Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once upon a time…

The royal palace was always a busy place, filled with people; servants, nobles, general hangers-on. Even the quiet sounds of people going about their business echoed in the cavernous rooms. The peace and quiet that Aziraphale craved was never in reach, even in the library where he spent most of his free time. There was always somebody around, checking if he needed something, trying to wheedle their way into his—and, by extension, his brother's—good graces.

So it was hardly a surprise when, on the first really warm day of spring, Aziraphale fled the noise and the pressure of all those people and escaped into the palace gardens.

Not the precisely pruned ornamental gardens that ringed the palace itself, each leaf and branch flawlessly maintained by a small army of gardeners to the designs of some long-dead ancestor. While the carefully winding footpaths were a pleasant enough spot for a stroll, Aziraphale knew what he'd find there, in general if not in specific. Some duchess maybe, one with a daughter just ready to present to court, who would just happen to be walking in Aziraphale's direction, whatever it happened to be. Or, worse, a gaggle of those young ladies themselves, giggling and fawning, competing for the attention of the heir presumptive to the crown and ignoring the reality of Aziraphale completely.

No, Aziraphale preferred the distant, less tamed parts of the royal estate, where the trees and plants were allowed to grow as they willed, where the wildlife was free to roam unhindered.

Where none of the fine ladies or distinguished gentlemen in their court finery would dare to go, for fear of getting mud on their silk shoes or catching their coats on a thorn.

Aziraphale hadn't been there in months, not since the leaves had started to fall and the first of winter's chill had invaded the air. But still, he remembered the way to the glade where he'd spent so many hours, where he could lie in the sunshine and read in blessed peace.

The last time he'd done so, there had still been fruit on the bushes, and he'd glutted himself on late blackberries until his fingers were so sticky with juice he hadn't dared turn the pages of his book. He missed those now; he hadn't thought to bring any food, and the pleasant memory of feasts past was no good to his rumbling stomach.

Aziraphale was determined to finish his book before he went back to the palace. There was plenty of time before dinner, and a little hunger would do him no harm. It was one of his favourite books too, filled with romance and misunderstandings until, at an elaborate ball, the characters danced together and realised they were actually deeply in love.

It was nonsense, he knew. He had personally attended hundreds of balls, danced with so many young ladies that their faces were a blur and had never once fallen in love with any of them. Not that he had been likely to in the first place, young ladies not being where his interests lay. But in Aziraphale's experience, balls were something to be suffered through, not enjoyed.

That didn't stop him from indulging himself in the story though, sighing happily when the star-crossed couple finally declared their love.

Such things were a distant, unattainable dream. If Aziraphale had been born a commoner, or even a third son, if Gabriel's marriage to Queen Michaela had borne fruit rather than an endless monthly cycle of despair, then Aziraphale might have been free to marry whomever he chose.

But he wasn't. So he suffered through all the balls and the parties and the hints, and he danced with and talked to any ladies to whom he was introduced in the knowledge that, eventually, he would have to choose one to wed.

Another pointed grumble of his stomach reminded him that it was time to head back to the palace to get ready for dinner. Past time, really, he'd spent longer than he'd thought woolgathering and was now in serious danger of being either late for the meal or having to attend in his outdoor clothes.

In his haste, he rather neglected to look where he was stepping. He grabbed at a low branch just in time to stop himself from falling over the thick root that caught his feet, but in doing so he let go of his book and it slipped between the roots of the tree and into a crack in the earth below.

"Bother!" He couldn't return without it: there was no special dispensation for being next in line for the throne as far as the palace librarian was concerned. Aziraphale had caught the sharp edge of Agnes's tongue on too many occasions in his youth to risk admitting the loss of a book to her.

He peered down into the hole, trying to judge its depth. There was a faint glimmer as the sunlight caught on the book's gilded edges, but it was distant, further than his arm could reach.

"Drat." Aziraphale looked around, with the vague idea of finding a stick long enough to reach the book. Two sticks, maybe, to lift it back up.

The rustling of leaves above his head barely registered until he heard the voice.

"Problem?"

Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned around, but there was nobody in sight. There was somebody there, though, he could hear them laughing softly as he looked around for them. Were they behind a tree, or…

Aziraphale looked up, and a scaly face looked back at him from between the leaves.

He wasn't scared of snakes as a general rule. The grass snakes and adders that he occasionally came across in the woods were shy things, and as he was far too large to be prey they were no threat unless he bothered them first.

This, though, was no grass snake. It was far larger, for a start, thicker around than one of Aziraphale's upper arms, though he couldn't determine its length, lost as it was in the foliage. Its scales were an iridescent black, and its underbelly was a vibrant, glossy red. Not a serpent made for camouflage amongst the trees.

Amber eyes locked with Aziraphale's, and he took a single step back. This snake looked perfectly capable of swallowing him whole if it so chose, and there was an almost intelligent look in its eyes that suggested it was contemplating its own dinner. For a moment, Aziraphale forgot about the mysterious voice and his dropped book, hypnotised by that unblinking gaze.

"Ah," he said, taking another step backwards. The serpent swayed forward, maintaining the same distance. "There's…there's a snake…"

"I know there's a snake," said the snake, and it took everything Aziraphale had not to scream.

Snakes didn't talk. They couldn't talk, they didn't have the mouths for it, and sure enough the snake's mouth hadn't moved but…it was definitely the snake that had spoken.

"You…you're a…a…" Aziraphale stammered.

"A snake, yes, we've established this. Lost your book, have you?"

"Ah…" Aziraphale watched the snake as it slithered down from the tree and to the ground. "Ah. Yes."

"Hmmm." The serpent peered down the crack between the roots. "I could get it back for you. For a price."

"A-a price?" Aziraphale swayed on the spot, torn. The snake didn't seem like it was about to eat him, and he did need the book back but…well, making a deal with a talking snake hadn't exactly worked out well for Eve, had it?

"A price," the snake confirmed. "This forest is nice enough, but it's still cold at night. You live in the palace, right?"

"I-I do."

"Take me back with you. Let me sleep in your room, eat from the kitchens…just until summer comes."

"But—" Aziraphale shook his head. "You're a snake! Surely this is normal for you? And what would people say…"

"I'm a snake now." Those eyes locked on Aziraphale again. "And I expect people will be perfectly polite to the giant snake, if I'm honest. Do you want the book back or not?"

"Oh. Er. Yes. Please."

"Great."

Aziraphale watched as the serpent slithered into the hole, marvelling at the sinuous movements of that long body, the way the scales caught the light as they moved. It took only a minute for the snake to emerge again, Aziraphale's book held fast in its jaws.

"There," it said, letting it drop to the ground. "Bit of a tight fit, try not to do that again. Now. Shall we?"

"Oh. Thank you." Aziraphale bent to pick up the book and dusted some soil from the cover. "I…ah…" He took a step backwards as the snake gave the distinct impression of narrowing its eyes at him, despite not having eyelids with which to do so. "I really am late and…I'm sorry."

He turned and fled, ignoring the angry shout of the serpent behind him.

Aziraphale could feel Gabriel glaring at him over dinner. Not only was he late, but he hadn't had time to change out of his dirt-stained clothes, falling far short of Gabriel's exacting sartorial standards.

He'd have to apologise later, in private, without the whole court looking at him, measuring him against his older brother and finding him wanting. Gabriel would forgive him, of course: he always did. The other nobles were not so generous.

Still, the King's disapproval wasn't what was souring Aziraphale's stomach, making him pick listlessly at his meal and miss half of what the young lady seated to his left was saying.

No, his mind was still on the snake he'd met in the woods, the deal he'd made and then immediately broken. Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel those amber ones staring back it him, their judgement so much sharper and more painful than that of Aziraphale's peers.

It made no sense. It was a snake, why should he, the heir to the throne, care what it thought of him?

Why was he contemplating going back to the woods after dinner, to apologise?

"Aziraphale," Gabriel hissed under his breath, his foot prodding Aziraphale's under the table. Aziraphale startled and looked at him guiltily.

"Sorry, Your Majesty. I'm just a little tired. What were you saying?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes, the most blatant display of sibling ire he could get away with in front of his subjects, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by a scream from one of the tables nearest the door.

The disturbance spread, courtiers and servants alike screaming and leaping onto the benches, sending crockery and food flying.

Aziraphale's stomach twisted, and he knew what he was going to see before the shimmering black scales came into view.

The snake undulated its way through the great hall, stopping only when it reached the high table and rearing up so that it could look Gabriel directly in the eyes.

Gabriel didn't scream, or jump up, though from his place at the king's left side Aziraphale could see that he gripped his knife tightly. He'd always been brave, though as a younger man, constantly compared to his older brother, Aziraphale had often been less charitable and thought it more likely that Gabriel was just oblivious to the dangers in front of him.

The king stared straight back at the serpent. "Can I help you?"

"You're the king?" asked the snake, causing several more screams and a few theatrical fainting fits from some of the more dramatic ladies.

"That's what the crown signifies, yes," Gabriel replied tightly.

"Is that what that is? Thought it might just be a fancy hat." The snake, somehow, managed to give the impression of slouching in disrespect.

"What do you want?" Gabriel demanded, his usual control slipping.

"What do I want?" the snake repeated, apparently determined to annoy Gabriel as much as possible. "One of your subjects made me a promise, Your Majesty, and did not keep it. I'm here to ask that they keep their word."

Gabriel relaxed a little at that, now the demand wasn't being made directly of him. Aziraphale, at his side, did not.

"Of which of my subjects do you speak?" the king demanded.

Aziraphale resisted the urge to hide under the table as the snake turned in a slow circle, letting that hypnotic amber gaze drift over every person in the hall before it finally alighted on Aziraphale.

A bolt of heat crackled down Aziraphale's spine as their eyes met again. He straightened and stared back as Gabriel turned, following the snake's gaze.

"Aziraphale?" Gabriel asked, in his I-am-your-king tone, not his superior-big-brother one. "Is this true?"

Aziraphale found it exceedingly difficult to break eye contact with the serpent and meet his brother's eyes instead. "It is, Your Majesty."

"And what did you promise" — Gabriel gave the snake another look — "it?"

Aziraphale's mouth was painfully dry. "Shelter in the palace, until summer comes. Food from the kitchens."

"I believe the actual wording was that I could sleep in your room," the snake interjected.

"Yes," Aziraphale whispered. He was acutely aware of every pair of eyes in the room staring at him, one golden pair in particular. He couldn't meet any of them, staring down at his barely-touched plate instead. "That was it."

Gabriel was far too well-mannered to tut at his younger brother in front of everybody, but he hardly needed to. Aziraphale could feel the fraternal disapproval emanating from him, could hear the small sigh as Gabriel turned back to the waiting snake.

"He'll keep his word," the king said to the serpent. "Won't you, Aziraphale?"

"Yes, my liege," Aziraphale assented. "May I be excused from the remainder of the meal?"

"That depends," Gabriel said, still projecting his voice so the whole room could hear. "Does your guest require any more food?"

Aziraphale looked at the snake, who was watching him with that unblinking gaze.

"I think I'm more tired than hungry," the serpent allowed. "It's a long way from that forest. Please, show me to our room."

