topic of his family, focused instead on the people of the village and the everyday details of keeping the house in tip-top shape.

“So you— you do everything around the house?” Crowley asked at one point. “All the cooking, cleaning, the lot?”

Aziraphale nodded, more than a little embarrassed to admit it; his siblings had always made it clear that domestic work was demeaning for someone of their family’s standing. That was why none of them did any of it.

“And they still think you’re—” Crowley cut himself off with a little flicker of his tongue and a discontented hiss. “Anyway. You never did tell me about that goat.”

And the rest of dinner was taken up with Aziraphale attempting very poorly to tell the story of how the tanner’s goat had ended up on the tailor’s roof and why he was the one who had to climb up there and get it down. He was terrible at this sort of thing, he knew, started too far back in the story and got distracted with needless details. He was used to people’s eyes glazing over, but Crowley and Newt listened, and laughed, and Aziraphale felt warm and comfortable and contented with more than just the fire and the food and the wine.

Afterwards, Crowley said, “One more thing I want to show you, come on,” and they set off through the castle once more. Aziraphale was beginning to get his bearings enough to realise that the door they arrived at must lead to the eastern tower. They climbed the spiral staircase inside - Aziraphale had to pause halfway up to catch his breath, much to his chagrin, but Crowley didn’t comment on it - and emerged into a round room with windows on all sides. There was a door leading to a balcony that surrounded the entire tower, and some beautiful tapestries on the walls, but Aziraphale’s attention was seized at once by the enormous brass telescope settled onto a tripod on the southern side.

“My observatory,” Crowley announced proudly. “You get some amazing sky views here.”

Aziraphale turned slowly, taking in the whole space. There was a bookshelf loaded with astronomy texts, and a desk piled with notebooks and mathematical instruments. There were several other telescopes of various sizes, neatly hung on display hooks around the walls. The tapestries were illustrated constellations, he saw: a rampant lion, a stooping hawk, a curving dragon, a mighty bear. And then he looked up, and realised that the whole ceiling was painted deep blue and dotted with tiny glittering gemstones. It only took a moment for him to understand that their placement was careful and deliberate, aligned to faint golden lines of latitude and longitude: a star map.

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmured, awe-struck. “How wonderful.”

Then he frowned at the desk and its writing implements, the telescope so high off the ground.

“How do you—”

“I get Newt to take the observations,” Crowley said quickly. “Sometimes, anyway. He’s a bit, um. Clumsy. So I only do it when there’s something I really want to record.”

Aziraphale could only wince sympathetically at the thought of Newt handling the telescope, but he was caught up by something in Crowley’s voice, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on but that felt a little bit like a lie, even though he was sure Crowley was telling the truth about Newt.

“Anyway,” Crowley went on, “it should be in about the right spot for you to see Jupiter, if you want. I can tell you how to adjust it. You can see the moons if you’re lucky.”

They whiled away the evening like that, Aziraphale delighted by the details the telescope brought into focus, Crowley all too happy to tell him the names of the stars and the patterns of their dance. Aziraphale didn’t even realise how late it was until he yawned twice in the middle of a sentence, and Crowley fell over himself (almost literally, his coils tangling in sudden chagrin) to usher him down the stairs and back to his room.

“Will I see you at breakfast tomorrow?” Aziraphale found himself asking hopefully as he lingered with his hand on the door. “I’m sure I won’t get lost this time.”

“If you like,” Crowley replied, with a touch of surprise. “Nine too early for you?”

“No, that would be perfect. Goodnight then, Crowley.”

“Goodnight.”

It was only as he was settling himself in bed (and resisting the urge to go and find the library for a bit of bedtime reading; he knew all too well that if he got started on that, he’d end up not sleeping at all) that he allowed himself to think about something he’d noticed in the observatory. All those notebooks and hand-written observations on the desk: they weren’t in Newt’s blocky print, which Aziraphale had seen in various places, such as the sign on Crowley’s chair. These were written in a looping, hasty cursive, the hand of someone who’d learned proper calligraphy but abandoned its finer points in favour of efficiency. Aziraphale hadn’t seen it anywhere else in the castle.

He wondered if it was Anathema’s writing, but why wouldn’t Crowley have just said, if she were the one who helped him with his observations? Why treat it like a secret? It made something grip a little uncomfortably at Aziraphale’s heart, made him feel... he couldn’t even put a name on the feeling.

Ridiculous, he told himself, and closed his eyes, and let his thoughts drift away to books and stars and roses and Crowley’s lovely eyes.

CHAPTER 4

The next day, it was drizzling when Aziraphale awoke, and he’d barely sat down for breakfast before Crowley was telling him he needn’t worry about heading out until after it cleared up, and besides, he hadn’t had a chance to properly explore the library yet. Aziraphale gave in with barely a murmur of protest.

The day after that was dry, but by then Aziraphale had found a book he’d been dying to read for years, and when Crowley extended his invitation for another day, Aziraphale couldn’t accept fast enough.

And then there was a patch of bad weather that lasted for several days (Aziraphale had never been so delighted at the sight of rain), and then Crowley wanted to show him something to do with Saturn, but they needed to wait for a good, clear night, and by then Aziraphale was deep into his fourth or fifth book and he couldn’t possibly leave without knowing how it ended...

Two weeks passed in what felt like the blink of an eye. Before he even realised it, Aziraphale had stopped planning to go home the next day, stopped thinking about it at all, except as some vague and distant unpleasantness he would eventually have to face.

They fell into a rhythm so easily it was like relearning something he’d never really forgotten. They had breakfast and dinner together, they spent the evenings together. Sometimes Newt joined them, sometimes Anathema invited herself in, but for the most part, as time went on, it ended up being just the two of them, talking by the fire, or sometimes sitting in the music room listening to an enchanted pianoforte play rippling melodies.

In truth, they often spent much of the day together as well, one way or another. They walked in the gardens (and Crowley always accepted Aziraphale’s offer of a lift now, lay snug against the back of his neck and in comforting coils around his chest, as they wandered through the little glades and twisting paths) and Aziraphale checked on Sappho, brought her out to canter along the bridleway that ran around the inside of the walls. He’d never been much of a horseman, and having Crowley wrapped around him making noises of alarm certainly didn’t improve his skill, but Sappho was just happy to get some exercise and not to have to pull any heavy carts.

At first, Aziraphale was always alone in the library, but after a while, Crowley started appearing while he was reading. He made a point of not interrupting, often entering so silently that Aziraphale didn’t notice him at first; he’d just look up to find a coiled black serpent basking by the fireplace.

And the library! Everything Aziraphale could have hoped for and more! So many fascinating scientific works, so many intriguing literary analyses, and so many stories, novels and ballads and poems and myths. And it was all so beautifully organised, so meticulously shelved, that within days Aziraphale knew exactly where to go for whatever he wanted, could almost find his way blindfold around the place.

All except for the one set of shelves, rather smaller and less grand than the others, tucked away in an alcove where it took Aziraphale a while to spot it. The collection of books there was... eclectic, would be the polite way to describe it. Mostly fiction, many of the books worn as if much-read, but there were some tomes on magic - real magic, ways to work enchantments and the rituals for true curses - clustered together on a top shelf. Aziraphale itched to pore over those, but something about the way they were kept apart from the others made him hesitate to take them from their places.

He thought about those shelves a lot, as he stole glances at Crowley dozing by the hearth. He thought about his own small and hard-won collection of books back home, and the way that if you put all his favourites together, they would be just as eclectic to the outside eye, and in many cases just as battered and read to pieces. He thought about Crowley’s serpent form and the absolute impossibility of turning pages without assistance, and he thought about Crowley’s pride and reluctance to ask for help.

“Do you know,” Aziraphale said one day, when the rain was absolutely lashing against the glass, the wind was howling around the walls, and the crows were screaming unhappily about all of it, “I rather think this one would be better read aloud. Would you mind terribly?”

Crowley raised his head, surprised. “What is it?”

“Oh, just something I thought looked interesting,” Aziraphale replied casually, as if he hadn’t spent several days agonising over which of the well-loved books to choose, which would seem the most natural for him to have been drawn to. “A story about a queen who crosses the sea to find a fallen star.”

Crowley stilled, and Aziraphale pretended to be occupied with flipping through the pages. He wasn’t lying about it being best read aloud. He’d made sure of that. It was written in a lovely lilting prose that was almost poetry in its own right.

“Yeah,” Crowley said after a moment, rather quiet. “I don’t mind. If you wanna read it out loud, I mean. Can always go somewhere else if it bothers me.”

Aziraphale didn’t even try to hide his smile, his delight, and Crowley looked away hurriedly and ducked his head into his own coils in the way that Aziraphale had come to interpret as his version of a blush.

He started to read from the beginning. Some hours later, he was still reading, and Crowley hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

“Er, listen,” Crowley said one day over breakfast. “There’s a full moon tonight.”

“Oh, how lovely,” Aziraphale replied absently, spreading extra jam onto his toast. “Do you want to go up to the observatory?”

“No!” Crowley countered, too quickly, too sharply. Aziraphale paused with his knife poised in mid-air, looked at him in surprise. “No, not that, got something else to do. So I won’t be about, after sunset.”

Crowley was trying so hard to sound nonchalant that he was practically radiating anxiety. Aziraphale forgot about his slice of toast, put down his knife.

“Is everything all right?” he asked. “Do you need—”

“I’m fine,” Crowley snapped. “Don’t need anything at all, except for you to go to bed with one of your books straight after dinner, and stay in your room until morning.”

Aziraphale stared at him for some seconds as he processed this.

“Well, I— if that’s what you— but why?”

“It’s... dangerous to go around the castle at full moon.”

“Dangerous?”

“It’s a curse thing,” Crowley insisted, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “It shouldn’t be too much of a hardship, right? I’ll get the castle to make you all the cocoa you can drink.”

“Cocoa? Crowley, what do you mean it’s dangerous—”

“Look,” Crowley interrupted, his voice gone flat and steely, “this is the only rule I have for guests, okay? The rest of the time you can go where you want, do what you want, just as long as on this one night a month you do as I say.”

For a moment Aziraphale felt like he hardly knew Crowley at all, was reminded all at once that he was a guest in a cursed castle, that his host had who-knew-what powers in addition to his serpent form. But more than that, he was hurt, offended, felt suddenly untrusted and unwanted here, and it stung like vinegar poured on a old wound that had, in the last couple of weeks, unexpectedly started to heal.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said stiffly. He put down his napkin and pushed his chair back from the table. “I think I’ll spend today in the library.”

“Right,” Crowley muttered. He didn’t make any move to accompany him. “Just remember what I said, okay, be in your room by sunset, door locked, curtains closed—”

“I understand,” Aziraphale snapped, and left the dining room without looking back.

He spent the day in the library, but he didn’t get much reading done. He couldn’t concentrate, much though he wanted to lose himself in the text. He kept going back over that conversation, finding more and more questions about it, and more and more emotions stirred up from the depths of himself.

It ebbed and flowed in cycles. It often started with a wave of guilt. It really wasn’t much to ask, after all, was it? It was certainly no hardship, except for missing out on Crowley’s company for the evening, which Aziraphale could surely bear for the sake of doing Crowley a favour. But what favour? Why such an odd request?

Fear and worry came rolling in the wake of guilt. Dangerous, Crowley had said. Dangerous how? Aziraphale would allegedly be safe in his room, but would Crowley be in danger? Aziraphale’s thoughts filled with fairy tales and old songs. Must Crowley battle some monster, or deal with the fae, or face a trial of blades? Was there a chance he’d be hurt, or even - or even killed? And the thought of that, even the shadow of it, was too much for Aziraphale to handle, and all he could do was turn it into anger.

Why couldn’t Crowley just tell him what was going on? Just explain it, like he’d explained so many of the castle’s enchantments? Didn’t he trust Aziraphale at all, weren’t they friends? But then, they’d only known each other... oh, Lord, had he really been here three weeks? He couldn’t believe it had been so long, and at the same time it was no time at all.

The anger went out of him and left only hurt. Crowley hardly knew him, he reminded himself. Of course he couldn’t trust him yet, especially given how self-evidently ill-equipped Aziraphale was to handle anything important. It really would be for the best if Aziraphale just did this simple thing that Crowley had asked of him. And then the guilt rolled in again.

And so on.

By dinner time he was a bad-tempered, fretful mess, half-tempted to retreat to his room immediately and order some food brought up to him. He didn’t, for two reasons: one, because he couldn’t resist the opportunity to ask Crowley to explain one more time, and two, because he didn’t know if the service would be provided by some mysterious enchantment, or by poor Newt, who would have to interrupt his own meal to wait on Aziraphale.

Crowley wasn’t in the dining hall when he arrived, and hadn’t shown up by the time Newt brought in another lovely supper. Aziraphale picked half-heartedly at a perfectly tender pigeon pie, and made the appropriate noises as Newt recounted his earlier battle with the scullery, which had apparently decided it would like to become a swimming bath for the afternoon.

“Newt,” Aziraphale interrupted - quite rudely, he realised belatedly, but Newt just looked at him inquiringly. “Do you know about this full moon business?”

He was half-hoping, half-dreading the answer. Newt’s eyes went a bit wide.

“Crowley did tell you, didn’t he?” Newt said worriedly. “To stay in your room—”

“Yes, yes, he said.” Aziraphale glanced at the door as if expecting Crowley to appear at the sound of his name. “He just didn’t explain why.”

“It’s dangerous,” Newt replied immediately and with conviction. “But you’re safe as long as you lock the door until morning. Nothing’s ever happened to me.”

He was trying to be reassuring, Aziraphale could tell. It was sweet, but not quite what he was hoping for.

“But do you know what— happens?”

Newt shook his head, but Aziraphale caught the way his fingers fidgeted. He narrowed his eyes.

“Do you have any theories?” he tried instead.

“No. Yes. Sort of.” It was Newt’s turn to glance at the door nervously. “I think... someone comes in the night.”

Aziraphale shivered despite himself.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve, um. The first few times, I couldn’t sleep, I was too scared. I’ve heard footsteps. Someone walking around the castle in the dead of night. One time, there was an awful racket, and when I got up in the morning, all the mirrors in the main part of the castle had been smashed. And they never repaired themselves, either.”

Aziraphale realised that indeed, he’d never seen a mirror anywhere outside his own room.

“I think,” Newt said, then hesitated, then lowered his voice. “I think maybe it’s... the person who cursed him.”

“A sorcerer?” Aziraphale murmured, horrified and intrigued in equal measure. “And— is he— is Crowley in danger?”

“I don’t know.” Newt ducked his head. “I don’t usually see him the day after. And he’s often, um. Out of sorts. Really bad-tempered, sometimes, not like he usually is.”

The clock in the hall chose that moment to chime the hour, and they both jumped guiltily.

“We should get going,” Newt said, jumping to his feet and looking uncertainly at Aziraphale’s plate. “You want to take the rest of it with you?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Aziraphale replied. He’d quite lost his appetite. “Well, I’ll— see you at breakfast, then?”

“It really is safe,” Newt reassured him, “as long as you stay in your room.”

“Right. Yes. Of course.”

Aziraphale didn’t even try to sleep. He did at least put his night things on (he was starting to feel odd about wearing the same clothes every day and night, even if they were always magically clean when he went to change, but he wasn’t sure what to do about the situation) and settled down in bed with his book. The castle had provided him with a huge lidded jug of cocoa that never seemed to go cold, and he wondered with a pang if Crowley had arranged that after all, or if the castle was just responding to what he wanted. He thanked it, just in case.

He kept pausing in his reading to listen for anything untoward, but it was a windy night, and it was hard to hear anything over the constant background murmur and the occasional heavy gusts. Eventually, despite himself, he was drawn into the story and lost track of the world outside for a while.

He was yanked back to awareness by a distant crash that seemed to reverberate through the whole castle. He dropped his book, heart hammering, and listened intently, but heard nothing else. He tried to think what could have made such a noise, and came up with only one possibility: the front door, slamming against the outside wall in the wind. Had it been left unlatched somehow? Or—

Or had someone thrown it open?

Aziraphale strained his ears for any sounds of approach, for footsteps or - heaven forbid - some sort of ungainly shuffling. He heard nothing of the sort, but he did realise, now that his attention wasn’t on his book, that a long, pale sliver of moonlight was falling across the bed, like a ghostly white finger on the counterpane. He was sure he’d pulled the curtains tightly closed, but now there was a crack between them; he could see the glimmer of the full moon outside, intercut with shadows from the wavering trees.

He slipped out of bed, wincing at the cold stone on his bare feet, and hurrying to the window seat so he could tuck them up under himself. Crowley had said not to open the curtains, but Aziraphale wasn’t, was he? And Crowley hadn’t specifically said not to look outside, had he? And Aziraphale was thinking that from this window he could just about see the main gate, and the turning circle within it, and he was wondering with a little thrill of fear if there might be some ominous black carriage standing there, or some frothing, demonic steed.

He peered through the gap with bated breath, and was immediately disappointed. There was no carriage, no horse, not so much as a handcart. The gates were firmly closed. It wasn’t even as stormy out there as Aziraphale had thought; despite the wind, the sky was mostly clear. Occasional clouds raced across it, but the moon was almost as bright as the winter sun, the stars scattered across the dark depths like endless handfuls of diamonds. It was a beautiful night, in fact, if a cold one. Every leaf and branch and bud was rimed with a frost that would miraculously fail to do any damage to the greenery beneath it. There were spidery little patterns creeping up the side of Aziraphale’s window, and for a moment, he forgot his worries, watching the intricate curls with fascination.

Then movement caught his eye and he knocked his head on the glass as he turned to follow it. There was someone walking along one of the paths, he saw with a great, terrified leap in his chest. He could see them clearly in the moonlight. They were wearing a long, dark cloak with the hood thrown back, and their hair was long and rippling, a red like autumn leaves that almost glowed against the darkness. It was impossible to tell if he was looking at man or woman or neither, only that the figure was tall and - awkward, somehow, in the way they moved, like an adolescent struggling with newly lengthened limbs.

Even as Aziraphale watched, the stranger tripped on something and stumbled, a hand flying out to catch themselves on a nearby wall, the dark cloak parting. Aziraphale saw the glint of steel, and gasped, his blood running cold.

A moment later he frowned. It wasn’t a sword or dagger as he’d thought, but a long-handled pair of shears, of the kind gardeners used. It was so incongruous that he didn’t know what to make of it. The figure regained their balance, drew the cloak tightly around themselves again, and continued on down the path.

It was the path that led to the rose garden, Aziraphale realised, and a terrible dread seized him. He thought of the broken mirrors, the spite of wanton destruction, and he thought of Crowley’s beautiful rose trees, and he was scrambling for his shoes and coat before he could even stop to consider what he was about to do.

The bedroom door unlocked without protest, swung open as easily as ever, and Aziraphale hurried through the castle. He paused in the entrance hall, where two suits of armour flanked the main door. The swords they gripped in their empty gauntlets were old but of fine make, and the castle’s enchantment kept them polished and sharp. He carefully slid the smaller of the two out of the suit of armour’s grip, managing not to send the whole thing plummeting to the ground, and tested its balance.

He’d been trained with a sword, though like everything else, he fell far short of his family’s standards. Still, he knew how to use it. A reckless anger seized his chest, a protective fury. If the stranger in the gardens was indeed the one who laid the curse, how dare they come here to make things even worse for Crowley? How dare they enter his home? How dare they even think of damaging that beautiful, beautiful rose garden...

He opened the door carefully, remembering the crash from earlier, and even so it was almost torn out of his hands. The wind was strong and fierce and came in treacherous bursts, the kind of wind that wrecked unwary ships and blew down poorly-thatched roofs. Aziraphale battled his way outside, pushed the door shut, and plunged into the moonlit gardens, hoping desperately he was not too late.

He got lost twice, despite his urgency. He was panting for breath by the time he found the archway, its flowers frosted and sparkling, and for a moment, he couldn’t see anyone in the garden beyond.

Then he heard a snip, and spied a stepladder under one of the trees, and a tall figure reaching among the blossom-laden branches—

“Don’t you touch those!” Aziraphale yelled, brandishing his sword in what he hoped was an appropriately threatening fashion.

The result was rather more effective than he’d anticipated; the figure startled, flailed, lost their balance, and crashed into the shadows with a noise that sounded a lot like Ngk!

Aziraphale gripped the sword tighter even as his heart raced a million miles a minute.

“If you’ve damaged even one of those roses—” he started, trying very hard to keep the wobble out of his voice.

“Aziraphale?”

It was Crowley’s voice, and Aziraphale almost dropped the sword, looking around for the familiar black shape of the serpent. Crowley sounded stunned, and worse, he sounded betrayed, and it rushed back in on Aziraphale that he’d been supposed to stay put, that he’d been supposed to keep the curtains closed, that it was the only thing Crowley had asked of him all the time he’d been here—

“I—” Aziraphale lowered the point of the sword, suddenly sure that he’d made a frightful mess of everything. “I saw someone in the gardens— I thought—”

“I told you not to leave your room,” Crowley said, and there was anger in it, but there was fear as well, a horrible gut-churning terror that Aziraphale had never heard from him before. “Why didn’t you— why couldn’t you just—”

His voice broke, and Aziraphale’s heart did something remarkably similar.

“I— I’m sorry, I thought— I just thought— I didn’t want anything to happen to your beautiful trees—”

There was a pause, and then Crowley said, “You what?”

“Well, I could— I could see someone from my window, and they had shears, and I thought they would cut everything down and, and—”

There was a shuffling and scrambling in the darkness behind the rose tree, and the tall figure unfolded unsteadily to its feet.

“What, so you ran out here to confront— is that a fucking sword?”

And all at once, Aziraphale understood that Crowley’s voice wasn’t coming from some serpentine hideaway in the bushes, understood it from the way the figure in the shadows gesticulated towards the sword as he spoke, his voice going high with disbelief. Understood all at once that there never had been a stranger in the gardens.

“Crowley,” he gasped, his own voice going up a notch. “Is that— is that you?”

He saw Crowley flinch even in his patch of protective darkness, hunch in a way that made Aziraphale think of him folding his arms tightly across himself.

“Yeah,” Crowley said reluctantly. “Yeah. It’s me.”

“But I thought you couldn’t—”

“I can’t,” Crowley interrupted miserably. “Look, could you just... please, could you go back inside? Forget you saw anything?”

“But why?” Aziraphale took an unwitting step forward, and immediately regretted it when Crowley flinched back. Belatedly, he tossed away the sword, but it didn’t seem to make Crowley any less nervous. “Why wouldn’t you want me to see you in human form?”

“Because I’m not fucking human,” Crowley spat. “I’m— the curse weakens on the full moon, but it doesn’t turn me back. Not to how I was.”

“I don’t understand—”

“You know what? Fine. Fine! You want to see so badly?”

Before Aziraphale could reply, could protest that he didn’t want to do anything that would so clearly bring Crowley pain, Crowley was striding forward out of the shadows, stepping into full moonlight like he was stepping onto the executioner’s block. Aziraphale’s breath left him in a rush that steamed in the cold air, and he stared, spellbound.

He’d entertained some vague notions of what Crowley might look like as a man, but he’d never tried to flesh them out beyond a sort of impression that he would be curves and muscle and grace like he was in snake form. Aziraphale could see at once that he’d been wrong, that Crowley was all elbows and edges, not even the heavy black cloak hiding how thin and wiry his body was. There was a frantic, nervous energy about him, his hands fisting and unfisting, his feet shifting even when he stopped moving forward. His face was carved of angles and taut with emotion, his cheekbones high and sharp, and that glorious rippling hair glimmered like a fire in the dark, perfectly framing his eyes—

— which were unchanged from his serpent form, yellow from edge to edge with slit pupils, and so full of anger and anguish that Aziraphale wanted to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness.

“Your eyes—”

“I know!” Crowley snarled, turning his head like he was trying to hide them. There was a coiled black snake tattooed on the side of his jaw, Aziraphale saw. “I told you, I don’t turn back. I’m stuck being this halfway monster for the night—”

“But you’re beautiful!” Aziraphale exclaimed, without a single second of rational thought. Crowley’s head whipped back around to stare at him, jaw dropping. “I— I mean— they’re beautiful, your eyes— I mean— they’re your eyes, they look quite right on you—”

Crowley slowly closed his mouth, swallowing hard. There was something very fragile on his face, and he looked anywhere but at Aziraphale.

“It’s not just the eyes,” he muttered. “Got patches of scales all over, too. Tongue’s not normal. Teeth are too pointy—”

Aziraphale made a decision, and took two careful steps towards him. Crowley swayed back in alarm, but didn’t step away this time. Aziraphale wanted to reach out and grasp his hands, or touch his cheek, or run wondering fingers through his glorious, rippling hair, but he forced himself to hold back.

“Crowley,” he said gently, “you’re not a monster. You don’t look like one. Not even a little.”

Crowley made a soft, wounded noise, his eyes finally rising to meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

“I’m so sorry I disobeyed you,” Aziraphale went on. “I never meant to— hurt you like this. But if it means anything at all— I don’t see any part of you that needs to be hidden.”

Crowley’s tongue darted out to wet his lips - very snakelike, and very human, all at once - and then he suddenly closed his eyes, nodded once.

“That’s— thank you,” he croaked. “I— um. Thanks.”

“And really, my dear,” Aziraphale said, suddenly sure of himself, suddenly knowing how to bring this gently down to normality, how to ease that fragility and fear off Crowley’s face. “If you hadn’t scared me half out of my wits with your ominous warnings about danger—”

Crowley’s eyes flew open and he scrunched up his face in a mixture of outrage and guilt.

“I said you’d be safe! You didn’t believe me?”

“I was worried about you! I thought you might be— be duelling a dark sorcerer or, or wrestling a dragon or something!”

Crowley’s lips twitched.

“A dragon?”

“Oh, don’t you dare look at me like I’m being ridiculous, you live in an enchanted castle, it didn’t seem a huge leap of logic—”

And to Aziraphale’s intense gratitude and relief, Crowley burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he had to grab hold of Aziraphale’s shoulder for support, and it was such a shock of delight, to feel his hand there, to feel his breath huffing across Aziraphale’s cheek, to see the way his voice and his mannerisms and his warmth fit into a human shape.

“Where,” Crowley demanded when he could breathe again, “did you even get that sword?”

“From the suit of armour by the main door, of course.”

Crowley gaped at him.

“Those are real? I always thought it was all one sculpture, and the sword was part of it—”

Aziraphale stepped away to retrieve the sword and hold it out for Crowley’s inspection. His yellow eyes widened as he saw how sharp the edge was.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “I’m glad you didn’t stab first and ask questions later.”

“That would hardly be gentlemanlike.”

“Gentle— you thought you were coming out here to fight some sort of occult presence and you were going to give it a fair fight?”

Aziraphale sniffed and failed to suppress his own smile.

“I didn’t know what I was coming out here to fight.” He hesitated and glanced around the garden. “So this was— this is all it is? There’s no danger? You just— don’t want people to see—”

Crowley pulled back abruptly, turned to hunt for his dropped shears in the grass under the rose tree.

