Kukkutarma, Indus Valley, 1932 BCE

Writing was pretty easy once you got the basic idea of symbolic language, and after all language was always symbolic, Crawly supposed. There were a lot more of them around since that Babel thing.

As the meticulous hand guided his, the stylus gliding through the clay, Aziraphale's standing behind him with his body and face so close to Crawly that he could feel his sunshine scented breath on his cheek, he wondered just how long he could reasonably pretend not to have figured it out. Then he wondered why he was convinced he knew what sunshine smelled like. He'd help create the stars, he knew they were big sulphurous stinking things that served as inspiration for Hell, and there was no way their light should smell like Aziraphale just because both light and Aziraphale were on this small planet with him.

"It's really very clever of the humans," Crawly said. "No one can pretend to be confused about the rules once they are written down and the clay is baked." Unless someone substituted another tablet, but he probably shouldn't say that aloud.

"The Metatron was very impressed. It's going to make their job a lot easier now they don't have to create an image of every human at every stage of their life for the records."

"I should imagine. Hell is going to Fall all over again for this stuff," Crawly said, thinking of the opportunities, and the commendations.

The hand around his dropped away and Aziraphale stepped away, humming under his breath. "Yes. Well. That's enough for today." Crawly waited to be told that it was over and he should leave, but instead Aziraphale said, "I want to take you shopping."

"For what? More food I haven't tried?" Crawly said hopefully, remembering the mango.

"Clothes."

"What for?" Crawly looked down at the rough black silk flatteringly folded around him, glistening with red carnelian beads and tiny pearly shells that looked just a little like scales. He was rather proud of the job, and it annoyed him that Aziraphale didn't seem to appreciate it.

"Because, dear boy, Kalidasa has noticed that you don't leave your clothes out by the bath. Put together with your, er, other unique features, he's worried you might be some kind of eldritch creature invading the house to corrupt me."

Perceptive lad, thought Crawly. "Oh. Well, I can make sure he doesn't notice. My own servants never notice anything, if they know what's good for them."

"I really cannot have you interfering with my humans' minds," Aziraphale said firmly. "Come on. Let's choose you some real human clothes. It will be fun."

"I hope you don't expect me to have anything to barter for them, unless you don't mind it vanishing when I lose attention." He couldn't recall anyone in Heaven worrying about if things were fun or not, and Hell had somewhat interesting ideas of fun, especially when you started exploring the lower Pits. Not that he ever had after the first time.

Aziraphale sighed. "Word to the wicked, it would really help you to blend in if you took human customs more seriously." He went to a shelf and took down a pot full of delicate carved beads in precious materials.

"You want me to get a job?" Crawly smirked at the thought, as they climbed down into the city level. "Like a scribe, for example? Just think of all the things I could write, and they would never know if what I wrote matched what they said. Until the consequences."

"Don't make me regret teaching you, my dear," said Aziraphale, which made Crawly wonder, again, why the angel had decided to teach him in the first place. It had hardly been necessary. Even if Crawly had really wanted to learn, he could have learned from humans.

"Look, this writing thing could work out for both of us," he said, careful to make amends. The angel was weaving through the crowd, excusing himself politely when he needed a way through, as if it didn't occur to him to be an inconvenience to humans. It created a weird swirl of unaccustomed feelings in his stomach. Well, irritation wasn't really an unaccustomed feeling, it was part of his background emotion at most times. It was the unfamiliar thing mixing with it, which was unsettling and effervescing all at once.

He put a hand on Aziraphale's bare shoulder to guide him, and mentally arranged that the humans parted to clear their path. The angel's skin really was softer than silk. "Think about it. I mean, it's a pain to have to report in all the time. We could just send in a few tablets, and only pop Down—I mean Up—for the big stuff."

"Well, it's nice to talk to another celestial being every now and then." He couldn't see Aziraphale's face. "Oh, look at this, isn't it lovely?"

They stopped by a stall selling fine Mesopotamian woollen textiles, brightly dyed red with madder and yellow with turmeric. It reminded Crawly of Babylon two centuries ago. Two centuries... Had it really been two centuries since he had spent time with this angel? Not that two hundred years was long at all. In the beginning, before he came to this world, a century had passed like a short and very boring daydream. In this world, crowded with incident and interest, it occurred to him that there were a lot of experiences that only the two of them had the chance of sharing. Humans lived and died, other angels and demons came and went, and only the two of them seemed inclined to stick around.

Crawley took in Aziraphale's face, bright with pleasure as he selected textiles as a present for a demon, and wondered if he was right about what lay behind the ready smile.