There was no use in arguing. Not with everybody watching, not as horribly chastised as he already was. Aziraphale got up from his chair and walked stiffly from the hall, trying his best to ignore the slithering and the whispers that followed him.

Aziraphale was halfway down the corridor, his footsteps in his outdoor boots tapping a staccato rhythm on the flagstones, when the the snake spoke again.

"Oi! Slow down a bit, will you? Some of us are missing legs, you know!"

Aziraphale whirled around furiously. "Was that really necessary?" he demanded. "Did you have to humiliate me in front of the entire court?"

"You promised," said the snake, a little sulkily. "And then you ran away."

"I was going to come back!" Aziraphale insisted, though he wasn't sure he even believed himself. Would he have gone back, just to keep his word to a snake?

The snake clearly didn't believe him. Its face wasn't capable of human expressions, but Aziraphale could read them there just the same. "Right. Sure. Aziraphale, was it? Guessing you're important, sitting up there, next to the king himself?"

"I'm his brother."

"Ooohhhh, a prince!" drawled the snake. "I'd curtsey, but I just don't have the limbs for it at the moment. I'm Crowley."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"It's my name? I'm not sure how to explain the concept if you've not come across it before…"

"I meant the thing about limbs!" Aziraphale shouted, fully aware that the snake was winding him up but completely unable to prevent himself from going along with it. "You mentioned before that you are a snake now. What do you mean?"

"Oh, right. Well. I used to be a man, obviously, but then my parents pissed off a witch and so, boom! Snake."

"That's absurd," Aziraphale objected.

"Oh, but just meeting a giant talking snake, that's perfectly normal? Where do you draw the line between magical talking animals and witches on the reality scale?"

"I…" Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose against his growing headache. Maybe he'd had too much wine, and in the morning he could laugh at his ridiculous dream. Of course, the snake had started talking to him before he'd had any wine. "Fine. You were cursed by a witch and turned into a snake. Lovely. Good for you."

"I mean, I wouldn't say it was lovely…" Crowley muttered. "Have you tried sleeping in a tree, lately?"

"I have not. And I'm quite done with this conversation." Aziraphale turned his back on Crowley and set back off down the corridor. He made it only two steps before something blocked his path and he, once again, nearly stumbled.

"Look," said Crowley, who had moved faster than Aziraphale had expected given his size, and was slowly looping his body around Aziraphale's ankle, holding him in place. "I've just had to slither my way from that bloody forest, without being spotted and chased off by a gardener or something. I'm tired, and I'm betting your bedroom is up at least one flight of stairs which, honestly, seems like a lot of effort right now."

"What's your point?" Aziraphale asked icily, though he was terribly afraid that he already knew.

"My point issss…" Crowley unwound himself from Aziraphale's leg and looked up at him. "Carry me."

"I will not."

"Okaaaaaay. We'll just wait here for everybody else to finish dinner then, shall we?"

They stared at each other for several heartbeats, a contest that the serpent, inevitably, won.

"Fine," Aziraphale bit out. "How exactly do you propose I do that?"

"Put me over your shoulders, I suppose, to spread the weight. I'm not exactly an expert in snake handling, y'know? Wasn't really something I did, back when I was human."

Aziraphale, for lack of a single better idea, did as Crowley suggested, lifting his long body with a grunt and draping it around his neck. He wasn't entirely certain if the way Crowley wound his head and tail around Aziraphale's arms was meant as assistance or just to prevent himself from being dragged along the floor, but it did mean that Aziraphale didn't feel at imminent risk of dropping him.

Crowley was heavy, far longer than Aziraphale was tall and bulky too, and surprisingly warm and smooth where his scales pressed against the back of Aziraphale's neck. Despite the weight that threatened to unbalance him as he took his first careful step, it wasn't an altogether unpleasant experience.

"What did you do, back when you were human?" he asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him. It did appear that he was stuck with the creature for the immediate future, after all.

"Eh. This and that," Crowley said evasively.

"I see. And have you been a snake long?"

"Er…it's hard to tell, actually. I definitely remember the winter being pretty miserable but…I don't know. I don't think snakes have the same long-term memory as people, you know? I can't quite think the same. I remember that I was human, that I had parents but it's like…like I've been given the contents page of a book without any of the rest of it. I can see what should be there, see the shape of it, but there's no detail. I can't picture their faces. I can't remember…"

"That must be…unpleasant," Aziraphale offered, suddenly feeling rather less annoyed.

"Yeah. I don't know if it's been one winter, or two, or ten. And then sometimes I think, what if I was never human at all? What if I'm just a snake that was cursed to think I used to be a human? I don't know why a witch would do that, but then I can't remember what it was my parents did to piss one off in the first place so…"

"I'm sorry."

Crowley gave a wordless hiss that seemed more sad than anything, and lapsed into silence. They'd reached the foot of the main staircase, and Aziraphale was too focused on the careful balancing act of each step to coax anything further from him.

It seemed to take an eternity to reach the door to his private rooms, though the relative silence in the rest of the palace indicated that everybody else was still at dinner. Aziraphale still wasn't looking forwards to the conversation he was going to have to have with Gabriel later, but for the moment it seemed a secondary concern.

Crowley slithered to the ground once the door swung shut behind them. The loss of his weight wasn't as much of a relief as Aziraphale had expected.

"I…ah…" he began, looking around. "I don't know where you would find it most comfortable to sleep? I have several rooms to choose from, although I don't tend to use more than this room and my bedchamber, the others may be rather chilly. I can get a servant to light a fire in one, if you'd prefer."

"S'fine. Beggars can't be choosers and all that. In front of the fire'll do, maybe a couple of blankets for a nest, if you have them?"

"Do snakes build nests?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley, despite being severely lacking in the shoulder department, gave the distinct impression of shrugging. "This one does, if you have some blankets."

"Yes, of course. I'll just…" Aziraphale slipped into his bedchamber and gathered some of the blankets that were still stacked by his bed in case of a cold night. He carried them back into the main room and watched with fascination as Crowley twisted himself into a comfortable position in the piled fabric.

"Thanks. I know it's early, but I'm going to sleep, if that's okay?"

"Please, feel free. I imagine I'll be summoned to meet with Gabriel shortly, I'll just sit here and read, if that won't disturb you too much?"

"No, go ahead. If I can sleep through all the racket bloody woodland creatures make all night, a few pages turning won't bother me." Crowley's scales rippled in the firelight as he settled. His next words were so low Aziraphale didn't think he was meant to hear them. "God, I miss a decent bed."

It was sheer insanity to even think it, but Aziraphale had to bite his tongue to stop himself from mentioning that his own bed, just a room away, was far too large for just one person. He was, after all, still angry that Crowley was in his rooms, in his palace at all. Wasn't he?

Aziraphale opened a book, but even the few words he managed to read between sidelong glimpses of the serpent by the fireplace didn't sink in. Was Crowley sleeping? Those amber eyes were still wide open, of course, but he was coiled tight and still.

By the time a page knocked on his door and summoned him to Gabriel's private rooms, Aziraphale had given up on the book completely.

"What were you thinking?"

Gabriel was less angry than Aziraphale had expected, but his bewildered disappointment was scarcely easier to handle. Once again, Aziraphale had let him down, embarrassed them both in front of the court. Gabriel wasn't their father, to deliver a dressing down from his desk while his son stood before him, but the softer setting of his private parlour did little to ease the blow.

"I…I don't know. I was late, and I'd dropped my book and—"

"Your book?" Queen Michaela, on the other hand, was angry. "All this over a blasted book?"

"I—He offered to get it back, you see. Agnes does get so angry when people fail to return her books, and I was worried about it, about being late for dinner…" The excuses felt pathetic in his own mouth.

"So you weren't thinking," Gabriel said.

Aziraphale shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Aziraphale…" The sigh was all weary older brother, as if the gap between them was more than a handful of years. As if Aziraphale were still a child to be chastised, and not a man long grown. "This is going to make things difficult."

"I know."

"Do you?" Gabriel's fingers entwined with Michaela's on the sofa between them. "You're my heir, Aziraphale. And none of us are getting any younger. Time is running short for you to choose a wife, and what young lady is going to want you to court her while you're keeping company with a serpent? It might have been avoided if you'd come to me first, in private, but now the whole court knows…you'll have to be seen to be keeping your word."

"You'll have to let that…that creature eat at our table," Michaela added in disgust. "How can I seat you next to eligible young ladies with that at your side?"

"What if I don't want to court any young ladies?" Aziraphale asked, the words falling from his mouth without prior permission from his brain. "What if I don't want to marry a lady at all?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. It wasn't as if he'd kept his…inclinations…a secret from his brother, but he had never come so close to saying it before.

"Aziraphale…" This sigh was sadder, the anger drained away, and that was somehow worse. "You know why that's not a choice I can let you make."

"I know. I know. And I'll do my duty. This is just…a temporary setback. I promised him until summer. It's only two months. He'll be gone before you know it."

"And then you'll choose a wife?" Michaela prodded. She and Gabriel both watched him, waiting.

Aziraphale wanted to cry, wanted to scream. Wanted to run away and leave the whole blasted kingdom without an heir, if that's what it took. Even as a child, he'd never wanted to be king.

His brother and his wife looked at him, their own hopes for the future of the kingdom held so close to their hearts that even Aziraphale could barely see them. This wasn't what any of them wanted.

"And then I'll choose a wife," he promised.

Maybe it was the Queen's obvious disgust at the idea, or maybe it was the looks of shocked revulsion from the courtiers around him, but Aziraphale was rather enjoying the stir that Crowley was creating over breakfast.

The meal was far less formal than dinner the night before had been, with people drifting in and out as their duties allowed. The king and queen were absent, having taken their meal in private, but Aziraphale had taken his usual seat to the left of Gabriel's more ornate chair. And to his left, coiled loosely in the seat usually given to whichever noble lady Michaela was currently trying to set him up with, was Crowley.

The serpent seemed to have shaken off the melancholy of the evening before, those hypnotic eyes now sparkling with mischief as they took in the stares of the people around them.

Aziraphale had never given much thought to the eating habits of snakes, and he watched Crowley breakfast with fascination. Crowley's fangs were sharp, of course, but they were hardly made for chewing, and he certainly had no way of holding a knife or a fork.

The boiled eggs had gone down easily enough, hardly a challenge for Crowley's massive mouth. It was the entire loaf of bread that was currently being slowly ingested that was drawing stares and startled gasps from around the room though.

Aziraphale had pointed out that bread was hardly part of a snake's standard diet, but Crowley had only given another of those mesmerising movements that suggested a shrug whilst simultaneously being nothing like one and muttered something about being sick of raw rabbit, so Aziraphale had let it lie.

For the second meal in a row, Aziraphale was barely interested in his own plate. It wasn't the sour feelings of guilt and humiliation that stole his appetite now, though. The food just didn't seem important enough to take his attention away from Crowley.

Nobody else seemed inclined to linger over their meals either, and the great hall was soon mostly empty. The servants who remained, cleaning away the remnants of barely-touched food, still stared at the serpent at the high table, but when they met Aziraphale's eyes they looked away and returned to their tasks.