“I didn’t live here alone at first,” he said without looking up. “My— they sent people to me, attendants. My childhood nanny, even. The first time she saw me on a full moon, she screamed the place down. She ran out of the gates into the forest and I never saw her again. When the others found out she was gone, they started whispering. Afraid I’d—”

He stooped and grabbed the shears, gripping them tightly.

“The others left, after that. No-one else ever came to take their place. Until Newt and Anathema, no-one ever stayed here more than a night or two—”

He fell silent. Aziraphale ached to do something for him, to ease away that haunted set to his shoulders.

“I am sorry,” he said. “For breaking your trust. I— it won’t happen again.”

“Don’t have any other rules for you to break,” Crowley muttered. He sighed. “It’s... it’s all right, angel, I don’t— it doesn’t matter. You didn’t run away screaming, that’s— that’s the main thing.”

Crowley had called him angel a handful of times since the first, always teasing, always with an excuse about his name being hard to pronounce. There was none of that here, only a simple, unconscious affection that gripped Aziraphale by the heart and pulled.

“Do you want— do you need any help? With whatever you’re— what are you doing out here in the middle of the night, anyway?”

“Pruning the roses, obviously,” Crowley replied, turning towards him and waving the shears in illustration. “I only have one day a month with hands, got to get out and do what I can. I usually go up to the observatory, too—”

Oh, Aziraphale thought, remembering that handwriting, oh, of course.

“Unless it’s rainy and miserable. Then I just—”

He stopped. Aziraphale bit his lip and took a guess.

“Go and read your favourite books in the library?”

Crowley made an inarticulate noise that might have been embarrassment or might have been realisation.

“Yeah. Did you know? Is that why you picked one of them?”

“Well, I didn’t know you could still read them now... I thought maybe you missed them.”

“Oh, I do.” Crowley sighed. “I miss— everything. The stars, and the books, and the garden—”

There was a longing and a grief in his voice that Aziraphale couldn’t quite bear.

“Can I help with the roses?” he asked again. “Or— would you rather I left you to it?”

The wind chose that moment to gust through the garden with a hint of cold moisture, and for the first time, the moonlight dimmed. Aziraphale looked up to see a large cloud edging across the corner of the moon. He couldn’t see the end of it.

“You know what,” Crowley said. “I think— what I really want— is a drink. And a warm fire. And— maybe some company— if you—?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied at once. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

CHAPTER 5

It was strange, and not strange at all, to sit across from Crowley in the parlour like he always did, and to see him so very differently. Beneath the cloak, Crowley was wearing a simple black shirt with a high collar, plain dark trousers, and heavy boots that he didn’t take off even when they sat down. The clothes were all good quality, finely made, but they had an air of being old, even older than Aziraphale’s favourite waistcoat, which he had been meticulously cleaning and repairing for nearly seven years at this point.

Old, but not at all well-worn, not like the velvet that had gone smooth around Aziraphale’s buttonholes. Clothes that had hung in a wardrobe for years, seldom touched, seldom needed.

Aziraphale wasn’t even sure what they talked about to start with, he was so mesmerised by Crowley’s expressive face, his lovely amber eyes so full of feeling, his nimble, long-fingered hands gesturing as he talked. As a snake, he was most often motionless, only his tongue or tail-tip twitching; as a man, he seemed unable to keep still for even a moment, and Aziraphale drank him in.

Best of all, the more they talked, the more Crowley relaxed. His laughter rang out more often, and his smile became tinged with the edges of something grateful and glad. He kept shooting disbelieving, helpless glances at Aziraphale when he thought Aziraphale wasn’t looking. When eventually Aziraphale confessed to being rather peckish (he omitted the part about not eating his dinner), Crowley rushed off to the kitchen in a whirl of limbs, and returned pushing a trolley so laden it could barely move: wine, fruit, cheese, cold meat, bread, some of the pigeon pie, half a trifle, and, of course, several cakes.

“Might have got a bit carried away,” Crowley admitted, and oh, how delightful to discover that he did blush, a charming rosy glow on his cheekbones. “Wasn’t sure what you’d want at this time of night.”

“It all looks wonderful,” Aziraphale replied, hoping the growling of his stomach wasn’t too obvious. “I don’t know how I’m going to choose.”

In fact, the more he looked, the more he realised that everything on the trolley was something he particularly enjoyed, from that amazing tiramisu to the lovely savoury rolls they’d had with supper a few days ago. As if Crowley had noticed and cared to remember what he liked. It made something in him ache pleasantly, and brought a rush of heat to his own cheeks.

“Well,” he began, then paused, struck by a wonderful thought. “Oh, but what do you want to eat?”

Crowley blinked, seeming genuinely surprised.

“I, er. I don’t, usually,” he said, eyes darting away from Aziraphale’s, hand rubbing nervously at the back of his neck. “On full moons, I mean. Since it’s only one night.”

Crowley had been cagey about what he ate as a snake, but Aziraphale knew enough about the diet of reptiles make a few guesses, and it certainly didn’t involve savouring the complementary flavours of good cooking.

“But don’t you miss it?”

Crowley shrugged.

“Never was much of an epicurean.”

Aziraphale leaned forward and began putting together a plate. He struggled to imagine what it would be like to have so little interest in food, or how someone could go for years - years! - without tasting anything. He tried to frame it in his mind as someone recovering from illness, and accordingly stayed away from anything too rich, assembling a nice little collection: crisp, sweet grapes, some sharp cheddar with a scrape of butter on plain oat crackers, a slice of good beef, a handful of salted nuts.

When he’d finished, he offered it to Crowley, who stuttered a weak protest, but took the plate anyway.

“Only if you want it,” Aziraphale said, turning back to help himself to his own, rather more lavish portion. He was so glad to have another chance to properly acquaint himself with that pigeon pie. “I thought it might be nice to eat together for once.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley gingerly pick up a grape between two fingers, squint at it suspiciously, and then bite into it cautiously, for all the world like he was expecting it to bite back.

“Oh. That’s good,” Crowley said after a moment’s surprised chewing. “I didn’t— I’d sort of forgotten, to be honest. What food tastes like.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale blurted out, overcome with emotion at the very idea. “Do try the cheese.”

As Crowley picked up a sliver of cheese and sniffed it experimentally, Aziraphale reached for the wine that had arrived on the trolley, and, with a little thrill, poured them each a proper glass. He passed it to Crowley, who mumbled his thanks through a mouthful of cheese and cracker, which had apparently passed inspection.

“Tastes and smells get all mixed up when you’re a snake,” Crowley said once his mouth was empty. “When I was a kid I used to try and eat all sorts of stupid things because they smelled so good when I was slithering around. Don’t even talk to me about soap.”

Aziraphale laughed, struck by the most adorable image of a small black snake hiccuping bubbles.

“You always could transform, then? I imagine that must have made your parents’ lives interesting...”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Crowley replied, with a grin that was only the tiniest bit strained at the corners. He took a sip of wine and made an appreciative noise. “Always think this tastes the same, ‘cos the smell’s so similar. But it doesn’t, not really. ‘S good stuff.”

“Did you grow up here?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing at the castle around them with a forkful of pigeon pie. “It must have been rather wonderful.”

Crowley’s face fell, and Aziraphale would have done anything to take the question back.

“No,” Crowley mumbled, staring into his wine. “Not here. This is— this was my mother’s home, before she married.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, desperate to know more and equally desperate not to say anything else that would make Crowley uncomfortable. “I was— we used to live in the city, you know. Well, my family did. I was still a child when we had to leave, so I didn’t see much of it.”

Crowley’s expression shifted into interest. He swung sideways in his chair so he could hook one leg over the armrest.

“Had to leave?”

Aziraphale floundered for a moment, hearing Gabriel’s voice somewhere in the back of his mind expressing horror that he could even think of discussing the family shame. Well, Gabriel could just... Gabriel wasn’t here, and there was something confessional and intimate about sitting up late with Crowley like this. It made him want to tell secrets, and maybe be told some in return.

“My family’s always been in the merchant business,” Aziraphale said, settling back in his chair and enjoying a couple more bites of the pie before he went on. “Cloth, you know - we used to be suppliers to the finest tailors in the world.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows at used to, but said nothing, resting his chin on his hand.

“My mother was particularly good at managing things, I’m given to understand. We were— I suppose we were considered very rich, for a time. But my parents’ ship went down before I was quite four years old, and, well, Gabriel took over the business...”

Aziraphale hesitated again, almost expecting Gabriel to appear out of thin air to shout at him. When no such thing occurred, he went on, emboldened.

“He was... I suppose he was terribly young, all that responsibility you know, but... not to put too fine a point on it, all our money was gone after just a few years.”

The way Gabriel told this story, they’d been cheated, robbed, deserted by fortune. The winds had been against their ships and the people they’d trusted had knifed them in the back and their investments had dried up at the worst possible time. Absolutely unforeseeable, impossible circumstances that could have wrecked anyone’s fortune. Nothing could have been done.

The way Michael told this story - and she’d told it to Aziraphale only once, back when she still held out some hope he might have a head for figures - Gabriel had made such an impressive job of mismanaging their assets and alienating their trading partners that he might as well have poured coffers of gold into the sea.

“So after that, there was nothing for it but to move to the country and try to rebuild things,” Aziraphale finished with a wistful sigh. He helped himself to a bit more Camembert to cheer himself up. “Gabriel’s always sure we’re going to be back on track any day now, but to be quite honest with you...”

Crowley snorted.

“Yeah, not seeing that happening.”

“I always rather wished...” Aziraphale stared at his plate. “Not the money, you understand, but the sort of life we could have had. There are libraries in the city, and scholars, and I might have— well, but none of us can change the past, I suppose.”

“No,” Crowley agreed quietly.

“And I would very much have liked to go to one of the royal balls,” Aziraphale went on, reaching for his wine. “Raphael used to talk about them, all the costumes, and the dancing and the food and the conversation...”

“They’re not all they’re cracked up to be.” Crowley suddenly swung his feet back around and planted them on the floor, leaning forward earnestly. “Why don’t you leave?”

Aziraphale blinked, taken aback.

“You could just— you could just go,” Crowley hurried on. “Anywhere you like. You’re so clever, you could easily find work, go and be a scholar or a librarian or a teacher in the city...”

Aziraphale stammered and blushed at the absolute sincerity in Crowley’s voice.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” he managed. “I wouldn’t even— I don’t have the first idea how to look after myself, I could never go off on my own—”

“Is that what they’ve told you?” Crowley shook his head. “You walked up to a cursed castle thinking you were going to be held hostage by a giant snake.”

“That’s— that’s different,” Aziraphale protested weakly. “I didn’t really think— and I wanted to see for myself— and anyway as soon as I saw you I knew you weren’t that sort of snake. Er. Person. Er. I mean...”

Crowley started to laugh. In desperation, Aziraphale took a hurried drink of his wine - too hurried, it turned out. He spluttered and coughed in a horribly undignified fashion, and Crowley, the absolute fiend, just kept on laughing even as he poured him a glass of water.

“Lucky for me you’re such an excellent judge of character,” Crowley said as Aziraphale recovered himself, and even though his tone was teasing, there was an undercurrent of honesty in the words. It rose to the surface as Crowley hesitated, then went on softly, “I’m glad you came here.”

“So am I,” Aziraphale replied, and he meant it to be jolly, but somehow it came out all soft and open, just like Crowley’s eyes. “I’ve never really— met anyone like you. I wish I’d known before that you were here. I’d have come to visit much sooner.”

Crowley flushed pink, made an abortive attempt to say something that came out as mostly vowels, and half-fell out of his seat as he made a sudden lunge for the wine. He refilled his glass and drank half of it in one go.

“You know,” Crowley said, staring studiously at the floor, “you can stay here as long as you—”

The words ended in something between a gulp and a gasp as he shuddered all over, his wine glass wobbling dangerously in his hand.

“My dear, are you—”

“Ugh, it must be nearly dawn.” Crowley downed the rest of the wine and shoved the glass back onto the trolley. “I’d better go.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale had quite lost track of time. Had they really talked all night? He didn’t feel the least bit tired. “Well, yes, perhaps we’d better get some sleep—”

“No, uh, not that.” Crowley grimaced as another shudder went through him. “I turn back at dawn,” he explained reluctantly. “Sometimes it happens all at once and sometimes it takes hours. No control over it, it’s a mess.”

There was a certain tightness around his eyes. His fingers had curled into his palms. Aziraphale set aside his glass and plate at once.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

Crowley swallowed and avoided his eyes.

“It doesn’t feel great,” he hedged. “It’s a bit like being thrown into one of those machines they use to make sausages.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale got to his feet. Crowley already looked a bit unsteady, and not from the wine. “Let me walk you back to your room, at least?”

Crowley hesitated, his hand creeping up to rub the back of his neck. As it lifted his hair away from his skin, Aziraphale definitely saw the glimmer of tiny scales tracing the knobbly crest of his spine.

“Okay,” Crowley said abruptly. “But let’s hurry.”

He started to lurch towards the door, legs even less cooperative than they had been earlier in the evening. It must be hard, Aziraphale realised with a start, to remember how to walk after a month slithering around, and even harder when your legs were in the process of trying to go away again.

He hurried to catch up with Crowley and slipped one arm through his. Crowley made an unquantifiable sound, but didn’t attempt to pull away.

They made it to the third floor of the castle without any mishaps other than the way Aziraphale’s stomach had taken on a sort of fluttery feeling, like he’d accidentally swallowed a very surprised blackbird. It had to do with the way Crowley leaned on him more as they proceeded, the warmth of him against Aziraphale’s side, and way he’d cling a bit closer every time one of those shudders wracked him.

“This one’s mine,” Crowley said finally as they stopped in front of a door Aziraphale couldn’t remember going past before. There wasn’t much to distinguish it from any of the other doors, except the carved snakes that decorated the handles. “So I’ll just—”

“Are you sure you don’t need—” Aziraphale started at the same time.

Crowley shook his head, hard, and pulled away.

“I don’t want you to see me like that.”

He fumbled with the door handle, cursed under his breath, and snapped his fingers. Aziraphale heard the lock click, and then Crowley was pushing the door open. Aziraphale wanted very much to peek at what lay beyond, but Crowley turned as he stepped over the threshold, blocking the gap with his body.

“I probably won’t be around much tomorrow,” he said. “Being up all night, plus the transformations. I usually sleep it off.”

“Of course, I completely understand.”

“But I could... come and find you,” Crowley went on, now visibly leaning on the door for support. “After dinner, maybe? Or in the afternoon, if you’re reading?”

“Please do,” Aziraphale replied, and the fluttering was back, responding to the way Crowley was looking at him like he didn’t want to stop. “I’ll be— I’ll be around.”

Crowley smiled, a soft and wondering thing, like he wasn’t quite sure he believed his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Good night, angel.”

The door clicked closed. Aziraphale stood in front of it for almost a minute, before shaking himself and starting back down the hall, mind very much on what he was leaving behind, rather than where he was going.

He got lost, of course, and by the time he got back to his own room, the sun was sending little questing rays through the gap in the curtains. Aziraphale pulled them tightly closed. He touched the petals of the enchanted rose - still perfect and fresh - before he got into bed.

Everything felt a little different, after that, although they went on in much the same way they had before. The day after the full moon, Aziraphale slept until almost lunchtime, at which point Newt came to check he hadn’t been eaten by something horrible in the night.

Crowley turned up an hour or so before supper, slinking into the library rather more slowly than he normally did and with a certain stiffness to his usually sinuous movements. Aziraphale had been absorbed in his book, but forgot about it the moment the door opened.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, watching Crowley make his way carefully across the room.

“Been better,” Crowley replied. He paused by Aziraphale’s feet, and then began to wind his way up the side of his chair. Aziraphale craned his neck to watch as Crowley settled himself along the plush cushioned back. “What’re you reading, anyway?”

“Oh, er...” Aziraphale closed the book hastily. “Just a novel I found.”

Crowley dipped his head down to look at the cover and then laughed right by Aziraphale’s ear.

“Looks a bit steamy to me.”

“Er... I wouldn’t know, I just started reading it,” Aziraphale lied. He’d actually found this one a couple of weeks ago and was enjoying it for the second time. He put it to one side and picked up the book they’d been reading together. “Shall we?”

Crowley hummed assent, and Aziraphale found his place, and picked up where he’d left off. Crowley lounged on the back of the chair for a while, and then, to Aziraphale’s delight, a desire to look more closely at a particular illustration prompted him to loop himself around Aziraphale’s shoulders. The heavy weight of him was as lovely as it was when they were out in the gardens, and somehow it brought that fluttering feeling back into Aziraphale’s stomach.

“You can stay there, if you like,” he said, when Crowley started to draw back.

“Yeah?”

“Mm, I’m quite comfortable.”

Crowley settled more securely over his shoulders, head coming to rest just under his chin.

“Tell me to shove off if I get too heavy,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale murmured something that could probably be interpreted as agreement if you didn’t look at it too closely, and continued reading. After a while, greatly daring, he reached up with his free hand to gently pet Crowley’s glossy scales. Crowley made no complaint. By the time the supper bell rang, he’d dozed off, and Aziraphale would have gladly gone hungry rather than disturb him, if he hadn’t been woken by the clanging.

Somehow, that became their new habit: long afternoons curled up together by the fire. And somehow, Aziraphale still didn’t really get around to making any firm plans to go home. One week passed, and then two, and the weather was slowly warming into a tentative spring. There was no more frost on the roses, and outside the castle’s ever-blooming gardens, the first new leaves and buds must be studding the forest with hints of green.

One afternoon, Aziraphale was interrupted mid-sentence by Anathema throwing open the library door.

“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking all over, Newt’s been useless.”

She paused and looked them up and down, eyebrows lifting as she took in the way Crowley was draped around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“What do you want?” Crowley demanded. Aziraphale felt his tail twitch. “I know we don’t have guests, the castle would’ve told me.”

Anathema traipsed across the library and threw herself into one of the other chairs by the fire.

“You’ll love this,” Anathema declared. “You’re the talk of the town.”

“Yeah, well, can’t really blame them—”

“Not you, Crowley.” Anathema aimed a finger at Aziraphale. “You.”

“Me?” Aziraphale repeated, blinking. “Whatever for?”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about you just up and disappeared one day?” Anathema was grinning incorrigibly. “And apparently your family were tight-lipped about it at first. A rumour started going around that your siblings had murdered you and hid your body in the woods.”

Crowley laughed. Aziraphale swatted him with a bookmark.

“Oh dear,” he said. “That’s very unfortunate.”

“Couldn’t have happened to a lovelier set of people,” Crowley muttered, still unrepentantly amused. “Serves ‘em right.”

“So then your brother Gabriel got wind of it,” Anathema went on, “and decided to set the record straight, and so now the whole town’s talking about how you were cruelly abducted and are being held against your will by the horrifying monster in the cursed castle.”

Crowley stopped laughing with a long, furious hiss.

“Now hold on a ssssecond—”

“He told them what?” Aziraphale interrupted, suddenly furious at Gabriel in a way he couldn’t ever remember truly being on his own behalf. “How dare he!”

Anathema cackled, delighted by their reactions.

“Yep, there’s a whole saga, I heard at least three versions, one of them involves you weeping as you’re carried off to your doom—”

“I should have bitten him,” Crowley snarled.

Aziraphale petted him absently, his own anger cooling as quickly as it had come. He bit his lip.

“I suppose he does think I’m unable to leave,” Aziraphale said after a moment. “He may be exaggerating terribly, but underneath it all...”

“Underneath it all, he’s probably trying to do damage control on his reputation,” Crowley snapped. “Let him stew.”

“Still, it’s been— I’ve been here much longer than I expected...”

Aziraphale looked out of the window, where the sun was slowly westering and turning the sky to gold. A horrible, sinking feeling was starting in his stomach, as for the first time in weeks he was forced to ask himself just when he was planning to go home. And what it would mean when he left...

“But I can’t let them go on thinking I’m a prisoner—”

“So write to them,” Crowley put in quickly, his coils tightening around Aziraphale’s shoulders in a way that felt slightly panicky. “The witch can deliver it.”

“Hey, I’m not a courier—”

“That’s a splendid idea!” Aziraphale cast a hopeful, pleading look at Anathema. “Wouldn’t you do it for me, as a favour?”

Anathema rolled her eyes, but there was something intent in her face as she looked at the two of them, like she was contemplating the solution to a crossword that had been troubling her for some time.

“Okay, fine,” she said. “I try to stay away from the town as much as possible, you don’t even want to know what they have to say about witches, but I suppose I could do with a bit more cloth for a new summer cloak...”

“Oh, thank you, my dear, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” Aziraphale beamed at her, then paused thoughtfully. “Though, speaking of cloth, perhaps I could trouble you to pick up a few more of my clothes—”

“I said I’d deliver your letter, not bring back your luggage!”

“If you want clothes, the castle can take care of that.” Crowley had relaxed his grip and sounded a lot calmer. “It likes dressing people up, for some reason. Though it tends to get a bit carried away with the frills and the velvet.”

Aziraphale couldn’t quite stop the soft, “Ooh!” that escaped his lips. Anathema snorted and shook her head, levering herself out of her chair.

“Guess I’ll stick around for a few days then,” she said, casting a thoughtful glance over the library. “You know, I’ve never really had a good look around in here...”

“If you think I’m going to let you get your muddy fingers all over everything—” Crowley began, then stopped. Then, in an abashed tone, “I mean, you can, if you want. Not the fingers. No mud. But if you want to look at the books, I— you’re welcome to.”

Anathema stared at him like he’d sprouted legs and started to tap dance. Then she fixed Aziraphale with a long, piercing look.

“What’ve you been doing to him?”

“Me? I haven’t—”

Anathema raised an accusing finger, though her expression was gleeful.

“You have, you’ve taught him manners or something. Now where am I going to go for a good argument?”

“Oi,” protested Crowley in tones of great outrage, uncoiling from Aziraphale’s shoulders so he could rear up indignantly, “if that’s what I get for trying to— I’ll show you a good argument, you ungrateful—”

Anathema grinned wickedly and swept out of the room with a little wave of her hand before he could finish. Crowley sputtered and hissed at the closed door for a few seconds.

“I’m going to leave a dead rat on her pillow,” he finally muttered, sinking sulkily back down.

“Oh, come now, dear, there’s no need for that.” Aziraphale half-turned in his seat and ran the knuckles of his hand gently along Crowley’s neck and back. Crowley leaned into it automatically. “It’s good of her to deliver the letter. And I’m glad she let us know about the rumours in town. I’ll set Gabriel straight, and that should sort everything out.”

Crowley sighed.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding entirely unconvinced. “Right. Bet it will.”

CHAPTER 6

The castle’s method of providing clothes was surprisingly mundane. There was a pleasant dressing room containing a large wardrobe, several chaise longues, and a slightly ominous-looking spinning wheel that turned out not to be involved in the process at all. Perhaps it was simply a requirement that all enchanted castles possessed such a thing.

“Just say what you’re looking for, and open the door,” Crowley told him. “There’ll be something in there you like. There always is.”

He settled himself on the settee nearest the fire, and Aziraphale busied himself with the task of learning how best to communicate his desires to the wardrobe. Much like the kitchen, it required a certain precision in phrasing, and no matter how careful he was, it always seemed to produce a few very odd clothes in each batch. Aziraphale warily ran his fingers over a slinky, stretchy garment that might charitably have been called a shirt, except for how indecently its strange fabric would cling to the physique; soon after, he stared in befuddlement at what appeared to be an authentic toga.

“Yeah, I think it’s a bit... fuzzy on what century it is,” Crowley said when asked. “And about what order time goes in. I found something in there once that I swear glowed in the dark. Best not to think about it too hard.”

It was easy enough to find himself a few things that matched his usual preferences, which, if he were honest, tended towards comfortable, easy to clean, and familiar. His wardrobe at home was full of clothing of the exact same cut and colour as what he’d worn to the castle, and he favoured tan and beige and cream: pale and innocuous colours. For doing the dirtier work around the house, he’d veer into various shades of brown, but dark or vivid colours had never felt right to him. Black made him look positively unwell.

(It had suited Crowley, though, even in those carelessly-chosen clothes he’d had on the other night. Brought out the red of his hair and the gold of his eyes, clung to his lanky figure and enhanced the lines of him...)

Still, it wasn’t as if Aziraphale had never stared wistfully at a piece of lace, or quietly admired the fashionable cut of someone’s shirt. It had just seemed rather pointless to acquire such clothes when they would only be worn about the house, and likely spoiled in the course of his chores. His velvet waistcoat, chosen carefully and protected fiercely from mishap, was one of a handful of concessions to his longing for soft, pretty things.

He found himself some shirts, trousers, a new waistcoat in a lovely brocade, a pleasingly warm housecoat for wearing in the evenings, and all the little necessities, such as stockings and underwear and handkerchiefs and cravats. He let himself indulge a bit: a touch of lace here, a bit of satin there. He fell quite helplessly in love with a fabric woven into a grid of pale colours in a style he’d never seen before; the wardrobe obligingly provided him with plenty more of it the next time he opened the door.

He soon had more than enough to last him for the rest of his stay, and yet he found himself lingering by the wardrobe. Crowley was dozing by the fire, apparently content for him to take as long as he wished. And the wardrobe could produce anything, and there would be no waste or expense. There was no reason not to... experiment a little. Let his imagination run wild. Think about the gorgeous clothes he remembered from his childhood, the silk and satin that his older siblings had worn to the balls they’d attended...

Opening the doors of the wardrobe this time was like opening up a box of chocolates. Aziraphale was almost speechless at the sea of lace and ruffles. Oh, it was ridiculous, it was too self-indulgent, Crowley would laugh at him. Nonetheless, he reached for a pair of silk stockings, mesmerised by how sheer and soft they looked.

He took an armful of gorgeous things behind the dressing screen with him. He hardly recognised himself when he looked in the mirror. Oh, he did look ridiculous, he thought wryly, but there was no self-recrimination in it. He loved every last ruffle, every froth of lace, every delicate embroidered detail. He loved the sweet and perfect pair of satin shoes he’d found in the bottom of the wardrobe, and the way the lines of the coat sat so nicely on his curves, not trying to tuck him in or straighten him out.

He never wanted to take it off, but of course, it was only a moment’s fancy. He almost didn’t even bother to show Crowley, but he felt he should at least explain why he’d taken so long.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asked, stepping out from behind the dressing screen with only a flutter of nerves. “Good enough for a royal ball?”

He expected amusement, the kind of teasing he’d grown used to from Crowley. He wouldn’t have minded it at all. Instead, Crowley lifted his head and stared for so long that Aziraphale’s self-consciousness became overwhelming.

“Ah, I know it’s silly,” Aziraphale said, patting himself down briefly, then turning back towards the screen. “Just wanted to— anyway, I’ll put it back, and then I think I’m finished here—”

“Wh— ngk— put it back?” Crowley sputtered. “Why would you put it back? You look amazing.”

Aziraphale spun back around in surprise, cheeks going quite hot. Crowley’s tail twitched, and he ducked his head like he was blushing, but he didn’t take his eyes off Aziraphale.