He'd run into a few angels in his two thousand years on Earth. Some were old friends, and he steered clear of them, not wanting the painful arguments and possibility of being sliced into pieces with fiery swords. Most were focused on a particular task, message or smiting, and then went back to Heaven. The Watchers had been the last ones to show much personal interest in humans in general, and that had all literally gone to Hell with that nasty Nephelim business. Even the Principalities and guardian angels, special shepherds of humanity, didn't wander around marketplaces, adopt pet monkeys or take up jobs as scribes. They tended to stay focused on guiding a particular king or prophet through a particular crisis, and then thankfully shoot back to Heaven.

Oh, shit. Was that what Aziraphale has supposed to be doing in Shinar, preventing Nimrod doing the whole giant ziggurat to Heaven thing? Crawly hoped he hasn't dumped the angel in too much trouble.

And with that undemonly thought Crawly recognised the uncomfortable feeling. Protectiveness. He was feeling protective of an angel. Oh, Satan, he hoped that never got back to Dagon. He'd be right back in Tartaróō with the Watchers before he could hiss.

Right. No more guiding the angel through marketplaces with a loving hand, or sitting writing together, or sharing fruit. He'd take leave of Asia completely and go somewhere else, Australia seemed nice and warm, and focus on causing trouble with the humans. Hanging around feeling all protective just because an angel seemed a bit lonely was a suicidal thing to do.

"And this." Aziraphale beamed like a rosy dawn, and placed something on Crawly's head.

Crawly glowered defensively. "What, a halo?" He pulled it off his head and stared at it. A thin silver fillet, wrought to resemble a snake, with tiny yellow agate eyes.

"Tactless? Or too ostentatious?" Aziraphale seemed a little anxious at his silence. "It's just that, well. You made a very handsome snake, I thought."

"No such thing as too ostentatious," said Crawly, replacing it, and hissing his words just a little. He didn't thank Aziraphale, but received a relieved smile anyway, in a way that did things to his balance. Oh, heaven. "Come on, angel. I need a drink."

Alcohol was also, he reflected, a clever human invention, but it could stand to be a lot stronger than it was. They found a place to sit, where men were drinking sweet surāh out of terracotta cups.

"Scrumptious," sighed Aziraphale, sipping it down. "Oh, do you know that young lady?"

A dancing girl, naked except for strings of carnelian beads wrapped around one arm, was stamping and swaying to the music while the drinkers watched. Crawly lazily grinned at her, and she gleamed back, almost as if she instinctively recognised a sympathiser with deviltry.

"Not personally," Crawly said. "I just recognised her jewellery."

"I see." Aziraphale's frown wrinkled in a perturbed kind of way. He turned back to follow the girl's movements, and Crawly had the horrible conviction that the angel was going to approach her and persuade her to confess her sins. Utter waste of temptation.

"She's pretty, but don't consider courting the humans," he warned, deliberately unfair. "Remember the Nephelim."

Aziraphale immediately stiffened. "Don't be ridiculous. I was not considering anything of the kind. Surely that's more in your line?"

Crawly shrugged noncommittally. "Don't expect me to give away tricks of the trade. Then what? Is it the naked dancing?" It was so easy to make this angel blush. So easy that he added, "I could dance naked for you, if you wanted."

He expected more blushes and flustered looks, but instead Aziraphale looked levelly at him, and said, "I don't think you'd pass as a dancer."

"You wound me. Is it this form? I could try something more lady-like, if you prefer. Anything you like." He let his voice linger seductively.

"Not at all. It's that I've seen you attempt a natural human walk," Aziraphale said crisply.

"Now that," said Crawly, "was not a very angelic remark." They held each others' gaze for a moment, then Aziraphale broke first, tittering, and Crawly let his own laughter ring out.

"Come on home," he said. "Get me drunk enough, and I'll repay your hospitality by dancing for you."

"I don't see what I've done to deserve such a terrible threat," Aziraphale protested, letting himself be helped up and guided back to his house. Crowley kept a hand on the angel's shoulder, and refused to question himself about it.

Much later, as they half lay out in the courtyard and watched the far away exploding horrors of stars, Aziraphale said, "Were you teasing when you said you'd take a female form and dance naked for me?"

"Of course I was." Crawly drained his goblet of surāh. "But I'll still do it if you want. I've never backed away from a bluff."

"No, I wouldn't bother." Aziraphale stared up at the stars, goblet dangling from his fingers. "I quite like your current form."

It was, Crawly decided then and there, his own favourite form. He fingered the fillet holding his curls in place, and looked for nebulas he'd made.

Notes:

1) The fallen angels are held in a special section of Hell called Tartaróō in The Book of Enoch.

2) Surāh was possibly the first alcohol, made from a variety of sugary or starchy substances, and was also probably not nearly strong enough for Crowley.

3) Dancing girl inspired by the Harappan figurine called, well, Dancing Girl. She looks so mischievous in her jewellery and nothing else.