"Exactly how much do you need to eat?" Aziraphale asked once the bread had disappeared down Crowley's gullet. He still didn't know how Crowley managed to speak, but trying to make conversation with the snake's mouth so full had seemed inadvisable. The loaf was still a noticeable bulge below Crowley's head, and Aziraphale's eyes kept flicking back to watch its slow progress.

"Right now? That'll probably do. Although I wouldn't turn down some of that cheese. I've missed cheese."

Aziraphale could take a not-very-subtle hint. He cut a sizable chunk of his favourite smoked cheese and held it out to Crowley, suppressing the shiver that ran through him as Crowley's forked tongue flicked over his palm, tasting the scent of it before swallowing it whole.

"Better?" Aziraphale asked, amused.

"Mmm. When they said variety was the spice of life, they weren't kidding," Crowley replied. "You're probably right, though, its not exactly what my body needs."

"I'll ask the kitchens if they can cook an extra lamb for dinner? That might fill you up more that bread or rabbits," Aziraphale offered, contemplating the sheer size of the snake next to him.

"Ssss'like you're my guardian angel," Crowley hissed. "Thank you."

"Oh, it's no problem. It's hardly any work for me, anyway."

"No, I mean…" Crowley ducked his head down, no longer meeting Aziraphale's eyes. "You didn't need to offer. I know I coerced you into this, and now it looks like everybody's avoiding you because of it. I just…I didn't want to be alone in that forest any more, you know? I wanted to remember what it was like to be human, before I forgot completely."

"I understand. And I forgive you." Aziraphale reached out hesitantly, then gently laid his hand on a patch of shining black scales. "I'm hardly put out by the peace anyway."

Crowley snorted. Difficult, without a nose, but he managed it somehow. "Figures. I did wonder what the king's brother was doing, hiding out in the forest reading a book."

"Yes, well." Aziraphale pushed his chair back from the table and stood. "I have no such luxuries today, I'm afraid. Duty calls. I could…carry you back to my rooms, first, if you wanted?"

Crowley looked at him with that piercing, unblinking stare, before inclining his head in a nod.

Even with all the food inside him, he didn't seem as heavy as he had the night before.

Chapter Text

The days grew increasingly warmer, spring rushing by in fits and starts.

The little glade in the woods was sun-dappled and peaceful, and Aziraphale took every possible opportunity to retreat from the noise and fuss of the palace with a book and a picnic.

"Would you like a strawberry?" The early spring fruit was still slightly tart, and Aziraphale's fingers were already sticky with juice. When Crowley hissed a 'no', Aziraphale ate another himself and then licked his fingertips clean.

It was more of a struggle, coming out here with the serpent over his shoulders, but it was such a long way for the poor thing to travel under his own power. Aziraphale hadn't been sure Crowley would want to come back to the forest, the first time he'd offered. But Crowley seemed content to go wherever Aziraphale wanted to, and Aziraphale had to admit to actually enjoying the serpent's company. Crowley might not recall the specifics of his own life, but he was clever and witty and had an awful habit of whispering sly observations about various courtiers in Aziraphale's ear at inopportune moments.

He was curled lazily on a sun-warmed rock, scales shimmering in the light, and Aziraphale found himself stealing glances over the top of his book every few sentences.

"Got any more of that cheese, angel?" Crowley asked after a while. He always turned down fruits and vegetables when they were offered, and was mostly carnivorous, but he had a weak spot for cheese and bread that Aziraphale could hardly argue with.

So, of course, Aziraphale had packed several varieties in his picnic basket, and he brought one out for Crowley now. The sensation of Crowley's forked tongue against his hand as he took the offered morsel was familiar now, but no less thrilling for it.

"You still taste of strawberries," Crowley grumbled, curling back up.

Aziraphale tried to return to his reading, but the book of fairy tales that he usually adored hit rather too close to home.

"There must be a way to break this curse," he mused aloud, carefully placing his bookmark and setting the book in the picnic basket. "Have you any idea what it might be?"

"True love's first kiss is traditional." Crowley slowly uncoiled, his eyes locking on Aziraphale as they so often did. It had been unnerving at first, being caught in that unblinking gaze. It still sent a shiver through him, but it was no longer one of fear. "Especially if one's true love is a princess, apparently."

"I'm afraid there's a distinct lack of available princesses in the kingdom at present." Aziraphale tore his eyes away and picked at a loose thread at the hem of his shirt. How, exactly, did one kiss a snake, anyway? Crowley had no real lips, and you'd need to be terribly careful of those fangs as that long, forked tongue wrapped around yours…

"Pity." Crowley's dry tone cut through Aziraphale's reverie.

"Quite."

"Princesses never were really my thing, anyway."

"Understandable."

There was a moment of awkward silence, broken only by birdsong and the gentle rustling of leaves.

"It's probably not that, though," Crowley said eventually, his voice sounding slightly…off. "I mean, what are the chances of just happening across your true love while you're cursed? Basically nothing. It's probably something more convoluted. If there's a way to break it at all."

"I suppose," Aziraphale sighed. "I'll see if I can find anything in the library. In the meantime… Can I tempt you to some cake?"

"Depends." Crowley uncoiled himself slowly and slithered over, the sunlight catching on his scales and splintering into rainbows as he moved. Aziraphale watched, hypnotised by the push and pull of muscles as Crowley wound his way over the grass. "What's on offer?"

"I, ah…" Cake, yes, that was the topic. Aziraphale rummaged in the picnic basket. "Apple cake?"

"Theologically appropriate." Crowley came to rest next to him, the bulk of his body pressed against Aziraphale's thigh. His scales were hot from the sun, and the heat of them spread rapidly through Aziraphale's body. His tongue flickered out, scenting the air around the offered slice of cake, dragging Aziraphale's thoughts back to the completely inappropriate path they'd gone down a moment ago. The smell seemed to appeal, as Crowley's tongue then brushed again over Aziraphale's palm as he gulped down the cake. "Temptation accomplished."

Aziraphale looked at his own slice of cake as Crowley coiled up beside him, and wondered who exactly was succumbing to temptation here.

The night was sticky with heat, one of those late spring nights where it seems impossible that it's not already summer.

It couldn't be summer, though, because if it was summer then Aziraphale had carried out his promise and Crowley's time in the palace would come to an end.

The two months of spring had been both the longest and the shortest of Aziraphale's life. Long, because it seemed almost impossible to recall his life before Crowley had come into it. Aziraphale had grown accustomed to the heavy weight of him draped over his shoulders, the sensation of scales moving over his skin.

Short, because it was almost over, and it hadn't nearly been enough.

Aziraphale badly wanted to extend an invitation for Crowley to stay on a more permanent basis; but while Crowley would likely agree, there was no way Gabriel would. There was already a ball planned for the second week of the summer, the days creeping up on him with terrifying speed, and Aziraphale knew that, after that party, he would be expected to announce a courtship.

Aziraphale tossed and turned on his enormous bed, rucking up the silk sheets and getting no relief from the prickling discomfort of the heat.

It was late. Over the last few days he'd found himself reluctant to retire to his bedchamber, unwilling to spend any more of his last hours with Crowley sleeping than was absolutely necessary. And then there was this abominable heat.

There was nothing for it. Aziraphale rose, padded over to the window to open it wider, hoping for a little breeze to cool the room, but the air outside was still. Sighing, Aziraphale shed his nightclothes, letting what little air there was brush against his bare skin.

He slipped back into bed, hoping for the cooling touch of silk, but the sheets were still warm from his body and offered no assistance.

Aziraphale had half a mind to give up on slumber entirely, go back to his main chamber and spend a few more precious hours with Crowley. But the serpent needed his sleep, and so did Aziraphale, as difficult as it was to obtain.

Crowley must have been on his mind when he finally drifted off, because his fitful dreams, not for the first time, were full of shining black and glossy red, the slow, undulating movement of muscle and scales across his skin. The low, hissing sound of Crowley's laughter echoed through the fantasy, the barely-there sensation of that forked tongue across his hand, on his neck, around his…

"Oh!" Aziraphale awoke with a jolt, breathing heavily, sweat still beading across his skin and a hot, heavy pressure between his legs. Shame and arousal flooded through him as he lay back against the pillows, trying to catch his breath and calm his body.

"Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale froze at the familiar voice at his door, unable to move even as the door creaked open. He was terrifyingly, shamefully, thrillingly aware of the fact that he'd thrown off all the covers in his fitful sleep, that he was completely exposed and quite obviously aroused.

For a moment, he reassured himself that he was all but invisible in the dark of the room, that his candles had long since guttered out and the moon was obscured behind a cloud. But then there was the realisation, some small piece of information dredged up from one of the numerous books on snakes he'd read over the last few weeks, that many snakes could see in the dark.

"I heard a shout, thought I'd check you were okay?" Crowley slithered through the door. Aziraphale could hear his scales scraping across the floor, that undulating flex of muscles that his fevered imagination could still recall moving against his own body.

"I'm fine," he gasped, not particularly convincingly. "Just a dream."

"If you're sure. I—oh."

Well, that confirmed it. Crowley could see in the dark, those lovely amber eyes could find the shape of Aziraphale in his bed, and Crowley had seen the state Aziraphale had worked himself into.

"Sorry." Crowley sounded mortified, the slithering movement halted. "I didn't meant to… I'll just leave…"

"Don't." Aziraphale wasn't sure how the word made it out of his mouth. It barely did, escaping as little more than a whisper. He wasn't even sure Crowley had heard it, at first.

"Angel…" The mortification in Crowley's voice had disappeared, replaced by something like longing. The name had only ever been a tease before, but now the sound of it shot from Aziraphale's ears straight to his groin.

"There's…" Aziraphale's mouth was too dry to speak. He licked his lips and tried again. "The bed is big enough for both of us."

His words were met with silence. No reply, but no distinctive sound of movement either. Was Crowley still watching him? Could he see the rapid rise and fall of Aziraphale's chest, the tension in his body? Did those serpentine eyes see the way his pulse hammered wildly, could they trace the blood flowing like wildfire in his veins?

"Please," Aziraphale begged.

Crowley groaned, the sound full of want that found an echo in Aziraphale's body. Then there was the sound he'd been hoping for, the rasp of scales over wood, drawing closer to his bed. The door drifted shut once Crowley's whole body was through, leaving them alone in the private, stifling dark of Aziraphale's bedchamber.

It was Crowley's tongue that he felt first, just the flicker of it against the bone of his ankle as Crowley rose up alongside the bed. The barely-there touch evoked the visceral memory of Aziraphale's dream, the way that tongue had teased and touched and pleasured him.

"Everything all right, angel?" Crowley asked, his voice more suited to a purring cat than a snake.

"Yes," Aziraphale said, more a sigh than a word. There was that low laugh that he adored so much, and the first touch of scales against his leg, the mattress dipping as Crowley dragged himself up onto the bed. Crowley was always warmer than Aziraphale expected, but the drag of his body as he wound slowly around Aziraphale's leg was blessedly cool.

Was it that, or just the sensation of Crowley working his way up Aziraphale's body that made him shiver? He was used to the weight of Crowley over his shoulders, accustomed to feeling that long, muscled body moving along his arms. Through fabric, mostly, although there were always touches to the bare skin of his neck, his hands, a few times where he'd rolled up his sleeves.