“No need for flattery,” Aziraphale said after a breathless moment. “I know I’m not really suited to this sort of—”

“You are,” Crowley insisted, uncoiling himself in something very close to agitation. “Do you have any idea— you look like something out of a Rococo painting. You look like an actual angel. If you turned up looking like that to a ball your dance card would be full before you finished climbing the stairs!”

“O-oh,” Aziraphale managed, now fairly certain his face was on fire, while his heart had started drumming like he was actually climbing stairs. “You— like it?”

“Yes, I like it! Am I not being clear? I love it, angel, you look gorgeous.”

Aziraphale, to his considerable chagrin, felt actual tears prick his eyes. He turned hastily to peer into the mirror and pretend to straighten his collar. He wasn’t under any illusions about how he fit into society’s definitions of beauty, and it had never particularly bothered him. He himself appreciated aesthetics but put little value on external appearances. It didn’t matter, that people tended to see him as part of the background of life.

It didn’t matter, but it also felt almost unbearably good to have someone look at him the way Crowley was looking at him, to compliment him with such fervent honesty.

“Well, I... thank you, my dear.” He was surprised by the soft, wondering smile he saw on his own face. “There’s not much point in keeping it, though. It’s not exactly the sort of thing one wears about the house.”

“Keep it,” Crowley replied in a tone that brooked no argument. “This isn’t a house, it’s a castle. Pretty sure my ancestors clanked around here in bloody suits of armour, you can wear whatever you damn well like. And if you need an occasion—”

He stopped, and Aziraphale shot him a curious glance. Crowley ducked his head again, his coils shifting nervously.

“Thought maybe we could— next full moon— have dinner. Properly. If you like?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, that would be— that would be wonderful.”

“Right,” Crowley said, trying for brisk and not quite getting there. “That’s settled then. You’re keeping the frills.”

The next time Anathema came looking for them, they were in the gardens. Under Crowley’s direction, Aziraphale was carefully pruning back a shrubbery that had become rather rowdy under the influence of the spring sun. He wasn’t allowed near the roses yet; they were working their way up to that. They were also enjoying a lively argument about music, in which Crowley had personally insulted no less than three of Aziraphale’s favourite composers in the space of fifteen minutes.

“I could hear you bickering from a mile away,” Anathema announced from the other side of the hedge. “Where’s the way in?”

“Keep going, turn left,” Crowley called back. “Then keep going for about five more minutes until you end up in the pond.”

“Ha-ha.”

“You can fall in that too if you like.”

Aziraphale threw a clipping at him for the horrible joke.

“What?” Anathema demanded as she crunched her way along the gravel path, around the corner, and appeared in the entrance to this part of the gardens. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It’s— you know, a ha-ha, the— the ditch thing— oh, never mind.” Crowley curled up grumpily. “Waste of a perfectly good pun, that was.”

“I question your definitions of perfect and good,” Aziraphale sniffed. He took the opportunity for a break, and sat down on a pretty little carved bench in the sun. “Puns are the lowest form of wit.”

“That’s exactly what I’d expect from someone who still thinks a piano is a radical new instrument.”

Aziraphale threw another clipping at him. This one landed perfectly on Crowley’s head, dangling rakishly over one eye until he shook himself free. He probably would have had more to say, but Aziraphale had spotted what Anathema was holding in her hand.

“Oh, is that—?”

“Yep.” Anathema waved the letter at him. “Your brother ordered me not to leave town until he’d composed a reply.”

“And you did what he told you?” Crowley demanded incredulously.

Anathema made a rude noise.

“I wouldn’t have, but his sister paid me enough to buy a new pair of boots, so I stuck around.”

“Ah, yes, Michael is a bit more pragmatic about these things,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “I’m glad you were compensated, at least. May I—?”

Anathema handed him the letter, which was addressed to him with Gabriel’s usual unnecessary flourish. As Aziraphale cracked the seal with his fingernail, Anathema turned to Crowley and held up another envelope.

“Someone else has one too.”

“What?” Crowley reared up suddenly. “Where did you get that?”

“Pinned to the front gate,” Anathema replied, watching him intently. “Interesting seal on it, too—”

“Shut up,” Crowley snapped, and Aziraphale lost interest in his own letter immediately, because Crowley didn’t sound like he was teasing, he sounded desperate. “Stop talking. You shouldn’t have touched it, that’s— it’s none of your business.”

Anathema’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t immediately snap back. She looked at Crowley, then withdrew the hand holding the envelope, turning it away so the seal wasn’t visible. As she did, Aziraphale caught a glimpse of the addressee.

Anthony?

“You’re right,” Anathema said, to Aziraphale’s considerable shock. “I’m sorry. Should I put it back?”

Crowley almost choked on what had undoubtedly been a furious response, let out a long, agitated hiss as he got himself under control.

“Just give it to Newt,” he said after a moment, sullen and strained. “He knows what to do.”

“Okay.” Anathema turned to go. “By the way, Aziraphale, I’m not taking any more letters back for you. Your other sister made a nasty remark about the colour of my skirt.”

“It’s a lovely colour,” Aziraphale protested weakly, off-balance after the sudden upset. “Uriel just has strong opinions about dyes, and she’s never got on well with shades of blue. Hard to preserve, or something.”

“Hmm, maybe she was jealous, then,” Anathema mused to herself. “I feel better already. See you at supper!”

She disappeared behind the hedge, and they listened to her footsteps crunch away towards the castle.

“You going to open that?” Crowley asked, before Aziraphale could gather his thoughts.

Aziraphale hesitated, wanting desperately to inquire as to what exactly that little scene had been about. But there was still a thin thread of desperation in Crowley’s voice, something that was almost a plea. Aziraphale murmured an acknowledgement and carefully unfolded the envelope. He tugged out the letter, which to his surprise ran to several sheets, all crammed with Gabriel’s flowery handwriting.

He started to read, and felt his stomach drop almost immediately. Before long it was churning with guilt. He bit his lip, eyes hot, and willed his hands not to shake as he turned to the next page. He’d expected... he didn’t know what he’d expected from Gabriel. Certainly not any sort of understanding or generosity, but perhaps a curt indication that he ought to get a move on and head home. A couple of lines sarcastically inquiring as to his continued health. Not... this.

“Aziraphale?”

He’d almost forgotten Crowley was there; he jumped as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Crowley had slithered up onto the bench next to him, was hovering uncertainly, peering at his face.

“Are you all right?”

“I—” Aziraphale forced himself to finish reading the last few lines of the letter, then pressed his hand to his face and breathed through his nose to quell the nausea of shame. “Oh, I’ve... been terribly irresponsible, I—”

“What? What’s he said to you?” Crowley tried to crane his head to look at the letter. Aziraphale folded it shut automatically. “Angel? You haven’t done anything wrong—”

“Haven’t I? I’ve abandoned my family—”

“A few weeks is hardly abandoning anyone! When was the last time you had a holiday?”

“—they were in a terrible state thinking I was being held prisoner—”

“Oh, bollocks to that, they’re the ones who sent you here—”

“Yes, and Gabriel says it’s been wracking them with guilt ever since—”

“I don’t believe a word of it. They’re just trying to manipulate you into going back. Probably ran out of clean socks.”

“Stop it, Crowley!” Aziraphale snapped. “I know you haven’t had the best impression of my family, but they’re not monsters, they do care—”

“I’ll believe it when I sssssee it!” Crowley snapped back.

Aziraphale flourished the letter at him furiously as proof. Crowley made a darting movement with his head, like he was going to bite the paper, but got a hold of himself almost at once, although he hissed like an angry tea-kettle.

“You don’t understand,” Aziraphale said, shoulders hunching protectively. “Family has to come first. You can’t just walk away from that.”

“Oh, you absolutely can—”

“You don’t know what it was like after our parents died.” Aziraphale realised his fingers had tightened on the letter, creasing it, and that his eyes were dangerously wet. “I’ve never seen Gabriel so— Raphael cried for days— Uriel wouldn’t come out of her room— even Michael—”

“Angel,” Crowley interjected, suddenly soft. “Listen—”

“We only had each other, and things went from bad to worse, and we had to leave the city and manage for ourselves - and then Raphael left!” Aziraphale went on, a long-standing pain he’d hardly even dared acknowledge suddenly bursting out of him with a force that was stunning. “He was the only one who— he used to listen to me, he was kind to me, and he left us all, ran away in the middle of the night, and afterwards - for years afterwards - Gabriel would come and check we were all in our beds - like he was so afraid we’d be gone as well—”

“Aziraphale—”

“And now I’ve done exactly the same thing!”

All of a sudden there was a weight on his leg, as Crowley butted the letter aside with his head and wriggled onto his lap, then wound himself around Aziraphale’s back, coiling his way up his chest until he could look Aziraphale in the eye.

“Good for Raphael,” Crowley said gently. Aziraphale wanted to snap back, but the softness of Crowley’s voice stopped him. “Angel, people leave home. All the time. There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s a lot wrong with treating you the way you’ve been treated, though. Even if Gabriel’s as upset as he says he is, it doesn’t change that he was willing to trade your freedom for his. Remember? He was okay with you being locked up here, just like he’s okay with keeping you under his thumb for the rest of your life.”

The weight of Crowley was somehow soothing, grounding, a comforting pressure that eased the awful seasickness that had been sloshing around in Aziraphale’s stomach. He wished all at once that Crowley was in human form, that he could wrap his arms around him and be held that way, but the solid serpentine embrace was almost as good. Aziraphale closed his eyes, felt Crowley move to lay his wedge-shaped head on his shoulder. He ran his free hand over Crowley’s scales and let out a long, ragged sigh.

“All the same,” Aziraphale said finally. “I— I can’t stay here forever.”

“Could if you wanted,” Crowley murmured. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Aziraphale’s heart jumped even as he laughed shakily.

“You’d get bored of me, I promise you. There’s that saying about houseguests and fish—”

“You wouldn’t be a guest, if you stayed. You’d live here. For as long as you liked.”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath that made his ribs strain against Crowley’s grip. The coils instantly loosened, giving him as much room for air as he needed.

“And if you— when you wanted to leave,” Crowley went on, quiet and fervent, “you wouldn’t have to go back to them. The castle can— you could have anything you needed, to go off to the city, or, or wherever— I’d give you anything you wanted, angel.”

“Oh, my dear.” It was difficult to properly hug a snake, but Aziraphale did his best, gathering Crowley’s coils into his arms. “You are so very kind.”

“I’m not—”

“You are, I won’t hear another word about it.” Aziraphale sighed. “I wish I could— go home for a bit, then come back to visit you. It would make things so much easier...”

“That’s why it’s called a curse,” Crowley pointed out sadly, tightening around him again. “It’s supposed to ruin everything.”

“Oh. Oh, my dear. I’m sorry, that was so thoughtless of me.”

Aziraphale ran a soothing hand along Crowley’s spine. He felt quite shaky and adrift, all the things he wanted warring with all the things he ought to want, all of Gabriel’s entreaties and accusations jarring up against his lifelong sense of his own inadequacy. And yet Crowley was the one who’d truly suffered, been forced into this place and this shape without having the choice to leave at all.

“I don’t know what to do,” Aziraphale whispered, still petting Crowley’s smooth and supple skin that had warmed so wonderfully in the sun. “I just don’t know.”

“At least stay until full moon,” Crowley entreated softly. “Have dinner with me. Wear your pretty clothes. I’d like to do it just once.”

Aziraphale nodded, fingers still tracing Crowley’s scales.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course I’ll stay until then.”

The next week was... quiet. There was a tension and a sense of dread hanging over Aziraphale, the awareness that soon he’d have to face up to reality. They still found plenty to talk about, but there was a tinge of wistfulness to it now. Crowley seemed reluctant to tease Aziraphale the way he usually did, and Aziraphale didn’t want to say anything that might upset him or provoke him, and so their conversations returned to the friendly politeness they’d shared in the first few weeks of Aziraphale’s time in the castle. It wasn’t awkward, it was just as warm and companionable as ever, but it wasn’t the same.

Aziraphale wrote countless replies to Gabriel, all of which remained unsent. He tried pleading, he tried bargaining, he tried a cool and rational explanation of his desire to stay. He even, once, let his pen run away with him and fill the page with a furious tirade of hurt and bitterness, claiming that he never wanted to see any of his family again. That one went on the fire before the ink had even dried. It didn’t make him feel any better.

He almost forgot about the other letter. Anathema didn’t bring it up again, although he caught her with Newt once or twice, whispering furtively and immediately changing the subject when he appeared. He had too much going on in his own head to spare it much thought.

The night of the full moon approached, and despite his best efforts, Aziraphale found himself arguing with Crowley.

“You should tell them.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t have to let them see you—”

“You think the witch would let me get away with that?” They were in the parlour, drinking whiskey, lingering beyond midnight so the day wouldn’t end. Crowley was coiled in his chair. “She’d break my door down and start cataloguing all the weird bits!”

“You aren’t giving her enough credit,” Aziraphale replied tartly. “She does actually care about you, you know.”

“But then she’d know. They both would.”

“It wouldn’t make a difference—”

“It would to me!”

Aziraphale sighed and leaned his head back against the cushions, eyes closed. God knew he didn’t want to push Crowley into something he was uncomfortable with, but at the same time... if he was leaving, and Crowley would be alone again with the secret...

His chest hurt at the very thought. He hadn’t technically made a decision yet. He hadn’t declared an intent to go back to his family, or declined Crowley’s offer of... of a different place to call home. But he also hadn’t really considered for even a moment actually doing what Crowley suggested, refusing to return to his family at all. The most he could manage was to put the decision off until after the full moon. Which was the day after tomorrow. Dread and anxiety rippled through him.

“Isn’t there a way to break the curse?” he found himself asking. “Shouldn’t there be— in stories there’s always a way—”

“No,” Crowley interrupted at once. “Stories aren’t reality. I’ve looked for a way out. There isn’t one.”

“Who did this to you?” Aziraphale demanded, opening his eyes and sitting up straight. “Perhaps if they could be brought to justice—”

Crowley gave a bitter, barking laugh, a sound Aziraphale had never heard from him before.

“Let it go, angel,” he said, sounding tired and sad. “Believe me, I’ve already tried everything my conscience allows.” He started to slither down from his chair. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

“Good night,” Aziraphale replied softly. They would normally go together as far as his room, but he didn’t try to stop Crowley leaving.

He sat for a while longer by the embers of the fire, cradling the whiskey glass and staring at the last dregs of the amber liquid as if he could divine his fortune there.

CHAPTER 7

“Wait for me in the parlour,” Crowley had said earlier in the day, before slithering off to prepare for the transformation. “I should be there by nine at the latest.”

“Are you sure you don’t need more time?” Aziraphale had asked, worried. “To— recover?”

“It’s easier going from snake-shaped to person-shaped,” Crowley had replied. “Dunno why. Maybe because... I think maybe because I want to? And I think when I turn back into a snake, I’m fighting it, even if I try not to. Anyway, I’ll be fine. Just need to get the legs sorted out and I’ll be right down.”

So Aziraphale had spent a restless afternoon in the library, and then he’d had a light evening snack with Newt (and felt terribly guilty about keeping the poor boy in the dark), and finally he’d retired to his room to change for dinner.

Even with everything that was hanging over him, he’d been looking forward to this. As he dressed himself, he found the dread of tomorrow melting away. The clothes were so lovely, and so unlike what he normally wore. It was easy to put aside all thoughts of decisions made and unmade, and just exist in this moment, and in the bubbling anticipation of seeing Crowley in his human form again. Dining with him, and talking with him face-to-face, and maybe they could go up to the observatory together, maybe Crowley could turn and tilt the telescope himself rather than trying to explain to Aziraphale how to do it, and Aziraphale could focus fully on listening to him talk about the stars.

And maybe, somewhere in the depths of his coward heart, Aziraphale hoped for a moment of clarity where he would find the courage to accept the gift Crowley had offered him, of a place to stay where he would be welcome and wanted and free, even if he never left.

A clock in the hall chimed the three-quarter hour, and Aziraphale made one final turn in front of the mirror, patted his hair into its best approximation of neatness, and made his way to the parlour.

He waited for half an hour, sipping at a glass of Madeira and idly entertaining himself by having a good look at the oil paintings that hung on the walls. He’d seen them many times before by now, but he’d never really made a close study of their details. There was, he realised swiftly and with a smile, a certain theme: an awful lot of people were in the process of turning into animals. Family thing, Crowley had said. One woman in particular caught his eye, her long red hair very familiar as she drew a cloak of black feathers around herself and became a swan. The resemblance was close enough, and the portrait recent enough, for Aziraphale to guess that this might be Crowley’s mother.

There was still so much he didn’t know about Crowley, he thought with a pang. Still so many things for them to talk about. Still so much trust to be earned, if Crowley would let him. If Aziraphale weren’t in the process of tossing their friendship aside like it meant nothing...

The hall door creaked, and Aziraphale turned, opening his mouth to say good evening.

It stayed open. No words came out.

He had, for no particular reason, assumed that Crowley would be dressed much the same as on the last full moon. He was completely unprepared to be so categorically wrong.

He was wearing black again, but not entirely. There were other shades here and there: charcoal, dark taupe, an ebony velvet so intense its greenish sheen was almost a trick of the light, and occasional bold flashes of deep crimson satin. Everything about him was sleek and sharp: even the modest amount of black lace trailed smoothly like fast-flowing water instead of the froth at Aziraphale’s throat and wrists. The cut of his coat called attention to his narrow hips, and the snug-fitting black leather knee-boots showed off his calves to a quite frankly indecent degree.

He’d tied his hair back at the nape of his neck with a crimson ribbon, though Aziraphale could already see at least one strand working its way loose. And his eyes were nervous, darting this way and that as his cheeks slowly turned pink under Aziraphale’s stunned gaze.

“Just thought,” Crowley mumbled, apparently addressing a nearby armchair. “If you were getting dressed up. I should. Um.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, lightheaded with something too enormous to put a name on. “Oh, Crowley.”

The pink tinge became a full-on flush as Crowley’s eyes snapped to Aziraphale’s.

“You... like it?”

“Of course I like it,” Aziraphale replied, then found himself smiling as he recognised the echo of their conversation in the dressing room. “You look— Crowley, you are just— too handsome to be true.”

Crowley’s face was approaching a shade of red that clashed with his hair. He tried to speak, tripped over the syllables with all the finesse of a stack of crockery falling down a flight of stairs, and took a deep breath as if he could somehow regain his composure that way.

“Shall we, then?” he said, sounding in no way composed.

He half-raised his hand as if to offer it to Aziraphale. He seemed to think better of it immediately, a flash of alarm crossing his face, but before he could take it back, Aziraphale had crossed the space between them and taken hold of it. A shiver went all the way through him as his fingers closed around Crowley’s.

“Lead the way,” Aziraphale said breathlessly.

Crowley swallowed hard. Carefully, as if afraid he’d drop it, he brought Aziraphale’s hand to his arm, tucked it into the crook of his elbow, and turned to open the door he’d just come through.

Aziraphale was slightly dazed and very distracted but he still noticed when they passed by the door to the dining room.

“Aren’t we going to—?”

“Nope. Had something else in mind.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale let his fingers squeeze Crowley’s arm, delighted at the prospect of another surprise. “Are we going to the observatory?”

Crowley shot him a fond, exasperated look.

“Don’t try and guess. Just wait until we get there. You’ll like it, I promise.”

Aziraphale could no more prevent himself from guessing than he could have stopped breathing, but he kept his theories to himself even as he speculated on the prospect of a moonlit picnic in the gardens, or perhaps out on that terrace that ran along the south side...

He wasn’t expecting Crowley to lead him to a pair of doors that were vaguely familiar. He was about to ask where they were, but Crowley was already swinging one of the doors open, and Aziraphale gasped at the sparkling candlelight and crystal reflections as he belatedly recognised the ballroom beyond. A soft swell of harp music greeted them.

“It’s not much of a royal ball,” Crowley said offhandedly as he guided Aziraphale through the doors and past a gently trickling fountain that had been dry the last time Aziraphale came in here, “but I thought you might—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale managed, in a voice gone quite wobbly and overcome. Crowley immediately turned to him in concern. Aziraphale felt himself smiling in what he was sure must be the most ridiculous fashion. “This is— you are so— oh, thank you, my dear.”

Crowley blinked rapidly, like someone who had accidentally looked directly into the sun, and made a garbled noise of weak protest before hurrying them on.

“Right— so— dinner—”

He led the way up the sweeping flight of stairs to the balcony above the dance floor, where a table for two had been set out with a perfect view of the gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows and the moonlit gardens beyond. Beside it were three of the kitchen’s serving trolleys, two of them laden with covered platters that would no doubt be at the perfect temperature when required. The third seemed to be reserved for wine and desserts.

Crowley guided Aziraphale to the table and pulled his seat out for him. It was all Aziraphale could do not to simply collapse into it. His knees felt so weak it was almost alarming. Crowley busied himself with the trolleys, and before Aziraphale knew it, the table was covered in tempting dishes, mostly seafood.

“Traditional,” Crowley explained as he set down a dish of oysters with a flourish. “The capital’s by the sea, of course, so the first course at the royal ball is always caught fresh for the King. The kitchen here can’t quite manage to get the full flavour, but it’s not bad. Try the lobster.”

Aziraphale hardly needed to be told twice. He happily sampled everything on the table, while Crowley pointed out the particular complexities of each dish, the herbs and oils used to bring out the subtleties. For someone who had confessed to little interest in food, he seemed to know a lot about what went on in the royal kitchens.

The oysters were particularly delicious. Aziraphale savoured the decadent sensation of tipping the salty, slippery flesh down his throat, unable to suppress a little shiver of pleasure. He opened his eyes to tell Crowley how divine they were, only to find that Crowley had stopped mid-sentence and was staring at him with his lips parted and his eyes slightly glazed.

“Er— is everything—?”

“Fine!” Crowley squeaked, grabbing his wine glass and gulping back the crisp, chilled white wine with far less care than such an exquisite vintage deserved. “So around now’s when all the interesting stuff starts happening.”

Aziraphale blinked.

“How do you mean?”

“At the ball,” Crowley went on, leaning back in his chair and gesturing at the empty dance floor below them. “See, if you want to make an entrance, you don’t turn up on time. No, you wait until everyone’s sitting down, then you sweep on in, fashionably late, with all eyes on you.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” Aziraphale asked, able to imagine Crowley doing such a thing all too well, and unbearably curious. “How do you know so much about all this?”

Crowley hesitated for just a moment, then shrugged and toyed with one of the forks laid out by his plate.

“Went to one or two,” he admitted. “Before, you know.”

He made a wiggly, serpentine movement with his hand, gestured at the castle around them, then leaned forward to pour Aziraphale more wine.

“Wasn’t allowed to be late, though,” Crowley went on, making a face. “Best behaviour only. So at least I always got to watch the show. There was one time, two of the noble families were having a tiff... they were determined to snub each other, but they both tried to show up late and sweep in dramatically. At exactly the same time. And the footman - poor boy, he was new - he got them mixed up when he was announcing them.”

“Oh no!” Aziraphale gasped, delighted at the very thought of such drama. “Was there blood?”

“Worse - there was a frank exchange of views.”

Aziraphale laughed aloud and reached for his wineglass.

“Do tell me more. Did you ever go to one of the masquerades?”

“Yes, and let me tell you, angel, you’d think it wouldn’t be that hard to recognise someone even under one of those masks, but when five different people have all come dressed as the Queen of the Fairies and another seven are doing their best impression of Zeus, you actually do get mixed up. Which ended rather poorly for one particular Duke and Duchess who’d come as Romeo and Juliet, only apparently they didn’t pay that much attention to each other’s costumes beforehand, and, well, let’s just say that Romeo ended up climbing quite the wrong balcony sometime after midnight...”

It was a little like a dream, sitting there together, working their way through course after mouthwatering course while Crowley conjured up images of crowds of people and slanderous gossip and competing romantic overtures. His stories were so vivid that once or twice Aziraphale caught himself glancing over the railing at the empty ballroom, expecting to see the drama playing out below them. It was the closest to attending a royal ball that he was ever likely to get, and his heart swelled and ached with gratitude and delight for every new memory Crowley offered up.

At last, they were dawdling through a raspberry mousse that was lighter than air, and a delightful dessert wine that tasted of apricots and sunshine, and even Aziraphale was fairly certain he couldn’t eat another bite, though he was definitely interested in sampling the brandy he could see waiting on the trolley.

“I do have one question,” Aziraphale said as Crowley finished off a long-winded and extremely funny anecdote about the time the peacock that had been intended for the royal roast had escaped from the kitchens, hidden somewhere in the rafters of the ballroom, and started screaming like a banshee just as the port was being served. “Does anyone do any actual dancing at these things? It sounds like it’s all politics and interpersonal drama all night.”

Crowley laughed. He was leaning back in his chair, all warm, relaxed contentment, his cravat just slightly askew and a lovely, rippling strand of copper hair sneaking past his ear to dangle over his collar.

“The dancing is the politics and drama,” he said. “Who asks whom, who says yes, who snubs whom. Snide little comments in between sets. Some poor naive fool having the audacity to approach someone higher rank than them. Lies, blasphemy, outrage! Oh, no, my dance card is quite full, he says, and then five minutes later he’s taking a turn with that weasel from the next Barony over...”

For what happened next, Aziraphale could only blame the wine and the effervescent feeling that had been filling him more and more steadily over the evening. That, and the way he’d been watching Crowley’s hands, the clever long fingers as they poured from bottles and lifted silverware and gestured as if to sketch out his stories.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand, “will you do me the honour? Or is your dance card quite full this evening?”

Crowley choked on whatever he’d been saying, eyes going very wide, face flushing red all over again.

“Oh, come on, you must have plenty of practice at this,” Aziraphale went on, laughing at how flustered Crowley seemed. Then a thought occurred to him and he lowered his hand in dismay. “Oh, but your— of course, if you have trouble walking, then dancing wouldn’t be— I’m sorry, I should have realised—”

“I don’t have trouble walking,” Crowley protested indignantly. “Just takes a bit of time to get back in the habit of it. I can walk. I can dance, too!”

As if to demonstrate, he unfolded himself from the chair, lurched forward, grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, and bowed theatrically over it. It would have been nice to say that the gesture was graceful, but Aziraphale disliked lying.

“And as it happens,” Crowley said, glancing up with a devastating flicker of his lashes, “no-one’s ever actually asked me to dance before.”

“I don’t believe you!” Aziraphale protested, his knees feeling suddenly watery again. Which didn’t bode well for the dancing. “That’s impossible, Crowley, you’re so— you must have been in demand.”

Crowley straightened with a sideways smile. He didn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand.

“In demand isn’t the same thing as being asked,” he said obscurely. His smile softened. “And there’s no-one on my card tonight but you.”

“Oh. Well. Well, then.” Aziraphale dithered, before realising that as the person who’d issued the invitation, it was up to him to lead Crowley to the dance floor. “Shall we?”

The harp had been playing soft, unobtrusive music the whole time they’d been eating. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Crowley started towards it.

“Hang on,” he said, “I’ll put something else on—”

Before he could take another step, the harp stopped playing abruptly. Its strings rippled like a wet dog shaking itself, and then suddenly it launched into a lilting waltz that Aziraphale recognised at once. It had been the height of fashionable romantic dancing for years. The youth in the village sighed constantly over the possibility of twirling around in someone’s arms to its familiar chords.

Crowley stumbled, almost tripping over his own feet. Aziraphale caught him and helped him steady himself. Crowley glared at the harp, his cheeks flushing up again.

“Sorry, sometimes it gets ideas—” he muttered. “I’ll just—”

“No, no, this is fine,” Aziraphale said quickly. “It’s a lovely piece, I’ve always thought. And easy to keep up with. I’m a bit out of practice, I’m afraid.”

Crowley seemed about to say something, but after opening his mouth and shutting it again, he just swallowed hard and let Aziraphale pull him into position for the opening steps. The tips of his ears had gone pink, Aziraphale noted with delight.

Aziraphale had never been a particularly skilled dancer, it had to be said. He wasn’t the sort of person to whom it came naturally. But he’d been drilled in the steps to all the formal dances, just like he’d been trained with a sword and taught how to read Latin and instructed in how to ride a horse. Gabriel had insisted, even though they could barely afford it. Couldn’t have any of them embarrassing the family when they finally returned to court society, after all. Even if there was no sign of that happening any time soon. Aziraphale hadn’t danced for goodness knows how long at this point.

But then, Crowley was clearly - and understandably - out of practice too. They had a couple of false starts, and there was a moment when Crowley stepped on Aziraphale’s foot hard enough that it probably would have caused a minor scandal if it had been a real ball, but it was just them, and after Crowley’s hurried apology, they dissolved into shared laughter. Aziraphale didn’t even mind the sore toes, not with Crowley trying frantically to stifle giggles and remember the steps at the same time.

He was so lovely like this, more of his hair escaping its ribbon, one hand warm in Aziraphale’s and the other on his shoulder, his movements turning easy and loose as he warmed to the rhythm of it. Making an undignified, triumphant noise when they managed a perfect turn together. Eyes on Aziraphale, constantly on Aziraphale, like he couldn’t tear them away and didn’t particularly care to try. Laughter on his lips, and simple, open happiness on his face.

Aziraphale was dimly aware that the waltz probably should have finished by now. Perhaps the harp was repeating a few measures to make up for their earlier fumbling. He’d be quite content, he thought, if it would continue playing forever, if it gave him an excuse never to leave this moment, this place, this person.

And there between one step and the next, he found his moment of clarity, and it was like sinking into deep water and it was like breaking the surface and taking a breath for the first time. He knew, with a certainty that shook him to his core, that he couldn’t possibly leave. Couldn’t live the rest of his life never seeing those beautiful eyes, hearing that familiar voice. Couldn’t abandon Crowley alone here in this castle full of everything anyone could ever want... except for companionship.

Except for love.

Aziraphale missed a step, came to a halt so sudden that Crowley stumbled into him with a squawk of surprise. Aziraphale was too stunned to even parse his laughing questions, absolutely overwhelmed by the wave of love and longing and realisation that had crashed into him.

“You all right there?” Crowley asked, starting to frown. “We can stop if you—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. He lifted his hand from Crowley’s shoulder, brought it trembling to his cheek. “I love you.”

Crowley’s eyes went wide. He froze, almost as if frightened. And Aziraphale couldn’t bear that. He curled his fingers into Crowley’s hair and pulled him close and kissed him, kissed away whatever words had been about to fall from his mouth, kissed him the way he’d wanted - he suddenly knew - since the first moment he’d seen him in the rose garden. His heart was racing and he felt like he might not quite be touching the floor and Crowley tasted like the sweet dessert wine and the raspberry mousse, his lips parting in something like a gasp as he started to melt into Aziraphale’s arms...

And then suddenly Aziraphale was being pushed away so hard he almost stumbled, as Crowley put distance between them, his face a riot of shock and dismay that turned Aziraphale cold from head to toe.

“You can’t,” Crowley cried, taking another step backwards, eyes wild and face chalk-white except for two feverish spots on his cheeks. “You can’t possibly—”

“I—” Aziraphale struggled to speak past the lump like a rock in his throat, the dizzying sense of the ground falling out from underneath him. “Crowley—”

“Why would you say that?” Crowley demanded desperately. “Why would you—”

He choked on his own words, spinning suddenly on his heel and striding towards the door.

Aziraphale was completely certain for just a moment that he was going to be sick. He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, concentrated on the pain of it and on breathing carefully through his nose until the nausea ebbed.

“Crowley, wait, please!”

Crowley didn’t even slow down or look back, fleeing as if all the hounds of hell were on his heels. Aziraphale took two steps after him, but he felt like he was moving through syrup.

“Don’t, just don’t.” Crowley reached the door and yanked it open, his hands shaking as badly as his voice. “You had to— you just had to—”

He was gone before Aziraphale could do more than take a sharp, wounded breath. The door swung shut behind him, ghostly silent. The harp had stopped playing, he realised, though he didn’t know when the music had ended. The ballroom was empty and silent and accusing, all the beautiful daydreams that had been conjured to fill it bursting like a soap bubble in the sunlight.

“Fuck,” Aziraphale swore softly, before burying his face in his hands. His cheeks felt unbearably hot. “Oh... damn it all.”

It hurt, of course it hurt to be so thoroughly rejected, but more than that, a tide of mortification and guilt was rising in his chest. What had he been thinking? To blurt out something like that, without even stopping to consider what an awkward position it would put Crowley in! Had he really thought such a declaration would be welcome? Would be returned? Had he expected Crowley to feel the same way?

(Yes, he admitted to himself with a pang of humiliation, he had, just for that moment, with Crowley in his arms as they danced, looking into his laughing eyes. He’d had the absolute audacity to believe that it wasn’t just him who’d been struck by revelation. That it wasn’t just him who’d wanted that kiss. The thought of it made something squirm red-hot and ashamed in his gut.)

He took a deep breath, and then another. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to go looking for Crowley, to apologise again, but... no, Crowley had made it very clear he wanted space. And what could he say? He couldn’t take it back. Whatever else, that moment of clarity had been real. He did love Crowley. It was written on his heart with indelible ink, even if he didn’t know exactly when it had got there.

Aziraphale sighed miserably, rubbing his sleeve across his face as if it would ease the flush still burning there. He hadn’t known he could feel like this. He certainly hadn’t known it could happen so quickly. And now he’d gone and cocked it all up before he’d even had time to come to terms with this stunning new landscape he’d discovered inside his own soul.

He glanced at the doors. Perhaps Crowley would come back, once he’d calmed down? Perhaps they could talk about this. Perhaps Aziraphale could be forgiven.

(Again? asked a quiet, implacable part of him. Because this is the second time you’ve betrayed his trust...)

For want of anything better to do, Aziraphale climbed the stairs and began to clear away the remnants of their meal. Crowley didn’t come back. Aziraphale found a servants’ door cunningly concealed in the panelling. A little exploration revealed a set of stairs and a dumbwaiter, at the bottom of which was a passage that clearly led to the kitchens. He diligently loaded each trolley in turn into the dumbwaiter, cranking the handle to send it to the floor below, then descending the stairs to unload it. He was quite worn out by the time he’d brought everything back to the kitchens. and he didn’t have the energy to try and wash up, and there was still no sign of Crowley.

“Would you be able to take care of this?” Aziraphale asked the castle. “I don’t want poor Newt to have to do it, but I just... I can’t, just now.”

The castle made no reply, as ever, but a flicker of light caught his eye. A candlestick was set on the corner of the table, and next to it a mug of cocoa. Aziraphale bit his lip, eyes suddenly uncomfortably wet.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, and with all the turmoil in his thoughts, he didn’t even feel silly talking to the architecture. “That’s very kind of you.”

Aziraphale spent the following day in varying degrees of unhappiness. There was no sign of Crowley. Aziraphale picked at his breakfast, took himself out for a lonely walk in the gardens, retreated to the library until lunchtime. Newt asked him three times if he was all right. Aziraphale fobbed him off with an excuse about sleeping badly.

Which was true: he’d barely caught a wink, partly because he’d kept hoping against hope that Crowley would knock on his door. In the end the dawn had crept around the curtains, dashing any such hope, and he’d managed to drift off for an hour or two before waking to the churning of dread in his stomach.

He went back to the library in the afternoon, and forced himself to slog through a treatise on ancient medicine while glancing endlessly at the door. Crowley still had not appeared by the time the dinner bell rang, and when Aziraphale went down to the dining room, it was only Newt there.

“Have you seen him?” he blurted out, probably giving far too much away in his desperation. “Is he all right?”

Newt gave him a worried look.

“I haven’t seen him,” he said, “but that’s not unusual after a full moon. Why? Did something happen?”

“I—” Aziraphale twisted his napkin between his hands and stared miserably at the soup he’d barely sampled. “I may have said something rather foolish, yesterday. I think he’s... cross with me.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Newt offered after a moment, looking thoroughly out of his depth. “He likes you a lot, I don’t think he could be angry with you. Not for long, anyway.”

Guilt and regret squeezed in Aziraphale’s throat. He just nodded silently, not so much to agree with Newt, as to prevent further questioning.

After dinner, he went to the parlour, as much out of habit as anything. Newt asked if he wanted company, clearly getting more concerned with every passing hour. Aziraphale declined, and sat alone by the fire for the rest of the evening, cradling a glass of brandy that he barely sipped from.

When the door finally, finally opened just before midnight, it brought both relief and a terrible rush of anxiety. He twisted in his chair, to see Crowley poised on the threshold, most of his long body curled under himself protectively, head up like a watchful cobra.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale’s heart sank when Crowley made no move towards him. “I’m sorry. I— please believe me, I’m so terribly sorry.”

Crowley ducked his head, tongue flickering in and out like a nervous tic.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Aziraphale felt a glimmer of hope. He made as if to stand up.

“I’m sorry for giving you the wrong idea,” Crowley went on, and his voice was toneless, forced, the words like something he was reciting from memory. “You’ve been a good friend. And I meant it, about taking what you need from the castle when you leave.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but no words came out. There was a sudden ringing in his ears, a treacherous wet heat in his eyes. He gripped the brandy glass like a lifeline.

“Don’t go back to your family.” Crowley’s voice was softer, but no less controlled. “Go where you want to. Take the clothes, take any books you want from the library, take anything you think you can sell to get yourself started in the city. And I’m... glad I met you.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, stunned by the finality of this goodbye. “I— I don’t want—”

“You can go whenever you’re ready,” Crowley said, turning away in a ripple of scales. “But forgive me if I keep my own company until then.”

The door swung closed behind him with a thud like a judge’s gavel. Aziraphale stared at it until his eyes started to swim. He fumbled the glass onto the table and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stem the flood. He could hear and feel his own breath hitching, and he fought it with everything in his being.

Right then, he told himself, trying for brisk, hearing the waver even in his own thoughts. That’s that. Time to go home.

Gabriel will be thrilled.

There was no point in dragging it out. He slept poorly again, and woke with dawn. He changed into the clothes he’d worn when he arrived, and despite Crowley’s offer, he packed only what he’d brought with him. Go where you want to, Crowley had said. There was only one place Aziraphale wanted to be, and he’d realised it too late, and said it all wrong.

He hesitated over the rose, still blooming happily in its glass of water. A part of him wanted to leave it, leave everything behind as if it had never been real in the first place. Another part couldn’t bear to let go of Crowley so completely and irreversibly. In the end, he wrapped the rose carefully in tissue and laid it on top of his belongings. The red petals were like an accusation as he closed the bag.

He knew he should say goodbye to Newt, but he was too much of a coward, too bruised and battered to face even the most well-meaning of questions. He wrote a quick note and left it on the dining table.

Then he went to the stables and saddled up Sappho, who whinnied at the prospect of getting her daily canter in the grounds.

“I’m afraid it’s back to real life for us,” Aziraphale said softly, rubbing her nose, and almost wondered if he should leave her here, to enjoy a life of ease. But as Crowley had said, what use did he have for a horse? “Come along, then.”

He led her to the gates, feeling like his feet were weighed down with bricks, like his heart was dragging behind him on a chain. Like Orpheus, he looked back; unlike Orpheus, he had nothing left to lose.

The castle was beautiful in the early morning. The crows were calling from the tower, and the windows glimmered with reflected sunlight. It was impossible to tell if anyone was watching him go. Aziraphale looked for a long time, until Sappho snorted impatiently, and nudged him to get on with things.

The gates swung open for him with what Aziraphale could almost imagine was reluctance.

“Thank you,” he said aloud. “I wish...”

There was no point completing the sentence. He stood for an eternity at the threshold, unable to take the step that would ensure he could never return. Even now, he found himself hoping to hear Crowley’s voice, hoping for a reprieve.

There was only the wind in the trees and the cacophony of the crows. Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath, tugged on Sappho’s reins, and walked out through the gates and into the forest.

CHAPTER 8

The floor needed sweeping, but Aziraphale didn’t particularly feel like picking up a broom just now. It was amazing how quickly you lost the habit of some things. Gabriel might shout at him, but he could live with that.

Mind you, perhaps Gabriel might not shout at him after all. His welcome home had been surprisingly warm: Gabriel clapping him on the shoulder, Michael asking after his health, even Uriel managing not to scowl at him. He had his suspicions about why. The dishes were stacked high in the kitchen, the larder looked like a plague of locusts had been through it, and all of Gabriel’s white shirts had turned a greyish-pink colour that suggested they had been tossed into the same tub with something considerably more vibrant.

They’d obviously expected him to begin at once, even though it had taken him most of the day to find his way back through the woods. And Aziraphale, weary and heartsick and hurting, had looked at the state of the kitchen and said, “No. Perhaps I’ll start on it tomorrow.”

And he’d taken some bread and cheese and water to his room, and he’d stayed there for the rest of the evening, and to his surprise, no-one had tried to make him come out. Michael had even brought him a cup of tea, and if it was too weak and tasted faintly of chicken (had someone tried to make soup in the kettle?) he still appreciated the gesture.

The next morning, he found that some effort had been made to make his work easier: the dishes had been stacked more carefully, plenty of water had been drawn from the well, and a new bar of soap had appeared. It was the wrong kind of soap, the sort he’d use for laundry rather than dishes, but he was nonetheless oddly touched.

It took him all of the first week to sort out the chaotic mess, and most of the second to start relearning the rhythms of the household. He didn’t pick up a book even once, although he could have, if he’d wanted, because nobody nagged him when he stopped to rest. It was all rather strange, and contributed to the feeling he had of being trapped in a dream where everything was just left of centre and he couldn’t find his way out.

He thought of Crowley constantly. As the days passed, his heart ached more and more, and grief and regret tore at him every time he let his mind wander. It was unbearable, so he didn’t try to bear it, just found a way to distract himself every time he felt the leaden weight of it settling onto his soul.

On the first morning, he retrieved from a high shelf a beautifully carved wooden box that had once held an engraved dip pen: one of the only gifts he remembered his mother giving him, though he’d been too young to use it at the time. The pen was long gone, a victim of the intervening years, but he’d kept the box. The enchanted rose fit perfectly inside it, lay on the white satin cushion as if meant for it. He didn’t know if the magic would keep it fresh, or if it would die now that he’d left the castle, but if the latter, at least he could preserve it, dried and sweet-smelling, like the flowers he’d occasionally pressed between the pages of his books.

Sometimes he simply couldn’t bring himself to do all of his chores, to pick up the broom or the mop. When that happened, Gabriel and Uriel grumbled, but Michael always shot them a look that silenced them.

He could probably have drifted on like that for quite some time, if Anathema hadn’t made a spirited attempt to knock down his front door one sunny afternoon.

Some way down the road that led to the town, there was a stile that led to a path up a small hill. There was an ancient oak tree at the summit, and under its branches were a number of large, flat stones that someone must have placed there long ago. It was a nice place to sit and enjoy the sun and the breeze. Aziraphale led Anathema there, well away from the suspicious scrutiny of his siblings.

She managed to wait until they were sitting down before demanding, “What the fuck happened?”

Aziraphale flinched. He’d expected something of the sort, but it didn’t soften the blow.

“I’m afraid I... made rather a mess of things.”

“You can say that again,” Anathema snapped. “Why on earth would you just leave? Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Aziraphale withered under her regard, twisting his hands together in his lap and swallowing several times before he could go on.

“Did... did Crowley tell you—”

“Crowley hasn’t told me a damn thing. He’s too busy moping all over the place. Have you ever seen a snake mope? It’s like constantly tripping over a depressed draught excluder.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale whispered, closing his eyes as guilt skewered him all over again. He tried to form more words, but all that came out was another, even quieter, “Oh.”

There was a pause, and then Anathema went on, with perhaps a touch less anger, “Newt says you left right after the full moon.”

Aziraphale nodded. Anathema sighed.

“So you broke the rule, then? Saw him transformed?”

Aziraphale’s head jerked up.

“You know about that?”

Anathema waved a hand dismissively.

“Of course I do. First chance I had, I hid in one of those suits of armour in the entrance hall and waited to see what would happen. Couldn’t understand at first why he didn’t want anyone to know, but then, I’m used to seeing all sorts of strange things. Took me a while to figure it out.” She fixed Aziraphale with a remorseless glare. “You seem to have proved the point.”

“What? No!” Aziraphale was so outraged it took him a moment to realise he was almost shouting. He took a deep breath and got his voice under control. “I mean, yes, I did break the rule, and I did see him, but that was— that was last full moon, not this one.”

Anathema’s eyebrows went up.

“So you didn’t run away from him?”

“Of course not!” Aziraphale’s voice wobbled precariously at the memory of how fragile and fearful Crowley had been, that first time in the moonlight. “I would never— I—”

He had to stop and get a hold of himself. Anathema regarded him intently, and when she spoke again, her tone was quite different, far more gentle.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I jumped to conclusions. In that case, why did you leave?”

“He told me to,” Aziraphale replied, feeling his stomach squirming around all over again with the shame and misery of it. “I— I made an assumption, and it was— well, I made things uncomfortable for both of us, and I— I really can’t blame him, for wanting me gone, truly, it was my own— my own damn fault.”

He twisted his hands together again and blinked back tears. It still felt as awful as it had at the time.

“He told you to?” Anathema repeated incredulously.

Aziraphale nodded.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she muttered.

“I assure you, it does.” Aziraphale looked away so that he could dab discreetly at his eyes. “If you don’t mind, my dear, I’d rather not talk about it. I... I should never have... it really was all my fault.”

There was a pause. Anathema sighed.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “But I have to know. He’s my friend.”

Aziraphale couldn’t say no to that. Not when Crowley had so few friends, and he could no longer claim to be one of them. He clenched his fists against his knees and stared resolutely at the grass at his feet, fighting the burn of shame that rose in his throat.

“I may have... expressed some sentiments... that were not returned,” he said, as neutrally as he could manage. “Ridiculous of me, I know. Can’t imagine why I thought— anyway, it upset him terribly, of course it did, I should never have— so that’s why he asked me to leave.”

Anathema leaned forward so suddenly that the movement startled him into looking at her. He expected pity, maybe even a touch of second-hand embarrassment on his behalf, that he ever could have thought someone like Crowley would return his affection. Instead, her expression was more like surprise and dismay.

“Wait— sentiments— did you tell him that you love him?”

Aziraphale wondered dismally what the chances were of the ground opening up and swallowing him. He clasped his hands tightly together, fixed his humiliated gaze upon them, and nodded once.

“Did you kiss him?”

Had Anathema ever heard of tact? Aziraphale nodded again stiffly.

“Damn it,” Anathema snapped, suddenly fumbling for a pocket, from which she pulled out a leather-bound notebook and pencil. She turned to a dog-eared page and, with vicious strokes, crossed out several lines of writing. She scowled at the remainder. “I really thought that might work.”

Aziraphale blinked, and blinked again.

“I beg your pardon?”

“To break the curse,” Anathema replied, tapping the end of the pencil against her cheek as she frowned down at the book. “True love’s kiss is a cliche for a reason, it’s one of the easiest conditions to hang a curse on if you don’t want the victim to break it easily, since it’s not something they can directly control... doesn’t have to be true love of course, or even a kiss, to be honest, it’s about the strength of the bond and whether the other person cares enough to see past the burden of the spell...”

Aziraphale peered at the page. He couldn’t make out much of her handwriting, but it was clear that it was a list of possible ways to break the curse. More than half had already been crossed out.

“You’re— you’ve been trying to—”

“Of course I have,” Anathema replied quietly. “He’s my friend.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and then suddenly had to stand up and walk away a few paces, because he absolutely couldn’t control his face, or stop the tears that flowed from his eyes. “I’m afraid it’s for nothing. He told me there’s no way to break it.”

“Bullshit,” came the immediate, imperious response. “There’s always a way to break a curse.”

“Only in stories, he said.”

“What?” Now Anathema sounded puzzled. “No, that’s not— it’s how curses work. They’re a very specific form of magic, you know. Not just a spell with a bad outcome, or a malicious charm. A curse is... it’s a twisted thing, you have to grab hold of the world and wrench it out of alignment. It’s always trying to untwist. The curse wants to be broken. You have to hang it on something, a condition that the victim can theoretically meet, even if parts of it are out of their hands. But of course, if you’re the sort of person who’s laying curses, you try to find one that you know they’ll never actually be able or willing to accomplish.”

I’ve already tried everything my conscience allows, Crowley had said. Aziraphale’s breath caught, and even through the welter of misery and regret, something in him suddenly hardened like steel.

He dashed the tears from his eyes before he turned back to Anathema.

“So if you could find out the condition...?”

“There’s no guarantee it would help,” Anathema replied, though she didn’t look like someone who was willing to accept defeat that easily. “Crowley must know what it is he has to do. That’s another part of it: the victim has to understand the terms, otherwise the whole thing will just unravel. But like I said, the curse wants to be broken. It’s constantly straining to untwist what it’s twisted up. And sometimes that means you can find a loophole. A way to fulfil the letter of the instructions, not the spirit.”

“Fear not, Macbeth,” Aziraphale murmured to himself. “No man that’s born of woman / Shall e’er have power upon thee.”

“What?”

“It’s Shakespeare— Macbeth is given that prophecy, but the man who kills him was from his mother’s womb untimely ripp’d— goodness, have you really never—”

Anathema glared at him.

“Isn’t that the one with the particularly unflattering portrayal of witches?”

“Er—”

“But you’re not wrong,” Anathema went on, cutting through his floundering. “It’s exactly that kind of thing.”

“But if Crowley won’t tell you—”

“Then I need to track down who cursed him. What actually happened. Not that he talks about that, either.” Anathema hesitated, then turned a couple of pages in the notebook. She offered it to Aziraphale. “Do you recognise this?”

Aziraphale examined the design that had been carefully drawn on the paper.

“Yes,” he said after a moment of struggling to place it. “It’s the royal seal, isn’t it?”

“Mm, that’s what I thought. It was on the letter I found on the castle gate.”

Aziraphale frowned, handing her back the book. He’d almost forgotten about that incident.

“The one that was addressed to ‘Anthony’?”

“Yes,” Anathema said. Then, off-handedly. “The missing prince is named Anthony, isn’t he?”

“What, the one who fell ill and was sent off to convalesce somewhere—” Aziraphale choked as his brain caught up with the words. “No. You can’t mean—”

“Ten years since he vanished from the royal court. Rumour has it his half-brother’s being groomed to take the throne in his place, but no-one seems to know what his sickness is or why no-one’s seen hide nor hair of him in all this time. His mother was the King’s first wife. A love match, caused quite the scandal when Lucifer broke his arranged betrothal to marry her. There were all sorts of rumours about her, most of them malicious. But they do say she was a witch, and a shapeshifter.”

Aziraphale sat back down on his rock, too stunned to speak, searching for a counter-argument. Instead, he found himself thinking of Crowley’s stories of the royal balls, his easy familiarity with the routine. No-one’s ever actually asked me to dance before. Of course they wouldn’t have. Etiquette demanded that a dance request was always from one of higher rank to one of equal or lower. The Crown Prince would never have been asked to dance; he would always have been the one doing the asking. Aziraphale’s heart thudded in baffled understanding, slotting half a dozen other things into the gaps in their conversations.

He hadn’t thought he could feel any more mortified, any more foolish for his declaration of love, but it turned out he’d been wrong.

“Why would he keep it a secret?” Aziraphale asked finally.

“I don’t know. I’ve considered a few options. Like maybe it was part of the curse, or his family didn’t want word to get out. But in the end...” Anathema hesitated, then sighed. “I think he just doesn’t want to be treated like a prince. You know? He loves arguing with me. Do you think anybody dared speak to him like that when he was at court?”

Aziraphale shook his head mutely.

“Would you have acted differently around him if you’d known?”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale admitted. He bowed his head. “I don’t see how it changes anything now, though.”

“It gives us an obvious suspect,” Anathema countered. “His stepmother, the Queen.”

“I’ve always thought that was rather a harmful stereotype—” Aziraphale began dubiously.

“Oh, don’t even get me started,” Anathema replied, scowling. “It absolutely is. But even a stopped clock is right twice a day. His stepmother is the woman Lucifer jilted to marry his first wife. After she died - and oh, I can tell you, there are some questions about how that happened - Lucifer was pressured to marry again, to marry the woman he’d been supposed to marry in the first place. They had a son, but of course, he wasn’t the heir to the throne. Not with Prince Anthony in the picture.”

“You do make a compelling case,” Aziraphale murmured, still reeling from the effort to reconcile Crowley with Prince Anthony. “Good Lord. I can’t believe... oh, but how awful!” Suddenly all he could think about was Crowley, losing his mother and then his liberty, banished to solitary exile for as long as it took for his birthright to be stripped from him. “That isn’t right. He doesn’t deserve— isn’t there anything we can do?”

Anathema tilted her head very slightly, watching him closely.

“We?” she repeated. “You’d still help? Even after he sent you away?”

“Of course!” Aziraphale answered, without a second’s hesitation. His chest ached at the thought of Crowley’s loneliness. “Of course - I’ll do anything, anything I can. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t feel— it doesn’t matter. I can’t just leave him like that. Even if I never see him again... I’d do anything to set him free.”

Anathema looked like she wanted to say something, but seemed to think better of it. She smiled at Aziraphale though, approving and surprisingly soft.

“Good,” she said. “Because I can’t go to court. Witches aren’t welcome there, not since the first queen died. I’m nobody, at best, and a target at worst. But you...”

“Me?” Aziraphale stared at her. “I’m— I’m nobody either, my dear, my family’s fortune—”

“You’re not rich,” Anathema agreed, “but you have your family name. That’s still worth something, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale hesitated. It was, he supposed. Why else were his siblings so determined to defend it, by removing themselves from court society until they could rebuild their wealth? There were plenty of people who exchanged correspondence with Michael. Uriel had contacts among the city’s tailors. Gabriel had his business meetings, and his little tête-à-têtes with court influencers, as he always called them. Aziraphale was the only one too young to have maintained any connections at all to their old life. But there were people who might remember him.