Aziraphale moaned as Crowley's gradual winding took him above Aziraphale's knee, that tongue flicking over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Snakes used their tongues to smell, Aziraphale knew, to taste the air around them. Could he smell how desperately aroused Aziraphale was, as well as see the more obvious evidence in front of him? How different was Crowley's perception of this, with all those sights and smells that were dulled for Aziraphale? All Aziraphale had was the rustling sound of scales over silk and his own laboured breathing, and the undulating press of Crowley's body against his.

It was more than enough. Aziraphale was already drowning in the sheer sensuality of it, the slow, constant creep of touch up towards where he needed it most.

He should have known he wouldn't get it. That Crowley, the absolute fiend, would only flick his tongue over the tight skin of Aziraphale's balls before bypassing his shaft completely, the next loop wrapping around Aziraphale's middle instead. He pressed between the softness of Aziraphale's body and that of the mattress below him easily, making space for himself wherever he wanted to be.

Aziraphale's hips bucked up helplessly into thin air, earning himself a low hiss of disapproval but when he crashed back down onto the bed Crowley's scales just brushed over the tip of him. The sudden, unexpected stimulation, fleeting and insubstantial as it was, made Aziraphale cry out, made him twitch and leak and writhe against the coils holding him.

"Crowley," he begged, reaching down for the first time to stroke frantic hands along Crowley's shifting length. "Crowley, please."

"You know what you're asssssking for?" Crowley hissed, wrapping another coil around Aziraphale's chest. His tongue flicked against the tight buds of Aziraphale's nipples, and all that came from his mouth in reply was a needy whine.

He did know, actually. Both what his own body wanted—he'd had a fair few dalliances with other men in his time, all hurried and secret and quickly broken off as his paramours married or at least decided to look for somebody who could marry them—and, thanks to his quite extensive recent research into serpents, what Crowley's own body would be like.

Finding the words to explain this was rather difficult, however, as Crowley wound a final ring around Aziraphale's torso, holding him tight, rubbing his scales across Aziraphale's sensitised nipples with each undulation.

"Angel?" Crowley prompted, his voice in Aziraphale's ear now as the tips of his tongue flicked over the shell of it. He was everywhere, the lower part of his body still wrapped around Aziraphale's leg, the bulk of him engulfing Aziraphale's body, his head and tongue teasing at Aziraphale's ear and neck and the corner of his mouth. Everywhere but the two places where Aziraphale wanted—needed—him to be.

"Please," Aziraphale moaned again, trying to move but trapped by that heavy, encircling body. "Please, Crowley, I need you…"

"Where?" Crowley hissed, twitching his body just enough for another moment of that blinding, evanescent pleasure as scales rubbed against the sensitive head of Aziraphale's prick.

"In…inside me," Aziraphale begged. "Crowley…"

"Yessssssss." Crowley hissed the word straight into Aziraphale's open mouth, a simulacrum of a kiss that they couldn't have. "Turn over for me, angel, on your hands and knees."

It wasn't an easy manoeuvre, with Crowley's coils wrapped heavy and tight around him. Crowley slithered slightly higher, the tip of his tail now just tickling the back of Aziraphale's knee, the movement bringing more bright-hot points of pleasure against his nipples. It made it difficult to concentrate, and he didn't want to crush Crowley, but somehow Aziraphale managed to get over onto his knees and prop himself up on his elbows.

"That'ssss it." Crowley shifted his coils again, arranging himself so that part of his body lay along the seam of Aziraphale's buttocks. Aziraphale could feel something emerging from between his scales, something hot and solid. Two somethings, as Aziraphale had expected from his reading.

It was difficult to tell, from only the sultry press of them between his cheeks, but they were smaller than a man's, shorter and more slender, slick with some substance that must have helped them ease their way out of Crowley's vent.

Aziraphale had never wanted something inside him so much in all his life.

He whined into the pillows as Crowley undulated slowly against him, rubbing tantalisingly around and against his rim with those twin heads. Crowley was everywhere, wrapped around him from his knee to his shoulders, tongue hissing and flickering against his ear, scales shifting and dragging over his nipples and—oh, oh, oh!—pushing inside him finally, easily, one slim head pressing past the meagre resistance of Aziraphale's body while the other slid smoothly over the delicate skin between his legs.

Crowley couldn't thrust like a man-shaped thing would, finding instead a languid, rippling grind that stimulated all of Aziraphale's most sensitive parts, inside and out, until he was sobbing in overstimulated pleasure, uttering broken pleas for more.

"Aziraphale…" Crowley groaned, quickening his pace. "I—"

He broke off into a hiss that sounded almost pained, constricting his coils around Aziraphale's chest and forcing the air from his lungs in a startled cry as Crowley spilled hot inside him.

The breathy whimper of dismay that followed was short-lived, as Crowley pulled out only to make a slight adjustment and thrust back in with the other shaft, barely leaving Aziraphale empty for half a minute.

Aziraphale was almost mad with it. There was little he could do, nothing he could push back against to take Crowley in deeper. He could only beg and writhe, staining the bedsheets with his desire.

The pleasure was almost overwhelming—but only, maddeningly, almost. Crowley's coiled body was like a rope around him, hanging him suspended above some glowing pool of ecstasy, close enough to skim his fingers over the surface but with no slack left to let him plunge in.

"More," he gasped, gripping the sheets so tight he thought he might tear the silk. "Crowley, please…"

"I can't…" Snakes didn't have the correct teeth to grit them. As always, it didn't seem to matter. "You'll have to use your hand."

"No." There was something pressing between Aziraphale's cheeks, growing steadily harder, slicker. It reignited an idea that Aziraphale could barely admit to having had, when he'd been reading all those herpetology books, one he'd pushed aside as soon as it presented itself, but never really forgotten. "I want…I want them both. Together."

"Nnggghhhh." Crowley's head, resting on Aziraphale's shoulder, jerked from side to side. "It's too much. I'll hurt you."

"You won't," Aziraphale insisted. "Please, I need it, I need you…"

"Angel," Crowley whined, and Aziraphale knew he'd won. "You'll need to help, hold them together so I can…"

"Yes." Aziraphale reached behind himself, groaning in discontent at the aching emptiness as Crowley eased himself out. Only for a moment, he promised himself, and then he'd be so full he'd be close to bursting. His fingers found their target, wrapped around the twin shafts, burning hot and sticky against his palm. Crowley groaned, his body rolling as he tried to thrust into Aziraphale's fist. Aziraphale guided him back to his own greedy, twitching entrance, pressed the slick heads against it and let the powerful muscles of Crowley's serpentine form shove them the rest of the way in.

The rapid, burning stretch of it was exquisite, balanced perfectly between pleasure and pain, and some small part of Aziraphale's brain that was still capable of rational thought thanked God that the rooms on either side were both part of his own suite, as his pillows weren't enough to muffle his howls.

He was so blessedly, deliciously full, full of Crowley, surrounded by Crowley. The rest of the world dropped away as sizzling waves of bliss rolled over him with every shift of scales and ripple of muscles, every glorious, irresistible press against his inner walls.

"Aziraphale." Crowley's voice was in shreds. "I want…can I…I need to bite…"

"Ooohhhh…" The words were hard to find, washed away by the swelling sea of elation. "I…oh, God…yes, Crowley, yes…"

The sequence of events was almost impossible to follow; Aziraphale presumed, later, that there was a sequence, and that everything didn't happen all in a single, perfect moment, but in the moment he was really in no state to take notes.

Was it the fangs in his shoulder that came first, four bright-hot points of pain that made him scream for joy? Was it the pulsing inside him, the way he was filled twice in quick succession? Was it his own body that set it all off, driven to the brink and flung over the edge, squeezing tight around Crowley? Or was it Crowley's thick coils, once again constricting in the throes of his pleasure, making it hard to breathe, to think, to do anything but shake through the most intense climax of Aziraphale's life?

He missed one, maybe two breaths: it was difficult to tell, with the way the world had gone all hazy. Then Crowley relaxed, easing himself free, uncoiling so that Aziraphale could drop to the mattress with a heavy sigh, roll away from the damp spot, and finally fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Morning came too soon, the rising sun streaming through poorly-closed curtains that rippled in the breeze coming through the still-open window.

Aziraphale made a small noise of discontent, unwilling to be woken when he was still sleepy, warm and comfortable, encircled by strong arms and…

What?

Whoever held him must have felt his muscles tense, because there was a resigned sigh and a slight loosening of the hold.

"Don't panic—" said Crowley's voice, but it was already far too late for that.

Aziraphale fought his way free—or, rather, pulled slightly away and was immediately let go—and rolled over to see who dared…

Under normal circumstances, Aziraphale would have been all too happy to wake up to find a man that breathtakingly beautiful in his bed, all porcelain skin and vivid red hair and long, freckled arms. Normal circumstances, of course, being that he'd gone to sleep with said man in his bed in the first place.

"Who-who are you?" he demanded, acutely aware of his nakedness under the thin sheet that he was sure he'd thrown to the floor in the heat of the night. Aware, too, that the intruder in his bed was in a similar state. "How did you…"

He trailed off as the stranger blinked at him, eyelids sweeping over golden irises split by a dark vertical slash of a pupil. The eyes of a snake.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale breathed. "Is that…is that really you?"

"It's me," the man said, and Crowley's voice came from his mouth, the words shaped by his lips and tongue the way they never had been as a snake; Aziraphale watched with fascination. "I think we may have, um, broken the curse. Er. Last night…"

Aziraphale felt himself go red as the memories flooded back. "Oh."

"Hng. So. I woke up a bit ago and, well, was like this. Like me. And I remember more now, although it's still a bit of a blur. The curse was something like…being appreciated for who I was. I don't think my parents were…particularly pleased with how their son turned out and…well." Crowley shrugged one pale shoulder.

"Ah. I see. Well, I certainly, ah, appreciated you—"

"I got that, actually," Crowley said, one corner of his mouth curling up into a smile that set Aziraphale's heart beating faster.

"I meant in general, you fiend," Aziraphale lied, unconvincingly if the increased width of Crowley's grin was anything to go by. "Although, yes, that too."

"I—" Crowley began, but was cut off by the familiar creak of the door hinges.

"You Highness, I—" Muriel, the maid who usually brought Aziraphale's morning tea, froze in the doorway, her eyes darting between the two men. The porcelain rattled on the tray as her hands shook, but she didn't drop it. "I'll just…leave this in the sitting room and…" She backed away.

"You can let my valet know he won't be needed this morning!" Aziraphale called after her, just before the door thumped closed. Crowley gave an undignified snort of laughter, which Aziraphale couldn't help but echo. "Good Lord, Crowley, the whole palace is going to know about the mysterious, handsome stranger in my bed by lunchtime!"

"Handsome, eh?" Crowley said with a smirk. "Good to know it's not just snakes that do it for you."

"That's not my point!" Aziraphale objected, trying and completely failing to not give Crowley another appreciative look. "They're all going to think that we're in here…well…" It was ridiculous to blush, given how very vivid the memory of the night before still was. Aziraphale did it anyway.

"Probably," Crowley agreed easily. "Do you want to prove them right?"