“But what would I do?” he asked. “I can’t just... walk into the royal court and accuse the Queen of cursing her stepson!”

“No, that probably won’t get us anywhere.” Anathema reached out and touched his hand gently. “But you might find allies. Prince Anthony was well-liked, from what I’ve heard. There will be people who have questions about his absence. And that letter he received suggests that his father hasn’t forgotten him.”

It was the most terrifying, overwhelming thing Aziraphale had ever tried to imagine. Just packing up and leaving home, going to the capital alone, attempting to navigate the royal court? Where would he stay? How would he support himself? What would Gabriel say?

It felt impossible, a daydream blended with a nightmare, completely beyond his capabilities.

But Crowley had believed he could do it, could simply walk away from his family and start again in the capital, could go anywhere he wanted to.

He took a couple of deep breaths that were dangerously close to being gulps, smoothed his hands shakily across his knees, and found himself nodding.

“I’ll do it,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll set off straight away.”

“What?” said Gabriel, so flatly it was like someone had dropped an iron on his vocal chords. The dinner table had fallen as silent as the grave.

“I said, I’m going to the capital for a bit. I’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“You can’t,” Gabriel replied immediately, face a mess of outrage and disbelief. “Really, Aziraphale, what are you even thinking? Go to the capital—?”

“Why not? You do it all the time.”

“For business, not for, for— what do you even want to do there?”

Aziraphale had considered telling them the truth. He’d also considered making up an elaborate lie. He’d decided, in the end, that they didn’t deserve either.

“I’m ready for a change of scene.”

“You only just got back!” Gabriel protested. “After running off to the woods for months—”

“You sent me there, Gabriel,” Aziraphale interrupted quietly. “You traded me for your own freedom. Remember?”

Gabriel stuttered momentarily. Then his face darkened.

“Which all turned out to be a hoax,” he snapped. “A scam! You said yourself you were free to leave at any time!”

“The fact that you misunderstood the situation doesn’t absolve you of your response to it,” Aziraphale replied. It was something Crowley had said to him, in the week before he’d left the castle. He held onto the words now like armour, hearing them in Crowley’s gentle, urgent voice. “I do hope you can understand why I might not feel as welcome here as I did before.”

“Welcome?” Gabriel bellowed. “We’ve done nothing but make you welcome since you got back! And you’re going to repay us by abandoning your duties—”

“I wasn’t aware I had any,” Aziraphale shot back. “You’ve always made it rather clear that I play no part in the family business, haven’t you? I’d have thought you’d be glad to be rid of me.”

Gabriel’s face turned an interesting colour and he seemed about to choke on his own tongue. Michael and Uriel had been silent since the start of the conversation, Michael watching them both intently, Uriel staring at Aziraphale like he’d upended the kitchen table in front of them all.

“You can’t go,” Gabriel managed, bluntly like he thought that was the end of the discussion. “You have chores to do. I won’t have the house getting into the same state it was when you weren’t here. Not after we’ve gone to all the effort of spoiling you for weeks—”

Michael made an abortive, hissing sound through her teeth. The look on her face was murderous, and aimed squarely at Gabriel. Aziraphale felt something a little cold, but not particularly unexpected, settle in his gut.

“Ah,” he said, “I did wonder why you were being so... well, I’m not sure nice is the word. Or that I feel particularly spoilt.” He could hardly believe he was talking back to Gabriel like this. His heart was racing. His palms were sweaty. And he imagined the heavy weight of a black snake coiled around his shoulders, urging him on. “I should have realised it was purely transactional.”

“Now, hold on, that’s not—” Gabriel began.

“It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale cut in. “I’m leaving. I’m sure you can hire a housekeeper.”

“We tried that,” Gabriel retorted. “They all want too much damn money!”

“And they won’t even do half the things you do,” Uriel added, scowling as if at the memory. “The first two wouldn’t clear up my dyes and the third one messed up my silks.”

Michael finally decided to join the conversation, fixing Aziraphale with a cool, unapologetic look.

“It came to our attention, while you were absent, that we may have... undervalued your contribution to the family. We’ve been attempting to rectify this.”

“The least you could do is show some appreciation,” Uriel muttered. “We’ve been letting you slack off as much as you like, I even left your stupid books alone...”

“How very kind of you,” Aziraphale said, and there must have been something icy in his voice, because they all froze. “I suppose it is nice to have my efforts acknowledged, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m leaving. The day after tomorrow. If you like, I’ll write a few things down to make it easier for someone else to take over—”

“No,” Gabriel ground out, fists clenched. “Absolutely not. You’re not going anywhere.”

And here it was, the crux of it, the truth of it, the thing Aziraphale had never had the courage to look directly in the face until now.

“How will you stop me, Gabriel?” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. There was nothing threatening in the move. He didn’t have the stature for that sort of physical intimidation. But for this one moment, he towered over his siblings. “Are you going to chain me up? Have me scrub the floor in shackles?”

Gabriel opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Am I your brother, or your slave?”

Gabriel worked his mouth once, twice.

“You can’t—” he tried weakly.

“He can,” Michael said unexpectedly. Aziraphale glanced at her, and saw the calculations she was making, writ clear on her face. “We’ve lost his goodwill and it’s obvious our efforts to win it back have been insufficient. Another loss on your ledger, Gabriel.”

There was bite in the last words, a swift, cold glance at Gabriel, and then she looked at Aziraphale, and for the first time he could remember, he saw a glimmer of respect in her eyes.

“I can recommend a boarding house,” Michael said. “Near the docks, but run by good people. You should take Sappho, she’s been restless since you got back. There’s a sum of money that’s yours by right, your share of all that’s left of our inheritance. It isn’t much, but it should keep you until you can establish yourself.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard, and nodded.

“But...” Gabriel began weakly.

“Oh, shut up,” Uriel snapped, shoving her chair back from the table and stalking away. “How the hell do you always drive a bargain so bad we end up paying for it?”

Aziraphale left after breakfast. His siblings saw him off. They didn’t say much. No tearful goodbyes or last-minute reconciliations, but on the other hand, no shouting or further attempts to make him stay. There was a look on Gabriel’s face that Aziraphale couldn’t ever remember seeing before. A look as if for the first time in his life he was questioning his own actions.

Aziraphale supposed it was the best he could hope for.

He rode for an hour, along the main road and into the forest. He looked for the turning Anathema had described, and followed the path carefully. Despite her assurances, he kept a nervous eye out for wolves; he didn’t particularly want Sappho to get spooked again. But there was only birdsong and the skittering of squirrels and rabbits. A deer peered at him from behind a bush, and a jackdaw followed him with some interest until it determined that he wasn’t going to get off his horse and feed it.

Anathema’s cottage lay in a small clearing. It was a tiny structure, and clearly very old, but it was neat and clean and in excellent repair. There were herbs drying under the eaves and wood stacked by the door, but no particular indication that it was a witch’s abode, apart from the way the surrounding trees seemed not so much to have been cut back as to have decided to make space for it of their own accord.

Anathema was waiting for him in the doorway. He didn’t ask how she’d known so precisely when he’d arrive.

“How did it go?” she asked as he dismounted.

“Better than I expected,” Aziraphale said, and felt a sudden, shocking lightness bubble up under his breastbone. “They even gave me some money.”

“Good, because I don’t have any.” Anathema turned and retrieved a small leather pouch from beside the door. “I’ve put together what I can for you, though. There’s a few charms in here, to keep you safe and help you find friends. Can’t really do much about luck, it’s a fickle thing, but hopefully this should set you on the right path.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“And... well, I don’t know if you want it.” Anathema stepped back from the doorway, bent, and returned with a travelling bag. “But I brought a few of your clothes. From the castle. I thought they might help you fit in.”

Aziraphale swallowed the queasiness that came over him at the thought of wearing the clothes he’d worn to dance with Crowley. But she was right, it could only be an asset.

“Thank you,” he said again, quietly. He took the bag and found a place for it among his own minimal luggage. “I don’t suppose...?”

“I haven’t got him to talk to me yet,” Anathema replied regretfully. “But I’m working on it. I’ll write to you if I learn anything useful.”

“Oh, yes, I’d better give you the address.”

Aziraphale quickly found the scrap of paper on which Michael had written the details of the boarding house. Anathema copied it into her notebook. While she was writing, he couldn’t help but look around at the forest that surrounded them. He didn’t even know which way the castle was, he realised sadly.

Anathema handed him back the piece of paper, then took his arm, and turned him in a quarter circle so he was facing south-east.

“It’s over there,” she said. “You can see the top of one of the towers, if you squint.”

Aziraphale stared until his eyes watered, but he couldn’t entirely persuade himself that he was looking at anything more than a distant tree.

“How do you do it?” he asked. “How do you come and go as you please?”

“I’m a witch,” Anathema replied simply. “I can see the way the curse twists the world. There are places I can walk that let me slip between its threads, so that it can’t get a hold on me. It’s tricky, though. Takes a lot of concentration and a pinch of luck.”

Aziraphale sighed, a tiny, foolish hope dying unspoken.

“Not something you can do for somebody else, then.”

“No,” she said. When he glanced at her, there was immense sympathy in her eyes. “And even if I could, you’ve already been snared by it - you’ve got its mark on you. You can’t avoid its notice.”

“Right. Well.” Aziraphale pocketed the paper and brushed down his travelling coat. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I wouldn’t be welcome back.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Anathema said quietly. “Whatever Crowley said to you... it’s obvious he misses you.”

Aziraphale shook his head, though he didn’t really intend it as disagreement. More like he was shaking away the emotions that clawed their way up his throat.

“Perhaps,” he said finally, “if we could lift the curse... perhaps I might be able to be his friend, at least. Perhaps I could visit.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Anathema replied. “Are you ready to go?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Here, one last thing.” She handed him a cloth-wrapped bundle. “A bit of lunch for the road, courtesy of the castle kitchen.”

Aziraphale peered inside, spotted a lovely piece of yellow cheese and a slice of pigeon pie, and made an involuntary noise that was half a laugh, half a little hitching sob.

“Newt says it’s all things you like. And he says good luck.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, carefully stowing the food in one of Sappho’s saddlebags. “Thank you for everything, my dear.”

He set his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself back into the saddle.

“You’re my friend too, Aziraphale,” Anathema said. “Good luck. Ride safely. Oh, and if you run into a talking badger on the other side of the forest, don’t answer his riddles, just tell him I sent you and I’m still waiting for him to repay that loan.”

She slapped Sappho’s hindquarters before Aziraphale’s brain could catch up, sending the horse trotting off along the path.

“What sort of loan does a badger need?” Aziraphale called over his shoulder, bewildered.

“The kind with compound interest and a debt-collector who knows where he sleeps. Have a good journey!”

And then Sappho rounded the corner, and Aziraphale was out of earshot, and alone again.

He looked once more in the direction Anathema had shown him, but the trees were too close here to see anything in the distance. He took a breath, then tightened his hands on the reins, urging Sappho into a trot.

That lightness in his chest was still there, despite everything. It felt like spreading his wings and finally flying.

CHAPTER 9

The city was loud and busy and fascinating and maddening. Aziraphale loved and hated it in equal amounts. He supposed the people who lived here must get used to all the noise and distractions and irritations. He wondered if they also got used to the sheer delight and wonder that seized him every time he found some new thing he’d never even imagined. That was a sad thought.

The boarding house was perfectly acceptable despite its location. The woman who ran it called herself Madame Tracy, which had alarmed Aziraphale at first, before he realised that she was intending to evoke a sort of French mystique rather than, well, the other meaning of Madame. At least, he thought that was it. She’d had a wicked glint in her eye when she introduced herself that made him wonder if she’d done it on purpose.

Aziraphale didn’t really know what to do with himself once he arrived - he couldn’t exactly just walk into the royal court - but he’d always been good at amassing information, researching and following a thread. Tracy was a valuable font of wisdom and gossip. Aziraphale didn’t tell her everything - dared not risk sharing the story of Crowley and the castle - but he told her about his family, and she understood at once that he hoped to make his own way in the capital.

“I know just the people,” she said. “I’ll have a word with a friend or two.”

And so Aziraphale found himself invited to cafes, attending salons. He was nervous at first, remembering all Crowley’s stories of cut-throat intrigue, but he actually found himself having several very enjoyable conversations about music, poetry, and history with well-read and interesting people. It wasn’t like talking to Crowley - it could never be like that - but it was like suddenly finding himself at the shore of a cool, clear river, able to drink his fill after a lifetime of thirst.

It was all going very well, really, but it felt so painfully slow. The moon waxed fuller and fuller, and all he could think about was Crowley, alone in the dark gardens, hating the sight of himself so much he couldn’t tolerate a single mirror in the castle. It broke Aziraphale all over again to picture it. On the night itself, he sat on the cushioned bench in the window of his room, looking up at that accusing moon, imagining Crowley returning to human form with no-one to welcome him. Alone, all alone, so alone, and with no expectation that anyone would ever come to set him free.

He fell asleep against the window, woke up cold and stiff with dawn, and stumbled to his bed for a few more hours of rest. He dreamed of Crowley, but that wasn’t in any way unusual, these days.

He diligently carried Anathema’s charms around with him everywhere he went, which perhaps was why he had so much conversational success, but he wasn’t sure if they were doing much for his broader goals. And then there came an evening where they seemed to fail him entirely: at an otherwise pleasant salon, he accidentally gave offence to a snooty young thing, goodness knew how. Quite possibly it was the colour of his cravat. Aziraphale did his best to smooth things over, but it rapidly became apparent that his brand new enemy intended to drive him out entirely, so he ended up departing early, both embarrassed and deeply annoyed.

Then it began to rain, and of course today was the day he didn’t have an umbrella with him. And he couldn’t get a hansom cab no matter how he tried: every carriage was no doubt full of other people sheltering from the downpour. He got as far as the docks before giving up and ducking into the nearest inn that looked relatively reputable. If he got his pockets picked, he thought glumly, he’d just have to live with it.

He stepped inside, was blinded by the shift from rainy darkness to the lamplight of the interior, and immediately collided hard with someone who’d been approaching the door from the other side.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale sputtered, trying to right himself and the stranger, who’d staggered back, “my fault entirely, do excuse me—”

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flew to the man’s face, and with a sudden shock, he realised that he wasn’t a stranger at all. His straw-gold hair was longer, long enough that it was tied back off his face, which had gained some age-lines and a tan, but his eyes were the same sea-green as they’d always been.

“Raphael?” Aziraphale gasped.

“Aziraphale!” Raphael repeated, his whole face lighting up in delight. “It’s really you!”

Before Aziraphale could say another word, Raphael threw his arms around him and hugged him like nothing had changed since the day he’d left, so plainly glad to see him that Aziraphale was suddenly overcome. He clung to his brother like he was a child again, and didn’t even try to apologise for dripping on his shirt.

“Come and sit down, come and— you’re soaked!”

“I got caught in the rain,” Aziraphale managed weakly as Raphael led him across the main room. A number of people were watching them with interest; Raphael waved them off as if he knew them all. “Couldn’t get a carriage—”

“This way, here, we’ll just— the parlour’s free, you can dry off—”

Raphael hustled him into a back room with a very welcome fire and an even more welcome decanter of port on a side table. On the way he shouted instructions to someone unseen, who yelled back with a number of invectives. Raphael nonetheless seemed to be satisfied that his wishes would be carried out, and indeed, within minutes Aziraphale’s wet coat was drying by the fire and a warm blanket had been draped around his shoulders, whilst Raphael poured him a cup of tea.

“So,” Raphael said, sitting back and gazing at him with curiosity and affection. “What’s brought you to the city?”

They talked until past midnight, in the end, as they caught up on so much lost time. Raphael had his own tale to tell, of signing up as a deckhand on the first ship that would have him, then working his way up until he commanded his own crew. He made a name for himself, earned the favour of the King, acquired a surprising amount of wealth—

(“Raphael,” Aziraphale interrupted with sudden suspicion, “were you a pirate?”

“Privateer,” Raphael corrected hastily. “I had a letter of mark! We only attacked enemy ships!”

“Oh, good Lord.”)

— and had established himself in the city some seven years ago as the respectable owner of several merchant ships. He’d even, he told Aziraphale with a certain sharp glee, offered Gabriel a loan, which had been summarily and furiously turned down.

(“Wait,” Aziraphale said, staring at him, “Gabriel knows you’re here?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Raphael demanded, incensed. “No wonder none of you ever visited... I’d thought you and Michael at least would have been willing to make amends...”)

It made Aziraphale ache a little, to know that Raphael had been here all this time, and that he would have been welcome here, but he couldn’t find it in him to regret it as sharply as he might have done. If he’d known, he might have gone to the city sooner, and then he never would have met Crowley.

He ended up telling Raphael everything, far more than he intended, spilling out his heart in a way he couldn’t have done with Anathema.

(“You... fell in love with a snake?”

“He’s not— he’s not just—”

“No, no, I’m not judging, I promise! I met a mermaid off Madagascar once... anyway, you were saying?”)

When Aziraphale was done, Raphael was silent and thoughtful for a while, gazing into the fire.

“Curses are nothing to mess around with,” he said at length. “Rare to see a real one these days, but when you’re in the sailing business you learn to be very, very careful about what washes up on the waves. You’d have to be an idiot to polish up an old lamp or keep that ring you find in your fish dinner. You’re sure he’s the prince?”

Aziraphale sighed.

“I don’t see how he can be anyone else.”

“I never met him,” Raphael mused. “By the time I made it to court, he was already gone. Certainly a lot of rumours, though. Not in his favour, most of them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, they say he meddled with black magic, like his mother,” Raphael replied bluntly. “That he either drove himself mad with it or was such a danger to others that the King had to lock him up somewhere.”

“He would never—”

“I’ll take your word for it. Most people who’re really in the know don’t believe any of that. The late queen certainly had power, but there was never any hint that she dabbled in the darker side of magic, and Prince Anthony was, well...”

Raphael hesitated awkwardly, clearly not about to say anything complimentary. Aziraphale glared at him.

“Was what?” he demanded.

“Was... not really known for his commitment to hard work,” Raphael went on, as diplomatically as possible. “They called him lazy. Had his head in the clouds. Spent a lot of his time trying to get out of his duties, running off to various royal estates. He apparently had the ability to just disappear when he wanted to, no matter how many guards and servants were keeping an eye on him.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. He could easily imagine Crowley trying to flee the burden of his rank. And he supposed that it would have been rather difficult to keep track of a determined snake...

“My point being,” Raphael went on hurriedly, “no-one with any sense thinks he actually consorted with demons or what-have-you. But no-one really believes the story about his illness, either. Everything you’ve told me makes perfect sense.”

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. Raphael’s ready acceptance felt like a kind of miracle.

“So do you think Anathema could be right, that his stepmother—”

“Oh, yes,” Raphael said grimly. “Absolutely. They had to invent new words for how much she hated Lucifer’s first wife. And her family’s old and powerful... no-one’s ever accused them of being sorcerers themselves, but there’s no doubt they’d know where to lay their hands on that kind of unpleasantness.”

A shiver ran down Aziraphale’s spine.

“I don’t know what I’m to do,” he confessed with a rush of anxiety. “How do I walk into the middle of all this and find any answers?”

Raphael smiled with that easy confidence Aziraphale had always envied.

“Now that,” he said, “I can help you with.”

Three days later, Aziraphale was stepping out of a carriage before the Royal Palace. It was a grand affair, set in sprawling grounds full of the sorts of things that the aristocracy enjoyed looking at, like peacocks and shrubberies and strange unwashed men in hermit’s robes. Aziraphale did his best to squash down his nerves. Raphael seemed completely at ease. He nodded to one of the guards, and strolled into the palace as if he owned the place.

Aziraphale was expecting to be taken to some formal receiving room, or maybe even the royal audience chamber, but to his surprise, Raphael quickly led him off into the depths of the palace, away from the attendants and guards, and out into a small, private garden with high walls and a stand of mature trees that shaded a lovely ornamental lake. There was no-one present except a curly-haired boy of about eleven or twelve, who had been throwing a stick for a small dog. As they approached, he looked at Aziraphale with intense interest, and Aziraphale had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see much more than anyone had a right to.

“Hullo, Mr Raphael,” said the boy as they approached. “Is this him, then? Your brother?”

“Yes, this is Aziraphale,” Raphael said. “Aziraphale, meet Prince Adam.”

Aziraphale, to his utter chagrin, made a startled noise, having been in no way prepared to find himself in the presence of the young prince. Adam just grinned and held out his hand. Aziraphale reached for it, then panicked and shot a pleading glance at Raphael.

“Just shake it,” Raphael said, laughing. “No-one goes in for ring-kissing anymore.”

They shook hands. It only cemented Aziraphale’s impression that Adam was looking into him as much as at him. It reminded him of the way Anathema squinted at him sometimes and then made muttered comments about the colour of his aura.

“So you’ve met my brother,” Adam began without preamble. “Raphael says he’s a snake now. No-one told me that.”

Aziraphale turned a betrayed look on Raphael. Raphael met it without flinching.

“You can trust Adam. More than anyone else at court.”

“But...” Aziraphale trailed off, caught halfway between but he’s only a child and but his mother is our prime suspect. “Erm... your highness...”

“Don’t call me that,” Adam said dismissively. He strolled towards a curved stone seat on the lake shore; Aziraphale trailed after him. “Just Adam is fine. And you don’t have to worry, Raphael told me everything. You’re probably right, it sounds like exactly the sort of thing Mother would do.”

Aziraphale found himself recalibrating his expectations very rapidly. Adam sat down on the seat and gestured for Aziraphale to do the same. Raphael found a sundial to lean against, giving Aziraphale a look that said, You see?

“What’s he like? My brother, I mean,” Adam asked. “He went away when I was still a baby, and no-one ever wants to talk to me about him.”

“Well,” Aziraphale began, fully intending to make a few polite statements about Crowley’s general personality...

... and then somehow it was half an hour later and he hadn’t yet run out of things to talk about. Adam was listening raptly, with an occasional interruption to ask a question, and Raphael’s eyes had glazed over, although he looked thoroughly amused for all that.

“I’ve got a telescope,” Adam commented when Aziraphale finally reined himself in enough to stop talking. “His sounds better. Mine’s good for playing pirates, but not for looking at the stars.”

He nodded to himself, as if this statement had far greater weight than it seemed on the surface, and then fixed Aziraphale with another of those unnervingly clear-eyed looks.

“Father suspects,” Adam stated simply. “He can’t prove it, but he’s always thought Mother had something to do with what happened to Anthony. D’you know, I’ve never been left alone with her, for as long as I can remember? Not even once.”

How sad, Aziraphale thought, before remembering the sort of person they were talking about. He supposed that explained Adam’s willingness to accept his mother’s guilt. He’d been raised not to trust her.

How sad, he thought again, despite himself.

“I can find out,” Adam went on. “It might take a little while, but I know about all sorts of things Mother thinks I don’t. I know where to look. And when I find it, we can go to my father and he’ll sort this all out.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Raphael put in quickly. “We don’t know what you’ll find. Better not talk to your father until we understand exactly what we’re dealing with.”

Adam rolled his eyes.

“Obviously,” he said, and Aziraphale’s breath caught.

Adam didn’t look anything like Crowley - one or both of them must take after their mothers - but just for a second there, Aziraphale saw the resemblance.

“You really think you can find out what happened?” Aziraphale asked, but even as he formed the question, he realised he was already sure of the answer. “You— you won’t be in any danger, will you?”

“In danger of getting sent to my room, maybe,” Adam replied with cheerful disdain. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry. I’ll send a note as soon as I find anything.”

It turned out to be harder to sit and wait than anything else Aziraphale had attempted so far. Several days passed, during which Raphael introduced him to various friends of his, including the people who ran the tavern where they’d bumped into each other. Aziraphale tried not to think too hard about their likely former professions, or what they’d done to earn monikers like Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Dagon of the Deeps.

And then, one day, a letter arrived. Aziraphale guessed that it was from Anathema. He opened it, to find a both a note and another letter enclosed.

No luck here, Anathema wrote, but my tarot cards seem to think you’re getting along all right. Newt says hi. And Crowley asked me to send you this.

Aziraphale’s heart started hammering in his throat as he looked at the other envelope. It had his name on it, no address, and he recognised the handwriting at once. Crowley must have written it weeks ago, on the night of the full moon, while Aziraphale was sitting at the window and thinking of him.

Try not to be too hard on him, Anathema finished. Aziraphale could barely process the words. He was already loosening the seal on the second envelope. He had to sit down as he took in the lines of ink covering the paper. It wasn’t a short letter. He was almost afraid to begin it, afraid of what Crowley might have to say to him, but he could no more have left it unread than he could have swum across the sea.

Angel, it began, and Aziraphale had to stop immediately, eyesight blurring. After a few deep breaths, he continued.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know I’ve hurt you terribly. And I know I should just let it be, just let you go and let you think whatever you need to about me, but it turns out I can’t live with myself for lying to you. Not about this. And I can’t bear for you to think that you weren’t wanted.

Because I did want you, I do want you, more than anything I have ever wanted in my life, even more than lifting this wretched curse. I swear I fell in love with you the moment you walked up to my gate and didn’t even flinch when you saw me on the wall. Or maybe when you carried me in from the gardens, acting like I was doing you a favour by letting you. Or when I saw your face, looking at the library for first time, or when you picked out my favourite book to read aloud.

I love you more than I ever knew I could love someone. I just never expected in a million years that you could feel the same, not when I am what I am. I never expected you to kiss me that night. Or to say that you loved me, and that’s where it all fell apart.

I can’t, I won’t tell you why, but you were in danger. I panicked. I couldn’t have borne it - I still couldn’t bear it - if anything happened to you. I did what I had to, to get you out of the castle and to safety. And I tried to convince myself you’d be better off that way, in the end, going back into the world rather than being stuck here. Until Anathema came and told me what I’d done to you. Told me that you blamed yourself for all of it, and you’d gone back to your family - angel, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

She says you’ve gone to the city now. I’m glad. I hope you can visit every library and talk to the scholars and eat ridiculous desserts in those smoky little cafes by the water. I hope you get to a royal ball. I hope you have the kind of life you deserve, the kind of life you’ve always deserved, no matter what your family told you.

I hope you can forgive me one day, but I don’t expect it. I’m sorry, angel, and I love you, and in another life, you would have made me the happiest person in the world by kissing me in the middle of the ballroom for everyone to see.

Yours, always

Crowley

Some hours later, Aziraphale was able to compose himself enough to call down to Madame Tracy and ask for a cup of tea. When she brought it up, she took one look at his face, said, “Oh, you poor dear,” and fetched him a plate of freshly made lemon biscuits to go with it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked as she handed them over.

“Not just at the moment.”

“All right, love, you know where I am if you change your mind.”

He was grateful, both for the offer and for her willingness to leave him alone and let him slowly, painfully put himself back together. The biscuits were delicious. The tea eased his parched throat and gave him something to wrap his shaking hands around.

He wasn’t angry, exactly. He couldn’t be angry, not with Crowley’s misery threaded through every word of his letter, not when he remembered the fear he’d seen on Crowley’s face that night. He wasn’t angry, but he very much wanted to lay hands on that stupid, stupid man and shake him by the shoulders until he saw stars.

In a way, it helped, to know that his feelings were returned, that he hadn’t made a fool of himself the way he’d feared. And in another way, it made everything so much worse. He was furious with himself for leaving the castle, for letting himself be driven out without asking more questions. What if they really couldn’t break the curse? What if he could never go back, and had to live his whole life knowing that if he’d only stayed, Crowley might have ended up telling him the truth?

A few more tears found their way onto his handkerchief, but the tea was steadying him. If he’d stayed, Aziraphale reminded himself with a sigh, he wouldn’t have come to the city, would he? Wouldn’t have met Raphael, wouldn’t have spoken to Adam. There was only so much Anathema could do on her own. If this was what it took to set Crowley free...

And there was still hope. Maybe Adam would find an answer. Maybe they really could do it. Maybe the curse could be lifted, and he could go back to the castle, and give that silly serpent a piece of his mind for being such a self-sacrificing idiot.

Aziraphale found himself reaching for the carved wooden box and opening it up. The rose was still perfect and fresh. He took it between finger and thumb, and raised it to his nose to inhale the sweet, heavy scent. He closed his eyes, and pressed his lips to the petals, and for the first time allowed himself to fully recall how it had felt to hold Crowley, how it had felt to kiss him. He didn’t have to be ashamed of it, now. He didn’t have to flinch away, thinking his attentions were unwanted. He could remember it all, let it play behind his eyes like a daydream that had somehow come true. And oh, it hurt, but beneath the hurt was a flicker of hope.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say he didn’t cry any more after that, but the tears felt gentler, somehow. And the rose was warm, and smelled of summer, and when Aziraphale went to bed that night, he laid it on his pillow and drifted off to sleep breathing its fragrance.

Adam’s summons came less than a week later, although perhaps summons was too grand a word, since it mostly involved Raphael turning up at the lodging house and ushering Aziraphale into a carriage before he’d even finished his breakfast. Aziraphale spent the whole journey trying and failing not to get his hopes up. He worried at his cuffs so much he worked a button loose, and had to tie it clumsily back on with the trailing thread.

They met in the gardens again, and as soon as he saw Adam’s face, Aziraphale’s heart dropped like a stone.

“I found it,” Adam said quietly. He wasn’t playing with his dog today, and there was no sign of his ready smile. “But I don’t think it’s going to help.”

Aziraphale swallowed as Adam held out a piece of paper. On it, a verse had been copied out in what must be Adam’s own careful cursive. Aziraphale took the paper and began to read.

Wretched serpent, squirm and cower,

Languish in your gilded tower!

Those who witness your disgrace

And fly, cannot regain this place.

Lonely serpent, here you’ll wither!

Else if you would venture hither:

When the moon has waxed above you,

Take the life of one who loves you.

“Oh,” whispered Aziraphale. “Oh,” he said again, as it all fell into place, like a door slamming shut, like a collapsing cave. “Oh, Crowley. No...”

Raphael plucked the paper from his trembling fingers and scanned the lines. Aziraphale heard his sharp intake of breath.

“No wonder he sent you away,” Raphael said softly. “He has a good heart.”

Aziraphale turned and walked away from them both, unwilling to let anyone see his face in that moment. He hadn’t told Raphael about Crowley’s letter, but Raphael had still put his finger on the crux of it all. Aziraphale’s heart ached like it would shatter. He stared out over the ornamental lake, feeling as though it were the shore of the sea itself, and his journey had ended at a boundary he could not cross.

“But he would never,” he said aloud, neither knowing nor caring if he was heard by the other two. “He would never... how could he possibly think I’d be in any danger from him... I know that he’d never...”

His hands clenched into fists, seemingly of their own volition. He breathed deeply, in and out, before he turned and walked back to where Adam and Raphael were talking in low tones. Raphael looked up with concern and compassion all over his face, and opened his mouth to say something, but Aziraphale cut him off.

“I’ll take it to Anathema,” he said. “She said it might help... she’ll find something, I’m sure of it.”

“It’s not enough proof for Father,” Adam told him glumly. “Even though I found it in one of my mother’s diaries... she was smart enough not to write any details down. It’s all just entries about meeting her trusted friend for advice on the duties of motherhood. She could say it’s just a poem. Nothing to do with Anthony.”

“And he’d believe her?”

“He wouldn’t believe her. But he couldn’t do anything about it, either.”

Aziraphale held out his hand for the paper. Raphael passed it to him reluctantly, as if he thought it would hurt him. As if the damage hadn’t already been done.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said to Adam. “I could never have found it out without you.”

“I’m not giving up,” Adam replied hotly. “I’ll keep looking. There might be more proof. Or some sort of escape clause.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, even though he was sure in his heart of hearts that there would be nothing else. This was the escape clause, and it was the most spiteful, miserable thing Aziraphale could imagine. Easy to hang a curse on earning love, Anathema had said. Crueler by far to require not only earning it but then betraying it.

“Thank you,” he said again. “I had better be off to pack my things.”

Raphael frowned, reaching out to touch his arm.

“You don’t have to go. You certainly don’t have to go back to Gabriel and the others—”

“I’ve no intention of doing so,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll go to Anathema, and see what she makes of this. And after that, I...”

He faltered, looking down again at the paper in his hand.

“After that, I suppose I’ll have to decide where I want to go.”

It seemed oddly fitting that Aziraphale found himself riding up to Anathema’s cottage two days before the next full moon. As if everything in his life now moved in cycles tied to that silent silver satellite.

The cottage was empty and shuttered, but he’d known to expect that. Anathema had, by her own admission, been spending more time at the castle lately. She’d told him to come back here, if he needed to, and to make himself at home until she returned.

The making himself at home part was difficult, since he felt like he was intruding in the tiny space, but he found the kettle and some dishes, and he’d brought enough food with him to cover his next few meals, and after the bustle of the city, the forest clearing was refreshingly peaceful. There were some chickens scratching about in a pen behind the house. They’d been provided with plenty of food and water, but Aziraphale gave them a little more anyway, just for the familiarity of their feathery enthusiasm and attempts to peck at his bootlaces.

There was a black cat that seemed to not so much live in the cottage as materialise out of the surrounding woods periodically to survey him warily. It didn’t show any interest in sitting on his lap. Aziraphale tried to have a conversation with it, briefly, on the basis that talking animals seemed to be a regular part of his life now, but the cat regarded him with typical feline disdain and sauntered off into the bushes.

He slept surprisingly well that night. Perhaps the noise of the city had disturbed him more than he thought. There was still no sign of Anathema the next day, and Aziraphale grew restless, trying to find things to do in the cottage and discovering that Anathema kept the whole thing so shipshape that there wasn’t so much as a mantle that needed dusting. She had a small collection of books on witchcraft and prophecy, mostly hand-written and full of notes and commentary, and he entertained himself for a while learning about the best way to cure warts (nothing to do with toads, it turned out) and the secret to making really good beer.

He sat outside as the twilight deepened, listening to the birds calling, trying to spot that distant tower over the trees. He had the rose in his hands again, cherishing the warmth of it. Before long, the moon crept up into view, casting sheets of silver over the clearing. Aziraphale looked at it, and thought of Crowley, and the lines of verse that had doomed him. Perhaps, he thought, Anathema had confessed that she knew the secret. Perhaps this month Crowley was sitting with her and Newt in the parlour, drinking and talking like he used to with Aziraphale.

Or perhaps he was alone, still. Perhaps he was looking up at the moon even now, both of them gazing at the same distant world. Maybe he was even thinking of Aziraphale the way Aziraphale was thinking of him; maybe he was thinking about that night in the rose garden too...

Something in the back of Aziraphale’s mind shifted, very quietly, like the sigh of sand or the whisper of a page turning, and he found himself suddenly still. After a moment, he got up and hurried inside, found the paper on which Adam had written out the curse, and read it again, lingering on the second couplet.

Those who witness your disgrace

And fly, cannot regain this place.

Loopholes, Anathema had said. The curse wants to be broken. And it weakens on the full moon...

Very quickly and efficiently despite his rapid breathing, Aziraphale packed up his things again. He made sure Sappho was safely tethered and supplied with hay and water, and shut the cottage up the way Anathema had left it. He lifted his bag, and held the rose in his other hand, just as he had all those months ago when he’d first set out to find the castle. He looked for that tower, thought he saw the glimmer of its glass windows in the moonlight, and stepped into the forest in that direction.

“You see,” Aziraphale said aloud, not trying to guide his steps, just moving forward in whatever direction presented itself as the easiest going, “I’m not sure about that disgrace part.”

He wasn’t sure to whom or what he was talking. The rose? The castle? The curse itself? Or was he trying to make a kind of magic of his own, to bolster his own belief until it became something real and tangible in the world?

“There’s nothing particularly disgraceful about being a snake,” he went on as he walked. “Oh, I know there’s all that about the apple and original sin, but I’ve always understood it to be a metaphor. A snake is no more or less evil or malicious than any other creature. Good heavens, have you ever met a goose? If any creature has the soul of the devil within it...”

He absently wound his way through a clearing where a group of rabbits had been feeding on clover. They scattered in front of him, eyes wide and startled, tails flashing white. The movement drew his eye down to the rose, and he stopped suddenly, staring at it.

It seemed... diminished, the bloom less plush and full than it had been. Fewer petals, Aziraphale realised with sick shock. Even as he watched, the edges of the outermost one began to curl and turn black.

He wavered, but he couldn’t give up now. He couldn’t turn back. He walked on, his steps faster, eyes now fixed on the rose.

“And as for Crowley, how could anyone call him a disgrace? He’s so generous and kind... he offers up his home to anyone who needs shelter - even someone like Gabriel! - when he could have let himself grow bitter and cruel, after so long alone...”

The shrivelled petal fell, brushing the backs of Aziraphale’s knuckles as it drifted away into the undergrowth. He found himself on the bank of a small brook. The other bank was thick with brambles, so he turned and followed the course of the water upstream.

“He offered me a home,” Aziraphale said quietly. The stream was a silver ribbon in the moonlight, and he followed it like a thread, moving briskly, not caring if he might stumble. “He wanted me to stay... God, I was so stupid, I—”

He paused, swallowed, watched another petal fall.

“He wanted me to stay, but then as soon as he thought there was the slightest danger to me... as soon as he had to choose... he didn’t even hesitate. How is that any sort of disgrace?”

He reached the source of the brook, a tumble of mossy boulders. There was a way past them, a track left by deer perhaps, and Aziraphale scrambled up with only a moment of concern that he would tumble into the water. Unfortunately, in doing so he shook the rose, and to his horror, watched a scatter of petals come loose.

“No,” he whispered to it, putting down his bag and cradling the stem in both hands. It was a sad thing now, only three petals remaining. “Please.”

The next petal began to curl. Aziraphale brought the rose to his chest, cradled it there with one hand as he retrieved his bag and hurried on, his steps ever more urgent even as he tried not to jolt or jar the stem.

“I never witnessed any disgrace,” he insisted fiercely, desperately. “I never witnessed anything but honour and goodness. You have no right to keep me away from him!”

Suddenly he found himself on a narrow track. The same one he’d found before? His heart was pounding, sweat tickling the back of his neck. Another petal fell. There were only two left. Aziraphale rushed along the path, holding the rose so tightly he could feel the thorns drawing blood from his palm.

Please, he thought. Please.

Was that a crow he could hear, calling sleepily under the full moon? Was it only wishful thinking? A brush on the back of his hand as the second-to-last petal gave up the ghost and dropped away. Only one left. He could barely feel the warmth of it now. The magic was almost gone.

“And furthermore,” he panted, knowing he was grasping at straws, knowing he was going to fail. “I never flew anywhere, did I? Yes, yes, I know the meaning of the word in this context, but strictly speaking, I rode out of there on a horse—”

He rounded the corner almost at a run, and saw the castle gates before him. He could almost feel a force pushing against him now, like walking into a gale or wading against the tide. The last petal was barely hanging on by a thread, curled and blackened, only the smallest hint of red remaining where it joined the stem. Aziraphale pushed on. The final petal parted from its bed and drifted downward, and he could feel the current trying to wash him away, and he dropped the naked stem of the rose and reached out to grasp the iron bar of the gate, holding it tightly, anchoring himself.

“I love him,” he said. “Let me in.”

And the gates swung open before him.

CHAPTER 10

As soon as Aziraphale stepped through the gates, the force that had been trying to push him away vanished. He stumbled forward, out of breath and feeling like his legs had turned to jelly. The gate swung shut behind him with such alacrity that it was almost like the castle was scooping him up and making sure he didn’t slip back out.

He needed to catch his breath, but he couldn’t bring himself to wait even a moment more. He hastened up the drive, still hardly believing that the castle was really there in front of him, afraid it would vanish like a mirage. The sound of his feet crunching on the gravel had a dream-like quality, like he was about to wake and realise it was a noise he’d been hearing outside his window as he slept. Only the way his heart was pounding, and the ache in his legs from his journey through the forest, reassured him that this was real.

The main door of the castle stood ajar, and Aziraphale slowed to a stop, suddenly anxious. All sorts of possibilities of disaster filled his head, but just as he was about to start worrying properly, he had a different thought, a far more likely explanation.

He turned aside into the gardens, easily finding his way now that he’d walked these paths so many times. Everything was as green and growing as it had been when he first came here, but now the night air was warm with summer, and the riot of blossoms on every side didn’t look out of place at all.

He found himself slowing again as he reached the archway that led to the rose garden. His breath was still too fast, his heart hammering, but now it had more to do with nerves than exertion. Despite everything, he found he wasn’t entirely sure of his welcome, of how Crowley would react to his return. He clutched the handle of his bag tighter, and silently stepped through the archway.

For a moment, he thought he had guessed wrong. There was no movement in the rose garden, no sound of shears, none of Crowley’s absent-minded muttering directed at the plants. He couldn’t even see the stepladder. Aziraphale hesitated, feeling a sharp shard of disappointment that he told himself was quite ridiculous: there was nothing stopping him from trudging back to the main door and going in search of Crowley inside the castle...

Then he saw a patch of darker shade beneath the rose trees, the dim outlines of someone lying in the grass, motionless, face upturned to the sky. Aziraphale’s heart gave a great, terrified lurch. He dropped his bag and rushed forward in panic, the soft greeting he’d intended coming out as a cry of fear.

“Crowley!”

The effect was rather like opening the lid of a jack-in-the-box, or startling a sleeping cat. Crowley bolted into a sitting position, then kept on moving, up onto his feet like he was being dragged by an invisible string, a strangled noise escaping his open mouth. Aziraphale stopped dead, halfway across the garden, feeling like there was something too big in his throat: a flood of words so chaotic that he couldn’t get a grip on even one of them.

Crowley was staring at him like he’d seen a ghost, his face white, his eyes wide, his chest heaving with shocked, desperate breaths. After what felt like forever, he worked his mouth once, twice, then whispered, “Aziraphale?”

So many things Aziraphale could have said, and he found himself unable to manage more than a breathless, “Yes, my dear.”

“How—?! No, that’s not— you can’t be—” Crowley took a shaky step forward. “You can’t come back— how did you come back?”

“I found a loophole,” Aziraphale told him, hearing the waver in his own voice. “Or, well. Possibly I made a loophole, I’m— I’m not quite sure. But it was the part about witnessing your disgrace, you know, I really felt that didn’t apply—”

Crowley made another garbled sound.

“You know?” he choked out. “The— the details of the curse—”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “I... found it out. The whole thing. And then I came back.”

Crowley shook his head, or started to, but seemed too overwhelmed and stunned to even finish the movement.

“But then you— you know how it ends—”

“Yes.” Aziraphale took a tentative step forward. “But I know you’d never harm me, Crowley. Even if you don’t know it yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” Crowley protested wretchedly, taking a step back that broke Aziraphale’s heart all over again. “The curse, angel, it wants to be broken—”

“I know. Anathema explained it to me.”

“Then you have to see— what if it tricks me into hurting you? What if there’s some sort of accident? You can’t stay here—”

“There could be some sort of accident anywhere I went in the world,” Aziraphale pointed out. “As for trickery, we can be on our guard—”

“What if it’s not enough? I can’t let anything happen to you. I can’t. You have to—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. His voice was quiet, but there must have been a note of steel in it, because Crowley’s frantic tumble of words came to an abrupt halt. “My dear. My dearest. I’m not leaving you again. Not unless you can look me in the eye and tell me truly that you don’t want me to stay.”

Crowley made an incoherent sound in the back of his throat, and Aziraphale couldn’t stand it any more. He stepped forward again, and for a moment he saw such fear in Crowley’s eyes that it seemed certain he’d bolt.

And then it was like something broke in him, like he’d been hanging on by his fingertips and now was suddenly in free fall.

“Angel—”

He surged forward. Aziraphale caught him as they collided, wrapped him up in his arms and held onto him for dear life. Crowley let out a long, low noise like the cry of a wounded animal, burying his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder and clinging to him so tightly it was almost painful. Aziraphale pressed his face to Crowley’s hair and let the tears fall where they would, dizzy with the weight of him and the smell of him and the sound of his short, ragged breaths against Aziraphale’s coat.

“How can you be— so brave and so stubborn?” Crowley whispered, muffled and raw. “How can you possibly want— I’m a snake most of the time, I—”

“I love you,” Aziraphale murmured into his hair. “Do you understand? I love you, no matter what you look like.”

Crowley raised his head shakily, his eyes wet and his face an open book of emotion and longing.

“I love you too,” he said simply.

And then he was kissing Aziraphale, clumsy and earnest, and Aziraphale held him even tighter, as if they could still somehow be torn apart. There was nothing coordinated in it at all, just fierce, warm presses of their mouths together, the urgent reassurance that this was real, and that neither of them was about to vanish.

Aziraphale’s hand crept up to cradle the back of Crowley’s head and gentle him into slower kisses that lingered and soothed. Gradually, Crowley’s death-grip on the back of Aziraphale’s coat eased. They parted briefly, and the way Crowley looked in the moonlight, thoroughly kissed, his eyes bright with tears, was enough for Aziraphale to drag him back in again for an indeterminable length of time.

Finally, they seemed to reach a natural lull, easing away just far enough to look into each other’s eyes. Aziraphale brushed at the tear tracks on Crowley’s face with the backs of his fingers, and Crowley gave him a crooked, breathtaking smile and did the same for Aziraphale’s own damp cheeks.

“I can’t believe you came back,” Crowley murmured, cupping Aziraphale’s face in his hand, gazing wonderingly at him. “I can’t believe you found a way— what did you do, angel? How did you find out about the curse?”

Aziraphale turned his head just enough to lay a kiss on Crowley’s palm, adoring the way it made Crowley’s eyes flutter closed.

“It’s rather a long story,” he admitted. “I’ve had a bit of an adventure since I saw you last. Anathema helped.”

He hesitated, then decided to just be out with it.

“And I met your brother. Adam.”

Crowley’s eyes flew wide, but the alarm was half-hearted, a habit rather than a genuine reaction, and it faded almost at once as he studied Aziraphale’s expression.

“So you know about that, too, then? Who I am. Why I was at all those royal balls.”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley sighed, relief and resignation and the tiniest hint of amusement all in one long puff of breath.

“Should have known you wouldn’t care about that either,” he said, and leaned in to kiss Aziraphale again, as if he simply couldn’t help himself. “Angel,” he went on, barely drawing back, the words soft on Aziraphale’s lips, “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry, for how that night ended—”

“Shh, don’t, it’s all right, darling, I read your letter—”

“You should still hear me say it. I’m sorry. All I wanted was to kiss you back.” Crowley took a shuddering breath. “And I’ve missed you so much, I—”

Aziraphale silenced him with another kiss. It went on for a while, easy and gentle now, leaning into each other like they’d been doing it all their lives. Then something changed, a slight shift of angle or intent, and all at once there was heat in it, the fierce ache of wanting. They pressed closer together, Crowley’s hands finding their way under Aziraphale’s coat to knead at the back of his waistcoat. Aziraphale tangled his fingers in Crowley’s hair and felt him shiver at the touch, opening his mouth to Aziraphale’s so that the kiss became deep and urgent.

Aziraphale heard himself making soft, needy noises, helpless to keep silent. Crowley shuddered so hard they broke apart, and then Aziraphale was being dragged under the rose trees, to where Crowley had been lying. He barely had time to register that there was a blanket spread out on the grass there - he thought it was the one he’d been in the habit of putting over his lap in the library - before he was being tumbled down onto it.

“Sorry,” Crowley said breathlessly, half-sprawled under him and gorgeously rumpled. “Wasn’t sure if m’legs would hold me up much longer...”

“They do seem to struggle at the best of times,” Aziraphale observed.

Crowley’s outraged expression was everything he’d hoped for. He bent with a smug smile to kiss it away. Crowley grabbed at him and hauled him in closer, mouth opening for him so sweetly, until Aziraphale had him pressed to the blanket and writhing under him, and oh, wasn’t that a delightful sensation. He broke off long enough to look down at Crowley’s face, at the hazy gold of his eyes and the spread of his hair beneath him in russet waves and the way he panted for breath, and thought he might burst from all the feelings inside him.

“You are so very lovely,” he whispered, winding locks of Crowley’s hair in his fingers, wishing he could capture this moment somehow in pencils or inks or oils. “You are just—”

Words deserted him, but he must have tightened his grip, because Crowley’s chin tilted up, his eyes flickering closed with a little whimper as Aziraphale tugged on his hair. It made it unthinkingly easy to lean down and kiss his neck, and then to continue doing so with considerable enthusiasm when the result was Crowley clutching at him and moaning in earnest.

“I’ve thought about kissing you so much,” Crowley mumbled in between little gasps and sighs of pleasure. “I thought— I’d imagine what it would’ve been like, if we’d met at court, if the curse had never happened. I’d have— we’d slip away from the ballroom, into the gardens—”

Aziraphale groaned quietly, as captivated by the sweetness of the image as he was by the noises Crowley was making.

“We have a garden right here, darling. More beautiful than anything the royal palace can offer.”

Crowley dragged him up until they were kissing again, pushing Aziraphale’s coat off his shoulders and tossing it aside, then starting on the buttons of his waistcoat. Then his hands stilled, and Aziraphale broke off the kiss to look at him questioningly.

“Are you sure you—” Crowley swallowed. “Do you really want—?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed, dipping his head to mouth at Crowley’s neck again. He nipped at the pulse point and earned a wild, urgent cry and a jerk of Crowley’s hips against his own, which made him feel quite drunk with desire. “I’ve thought about gardens too, you know. Just like this. Just like...”

He moved gently but with purpose, shifting so that their legs tangled together, rocking against Crowley to demonstrate how very much he wanted this. Crowley made another of those noises and grabbed handfuls of Aziraphale’s shirt to pull him impossibly closer. Aziraphale had meant it as a starting point, meant only to make his intentions clear, but it turned out that reducing Crowley so swiftly and wholly to writhing need was enough to destroy any semblance of self-control he had left.

“Crowley,” he gasped, as Crowley twisted under him and found an even better angle. “Oh, Crowley...”

“Please,” Crowley panted, head thrown back, eyes shut. “Angel, I—”

“Like this?”

“Yes, don’t stop, please, please—”

He would have liked to undress Crowley properly, take his time, but it was all too much, after missing him for so long, after fearing he’d never see him again. Aziraphale couldn’t think, couldn’t spare a moment’s attention for anything other than Crowley’s gasps and moans, for the delicious, rising pleasure of it. They managed to undo a few more buttons, discard Aziraphale’s waistcoat and Crowley’s belt, but it was all just a hazy mess of grasping and fumbling after that, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have changed anything about it for the world, not when he got to see Crowley come undone under his hands, Aziraphale’s name on his kiss-reddened lips. Not when succumbing to his own release felt almost divine in its perfection, a moment of such holy completion that Aziraphale would remember it for the rest of his life.

They lay tangled together under the rose trees. Crowley wrapped himself around Aziraphale almost as thoroughly as he did in his snake form, and Aziraphale held him the way he wished he could always hold him, running drowsy fingers through his hair and murmuring dazed little endearments that made Crowley press soft kisses to his skin. As they cooled down, Crowley pulled a fold of the blanket over them both, and Aziraphale lay looking up at the stars, scattered like jewels between the roses, and thought that in just a minute or two, they’d get up and go inside...

He woke some time later to the sensation of being rather chilly and stiff all over, with an irritatingly persistent sunbeam falling right into his eyes. He tried to turn and bury his face in his pillow, but there was no pillow, only a somewhat dew-damp blanket, and a space where there should have been another warm body. He blinked himself awake with a start, squinting with dismay at the sun that was lurking smugly just over the garden wall, and then turning to where Crowley should have been.

He hadn’t gone anywhere after all. He had just become a pile of loose black coils in the tangled heap of his clothes, each scale highlighted perfectly in the soft dawn light, nose buried under a fold of fabric to shield his eyes. To all appearances, he was still absolutely fast asleep. Aziraphale was so overcome with fondness that he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to stroke the gleaming black scales. They were sun-warm and silky soft, as beautiful as everything else about Crowley.

Crowley didn’t stir at all under the touch, except for the tiniest twitch of the tip of his tail. Aziraphale sat up, wincing as his body protested the night spent on the ground, and extremely conscious of his need for a wash and a change of clothes. There was grass in his hair, for heaven’s sake. He considered their situation for a moment, then reached for Crowley again, this time gently levering up one of his coils with both hands.

“Mmmmmn?”

“Shh, dearest, let me carry you.”

Crowley wound sleepily around his shoulders, head nosing down inside Aziraphale’s shirt to get away from the light, barely seeming to wake up at all even as he wrapped the rest of himself around Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale made sure he was steady, then gathered up their discarded clothes and the blanket, and got to his feet. It was the work of a moment to retrieve his bag and slip out of the rose garden.

Stepping into the castle felt like coming home, the smell of it and the sound of the door latching shut behind him, the dim light of the hallway lamps, the weight of Crowley on his shoulders just like all those nights they’d drifted to bed after talking in the parlour. His feet took him to his own room automatically. It was just as he’d left it, right down to the half-read book on the nightstand, and Aziraphale paused for a moment to swallow down the swell of emotion that filled him up.

He had to pry himself free of Crowley for long enough to change into his pyjamas, and earned an adorable drowsy hiss for it, but it was worth it to slip into the clean sheets and immediately gather the sleeping serpent back into his arms. The curtains were thick and tightly closed; they could sleep here for as long as they liked, and tomorrow would wait for them to be ready for it.

He fell asleep almost at once, lulled as much by Crowley’s familiar weight as by the comfort and warmth of the bed.

Aziraphale was woken for the second time by Crowley rather loudly demanding, “What the fuck?” from somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. He swatted irritably at the source of the disturbance, which elicited a yelp and another, softer, “What the fuck?”

He forced his eyes open and peered down to see what had Crowley so agitated. Nothing immediately presented itself.

“What’s the matter, dear?”

“I’m a snake,” Crowley said, which caused Aziraphale’s sleep-fogged brain to just... stop for a few seconds in utter confusion.