Aziraphale's bed really was too large; it seemed to take an age for them to meet again in the middle, though in reality it was barely a second before their mouths met, a first kiss that was immediately followed by a second, a third…

Aziraphale let his hands roam, mapping out the as-yet unseen contours of Crowley's body, almost as lithe and sinuous as a human as it had been as a serpent. One apparently endless leg hooked itself over Aziraphale's hip, pulling their heated bodies together, and then long, slender fingers wrapped around them both, dragging the pleasure out of them in slow, firm strokes.

Crowley kissed him through their climax, swallowing down all of Aziraphale's little broken noises, feeding Aziraphale his own in return, an incomparable shared feast that far surpassed any Aziraphale had ever had in the great hall below. Breakfast was likely being served there now, but neither of them mentioned moving.

It's generally best not to keep monarchs waiting.

Eventually, Aziraphale managed to coax Crowley out of bed; the poor thing had been sleeping in nests of blankets or up trees for who knew how long, was it any surprise he didn't want to leave the comfort of Aziraphale's extravagant four-poster?

Clothing was a trickier proposition: while Aziraphale was quite capable of dressing himself without his valet, even with the occasional distraction, the fact remained that Crowley had no clothes to wear. Aziraphale managed to find an old shirt that wasn't too oversized on Crowley's slender frame—although the hint of collarbone it revealed did cause a few issues with leaving Aziraphale's rooms in any sort of sensible time frame—and a pair of breeches that absolutely did not fit him but could just about be convinced not to slide off his narrow hips by the judicious application of a belt.

The page that Aziraphale sent scurrying to find Gabriel returned swiftly, with strict orders to report to the king's private study forthwith.

It was only a short walk away, but there were eyes following their every step down the draughty corridor. Thankfully, in this part of the palace, there were only servants to see them, and so they were not stopped and questioned on their way.

Gabriel was sitting at his desk when they entered the study, poring over some paperwork. Michaela sat to the side on a padded chair, apparently engrossed in her embroidery. Since Aziraphale knew his sister-in-law despised such activities and only did so when she wanted to appear to not be paying attention to her husband's dealings, this did not inspire confidence in him.

"Aziraphale." Gabriel stood up and walked around his desk. It seemed Aziraphale was not to be treated as a child, at least, though the glance Michaela shot him suggested she believed he should be. "And who's your friend?" His tone suggested that gossip had indeed spread quickly.

"This is…Crowley."

"Crowley?" Gabriel perched on the edge of the desk and gave Crowley an appraising look. "The name's familiar."

"It's because it's the name of that beast that Aziraphale has been toting around with him all spring," Michaela, always the brains of the outfit, pointed out acerbically.

"Hmmm." Gabriel nodded thoughtfully. "So it is. But I'm sure I heard it somewhere else…"

"Er…" Crowley shot Aziraphale an apologetic look and took a step forwards, suddenly standing straighter. "It's actually Prince Anthony Crowley Morningstar of Tartarus."

Aziraphale couldn't stifle his gasp, but it was ignored by the rest of the room.

"Yes! That's it!" Gabriel exclaimed. "There was a report…but he's been missing for nearly two years!"

"Well, y'see, as your lady wife so astutely pointed out, I've been taking some time out to be a snake. Makes it difficult to remember to call in on the parents, you understand."

"This is ludicrous," Michaela objected. "If anything he says is true, and I sincerely doubt it is, then how did he get here from Tartarus? Who, I might add, we have been at war with thirty-two times in the last two hundred years, if not at present. We should be throwing him in the dungeons as a spy."

"You will not!" Aziraphale objected, stepping between Crowley and his family. "Gabriel, please—"

Gabriel held up a hand for silence.

"Nobody is being thrown in a dungeon right now." He turned to Aziraphale, who had to fight not to shrink back under the weight of the king's gaze. "Rumour has it that your maid found you two in bed together this morning."

"If you recall, you were the one who insisted I let him sleep in my room—"

"I said nothing about your bed, Aziraphale. Naked, apparently."

"It was a warm night—"

"Aziraphale." Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Whatever you get up to in the privacy of your rooms is your own business. But the gossip has already spread through the staff, and it's only a matter of time before it becomes common knowledge. You're meant to be trying to court a wife."

"Ah," said Aziraphale. "Sorry."

"And you." Gabriel turned to Crowley. "You really are the younger son of King Lucien?"

"'Fraid so." Crowley stepped up next to Aziraphale, close enough that their fingers brushed together, talking to him as much as Gabriel, even if he addressed the latter. "I didn't really remember, exactly, when I was a snake. Bits and pieces have been filtering back since I woke up human again this morning."

Gabriel waved this away. "Would your father be open to…diplomatic negotiations?"

Crowley shrugged. "Maybe? He's not the most tolerant of people but…he's getting old. My sister, Beelzebub, she might persuade him it's worthwhile. But who knows what's gone on since I was last there?"

"Gabriel, what—" Michaela began, setting down her embroidery with a sharp click, but she was waved back.

"And this" — Gabriel indicated first Crowley, then Aziraphale — "between you two, is it just sex, or…?"

"Gabriel!" Aziraphale objected, his face burning, but he didn't move away from Crowley, who was shaking his head.

"No! No, it's…" Crowley began, turning to Aziraphale, his face suddenly uncertain. "It's not, is it?"

"Of course not!" Aziraphale hastened to reassure him, taking his hands and stepping closer, until they were breathing each other's air and had completely forgotten their audience. "My darling, no."

Crowley let out a breathy laugh of relief and pressed their foreheads together. "Angel…"

Gabriel cleared his throat obnoxiously, and they sprang apart, just enough to turn back to the king.

"Right. I think it's time to share some news with you, little brother. Michaela and I…we're going to have a baby."

"You are?" Aziraphale turned to Michaela, who nodded shortly, and for the first time he could see the fear behind her usual reserved demeanour. "I'm so glad for you!" And for himself, but this didn't seem the time to mention it.

"Thank you," Gabriel went on, giving his wife a brief, genuine smile. "We're excited, obviously, but you understand why this needs to kept quiet for now?"

"Of course," Aziraphale replied. He wasn't privy to all the information, but he knew there had been times when the Queen had not been seen for days, when he'd heard screaming and crying from her rooms.

"Good. The baby is due in the winter, and if all goes well…" Gabriel sighed, a moment of terror passing over his face, gone as quickly as it had arrived. "They will replace you as next in line to the throne. Your obligation to marry and provide heirs will be…lessened."

"What exactly are you implying, Gabriel?" Aziraphale asked, trying not to let the hope in his chest escape in his voice.

"I'm implying…I'm proposing that, should the child be hale and healthy, and should King Lucien of Tartarus be agreeable to negotiations… The marriage of a monarch's younger children to secure peace between kingdoms is hardly a new and radical idea."

Aziraphale was speechless. His future, which had seemed set in stone—a wife he didn't love, a throne he didn't want—was suddenly unravelling in his mind's eye. Freedom, of a sort, to be who he wanted to be, love who he wanted to love.

Crowley was smiling at him, looking as surprised as Aziraphale felt but certainly not unhappy about the abrupt change in their expectations. They'd both gone into the room assuming Gabriel would, at best, tell them to keep their relationship a secret and, at worst, banish Crowley completely. To now be considering marriage…

"Do you want this?" Aziraphale asked him. "You can say no, ask for more time…there's still months until the baby is born and you were a snake only yesterday. You haven't seen your family in two years. Just because we broke the curse, you don't need to stay with me."

"I want this," Crowley answered, taking Aziraphale's hand and pressing his lips against the back of it. "I want you. And my family…we can send word that I'm here, that I'm all right, we can invite them to the wedding, but I was cursed because of them and I don't want to go back there."

"Great!" Gabriel announced, oblivious. "Now, I have things to do and, honestly Crowley, you are in severe need of better clothes. I'll have the palace tailor sent to your rooms, Aziraphale, please try to be dressed when he gets there."

Aziraphale felt himself go red again, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one. Still, halfway to the door he turned and went back to pull Gabriel into a rare fraternal hug.

"Thank you," he whispered as Gabriel's arms tightened around him in return. "Thank you."

The gossip that had spread like wildfire through the palace staff soon blazed through the court as well. Everywhere Aziraphale went, especially if Crowley was with him, people stared and whispered in each other's ears.

Crowley was definitely worth staring at, he had to admit. He was striking enough on his own, all long limbs and red hair and sparking amber eyes, but the palace tailor had outdone himself with his wardrobe. Crowley had asked for blacks and reds, and they had been provided in abundance. Gabriel and Aziraphale both tended to favour light colours in traditional cuts, and it seemed the tailor had very much enjoyed being allowed to experiment and follow the current fashions. Fashions that clung temptingly to Crowley's lean frame, and fabrics that felt delightful under Aziraphale's hands. And Aziraphale had no idea how Crowley had moved before becoming a snake, but there was something hypnotic about the way his hips and spine swayed as he walked.

Ostensibly, Crowley was a guest, a visiting prince from a kingdom that had been a former enemy, there to see what could be done to create a lasting peace. He was provided with a set of rooms, but the bed remained unslept in, something the whole kingdom seemed to be aware of.

The gossip soon faded away though, as the summer drew on and Michaela began to show visible signs of pregnancy. Soon all the talk was of the baby, a new heir to the throne, and if Aziraphale was considered at all it was to wonder how angry he was to lose his claim to the crown.

As the leaves began to fall, messengers sent to Tartarus returned. Crowley's parents expressed their joy at his wellbeing, but didn't request his return. More personal correspondence from his sisters, Beelzebub and Dagon, was received more gladly, with word that his marriage to Aziraphale, were it to go ahead, would be welcomed.

It was around this time that Aziraphale noticed the first scale: a tiny, red shimmer that he thought at first was a cut on the blade of Crowley's shoulder, but on closer examination was dry and smooth under his fingertips. It was gone the next morning, but its brethren appeared periodically, fading away again just as quickly.

Aziraphale could tell that it made Crowley nervous, though he never said as much, especially since his eyes remained decidedly serpentine. The fear of losing himself again haunted him, however much Aziraphale tried to soothe it away.

The air started to chill, lazy afternoons in their sun-dappled glade put aside for the winter, replaced by roaring fires and early nights making a heat of their own.

Michaela went into confinement early, the midwife in almost constant attendance on her. But in the first days of winter she delivered not one but two healthy sons, heir and spare in one desperate, screaming night, and Aziraphale was pushed gladly even further away from what he'd once thought was his fate.

The announcement of his betrothal to Crowley followed at the annual Midwinter ball. For the first time, Aziraphale didn't begrudge being made to dance with all the young ladies of the court; though some few were disappointed to lose the chance of becoming Queen, none of them had been particularly interested in him, and without the burden of having to pretend they were, conversation flowed much better. And for every dance with the daughter of some Earl or Duke, there was another with Crowley; partnered in a group dance, their hands pressing together in a turn before retreating, or just the two of them, the rest of the ballroom melting away.

When the snow began to melt, diplomacy began in earnest. Messengers between the two kingdoms came and went constantly, carrying drafts of whatever agreement was being made between Gabriel and King Lucien. Aziraphale and Crowley's wedding, though at the heart of it, was hardly the only matter under discussion, if the only one of real interest to them. Trade deals, border disputes…the list went on.

As the betrothal had, officially at least, taken place at Midwinter, it was decided that the wedding would be at Midsummer. All through spring, the activity in the palace increased, to the point where Aziraphale was seriously regretting not just running away and getting married in the first place. He and Crowley spent every available minute—and a fair few where they should have been attending other matters—hiding away in their woodland glade, eating and reading and generally taking advantage of a modicum of privacy.

Three weeks before Midsummer, word arrived. The Tartarus delegation was to arrive in a week, to stay for a month. This sent the whole staff into a frenzy, until the palace was nearly unbearable, with no escape for the grooms.

The scales seemed to come more often when Crowley was stressed, and by the night before the anticipated arrival of his family there was a whole line of them decorating the bumps of his spine. Aziraphale tasted them all, humming his appreciation and drawing all the tension from Crowley's body with the pointed press of his tongue.

But still, time ticked on.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

The kingdom seemed determined to show its best side to its former enemy. Not just the people, though they'd scrubbed and repaired and decorated everything from themselves and their houses to the palace. Flowers bloomed, trees fruited, even the weather seemed determined to impress, the day dawning bright and warm and perfect.

Couriers flew back and forth between the palace and the approaching convoy, and Crowley's jaw clenched tighter every time he heard the thunder of hooves outside.

He was practically vibrating by the time he, Aziraphale and the King and Queen went outside to greet their guests. The black carriage that swept down the drive at the head of the train, pulled by two huge, black horses, was intimidating, but Aziraphale didn't think that was the problem.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, slipping his hand into Crowley's.

"Fine," Crowley said through clenched teeth. "S'just…my parents, you know?"

Aziraphale squeezed his hand and nodded. In over a year together, Crowley had still only told him fragments of the story of how he'd been cursed, but some of it made Aziraphale ready to start the thirty-third war with Tartarus in two hundred years. The smile he plastered on his own face as the carriage came to a stop in front of them was only paper-thin.

He didn't let it falter, though, even when the carriage rolled to a halt in front of them and two people were helped out. Neither of whom were King Lucien of Tartarus, or his Queen.

Aziraphale, Gabriel and Michaela exchanged a look of confusion, but Crowley just stared, his expression blank as their guests ascended the steps.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale whispered, keeping his face set. It seemed to shake Crowley back to Earth.

"My sisters. Beelzebub, in front. And Dagon."

Beelzebub, Crowley's oldest sibling and heir to their father's throne, ignored propriety completely and barely even glanced at Gabriel as she neared, heading straight for her brother instead.

If Crowley hadn't told him, Aziraphale would not have imagined them as siblings at all. Dagon, at least, shared Crowley's bright hair and his height if nothing else. Beelzebub was a good foot shorter, dark-haired and dressed in trousers, of all things. She scowled as she approached, but it melted away as she stopped in front of them.

"It really is you," she said, studying Crowley's face.

"It is." Crowley looked from her to Dagon. "They're not coming then?"

Beelzebub sighed. "No. There's too much going on at home. They send their best—"

Crowley snorted in disbelief. "Typical."

"Perhaps," Aziraphale broke in, "this is a conversation best had elsewhere? Crowley, would you introduce us?"

Aziraphale heard Crowley's heavy exhale through his nose, but Crowley straightened and nodded.

"Right. Sorry. Your Majesties, these are my sisters, Crown Princess Beelzebub and Princess Dagon of Tartarus. Beelzebub, Dagon, Their Majesties King Gabriel and Queen Michaela. My fiancé, Prince Aziraphale."

It wasn't exactly the most formal of introductions, but since Crowley very much looked like he wanted to punch something, nobody objected. Gabriel and Michaela asked polite questions about the princesses' journey as more people emerged from the train of carriages. Aziraphale was nodding along when he felt Crowley stiffen beside him.

"What," Crowley growled, staring down at the growing crowd, "is she doing here?"

Beelzebub, halfway through a sentence, stopped and turned to look. "Oh."

"Oh? Oh? Bee, she turned me into a snake! She is not my friend! Why is she here?"

"She wanted to talk to you," Beelzebub admitted, looking a little chastised. "And, well, nobody else wanted to get cursed, so…"

"So you thought you'd just invite the witch to my wedding?"

"Crowley, darling," Aziraphale interrupted. "Your sisters and their companions must be tired from their journey. Why don't we let the staff show them to their rooms, and we'll resume this discussion later? In private?"

By dinner time the shock had ebbed away. Crowley had spent an hour cloistered with his sisters while Aziraphale tried desperately to concentrate on a book, and then both sets of royals had come together for afternoon tea and some slightly less tense conversation, before separating to prepare for dinner.

Crowley was taking longer than usual to decide on his outfit. He'd sent the valet away ten minutes before, and was still no further along. Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed and watched as his fiancé discarded several apparently identical shirts, before finally settling on one that seemed no different from the others.

"It went all right, earlier? With your sisters?" he asked. "Things seemed…calmer, at tea."

Crowley shrugged. "S'not their fault our parents are useless, is it? And I missed them. It's still awkward, but we'll get there."

"I'm glad." Aziraphale got to his feet and stood behind Crowley, wrapping his arms around his middle and slightly disrupting his efforts at doing up his shirt. "While I have no objections to keeping you all to myself, I wouldn't want you to fall out with your sisters when you've not seen them in so long."

"That's my guardian angel, always looking out for me." Crowley turned in Aziraphale's arms, brushed first their noses and then their lips together. Aziraphale slid his hands up under the hem of Crowley's loose shirt, finding smooth, warm skin and the cooler line of scales that adorned his spine. Crowley whined at the touch and nipped at Aziraphale's bottom lip. "How about we skip dinner?"

"Crowley…" Aziraphale admonished. "We can't."

"Fine," Crowley grumbled, pressing his mouth to the sensitive spot behind Aziraphale's ear. "We could be a bit late, though…"

Aziraphale opened his mouth, though he hadn't quite decided if it was to object or accede or just to groan at the scrape of teeth along his neck, but whatever the words might have been they never had a chance to form, interrupted by a sharp knock on the sitting room door.

"Ignore them," Crowley begged, but Aziraphale was already stepping away, heading into the sitting room to answer it. The servants always knocked, these days, but with much less force, and he had no idea who it could be.

Opening the door did not enlighten him. The girl that stood there was certainly not one of the palace staff, but nor was she one of the noble ladies of the court. She was dressed simply, with brown hair tumbling loose around her shoulders instead of in an elaborate updo, but she held herself like she expected the world to obey her, though she couldn't have been more than about nineteen. And, oddly, perched on her shoulder there was a…lizard? Some sort of salamander? It stared at Aziraphale with beady, yellow and black eyes.

"Can I help you?" he asked with forced politeness.

She smiled enigmatically. "Oh, I think I'm the one who's helped you."

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale found his mask slipping as Crowley's footsteps approached behind him. "I think you may be in the wrong place."

"No, I definitely want to be here. Ask him."

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, to find Crowley glaring at their visitor, his hands gone still on his remaining buttons. The pieces clicked together, and Aziraphale's fingers tightened around the door handle.

"You're the witch who turned him into a snake."

"That's me. Anathema Device. You're welcome, by the way."

"I'm sorry, I don't think I quite—"

"Look, if I hadn't cursed him, he'd still be stuck in Tartarus," she pointed out in a reasonable tone, "and you wouldn't be marrying him."

Crowley hissed, a sound that was entirely serpentine and not human at all. Aziraphale turned his head just in time to see the forked ends of a tongue disappear into Crowley's mouth, to catch the look of startled fear in his amber eyes.

"If you think you helped me, witch—" Crowley began, voice thick around his tongue in a way it never had been as a snake, but far from seeming cowed Anathema beamed.

"Oh, you've figured it out then! I wasn't sure if you would!" she exclaimed.

"Figured out what, exactly?" Aziraphale asked.

"The partial transmogrification!" She looked between them, her expression falling. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

Crowley hissed again as Aziraphale shook his head.

"I think perhaps you'd better come in."

"Angel, what?" Crowley objected, but he let Aziraphale push him back a step to give Anathema room to enter. His voice sounded normal again now, his tongue apparently back to its human shape. "I don't want her in here."

"I'm not ecstatic about it myself, darling, but you have to admit she'll have some of the answers we need. And it's hardly a matter to be discussed in the corridor." Aziraphale gestured Anathema into a chair and tugged Crowley down onto the sofa with him. "I'm afraid I can't offer you any tea. Now, what exactly did you mean by 'partial transmogrification'?"

"Talk quickly," Crowley suggested with a growl, "or my patience will run out." Despite his tone, his hand was shaking where it was gripping tight to Aziraphale's.

"Right. So. I know you just noticed what happened to your tongue, and judging by the fact that neither of you seemed overly shocked by it, I'm guessing there have been other…traits. Temporary ones."

"There have been…some scales," Aziraphale admitted when Crowley's only answer was a glare.

"Scales." Anathema nodded and made herself comfortable in the chair. "So, turning a person into a snake, it's not exactly easy. I had to try and conserve your mass as much as possible, for one thing, which was why you were such a large snake. And then I needed to…persuade…your morphogenic field that it belonged to a giant snake, and not to a man."

"My what now?" Crowley asked.

"Morphogenic field. It's…like an aura, sort of. It defines…the shape of your spirit, shall we say? If your morphogenic field is convinced you're a human, no amount of magic on my part will convince your body to change. But convince the field, and the body is quick to follow. You just need to nudge it in the right direction."

"Get to the point," Crowley growled.

"I'm getting there. See, once that path's been taken, it's easy to follow it back the other way, so to speak. Meet the right conditions, break the curse, and snap back to your old shape. But the pathway is still there. You can travel along it, sometimes without even noticing. Like any journey, going the whole way would take a lot of effort, but a few steps in that direction…as easy as breathing, once you know how. That's partial transmogrification."

"So you're saying Crowley could…control this? Choose which traits he'd like to keep?" Aziraphale asked, leaning forwards.

"Can I stop it?" Crowley wanted to know. "What about my eyes, they've been like this the whole time."

"Hmmmm." Anathema chewed on a fingernail, considering. "Your morphogenic field was exceedingly easy to convince it should be a snake. I think maybe you're stuck with the eyes. Sorry, that wasn't meant to happen. As to the rest…yes. Once you know what to look out for, you should be able to stop it, or control it as you wish."

Somewhere in the palace, a gong sounded, calling them to dinner. Aziraphale stood, the other two following by habit if nothing else.

"Well," he said, looking at Anathema. "This has been…illuminating. But I would appreciate more notice of social calls in the future."

Anathema had the decency to look abashed. "Sorry. I just didn't think you would accept a request for a meeting, otherwise."

"You're likely correct," Aziraphale agreed. "Now, if you don't mind, we're on course to be dreadfully late for dinner."

Anathema gave a low bow—witches don't curtsey—and turned for the door.

"Wait."

Aziraphale and Anathema both turned to look at Crowley.

"Why?" he asked, his voice almost desperate. "Why curse me to punish them? Why banish me to one of our kingdom's greatest enemies? I remember you, as a girl, always hiding in a corner with your nose in a book. What did I ever do to you?"

Anathema couldn't have been more than half Crowley's age, but the pitying look she gave him made her seem unfathomably old.