“... yes?” Alarm brought him to full alertness. “Crowley? Are you all right? You— you do remember—”

“No, I mean - yes! Of course I remember - I mean, but I don’t remember transforming back.” Crowley wriggled up to peer into Aziraphale’s face. “And we were in the garden.”

“Yes, well, I thought perhaps relocating to a proper bed would be in order, once the sun came up.” Aziraphale ran a soothing fingertip along Crowley’s snout. “You’d already changed by then - in your sleep, I assume.”

“That’s never happened,” Crowley said, bewildered and faintly outraged. “I’ve never— how could I not notice? It didn’t even hurt.”

“I’m glad. Perhaps that’s the trick. You must not be fighting it if you’re asleep.”

Crowley nudged himself under Aziraphale’s chin. Aziraphale felt the flicker of a forked tongue against his pulse point. It was a little ticklish, but pleasant in its own way.

“Never occurred to me to sleep on a full moon,” Crowley muttered. “I was always trying to make the most of the night. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it could have been that easy all along.”

“Oh, darling.” Aziraphale gathered Crowley in close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Don’t think about it. There’s nothing easy about any of this. Of course you wouldn’t want to waste that time sleeping.”

Crowley mumbled something unintelligible, resting his chin on Aziraphale’s cheekbone for a moment, so close he was just a blur of black and one enormous golden eye. Aziraphale’s stomach chose that moment to loudly let him know that it was feeling somewhat neglected. Crowley snorted and lifted his head with a fanged grin.

“Breakfast time, angel?”

“Lunch, by now, I should think,” Aziraphale said, without any particular embarrassment. “Although, do you know there’s a fashion in the city at the moment for combining the two? A late breakfast with elements of lunch mixed in...”

“Sounds good to me.” Crowley looked down at him for a long moment. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Aziraphale reached up and stroked under his chin. Crowley sighed and nudged into the touch briefly, before slithering off Aziraphale’s chest to let him sit up.

“You have to tell me everything about your trip to the city,” Crowley went on, and there was no hiding the bubbling joy in his voice, that same delight he’d always shown in Aziraphale’s company. “Did you visit the Delphine Library?”

“I did! Oh, Crowley, it was magnificent—”

They chatted as Aziraphale dressed, choosing one of the outfits he’d left behind, and then Crowley looped himself around Aziraphale’s shoulders and they headed downstairs. Aziraphale was so engrossed in the conversation that he’d quite forgotten there was anyone else in the castle, a slip of the mind that was corrected when he opened the dining room door and caused Anathema to drop her fork with a clatter, and Newt to swallow something the wrong way and start coughing and spluttering desperately.

“What?” Anathema screeched, leaping to her feet. She paused to whack Newt on the back a couple of times until he subsided, then returned her incredulous, accusing glare to where Aziraphale was hovering sheepishly in the doorway. “What did you do? How are you here?”

“Ah, well, I took your advice—”

“Yeah, what’s all this about you two conspiring behind my back, anyway?” Crowley put in, rearing up past Aziraphale’s ear to glare right back at Anathema.

“Someone had to,” Anathema shot back. Newt was still coughing; she ignored Crowley for a moment to pour him a glass of water. Then she studied Aziraphale intently. “You can’t have broken the curse or he wouldn’t still be a snake. So what did you do?”

“You were right about the loophole,” Aziraphale replied, finally feeling like it was safe to advance to the table and sit down. Crowley slithered off his shoulders and onto his usual chair, the one with the high back he could twine himself around comfortably. “I got the details of the curse from— oh.”

He stopped, casting a glance at Crowley. It wasn’t like Anathema didn’t know who he was, but Crowley didn’t know she knew, and Newt probably didn’t know...

Crowley sighed and rested his head grumpily on a carved pomegranate.

“All right,” he said. “You lot have clearly been poking around in my business whether I like it or not. We might as well just have it all out in the open. But first - Newt, can you get Aziraphale some pastries and tea?”

“And bacon?” Aziraphale suggested hopefully, as Newt scrambled eagerly to his feet. “Maybe some toast and jam— you know what, Newt, dear, you don’t have to do it, I’ll just—”

“Oh no, you’re not leaving me alone with her,” Crowley replied, shooting Anathema a dubious look. “And I’m not sure I trust you in the kitchen when you’re this hungry.”

“I’ll be right back,” Newt said. He paused at the door, and gave them all an uncharacteristically stern look. “Don’t start without me. I want to hear this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley muttered.

There was so much to cover, by the time they were done they’d decamped to the parlour for tea and cake, and Crowley was back on Aziraphale’s shoulders where, if Aziraphale had his way, he would be staying for the foreseeable future. There was a certain amount of shouting between Anathema and Crowley, mostly along the lines of Crowley being a stubborn idiot lizard and Anathema being a nosy know-it-all witch, but there seemed to be no hard feelings afterwards.

Newt took it all very well, including Crowley’s identity and the discovery that he’d never had anything to fear on the full moon - probably helped by how sincerely Crowley apologised for scaring him - until Aziraphale showed them the curse itself. At which point, to the considerable surprise of all present, Newt lost it - as Crowley put it later - and ranted for ten minutes about the absolute bullshit of not just ruining someone’s life but torturing them afterwards out of sheer spite. Aziraphale had never seen him so angry; he had the distinct impression that if the Queen had been present, Newt would have knocked her for six without hesitation.

“It’s not fair,” Newt insisted as he finally ran out of steam. “No-one should be allowed to do that to another person.”

Anathema, who had been staring at him with an expression that Aziraphale had never seen on her face before, cut him a very large slice of cake and poured him a cup of tea. Newt accepted them with a somewhat abashed look.

“Thanks, Newt,” Crowley mumbled gruffly. Aziraphale could almost feel him blushing under the scales. “I mean it. Thanks.”

Anathema retrieved the piece of paper from where Newt had dropped it in his outrage, and studied the written verses again.

“Take the life of one who loves you,” she murmured. Aziraphale didn’t miss Crowley’s flinch, and soothed a hand along his scales in response. “There’s something there, if we can find it. It could have said kill or murder, it could even have said end the life, but it’s take... I’m sure we can figure something out. Maybe... I know I’ve read about life energy transference... or even something more abstract, like a ritual where you enact a symbolic sacrifice...”

“No, stop,” Crowley protested, squeezing in agitation around Aziraphale. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. Don’t start messing around with this stuff, Anathema, please. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m not going to stop trying to help you,” Anathema countered with a glare. “I’m not going to stop trying to work it out.”

Her expression softened at Crowley’s obvious distress.

“But I promise I won’t do anything without running it past you first. Not even a quick charm or a test brew. Is that all right?”

Crowley hesitated for a long few seconds, then sighed noisily.

“All right,” he said. “Just... be careful. Please.”

And then, quietly, “Thank you.”

After a while, the talk turned to other things, to Aziraphale’s reunion with Raphael and his stories of the salons he’d attended. Aziraphale remembered to ask Anathema about the talking badger - whom he’d run into on the way back and found extremely surly company - and then that story took up a considerable chunk of the afternoon, and before they knew it, it was dinnertime, and they were grilling Crowley about court life over a nice little spread of venison and sweet potatoes. And then somehow it was not just evening but late evening, and Anathema and Newt were excusing themselves, and Aziraphale was wandering to the parlour, content and sleepy with Crowley still reassuringly heavy across his shoulders.

“D’you want a break?” Crowley asked. “You can just dump me off anytime you want—”

“I will do no such thing,” Aziraphale replied, pouring them each a nice brandy and settling into his usual chair with a sigh. “Forgive me, my dear, but I find myself feeling exceptionally clingy just at the moment.”

“You’re clingy?” Crowley snorted. “Who’s the one literally clinging here?”

But he didn’t make any move to disentangle himself, and settled comfortably with his head dangling down to where he could sip from the brandy glass that Aziraphale had set on the end table for him.

“I’ve missed this,” Aziraphale murmured. “I’ve missed you.”

Crowley squeezed him in response, and he smiled at the wordless agreement.

“So...” Crowley went on after a moment. “My brother. What’s he like?”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh at being asked the same question the other way around.

“A rather remarkable child, I must say. He... sees things very clearly, I think. He wants very much to meet you. I think you’ll like him. And I know he’ll like you.”

“I used to hold him,” Crowley said wistfully. “His mother never did, and our father had no time for babies. I’d drop in and give his nurse a break, carry him up and down the stairs while he babbled. I don’t think he’d even really started talking when I— when it happened.”

“How did it happen?” Aziraphale asked. It was the one topic they hadn’t covered. “If you feel you can tell me.”

Crowley was silent for a minute, bending to take another sip of brandy. Aziraphale stroked his cool scales. Crowley sighed.

“I always felt like it was my fault,” he began. “I was... I wasn’t very good. At any of the things I was supposed to be good at. Couldn’t sit through royal audiences, couldn’t get my history lessons straight, couldn’t be bothered with all the politics and the performance of it all. I’d sneak off, every chance I got. Wriggle out of my responsibilities. Sometimes literally.”

Aziraphale made a soft noise of commiseration.

“I used to come here in the summers to get away from it for as long as I could,” Crowley went on. “It’s mine, you know, the castle - it’s not part of the royal holdings, it’s mine from my mother’s side of the family - and it was always a pain to get to, even before the curse, and there were always rumours about it. My mother’s family made a habit of collecting enchantments. There was this idea of... keeping them safe. Keeping them out of the hands of the irresponsible commoners.”

He hissed discontentedly.

“Always felt more like hoarding them, to me. But I’d come here, and I could talk my way out of bringing anyone with me, since the castle could deal with all my needs, and no-one wanted to go with me anyway. The year after Adam was born, I ran off as soon as I possibly could, even before court dispersed for the summer. My father was furious. We were all supposed to go on a nice royal tour of the southern provinces, show off what a happy unified family we were, how well the new marriage was going.”

“I take it that wasn’t quite how things were in reality?”

“God, no, she hated me, and it wasn’t like she needed to invent reasons to get me into trouble. And my father wasn’t happy, married to her. I don’t think he was ever really happy after my mother died.” Crowley paused, and finished softly, “I know I wasn’t.”

“Dearest,” Aziraphale murmured, petting Crowley’s scales with long, soothing strokes.

“Anyway,” Crowley went on quickly, “long story short, I was here on my own, and I’d already had two letters from Father telling me in no uncertain terms to get my arse back to court. I was ignoring them, thought I could pretend they’d been lost and never reached me, or something. The third one arrived on the day of the full moon. A royal courier brought it directly to the castle door, so I knew I couldn’t get out of it that time. But when I opened it...”

“The curse?”

“Yeah. Triggered when I broke the seal. Didn’t even have time to read the thing at first, I was too busy writhing around on the floor being crunched up into snake shape.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale cupped his head in one hand and brought it up to his lips for a soft kiss on the top, between his sad amber eyes. “You poor, poor thing.”

Crowley mumbled something that attempted to suggest nonchalance and instead conveyed a deep need for comfort. Aziraphale dedicated a few minutes to fussing over him, until he decided to resume his story.

“Afterwards... well, it wasn’t a good time. I panicked at first, couldn’t understand why I couldn’t turn back. I thought I’d done it to myself somehow. Then I finally got a good look at the letter, and it was just - that fucking poem - and I still couldn’t get my head round what had happened. I spent days trying to transform, until I was so exhausted I could hardly move. Eventually someone came - a couple of the royal guards, with instructions to put me on a horse and drag me back to the capital even if they had to tie me up to do it. They thought I was making it up, when I told them I was stuck like this. Thought I was just being difficult, as usual.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, wishing he could wrap his arms around him properly.

“I got them to make a copy of the curse and take it to my father,” Crowley finished wearily. “After a while he sent people to me, but... I already told you how that turned out. He never came here to see me. I used to tell myself it was because he loved me, so he was staying away for safety’s sake, but in the end I think he just washed his hands of me. Easier to start over with a new heir who wasn’t so bloody useless, than try to sort out the one who’d got himself cursed, right?”

And yet he kept writing to you, Aziraphale thought. He didn’t voice it. He wasn’t going to tell Crowley how to feel about his father, and he certainly had no special insight into the King’s mind. Except, he thought, that Adam had not spoken of Lucifer with any contempt or dislike. He’d seemed to accept that his father’s hands were tied, and to believe that should those cords be cut, he would be swift to enact justice for his oldest son. And in the short time that Aziraphale had spent with Adam, he’d come to put a lot of weight on the boy’s judgement.

“And did you suspect your stepmother—?”

“Obviously.” Crowley made a noise of disgust. “And don’t call her that. She was no kind of mother to me. But yeah, that was a no-brainer. I was half-surprised she hadn’t turned up in person to watch it happen.”

“I suppose that would have been too incriminating.”

“Plus I absolutely would have bitten her.”

Aziraphale snorted, then frowned with sudden concern.

“Wait a minute - are you venomous, my dear?”

“No, I’m not,” Crowley admitted. “But she didn’t know that. And it would hurt like hell. See the size of these fangs?”

He reared up and gaped his mouth open right in Aziraphale’s face to demonstrate. Aziraphale laughed and shoved his head away. Crowley swayed under the touch, grinning in his serpentine way, and Aziraphale felt his own expression melt into something impossibly soppy as they looked at each other in the lamplight.

“I love you, you wonderful creature,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t know how many times he’d said it now, but it still didn’t feel like enough. “I don’t ever want to be apart from you.”

Crowley stilled, ducking his head but never taking his eyes off Aziraphale.

“Even like this?” he asked softly. “Even having to haul me around like a sack of flour, pouring my drinks for me and doing my gardening?”

“I don’t have to carry you,” Aziraphale protested. “I like it, you know that. And yes, Crowley.”

He swallowed, sighed, and reached up to cup Crowley’s narrow chin again.

“Yes, my darling. Like this. You’ve been under the weight of this curse for so long, you shouldn’t have to carry it alone anymore. Let me take at least a little of it from you. Let me take you as you are—”

He stopped so suddenly he almost bit his own tongue, feeling his eyes go wide. Crowley stiffened, peering at him worriedly.

“Angel? What is it?”

“I.” Aziraphale could hardly speak, could hardly bring himself to look directly at the idea that had sprung to his mind, fully-formed. “I may have... Crowley, I think I might have found another loophole.”

Crowley hissed worriedly.

“I don’t like the idea of any of that fake ritual stuff—”

“No, no, listen: what if we got married? On the night of the full moon?”

There was a ringing silence.

“Sorry, what?”

A tide of excitement was rising up in Aziraphale’s chest, a heady wave of hope so powerful he could barely contain it. It felt so right, it made so much sense...

“That’s what they say, isn’t it?” he rushed on. “They say, take this person in marriage - I’m sure I’ve even read an old ceremony somewhere that started with take this life and twine it with yours - Crowley, this could work!”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley managed. “I love you, but you’re mad as a hatter. There’s no way it could be that easy.”

“There’s one way to find out.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” Crowley demanded. “Then you’d be stuck married to a snake—”

“I’d be married to you,” Aziraphale insisted. “And I’d be proud and happy to call myself your husband.”

“I— angel,” Crowley whined, letting his head flop down onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Just— give me a moment here, okay.”

Aziraphale made an effort to hold his tongue, running his hand down Crowley’s spine as he made unintelligible snake noises into Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“You really want to marry me?” Crowley asked finally, voice gone soft and vulnerable again. “Not just— not just to try and break the curse? Which I still think is nuts, by the way—”

“Of course I want to marry you,” Aziraphale replied gently. “What did you think I meant when I said I wouldn’t leave again?”

“I dunno, I...” Crowley nudged up against his neck, pressing close to the soft hollow of his throat like he was listening to Aziraphale’s heartbeat there. “God, you could at least have let me do it properly.”

“Do what properly?”

“Propose! There’s a whole— I’m royalty, we have scripts for this, you’d love it, there’s a great big ring involved, and usually a banquet—”

“Well, if you want to pretend we never had this conversation...”

“Angel, I never want to forget this conversation.” Crowley nudged him gently with his snout. “I’ll get my father to send the ring. No - he can bring it himself! With the rest of the wedding party.”

“Wedding party? I thought we’d just— Anathema could find a priest, I’m sure—”

“Oh no,” Crowley said firmly. “No, if we’re getting married, we’re doing it right. You deserve that. And anyway,” he added, a bit sheepishly, “I can’t marry without the King’s permission. He’s supposed to be there to do that bit. So might as well make a show of it.”

Aziraphale quailed somewhat at the thought of getting married in front of some portion of the royal court, but he already knew he’d do it, if that was what Crowley wanted.

“Will he give you permission?” he asked, with a sudden sense of dread. “I’m not— I’m hardly—”

“He will,” Crowley said quietly. “It’s the least he owes me.”

CHAPTER 11

It wasn’t the strangest royal wedding the kingdom had ever seen, but only because one of Crowley’s great-great-aunts had set the bar impossibly high. All the same, Aziraphale suspected people would be talking about it for a long time to come.

The road to the castle was obscured by the curse, and so the guests had to simply ride into the woods with no destination in mind, trusting in the enchanted roses they’d received by courier. Not only that, but they were instructed to arrive at sundown and no earlier, for a wedding that would take place at midnight. Aziraphale had worried that such stipulations would only increase the chance of the King refusing his permission, but Crowley had apparently judged his father accurately. The RSVP arrived as swiftly as it could be carried from the capital.

Other invitations were sent, as well. Aziraphale hoped Adam would come with the King, but wasn’t really in a position to ask for it. He wrote to Raphael, naturally. And then there were his other siblings. He hesitated over it for some time, but in the end, both family duty and a touch of spite persuaded him to invite them. Gabriel, of course, was forced to decline, since he’d already visited the castle. Somewhat to Aziraphale’s surprise, Michael and Uriel both accepted.

He was amazed by how swiftly everything was arranged. He’d thought it would take months, that he’d be living with this impatient hope until the end of summer, but here they were, on the very next full moon, the sun already low on the horizon. Newt was practising his welcome speech - he’d been delighted to have a chance to show off his skills as a butler, and everyone had been very careful not to bring up the time he’d accidentally ordered three hundred and forty-six boiled eggs from the kitchen - while Anathema stalked the castle halls and muttered to herself about the importance of symbolism.

(“It could work,” she’d breathed, when they told her what they planned to do. “It could! It’s— you remember what I said, about love being easy to hang a curse on? And how it’s about sharing the burden... Aziraphale, you should have been a lawyer, you’re as slippery as an eel!”

“Er. Thank you, my dear. I think.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Crowley had put in firmly. “I’m certainly not going to.”)

There were certain traditions of not seeing each other before the ceremony, but they’d already decided they wouldn’t be adhering to them. They were doing this together, for better or worse, and they would do it together not just for the glamorous part, but also during the fiddly awkward bits, like welcoming a troop of tired, mud-spattered guests without causing dire offence to anyone’s family or accidentally starting a war. Aziraphale wasn’t sure which of them was more nervous.

No, that wasn’t true, he knew: it was Crowley. He’d insisted that he didn’t want to greet his father as a snake, but had been making himself sick with dread at the thought of a mob of people seeing his eyes. Anathema had suggested he wear a veil, but there was some legal stipulation that neither participant in a royal wedding could cover their face during the ceremony, apparently thanks to that same great-great-aunt.

So here they were, Aziraphale waiting outside Crowley’s door until the transformation was complete, trying not to fiddle with the artful drape of lace at his throat. They’d chosen their outfits together, a matching set, and Aziraphale was determined not to have a hair out of place when the King arrived. He slipped his hand into his pocket and touched the leather-bound case there instead.

Crowley was already fully dressed when he opened the door, which gave Aziraphale a momentary pang of disappointment, but his lighthearted remark on the subject died on his lips when Crowley stepped out into the corridor, pale and shaky.

“Was it very bad?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not really, just... I had to look in a mirror.”

Crowley gestured at his eyes, ducking his head as if to hide them. Aziraphale reached out to cradle his face in both hands, smoothing his thumbs over Crowley’s cheekbones. He drew him down for a soft kiss. He wanted to tell Crowley again how beautiful he was, but he knew that his reaction wasn’t the one that Crowley dreaded. Aziraphale kissed him until he felt a small fraction of the tension ease, then stepped back, and reached for his pocket.

“I have something for you.”

Crowley blinked at the leather-bound case, took it gingerly, and found the catch with his clever fingers. The lid sprang open, and Crowley’s eyes went wide.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner,” Aziraphale went on. “I wasn’t sure if they would arrive in time. I had to get Raphael to commission them for me, the local jeweller wasn’t up to it. And I’ll admit they’re a little odd to wear at night, but—”

“Angel,” Crowley replied softly, wonderingly. “They’re perfect.”

He lifted the pair of spectacles from the case. Their lenses were smoked dark enough that when he put them on, his eyes were barely visible, especially in the lamplight. Someone looking closely might suspect that there was something unusual about them, but could have said no more than that.

“How do I look?” Crowley asked, tilting his chin up.

“Rather dashing, actually,” Aziraphale replied with a smile. “It’ll be all the rage in court by the end of the summer.”

Crowley laughed, and then he was reaching for Aziraphale again, and this time the kiss was considerably less chaste.

“Careful,” Aziraphale gasped, turning his head away and laughing breathlessly. “I don’t want to make a mess of you.”

“I very much want to make a mess of you,” Crowley countered, low and urgent. “We’ve still got some time—”

“No,” Aziraphale told him firmly, though he suspected that the way he couldn’t help wetting his lips gave away how tempted he was. “Look, your cravat is askew already.”

Crowley smiled crookedly at him.

“Fix it for me, then?”

“You are incorrigible,” Aziraphale muttered, even as he smoothed the lace at Crowley’s throat with fingers that very much wanted to wander. “And you look breathtaking, darling.”

Crowley made a quiet, vulnerable noise in the back of his throat.

“So do you,” he murmured. “You look like everything I ever wanted.”

All right, Aziraphale thought, perhaps one more kiss. For luck.

It was probably just as well that the guest bell rang several minutes later, and after some number of kisses that was definitely greater than one. They quickly straightened each other’s clothes with guilty little smiles, and then Crowley took Aziraphale’s arm in his, and led him to the stairs.

They reached the entrance hall before the guests. Aziraphale could hear the crunch of horses’ hooves on gravel, and the swelling murmur of voices. Anathema was out there, waiting to direct the footmen to the stables while Newt ushered the rest inside. For just a moment, they were alone, standing together, waiting for the wave to break. Aziraphale could feel how Crowley was vibrating with tension. He squeezed his arm and received a wobbly sideways smile in return.

Then the doors swung open, and Lucifer walked into the castle.

He was nothing like Crowley at all, was Aziraphale’s first thought, followed by a reeling sense of intimidation. The King was shockingly handsome, dark hair streaked liberally with silver, high cheekbones, dark eyes that flashed with intelligence. Aziraphale had always wondered about his choice of reigning name - about the hubris of styling himself after the literal devil - but he thought he understood it now. There was a sense of veiled danger and diamond-hard pride about Lucifer that couldn’t be concealed. He could never have pretended to be anything other than what he was. Better to own it, to make it a part of his power, to bowl people over with his audacity.

Lucifer paused in the entranceway, looking first at Crowley, then at Aziraphale. His eyebrows lifted slightly as he took in their choice of garb. Traditionally, Crowley should have been in the royal colours, preferably in the form of a military dress uniform, while Aziraphale should have worn his house regalia and any signs of royal favour he had received. The idea that he might be of low enough status not to be in possession of either of those things was not a concept the traditionalists had considered, nor the possibility of a royal heir who had never commanded troops.

Instead, they each wore much the same formal attire, slightly old-fashioned but still common in fashionable circles: silk stockings and knee-boots, high-waisted breeches and brocade waistcoats, frothy lace cravats and well-fitted frock coats. Where Crowley wore black, Aziraphale wore cream; where Aziraphale’s garments were embroidered and lined with powder blue, Crowley’s were in deep crimson. The detailing was subtly different for each of them, but there were two themes in common: roses, and the serpents that twined amongst them.

Aziraphale almost thought he saw the smallest hint of a smile at the corner of the King’s mouth.

“Your majesty,” Crowley said. His voice didn’t waver, even though his grip on Aziraphale’s arm was crushing. “Welcome to Castle Bentley. I am honoured to have you as my guest.”

“I am honoured to accept your hospitality,” Lucifer replied smoothly. He turned his intense gaze on Aziraphale. It was like being held under a magnifying glass and examined. “And to meet your fiancé.”

Crowley launched eagerly into Aziraphale’s introduction, somehow managing to make his family connections sound considerably more impressive than they actually were, but Aziraphale hardly heard it. His attention had been seized by the next people to walk through the castle door in Lucifer’s wake.

One was Adam, and he was looking around him with bright-eyed interest. The other could only be his mother, the Queen. Aziraphale’s heart started to hammer, his stomach churning. Somehow he hadn’t considered that she would attend the wedding. He’d thought - surely Lucifer wouldn’t bring her here - surely Adam would have found a way to avoid it - oh, Lord, was Crowley in danger now? Would she try to finish what she’d started, or find a way to prevent the curse from being broken...?

She, too, was beautiful, though she was beautiful in the mesmerising way of a sharp edge or a high cliff. There was nothing veiled about the danger in her. She was fierce and bold and her elaborately braided hair was splashed with highlights of shocking, unnatural red. She was a woman who could start a war with a single glance, a queen whose subjects would die for her without a whisper of protest, and there was something very ancient and alien in the way she looked at Crowley. Aziraphale had expected her to be petty, had expected spite and insecurity, had expected weakness. He saw instead a ruthless calculation and a delight in violence that sent a shudder through his whole body.

She turned her gaze on him, and Aziraphale forced himself to meet it without flinching, though it took every ounce of willpower he possessed. Then Crowley nudged him, and he tore his attention away from her and stumbled his way through his own greeting to the King, thankful that he’d memorised the traditional words.

“Of course, you’ll want to rest and refresh yourselves after the journey,” Crowley said. If he’d noticed the Queen, he gave no sign of it, entirely focused on his father. “There are rooms ready for everyone, and light refreshments. If you need anything, the castle will provide. Just speak to my butler, Mr Pulsifer, or to the Master of Ceremonies, Ms Device.”

More people were pouring into the entrance hall now. The Queen and Adam approached; Lucifer introduced them to Aziraphale, and Crowley introduced Aziraphale to them. Adam shot him a quick grin. The Queen smiled a shark’s smile and congratulated them on their engagement.

“You’re looking very well,” she added, raking her eyes over Crowley, lingering on his smoked glasses. She didn’t appear to be surprised to see him in human form. “Your new lifestyle seems to agree with you.”

Crowley flinched, then, for the first time, though he hid it so well that Aziraphale only felt it through their linked arms.

The royal family departed, heading for the stairs where Newt had rapidly redeployed himself to serve as a guide. There was no escape for Crowley and Aziraphale until they’d greeted all the guests, but at least, to Aziraphale’s mind, the worst was over.

All the same, he kept a tight hold on Crowley, as if he could protect him by never letting him out of his sight.