"What did you do to me? Nothing. You never stole the book from my hands, never laughed at me when I said strange things, never treated me as less because of who I was, what my mother was. You were kind, in a palace, in a family where that was a flaw. Your parents didn't deserve you, and you didn't deserve to be stuck with them. It was a punishment for them, yes; they've spent the last two years trying to explain to their subjects why their son was stolen away from them. But you…I sent you here because here is where the curse could be broken. Where you could be loved for who you are, whatever shape you were in. I didn't know who it was you were going to find, but I knew you would find them, and I'm glad you did."

She didn't wait for a response, not that it seemed likely one was immediately forthcoming. Aziraphale and Crowley both watched, wordless, as she swept out of the door.

Two weeks flew by faster than Aziraphale could comprehend. His days were filled with sessions with the palace tailor, the seneschal, the archbishop. Gabriel and Michaela's wedding was nearly two decades in the past, and the appetite among the populace for a royal wedding was almost overwhelming.

Quite afternoons with Crowley were a distant memory. When they saw each other at all, it was in the middle of a chattering crowd of people, or late at night when they fell into bed, exhausted.

Still, they found a little time to experiment. Crowley could banish the scales that crept across his skin, or bring them back. He could turn his tongue long and forked and dexterous, a particular favourite of Aziraphale's, or lengthen his canines into fangs.

The morning of their wedding dawned bright and clear and far too early. Aziraphale had spent a restless night alone in his too-large bed, tradition forcing Crowley into his own rooms for the night for the first time, and when the sun rose he gave up on the idea entirely and rang for tea.

Muriel, usually a chatterer, took one look at him and set the pot and cup down in silence before retreating, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

His stomach was far too fluttery to eat the bread and butter Muriel had set out alongside the tea, but the hot liquid itself was soothing, the ritual of it a familiar comfort against the strangeness of the day.

He'd never thought he'd be excited for his wedding.

The morning went by like a story in a book, as if it were happening to somebody else. Gabriel visited and gave him what was presumably meant to be an encouraging speech, with several hearty slaps on the back. Muriel cleared away the tea and sent in Aziraphale's valet, who began the task of preparing him for the ceremony.

It had been the work of several days to decide on his outfit, weeks more to construct it. It wasn't the latest fashion, but the tailor knew Aziraphale's tastes well, and had relished the opportunity to show off his skills. The shoes alone were pale, satin, impractical things that would likely be ruined by the end of the day. The amount of gold embroidery and buttons on his coat was nearly obscene; but when he'd said so the tailor had reminded him that half the point of a royal wedding was to show off the wealth of the whole country to their neighbours, to its subjects. Very few of the attendees were there to see Aziraphale, they were there to see the Prince of Beulah wed the Prince of Tartarus, to see peace and prosperity brought to life. So Aziraphale had allowed the tailor his gold thread and his cream satin, had chosen the pale pink of his stockings and the creamy lace at his cuffs.

It hardly seemed to be him in the mirror, as his valet fussed around him, straightening hems and smoothing non-existent creases. Even his hair was perfect, trimmed and fluffed to something for more intentional than his usual riot of near-curls. He could excuse the pink that tinged his cheeks, the summer's day too warm for the layers of his outfit, but the brightness in his eyes could be nothing more than giddy excitement.

The ceremony was to take place at midday, halfway between sunrise and sunset on the longest day of the year. The archbishop had objected to that, declaring it to be reminiscent of pagan ritual. But Tartarus had always been less concerned with Christianity than many of its neighbours, and though they observed the holidays and rituals of the Church they had not put aside their old traditions; and this was Crowley's wedding as much as it was Aziraphale's.

Two hours to go, and Aziraphale's hands were shaking. He'd become so used to reaching out for Crowley, for him to be there when Aziraphale needed him. He kept turning his head to the left, purely out of habit, looking for somebody who wasn't there, just a little while longer.

One hour left and Gabriel and Michaela invaded his rooms, nursemaid and twins in tow. They dragged him down to the great hall to greet their guests; dukes and earls, kings and queens of neighbouring countries, more strange faces than familiar ones. Aziraphale smile grew fixed and threatened to crack as he went through the rote pleasantries and thanks.

Fifteen minutes to go and Aziraphale was ushered to the palace chapel, to sit in quiet prayer and contemplation while the most important guests filed into the pews.

Somewhere, just out of reach, Crowley would be doing the same.

Two minutes to midday and Gabriel walked by his side to the altar. Archbishop Sandalphon, whom Aziraphale had never liked, stood waiting, but Aziraphale hardly even noticed him.

Crowley was matching him, step for step, from the other side of the altar, Beelzebub on his arm.

Aziraphale had thought the tailor had reached his peak with Aziraphale's outfit, and he had indulged himself with lace and frills. But Crowley…it was all Aziraphale could do to stay on his feet, move one in front of the other. The basic design of Crowley's outfit was similar to his own, if a little more fashionable in cut, but while Aziraphale was all in pale pinks and creams, Crowley coat and breeches were a stark black, his waistcoat a bright, familiar red that, as Aziraphale drew closer, was patterned very subtly in scales.

And none of it mattered.

Three steps to the altar. Two. One, and Gabriel and Beelzebub faded away, hanging back as Crowley and Aziraphale took the final step towards each other.

"Angel." Crowley looked like Aziraphale felt: like he was going to be sick, going to cry, to faint. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. "We made it."

"We did," Aziraphale breathed, his eyes fixed on Crowley's.

Time flowed forwards, the archbishop began to speak. There were vows exchanged, promises made. Aziraphale repeated the words he was told to, and heard none of them. He watched Crowley repeat them in turn, watched his mouth shape them around slightly-too-sharp canines. He took his fiancé's hands, slid a ring onto his finger with more unheard words, received the same in return.

Aziraphale fell into his husband's arms when the words ran out.

The main problem with a Midsummer wedding, in Aziraphale's opinion, was that he couldn't reasonably depart the festivities until sunset, which seemed forever away.

There was no way to steal a few private moments with his new husband, though Crowley stayed firmly attached to his side as they made polite conversation with this earl or that duke, and as the dancing began, only separating when a measure demanded it, swirling away with some other partner but always returning to each other.

Aziraphale's feet, in their impractical and predictably scuffed cream satin shoes, were sore from dancing, his throat from talking, his cheeks from smiling, and the only thing that mattered was that Crowley's hand was in his and he never had to let go.

He pulled Crowley away from the dancing and found a seat on a bench at the side of the ballroom where they could watch the other couples dance and take a moment to breathe.

"Can we run away yet?" Crowley asked, watching his sister Dagon dance with one of the young ladies who had once half-heartedly pursued Aziraphale. "Nobody will notice."

"I believe they will, my dear. We are the guests of honour, after all."

Crowley grinned at him. "I suppose we are."

Aziraphale could only smile back.

"Have you two given up already?" Anathema flopped down on the bench next to Aziraphale. Crowley glared at her, but his heart didn't seem in it as his eyes quickly moved back to Aziraphale and his mouth turned back up at the corners.

"We're merely taking a break," Aziraphale assured her. "It's rather warm for all this dancing."

"True." Anathema turned to the young man who accompanied her. "Newt, be a dear and fetch us some drinks, will you?"

"Yes, Anathema." He wandered off, leaving Aziraphale watching him speculatively.

"Newt?" he asked, checking Anathema's shoulder and making note of the absence of what he had assumed to be some sort of familiar. Not a lizard, after all.

Anathema shrugged. "Sometimes, you need a spare pair of hands for a spell. Or a date for a ball. Or…other things. Thank you, Newt." She took a glass of wine from her companion, who handed one each to Aziraphale and Crowley as well before quietly taking a seat on the other side of Anathema and staring straight ahead. "You don't get a lot of intelligence, this way around, but he's good at following basic instructions. Which is more than I can say for a lot of men. And he's very good with his tongue, which I'm sure you can understand, Your Highness." She winked at Aziraphale, who nearly choked on his drink.

"I-I don't know what you mean," Aziraphale spluttered.

"Of course you don't." Anathema patted his hand condescendingly, and looked at Crowley. "How's the partial transmogrification going?"

"I hardly think this is an appropriate occasion for such discussions!" Aziraphale cut in, rather high-pitched.

"Probably not," Anathema agreed, without an ounce of shame. "This is why it's much more fun to be a witch. I don't care, and nobody can make me. Come on, Newt, I want to dance some more."

Her date-slash-familiar stood up and let her take his arm and tow him back onto the dance floor without a backwards glance.

"Well," said Crowley after a minute. "That was a thing."

"Yes, rather."

"She's not wrong, mind you. You do like it when I do weird things with my—"

Crowley was saved from the indignity of being very publicly murdered by his husband of fewer than eight hours by the appearance of his eldest sister.

"Crowley, I'm stealing your husband for this dance," Beelzebub announced, pulling Aziraphale to his feet without asking and leading him into the crowd.

Aziraphale shot a pleading look over his shoulder, but Crowley just shrugged, and after a moment Aziraphale lost sight of him through the swirl of dancers. He turned his attention to Beelzebub instead.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Your Highness?"

Beelzebub snorted, entirely unladylike, and began to follow the steps of the dance, with herself in the lead. "I think we can dispense with the titles, now. Unless you'd prefer otherwise, Prince Aziraphale?"

"Point taken. But you did wish to speak with me?"

"Maybe I just wanted to dance with my new brother-in-law." Beelzebub grinned, a smile with far too many teeth and very little humour.

"Since your brother tells me that the two of you spent half your dancing lessons as children raiding the kitchens for sweets, I'm not sure I believe you."

"Fine. I'll get to the point. My brother disappeared for two years, and that witch wouldn't tell us where he was, or anything beyond the fact she'd changed him into a snake and sent him away. We were never really close, but he was my little brother, mine, and I was furious. With her, with him, with our parents for being the cause of it all. I wanted him back, and then when we finally hear from him again, it's to tell us he's marrying the prince of one of our worst enemies. To tell us he's not coming home."

"I'm…sorry." Aziraphale's steps faltered, and Beelzebub glared at him until he found his rhythm again.

"Don't be." Beelzebub grinned again at Aziraphale's visible confusion. "He's happy, Aziraphale. Happier than he ever was at home, even when we were children. I'll miss him, but he belongs here, with you now."

"So this is…"

"A thank you." For the first time, her smile seemed genuine. "And a warning. If he stops being happy, our parents probably won't care. But when they're gone, and I'm Queen…" The smile turned sharp again. "I will happily start another war."

She dropped his hands and, ignoring the music and the other dancers completely, strode away.

Chapter Text

The door to Aziraphale's rooms—Aziraphale and Crowley's rooms, now, officially—shut heavily, propelled by Aziraphale's weight against it.

"That was the longest day of my life," Crowley complained, pressing Aziraphale against the wood. His hands were already wandering, one creeping up under the skirt of Aziraphale's waistcoat, the thumb of the other tracing a line from Aziraphale's high collar up along his throat, gently tipping Aziraphale's head back so their mouths could meet.

Aziraphale melted into the kiss with a contented sigh, letting Crowley's body hold him up, all the tension of the day dissolving until the only thing left was the two of them.

"You look…" Crowley growled against Aziraphale's neck, stopping to taste the skin with a tongue turned serpentine. Aziraphale shuddered with pleasure at the twin points of sensation. "Spent all day waiting to unwrap you. Surprised I didn't cause a scene in the chapel."

"You're hardly terrible to look at yourself, my dear." Aziraphale ran his hands up the bright red silk of Crowley's waistcoat, then pushed the black coat from his shoulders. "But I believe I shall do a little unwrapping of my own."

Soon, a trail of clothing decorated the path from the sitting room door to the bedroom: coats and waistcoats, Crowley's shoes, Aziraphale's shirt. They paused against the frame of the bedroom door, Crowley's hand busy in the open front of Aziraphale's breeches, tongues dancing together.

Aziraphale whined in disappointment when Crowley's hand withdrew, leaving him hard and aching for more.

"All in good time, angel," Crowley promised, steering him towards the bed. "You still want to do what we talked about?"

"Yes."

"Sure? It's been a long day, we could get some rest instead…" Crowley's grin was teasing and wicked, and Aziraphale kissed it away.

"I'm quite sure, you fiend."

"Right." Crowley dropped to his knees, steadying himself with his hands on Aziraphale's hips. His breath was hot on Aziraphale's exposed skin, but he ignored the obvious reaction to his movement and instead considered Aziraphale's feet. "These shoes are utterly ridiculous." He slid his hands down Aziraphale's thighs, stopped above the knees to unbutton the legs of his breeches. "You're keeping them on."

It was all Aziraphale could do to stay upright at Crowley tugged the breeches down over his hips. He fell back onto the bed as Crowley eased them further down, over his calves and then carefully manoeuvring them past his shoes. A finger, a tongue ran around the top of one of his stockings, tasting the sensitive skin and leaving the garment damp but otherwise unmolested.

"Crowley…" Aziraphale pleaded, grasping at strands of red hair in a futile attempt to guide Crowley's head where he wanted it; but Crowley wouldn't be led, his mouth forging a trail up the inside of Aziraphale's thigh at a glacial pace. "Please."

Crowley hummed consideringly and nipped at Aziraphale's thigh with teeth too sharp to be fully human, but not quite enough to be fangs. Aziraphale moaned and spread his legs further open, inviting, begging, but Crowley drew back.

"Up the bed," he ordered, and Aziraphale scrambled to obey, making himself comfortable against the pillows under Crowley's unblinking stare. He watched as Crowley shed his own clothes, dropping them to the floor without ceremony before climbing onto the bed, the evidence of his latest experiment hanging, obvious and mesmerising, between his legs.

Crowley saw the direction of his gaze; his grin turned predatory. "Not yet, angel. Need to get you nice and ready for them first. Pass me the oil?"

Aziraphale grabbed the vial, within easy reach beside the bed, and handed it to Crowley. "Now, please, will you just—oh."

Crowley's mouth was soft, warm and wet, and he took all of Aziraphale's length in easily. Aziraphale groaned and shifted, unable to stop the small rolls of his hips that pushed him further down Crowley's throat. He grabbed at the bedsheets, fingers twisting into the fabric as Crowley eased one slick digit into his arse, pinning him between two points of pleasure.

"Oh Lord—oh God—oh Crowley!" Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut as a second finger nudged its way in alongside the first. He wasn't entirely sure how he was going to make it through the rest of the night; everything already felt so good he was sure he would break apart, but they'd hardly even started.

It seemed to go on for an age. The hot slide of Crowley's mouth, the pointed, corkscrewing press of his fingers. No matter how much Aziraphale writhed or begged, Crowley refused to be rushed, opening him up at a deliberate pace.

Aziraphale cried out in dismay when Crowley pulled away, though the sound was quickly stopped by Crowley's mouth on his. His body rolled upwards, seeking friction, but Crowley's hand on his hip forced him back down onto the mattress.

"I love you this desperate," Crowley confided, licking a hot stripe up Aziraphale's neck with his delightfully forked tongue. "Such a depraved, debauched little prince. Luckily for me."

"I love you too," Aziraphale groaned, tipping his head back for more and hooking one satin-shod foot around Crowley's waist. He was dreadfully, achingly empty, so aroused he could hardly think. "God, Crowley, I need you…"

"You have me," Crowley promised. He shifted position, suddenly a familiar, urgent pressure against Aziraphale's rim. "Forever. Always. Oh, angel…"

Aziraphale was so slick and open that Crowley surely could have slid in with hardly any resistance; but instead he worked his way in slowly, little rolls of his hips that pushed him in bit by glorious bit, making Aziraphale feel the slow, exquisite drag of every last inch.

"You're so…" Crowley groaned, shaking his head when the rest of the sentence faltered. He dipped back down for another kiss instead, one hand wrapping around Aziraphale's knee to bend it towards his body. "You're perfect. I love you. You're mine…"

"Yes." There was no denying it, no debating it. It had been true since that first day in the woods, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, the day's rituals and festivities merely a public declaration of what they'd privately known for months. "Yours."

"Ngk." Crowley picked up his pace and for a few minutes Aziraphale was lost in it. Crowley's fingers digging into his thigh, Crowley's breath hot against his neck, ragged in his ear. And every push in, every slow drag back out, that lit him up from the inside until he was half convinced he was glowing with it…each movement of Crowley's body against his brought another sensation, the slick drag of something heavy and heated along the crease of Aziraphale's hip, an obscene reminder that this was still only the start of their plans for the evening.

Aziraphale could feel Crowley getting closer, could feel him shaking, hear his breathing lose its rhythm. And, oh, how he wanted it, wanted to be filled and claimed, wanted to rush headlong into that giddy pleasure together.

It felt a little like dying when Crowley pulled out with a strangled groan and wrapped a hand tightly around himself, denying them both their peak. Aziraphale's chest heaved, his heart thudded wildly, his whole body mourning the loss as he clenched desperately around nothing and wailed.

"Easy, easy." Crowley's tone was soothing, even as his voice shook. He ran a hand gently up and down Aziraphale's hip, keeping him grounded with the touch. "We'll get there, angel. If you still want to?"

"Yes, yes, Crowley…"

"Yessssss…"

Crowley's hands were shaking as he picked up the little vial of oil again. It splattered, cold and messy, over Aziraphale's bollocks and the sensitive strip of skin behind them, then oozed down the crack of his arse to join the oil already there, drips of it falling to the bed below. It must be making a terrible mess of the sheets, but if you couldn't ruin the bed on your wedding night, when could you?

Three of Crowley's fingers slid in, quick and easy, making Aziraphale gasp at the sudden fullness. No longer quite so slow and careful, Crowley thrust them messily in and out, the slick squelch of it utterly obscene, finding that beautifully sensitive spot with his fingertips with each movement.

"Look at you, you're gorgeous," Crowley breathed, though Aziraphale was sure he must be a sweaty, dishevelled mess. "Just a little bit more, Aziraphale."

There was a moment of stinging stretch as Crowley's little finger pushed its way in with the others, but it was quickly drowned out. Aziraphale's whole body was alight with pleasure, sheened with sweat and oil and the leaking evidence of his arousal. Crowley moved gently, now, rocking his hand in and out a few times before once again withdrawing completely.

Aziraphale keened and reached out blindly, his eyes blurred with tears. Crowley came to him, crashed their mouths together, fangs biting into Aziraphale's lower lip. Aziraphale barely noticed the movement as Crowley opened the oil again, pouring the last of it over his hand and using it to slick himself up.

He did notice the sudden, overwhelming pressure as Crowley lined himself up.

"Oh God, oh God, oh fuck…" It was too much. Aziraphale had been too greedy, flown too close to the sun, and now he was burning…

"Holy mother of…" Crowley groaned above him, grabbing Aziraphale's leg and putting it over his shoulder, his oil-covered fingers making a ruin of Aziraphale's stockings. He held steady, both thick, blunt heads pressing against but not in. "Ready?"

"Oh, oh, oh…" Aziraphale nodded frantically. It seemed impossible that he could stand this, but it was even less possible to stop. Crowley shoved in, a stretch so sharply, blindingly good that it forced all the air from Aziraphale's lungs, even though Crowley had only pushed in a single inch.

"Angel?"

"Don't…stop…"

"Nggghhhh..."

Aziraphale was on fire, he was split open, he was scattering like ashes on the wind. He dug the heel of his shoe into Crowley's back, he arched off the bed, he tore at the bedsheets. He keened and sobbed and howled.

And still Crowley was pushing in, inch by agonising, rapturous inch, until he was fully sheathed, the heavy hang of his bollocks pressed against Aziraphale's arse, two thick, hot shafts crammed inside.

Aziraphale was so full he was almost mad with it. Tears ran freely down his face and onto the pillows beneath, the very concept of language had fled from his head, but still he was begging for more, more, more.

Crowley pulled back, thrust back in, a gentle rocking motion that dragged repeatedly against sensitive spots that Aziraphale hadn't even known he possessed. He must have done something to his spine, let it turn as snake-like as his tongue and teeth and the stiff, scorching shafts inside Aziraphale, because he bent over to suck the tight bud of one of Aziraphale's nipples into his mouth.

It was too much. It was everything. Aziraphale spilled in messy spurts over his stomach and still the pleasure rolled on. Crowley groaned, his movements turning erratic as Aziraphale pulsed around him, but he didn't stop. Nonsense words fell from his mouth as he moved, pressed into Aziraphale's skin.

Aziraphale's pleasure peaked again as Crowley finally did the same, hot pulses filling Aziraphale full to bursting. When Crowley slowly pulled out again, Aziraphale could feel it dripping slowly out of his arse and onto the ruined sheets below.

"Holy fuck," Crowley panted. Aziraphale half-opened his eyes to look at him, finding his husband as flushed and worn out as he felt, and looking at Aziraphale with something like awe. "You…" He shook his head, the words clearly escaping him, and leant down for another kiss. Slow, this time, his teeth and tongue human again but no less sweet. He brushed an errant curl from Aziraphale's forehead as he pulled away again with a soft smile. "Don't move, I'll be right back."

"I don't think there's much risk of that," Aziraphale rasped, enjoying the way Crowley's smile turned wicked for a moment. His eyes slid shut again as Crowley moved away, and by the time Crowley returned it seemed far too much effort to open them.

The cloth Crowley used to clean him up was wonderfully cool against Aziraphale's fevered skin. Crowley dragged it over his face first, wiping away the sweat and tears, then ran it over his chest, his belly.

"You should see the mess I've made of you," he murmured as he carefully cleaned Aziraphale's stretched and oversensitive hole. "Beautiful."

Aziraphale hummed sleepily and let Crowley finish cleaning him up and roll him onto his side away from the damp, oily spot on the sheets. Then Crowley slid in next to him, pulling a sheet over them both.

"Did that meet all your dreams and expectations for your wedding night, angel?" Crowley asked, wrapping himself around Aziraphale.

"My expectations…" Aziraphale opened an eye with considerable effort. "My dreams for my wedding night were that the lady I was forced to marry wouldn't hate me afterwards. This…I never even dared to dream. My dreams have always been woefully lacking, because they could never have predicted you, my love."

"So you'll keep me then?"

It was a ridiculous question, and with only one possible answer. Aziraphale kissed him again, and wondered if he could ever stop.

…And they lived happily ever after.