There were many, many traditions involved in a royal wedding, and they were dispensing with almost all of them. They couldn’t exactly take a tour of the city in their coach, after all, nor distribute alms to the poor, nor even expect to be saluted by the guard. There was no chapel in the castle (there had been once, Crowley said, but his mother’s father had held strong views about organised religion, and it had been converted into a rather pleasant music room) and so the wedding would take place in the ballroom. Newt had done an excellent job of arranging the chairs, laying out a long red and gold carpet down the aisle between them, setting out candles, and giving the whole room an appropriately ceremonial air.

It seemed to satisfy the Archbishop, at least, whose presence to officiate was one tradition they apparently couldn’t ignore. He was a commanding but laconic man with snow-white hair, and Aziraphale had worried about how he would react when they pulled him aside before the ceremony to make a request. However, he only studied them from under bushy brows, considered for a moment, and then nodded.

“It doesn’t alter the substance of the marriage or its legality,” he said. “As you wish, then.”

Afterwards, as they took their places outside the doors to the ballroom, Crowley murmured to Aziraphale, “They call him the Voice of God, you know. ‘Cos even though he’s head of the church, he’ll never tell you his own opinion on any of it. He just quotes scripture, like a lawyer reciting legislation. You can hear the footnotes when he talks.”

“Oh my.”

Crowley was vibrating with nerves again as they waited. Aziraphale, in contrast, felt strangely calm. It was all in motion now, and he would simply ride the current of it, to wherever they ended up, and he would do it with Crowley at his side. He glanced at the doors, then turned and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s cheek, brushing his thumb down to the back of his neck in a soothing gesture. Crowley mumbled something and closed his eyes, and for a moment they just stood like that, heads leaning together, Aziraphale stroking little circles at the nape of Crowley’s neck, Crowley sliding an arm around his waist, not to draw him closer, but just to feel him there.

They stayed like that until Anathema emerged from the ballroom to tell them it was time.

“Ready?” she asked, excitement bright in her eyes.

“Not really,” Crowley grumbled.

“Lead on, my dear,” Aziraphale told her, patting Crowley’s arm reassuringly. “We don’t want to keep them waiting.”

“Actually, traditionally—” Crowley started to argue. Aziraphale simply steered him bodily over to the doors, which Anathema swung open at just the right moment for them to step through.

Aziraphale had quite honestly never really pictured himself walking down the aisle. Marriage had been a thing he’d enjoyed reading about in stories, and a thing he’d wistfully thought must be rather nice, with the right person, but not something he’d had high hopes of achieving for himself. Even if he had imagined it, he never would have conjured up anything like this: the moonlight streaming through the windows, the enchanted harp playing something soft and sweet, the scent of the roses wound along the balcony rails, the King himself standing with the Archbishop ready to receive them.

Lucifer watched them all the way down the aisle with no hint of emotion. Aziraphale wondered what he felt for his son at this moment. More than the disdain Crowley feared, he was sure of that now, but other than that... the King seemed able to put whatever expression he chose on his own face. So very unlike Crowley, whose heart was almost always in his eyes...

There was no altar, though a low table had been arranged for the signing of the marriage documents. It, too, was piled high with roses.

The Archbishop waited for them to come to a halt, and for the music to stop, before he cleared his throat and began.

“We are gathered here today, in the presence of these witnesses...”

It was surprisingly short, as ceremonies went. The Archbishop seemed to have taken to heart the unusual circumstances, and did not digress into any long ruminations upon marriage. There were no political sensitivities to soothe, or egos to flatter with an invitation to orate, although the Archbishop was apparently required to recite Crowley’s family tree back to his great-grandparents, which took some time. Aziraphale bore it patiently, feeling every little twitch and shiver from Crowley, holding his arm tightly to convey what comfort he could.

At last, they reached the crux of it, the only part he truly cared about: the Archbishop gestured to the King, who nodded to Adam, who hopped up eagerly from his seat with a small case in both hands. He handed it to Crowley with a friendly grin, and Crowley managed a brief, strained smile in return. They hadn’t had a chance to talk properly yet. Aziraphale hoped that would come later.

For the next part, they had to let go of each other, and Aziraphale felt disproportionately bereft when Crowley’s arm slipped from his, even as he focused on the case that Crowley was opening up for him to see.

There was, indeed, a great big ring, not really to Aziraphale’s taste, all antique ostentation and probably quite uncomfortable to wear, but Crowley had already assured him that it was only a formality. His attention was drawn instead to something quite unexpected: two other rings, clearly new-made, far more sleek and understated. His heart gave a great jump of understanding as he looked at them. He had not been the only one sending instructions to the city’s jewellers.

They were as identical and as different as the wedding finery: perfect mirrors of one another. Both twined white gold with yellow into a pattern that could have been the boughs of trees, or the stems of flowers, or the sinuous curves of a snake, or something else entirely. Aziraphale looked up, seeking Crowley’s eyes behind the glasses. They were brimming with emotion.

“I just thought,” Crowley murmured, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “I just wanted...”

“Dearest,” Aziraphale whispered back, almost overcome.

That was all they had time for before the Archbishop was instructing them to repeat the vows after him. The words were traditional enough, the age-old exhortation to have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, until death did them part, but the Archbishop obliged them with the one alteration they’d asked for.

“Take from me this ring,” Crowley said, voice barely steady, eyes locked on Aziraphale’s even as he slid first the smaller ring, then the larger, onto his finger, “and take with it my life, to twine with yours.”

A moment later it was Aziraphale’s turn to capture Crowley’s shaking hand and return the favour with the other half of the matched set.

“Take from me this ring,” he said quietly, “and take with it my life, to twine with yours.”

And he hoped... he hoped, in that breathless moment, for something. A flash of light, or a puff of smoke, or a clap of thunder. For the curse to break, and for Crowley to be restored to how he was.

Nothing happened, except that the audience clapped politely as the Archbishop declared their marriage bound and sealed. Aziraphale saw the devastation in Crowley’s eyes even though the glasses. He’d said he wouldn’t hope, but how could he not? Aziraphale pushed aside his own dismay to pull him in close for the obligatory brief kiss.

“I love you as you are and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Aziraphale murmured as they parted. “It’s yours, curse or no curse.”

They weren’t really supposed to embrace tightly at that point, but the wedding had been sufficiently unorthodox so far that no-one seemed to think it particularly odd when Crowley crumpled into Aziraphale’s arms and held him for long moments like he never intended to let go.

The feast was impressive, even by the castle’s standards, but for once Aziraphale could barely pay attention to the food. There were, it turned out, simply so many conversations one was required to have after one’s nuptials. First everyone had to file past them to offer congratulations on their way to the tables set out on the balcony. Then there were toasts, and then he and Crowley had to go from table to table desperately trying to remember everyone’s names and find something appropriate to say to them, and after a while Aziraphale became quite certain that if he had to recite, “How lovely to meet you, we must get better acquainted,” even one more time, he was going to choke on it. Particularly when the majority of the guests started whispering to each other as soon as they moved on to the next table.

Although he did very much enjoy stopping to talk to Michael, Uriel, and Raphael. Partly because Raphael was so genuinely happy to see them and happy for them; partly because Uriel looked like she’d swallowed something that hadn’t agreed with her. Michael was as unreadable as ever, and her congratulations sounded more like the acknowledgement of an excellent business transaction than a hope for personal happiness, but Aziraphale thought that was, from her, its own form of sentiment.

All through it, he was in a whirl of emotion: happiness, obviously, a true deep joy and delight, but laced with an inescapable curl of disappointment, a quiet grief that Crowley was still to remain chained here. This night, and the three days after until the guests departed, would be the only time he could spend with Adam, with his father, with the one or two friends whom he remembered fondly and had invited. Afterwards, they would all leave, and the curse would prevent them from ever returning.

Crowley himself had dashed away his own pain, channelling all of that banked nervous energy into laughter and conversation, playing his part with surprising skill despite his own claim that he had never been much good at it. But then, Aziraphale supposed, Crowley did thrive on this sort of performance, far more than he could be expected to enjoy the tedious and painstaking work of reaching compromises and persuading dissenters.

The night flew by so fast that somehow it was time for the dancing, even though Aziraphale could swear they’d barely sat down for dinner. When Crowley led him onto the floor, it gave him a moment’s powerful deja vu. Except this time the other guests were not just a figment of their shared imagination. And this time, he knew that they would dance for as long as they liked, and that nothing could drive them apart.

(They still weren’t very good at it, but fortunately other people joined them on the floor quickly enough to distract attention away from them. Aziraphale was surprised and delighted to spot Anathema and Newt whirling around together at one point. They, too, were lacking in skill or grace, but they were making up for it with such clear enthusiasm for each other’s company that it hardly mattered.)

The dancing grew less ordered and more wobbly as the night went on and plenty of wine and other drinks flowed. The castle seemed to be going out of its way to be helpful, not even waiting to be asked. Bottles refilled themselves, decanters never emptied, and no-one seemed to want to go to bed. Aziraphale especially didn’t want the night to end.

They rested for a while, and Adam came over to talk to Crowley, and Aziraphale listened and smiled as they stumbled through their first awkward greetings into a swift and whole-hearted camaraderie. He idly watched the dancers as the two brothers swapped stories of their respective childhoods, and just which was the best secret passage to use to sneak into kitchens on baking day, and the merits of one particular royal residence over another (Crowley liked the southern estate by the sea; Adam had always preferred the villa in the mountains with its orchard; they both agreed that Castle Bentley was better than either).

As Aziraphale’s gaze drifted across the ballroom, he was jerked out of his contentment by the sight of Lucifer. The King was standing alone, not very far away, as still as a hawk waiting to stoop, and his dark eyes were intent on Crowley. Aziraphale felt a sudden cold ripple of fear.

Then Lucifer saw that he was watching, met his eyes, and inclined his head very slightly towards Crowley. As if to say, look harder.

Aziraphale turned to his - goodness - to his husband! - and looked harder. Crowley’s hair had, at some point, fully escaped its ribbon to cascade over his shoulders in a waterfall of fire, and he was a picture of happiness, as he laughed at some story of Adam’s. He was so warm and real and human, and Aziraphale knew then that they would be all right, even with the curse unbroken. They would live and love this way, and it would be what it was, and he wouldn’t ever regret it.

And then he realised that Crowley’s hair was bright with more than its own hue and the light of the lamps. With a gasp, Aziraphale jumped to his feet and turned to look at the large windows behind them.

They’d lost track of time, and it was dawn, and more than dawn: the sun was already peeking over the forest trees, sending tentative fingertip touches down to leave pale orange prints on the polished floor.

“Angel?” Crowley was on his feet too, reaching for Aziraphale with sudden concern. “Are you—”

“Look!” Aziraphale grabbed his elbow, turned him so that the sun fell on his face. “Crowley—”

Crowley flinched, all the breath leaving him as if he had been struck. He looked down at himself, as if expecting to see his body twisting back into its scales and coils, then stared at Aziraphale. Then he whipped off his glasses, to reveal eyes just as yellow and inhuman as ever.

“Are— are they—”

“They haven’t changed,” Aziraphale told him, raising a hand to brush his cheek. “You look the same. But you’re not... you’re not changing back. I— I think it worked—”

He became aware that a ripple of silence had spread out from them, dancers and dawdlers alike turning to see what had caused the commotion. Anathema was suddenly at their side, peering into Crowley’s eyes, squinting at the air above his head, making swift gestures with her fingertips that faltered into stillness after only a few moments.

“It worked,” she said. There were tears in her eyes. “The curse is broken.”

There was a swell of murmuring at that, questions and curiosity, but it was all cut through by the voice of the Queen, strident and furious.

“That isn’t possible!”

Anathema wheeled in her direction, dripping with scorn and looking quite ready to fight her hand to hand.

“It is! It’s done! He fulfilled the conditions of the curse! He’s free!”

“He did not!” the Queen snarled. “He was supposed to kill him! To kill someone who loved him!”

“It didn’t say kill, it said take—” Anathema started, but she was interrupted.

“How is it, Carmine,” Lucifer enquired, in a voice like the toll of a bell, “that you know the conditions of the curse? For I surely never told you.”

The Queen stiffened, but turned to face him, unafraid.

“There were rumours around court—”

“No,” Lucifer said. “There never were. I made sure of it.”

Her eyes narrowed. Then she laughed, a cruel and careless sound, and shrugged.

“Well, no matter,” she said arrogantly. “You and I both know you cannot act against me. Too many of the old families are loyal to me and mine.”

“They were, once,” Lucifer agreed with a cold, thin smile. “Ten years ago, they were. But ten years is long enough for minds and hearts to change, especially if one is willing to put in the work of diplomacy. They’ve forgiven me my first marriage. They don’t much like your association with Lord Sable and the pale foreigner who is so very fond of poisons. Nor your recent interest in that assassin in the black cloak.”

All trace of amusement had vanished from the Queen’s face. The fingers of her right hand flexed, as if she wanted to reach for a weapon. Aziraphale saw abruptly that guards had moved silently into position behind her, and understood then that Lucifer had planned this, had known what her reaction would be if the curse were finally broken, had manoeuvred things expertly to gain evidence of guilt from her own lips before witnesses.

“You’ll lose them,” she insisted. “If you cast me aside on a whim—”

“On a whim? Probably.” Lucifer stalked forward, and for the first time anger flashed in his eyes. “On charges of murder and black magic? They’ll fall in line behind me in a heartbeat.”

“Murder? Your son is quite alive—”

“But my Lilith did not die of summer fever all those years ago,” Lucifer snarled. “Did she?”

The Queen paled then, and seemed to understand that her only hope was to keep her mouth shut. Much good that it would do her: Aziraphale didn’t think that anyone who crossed Lucifer so brazenly was likely to survive the reckoning.

It was all rather strange, after that. The guards took the Queen away. The guests were shaken and silent, and began to drift towards their bedrooms in ones and twos. Adam was rather pale, but seemed relieved more than anything that his mother was gone. And Crowley was a statue, eyes locked on his father, not even reacting when Aziraphale quietly took his hand.

Lucifer turned to look at Crowley. Something passed between them that Aziraphale couldn’t interpret, and he felt Crowley relax very slightly.

“I cannot have an heir with eyes like yours,” Lucifer said. It must have sounded heartless to everyone else: Anathema certainly scowled as if she was about to argue. Fortunately, Newt had a hold of her sleeve. “You will have to cede the throne to your brother.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, hoarsely, then shook himself, swallowed hard. “Yes. That’s. That sounds like a brilliant idea.”

Aziraphale almost thought he saw a flash of amusement in Lucifer’s expression. Maybe even fondness. Or maybe it was just the rising sun catching reflections in his dark eyes.

“Congratulations on your marriage,” Lucifer said softly. “I wish you both long and happy lives.”

Aziraphale had never been inside Crowley’s bedroom before tonight. From Crowley’s reluctance to let him see past the door, he’d wondered what he might find there. Broken mirrors, perhaps, or other broken things.

Instead, when Crowley led him inside, he found himself amid a jungle of potted plants of all sizes, from small trees, to climbing vines, to beautiful tropical blossoms that must have taken a huge amount of finicky care to keep alive in this climate. His exclamation of surprise won him a proud, bashful smile from Crowley. There was a bed, a grand four-poster, but it looked pristine, and Aziraphale didn’t think that was just because of the castle’s magic. Much more obviously used was a nest of blankets on the hearth, set atop a shallow but broad metal box with holes in the sides.

“What’s that, then?”

Crowley gave a self-conscious laugh, but went over and showed Aziraphale a flat-handled lever. When he pressed on it, the base of the fireplace tilted. It was clear that if there had been a fire there earlier in the night, the embers would have poured into the metal box, warming the nest from beneath. The lever was, he realised, just the right height for Crowley to lean on in snake form.

“How clever!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Did you come up with it?”

“Yeah.” Crowley looked at the nest with an oddly lost expression. “S’pose I won’t need it anymore.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, all of it hitting him then, really sinking in properly. “Oh, Crowley.”

He had Crowley in his arms in a moment, feeling the whole-body shudder that went through him as he buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Angel,” he whispered after a few long moments. “I can’t believe it.”

Aziraphale eased him back far enough to kiss him, as overwhelmed as Crowley looked. After a moment, Crowley broke it off, and turned to cross the room. Aziraphale saw that a mirror had indeed been propped up there on the windowsill. Crowley stared into his own eyes as Aziraphale came up behind him.

“The price of the loophole, perhaps,” Aziraphale said, watching the emotions flit across Crowley’s reflected face. “If you’d broken the curse the way it was intended—”

“If that’s the price, then it’s a bargain,” Crowley replied with quiet certainty. “Perhaps if I see them every day, I’ll get used to them.”

Aziraphale turned him away from the mirror and kissed him again.

“I still think they’re beautiful.”

“You haven’t seen the rest of me yet,” Crowley said reluctantly. “It’s not just the eyes. And I don’t think— it doesn’t feel like any of it has changed.”

“Show me, then.” Aziraphale bit his lip and smiled up at Crowley. “After all, I do believe that undressing you is also a traditional part of the wedding proceedings—”

Crowley snorted a laugh that couldn’t quite cover his nervousness, though he obediently removed his coat. Aziraphale took his hand and led him over to the bed, encouraging him to sit down on the edge of it, and then he knelt at Crowley’s feet and reached for the buckle of his left boot. Crowley swallowed hard and watched him loosen it, lifted his heel so Aziraphale could pull the soft calfskin free and set it to one side. He did the same for the other boot before he turned his attention to the stockings beneath.

He rolled the first one down Crowley’s calf, feeling him tense as the silk slipped past his ankle. The foot that came into view was certainly striking. It was a perfectly normal human shape, with long toes and a graceful arch to the instep, but it was almost completely covered in scales, glossy black and silky to the touch. The sole was mostly bare and pink, and the scales thinned out as they crept up his ankle, fading into normal skin. Each toe had only a sprinkling along the top, like little sequins.

Aziraphale turned Crowley’s foot this way and that, fascinated and, more than anything, charmed. He saw nothing monstrous about it, only the same sleek beauty of Crowley’s serpent form. The scales were warmer to the touch than Crowley normally was as a snake. Aziraphale ran his thumb gently over the top of the foot, then down under the arch, digging in a bit to avoid tickling, and Crowley made a raw, open sound that had no words in it.

Aziraphale looked up to see his eyes overflowing with unshed tears. He surged off his knees at once, climbing into Crowley’s lap so he could kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him some more.

“Let me see you,” he murmured. “Let me see all of you.”

Crowley made no protest as Aziraphale untied his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He tilted his head back to let his neck be kissed, making breathy noises when Aziraphale scraped lightly with his teeth. He let his shirt be undone and pushed gently off his shoulders, and didn’t flinch when Aziraphale ran his hands down his warm, smooth back.

There were scales here, too, Aziraphale could feel them. They followed Crowley’s spine, a narrow dorsal stripe that started just below the nape of his neck and disappeared beneath the waistband of his breeches. Aziraphale didn’t need to look to know that they would be as black as obsidian and as lovely as the rest of Crowley.

Crowley’s hands were tugging at Aziraphale’s waistcoat impatiently.

“Come on,” he said. “You too.”

Aziraphale smiled and let himself be unbuttoned, flattered and delighted by the way Crowley’s breath went ragged when he found skin. His fingers traced across Aziraphale’s chest, down to his navel, and then around the sides to run up and down his spine in just the same way Aziraphale had been doing to him. It felt divine. Aziraphale let his eyes fall closed and leaned into it, hands tightening on Crowley’s shoulders.

“You’re gorgeous,” Crowley whispered. His hands drifted lower, skimmed over Aziraphale’s belt, tightened on the flesh below so that Aziraphale was startled into a quite shockingly wanton moan. “Oh, God. Angel. Can we really have this?”

Aziraphale supposed there were a lot of ways he could reply, and that maybe the curse didn’t have as much to do with them as all that. That maybe it was a question that anyone might find themselves confronting, in the face of loving and being loved so deeply. And that in the end, no-one could promise what the future would hold. There was only one truthful answer.

“Let’s find out,” he said, and pushed Crowley down onto the bed.

EPILOGUE

The carriage sitting outside the castle doors was sleek, stylish, and really didn’t deserve the glare Crowley was giving it. Aziraphale patted his arm as their luggage was stowed for them.

“We can still change our minds, if you like. There’s no hurry.”

“No.” Crowley sighed, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s been long enough. I have to just do it, or I never will.”

“It’s all right if you never do,” Aziraphale reminded him gently. “We’re happy here.”

Crowley hesitated. Neither of them had anticipated the terror that had gripped him the first time he tried to leave the castle grounds. For all that it had been a prison, he had become accustomed to its safety and isolation, and even though he desperately wanted to be free, some deep and instinctive part of him couldn’t bear the thought of open horizons. Summer had turned to autumn had turned to this crisp winter morning before he had been ready to do more than ride to the edge of the forest and back.

“No,” Crowley repeated, softer now, but more certain. “I want to see the sea again.” He glanced at Aziraphale with a warm, covetous smile. “And I want to show you off.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly back, feeling rather the same way. They’d commissioned more of the smoked glasses, experimenting with different designs, and the pair Crowley was wearing today suited him very well. His hair was glowing like embers in the winter sunlight, and he’d lost almost all trace of that haunted look. Aziraphale was quite confident of being the envy of a good many people, and he was going to enjoy it very much.

The new footman pulled the last strap tight on their trunks and jumped down from the carriage with an enquiring glance in their direction. Arthur Young was a solid, dependable man whose wife was an excellent gardener. They could both have had their pick of domestic situations, were it not for the unfortunate incident some years back with their young son and a fairy ring. The boy had taken no obvious harm from the affair, but odd things now had a tendency to happen around him, and the other children had nicknamed him Warlock, and things had begun to get rather unpleasant for the family.

Somehow or other, Adam had befriended him, and that was how the Youngs had ended up here. There wasn’t much for them to do, but Deirdre helped Crowley with his roses, and although Arthur wasn’t anyone’s ideal of a scintillating conversational companion, he was reliable and kind and got on very well with the castle, which seemed to like his precise and detailed way of making requests. As for Warlock - he’d defiantly taken the name as his own - he and Crowley had bonded at once, and the boy was well on his way to getting the benefits of a royal education with none of the obligations.

“Are you ready?” Aziraphale asked, gently squeezing Crowley’s arm.

“Did you remember the books Adam wanted to read?”

“Yes, they’re all packed away.”

“How about Anathema’s list of ingredients?”

“Safely with my papers.”

“And Newt’s notes—?”

Newt had lately taken an interest in cataloguing the enchanted items within the castle, and had proved to be an adept and resourceful researcher. He’d handed them pages and pages of questions for various antiquities dealers in the city. Aziraphale was rather looking forward to the challenge. He even thought Michael might help, if she had time. The joint venture she and Raphael had embarked on seemed to be doing well, not least because they had found a role for Gabriel that sounded suitably impressive, kept him busy, and involved absolutely no actual involvement with anything important.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, squeezing again. “Everything’s packed. We’re ready to go - if you are. And if you aren’t, that’s all right, but I’m getting a touch chilly out here.”

Crowley took a deep breath. Then he shot Aziraphale a dazzling smile, like someone who’d decided all at once to leap from the height that had filled him with so much fear, who was suddenly certain that if he did, he would fly.

“I’m ready,” Crowley said. “Let’s go, angel.”

THE END

Art by Nekocat / pinkpiggy93

LICENSE NOTES

This ebook is not to be sold, but it may be freely distributed by any method that does not involve payment. The text may not be copied to other formats such as websites or social media, or posted under someone else’s name, with or without alterations.

This ebook may not be uploaded to any self-publishing or print-on-demand service (e.g. Lulu, BookBaby, CreateSpace). Doing so would assert a copyright claim that isn’t appropriate for fanfiction, and could get me into a lot of trouble.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Name:

Helen Bright

Fic pseuds:

Atalan, Helene, Rosei Aki (Shousetsu Bang Bang), childofatlantis (LJ)

Other pseuds:

brightwanderer, seaskystone

I won’t bore you with a profile, this page is just here because I’m practising my ebook formatting for when I release my original fiction. You can find me online in the following places:

Website: www.brightwanderer.net

Twitter: www.twitter.com/brightwanderer

Tumblr: brightwanderer.tumblr.com

AO3: archiveofourown.org/users/Atalan/works

ALSO BY ATALAN

You can find all my fanfiction on AO3. I also write original fiction as Helen Bright.

Instructions Not Included

Fandom:

Good Omens

Rating:

T (Teen and Up)

Warnings:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Wordcount:

68,110

“They'll leave us alone. For a bit.”

One year after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, Crowley and Aziraphale have settled into a new routine: keeping an eye on supernatural happenings in the world and preventing Heaven or Hell from interfering too much with humanity. It’s not a bad job - despite occasional rains of fish - and if there are some unspoken things they really ought to talk about, well, they have all the time in the world now to get around to that, right?

At least, until the Archangel Raphael turns up on their doorstep looking for help... and it starts to become clear that the world is changing fast, and so are they.

Or: Crowley and Aziraphale start a detective agency. Shenanigans ensue. Slowburn continues. Apparently, there is plot. I have some thoughts about Heaven, Hell, and humanism. There will be stupid jokes and a healthy sprinkling of angst.

Vol 1 of the “A Certain Celestial Agency” trilogy.

Untitled Stardew Omens Fic

Fandom:

Good Omens

Rating:

E (Explicit)

Warnings:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Wordcount:

43,267

Crowley has decided to give up on life in the city and move to the countryside. Aziraphale is intrigued by the new arrival in Pelican Town. Fluff ensues in such enormous quantities I am compelled by law to recommend a dental check-up after reading.

A series of Good Omens/Stardew Valley ficlets I posted on tumblr as I played through thunderheadfred's Stardew Omens mod (which replaces Harvey with Aziraphale as the town doctor). Knowledge of the game provides some additional context for the NPCs etc but really it's all about the ineffable farm romance here.

Note: E rating is for the end of chapter 4 only. The rest of the fic is all very tame.

One Night In Bangor (And the World’s Your Oyster)

Fandom:

Good Omens

Rating:

E (Explicit)

Warnings:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Wordcount:

17,381

“All right, I know I’m going to regret asking this,” Aziraphale says. “What exactly does this wager entail?”

Crowley grins like the cat that not only got the cream but has absconded with the entire cow.

“The pot goes to whichever demon can get an angel into bed by the end of the evening.”

AKA The Fic That Tumblr Made Me Write. Heaven and Hell share a corporate party once per millennium. This time someone’s had the bright idea of issuing a challenge to the demons of Hell. Crowley has no intention of missing the opportunity; Aziraphale’s just enough of a bastard to make him work for it.

Pray for Us, Icarus

Fandom:

Good Omens

Rating:

T (Teen and up)

Warnings:

Major Character Death (Temporary)

Wordcount:

65,836

A series of seven stories of varying lengths.

For three centuries, Crowley has been reincarnated over and over as a human with no memory of his past. Aziraphale has tried to find a way to restore him to his true self, but all he seems to do is hurt them both. This time, he only means to steal a brief moment when he walks into Crowley's flower shop. But Crowley can't let it go...

High-octane angst for the first few stories, shifting gradually into hurt/comfort and eventually a happy ending.