London Present Day, after the Last Day

Aziraphale leaned in close across the table as he told Crowley about a performance of Britta Byström's Picnic at Hanging Rock he was planning to attend.

"It's like she says herself, a dream within a dream," he said, pale blue-green eyes shining like round stars. "It feels like—like—well, not like heaven. Like disappearing. I'd give you a copy, but I don't trust you not to play it in your car and make it be about girls with generous posteriors. But my dear, you really should hear it."

He leaned forward even closer, his hand on the table between them. Crowley eyed it warily.

"I could always download it if you really want me to listen," he said. He had had an excellent meal, he had even more excellent wine, the world wasn't going to end and he wasn't going to take a bath in holy water any time soon, it seemed, so he was willing enough to indulge the angel's odd passions. Besides, he quite liked music. It was something they had in common. One of the pleasures of the world.

He just wasn't sure about the hand on the table, and why it had been positioned like that.

"But it must be experienced live. Do you have any plans Friday night?" asked Aziraphale, for whom, like for Crowley, booked out seats were something that happened to someone else.

Crowley looked even more closely at the hand. It was just lying there on the table, expectant. If a hand could be expectant. He was probably imagining it. It was a nice hand, though, beautifully and expensively looked after, and Crowley could smell the rose scent of Aziraphale's hand cream if he paid attention. "Angel, I don't have any plans at all any more."

Aziraphale said, "No, no, I suppose not." He looked a little anxious, and the hand twitched a little as if he was going to think better and draw back. That suddenly felt like the worst possibility in the world.

So Crowley reached out and covered Aziraphale's hand with his own.

"Well." Aziraphale seemed to lose track of what he was saying for a moment, the faintest of pink staining the apples of his cheeks. "Well, then I insist you come with me. And," he added, clearly gaining confidence, "I insist you read the book first."

"I don't think I'll have time to read anything. Busy." Crowley let his fingers coil over the back of Aziraphale's hand. His skin was warm, and incredibly soft. It possibly justified all the attention lavished on it by Aziraphale's manicurist.

"You just said you had no plans," Aziraphale said firmly. His thumb curled around Crowley's, almost possessively. "It's nice and short, in any case. And you'll understand the tone poem better."

"A tone poem? Angel, are you trying to bore me to discorporation?" Crowley tried not to stare at their hands. It was fine. Just because Aziraphale had rarely been the one to initiate touch in sixty centuries. And, after all, he hadn't really initiated it this time, had he? He had just rested a hand on the table, and Crowley had assumed. Still, there was the thumb to consider.

"It's beautiful and you will love it. Nice and dramatic and creepy. You approve of creepy."

"Is there a film instead?"

"Well, actually there is." Aziraphale carried on, making plans, and Crowley let the world spin. They were just sitting in a restaurant together, holding hands. They'd gone to concerts before, and bickered for hours about the performances, without it being anything like the human concept of a date. It wasn't as if he hadn't suggested much, much more interesting activities to Aziraphale over the millennia than mere hand holding, and been knocked back each time. It was just that it had always been him doing the pushing before, and now...

He wondered what had come over the angel, and was terrified that it would stop.

When they rose to leave, their hands dropped contact, and that was that, he supposed. Aziraphale didn't reach for him, and he didn't reach for Aziraphale. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets instead, and Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, and it didn't feel like they were walking close enough.

After the frenetic chatter at lunch, Aziraphale was oddly silent. Crowley pulled the car into a nonexistent parking spot by the bookshop, with the haunting feeling that there was something expected of him that he wasn't doing.

"Well, see you later," he said, uncertainly.

"Keep in touch," Aziraphale said. There was something odd about his voice, as if he was trying hard to be casual.

"Keep in touch? I thought we were going to see listen to your blasted tone poem on Friday? Of course I'll keep in touch."

Aziraphale brightened, as if some cloud Crowley hadn't even detected had passed. "Naturally. I almost forgot. Well, dear boy, I will see you—"

"Tomorrow," Crowley said hastily. "You have to give me your book, remember? And there's a wine bar I wanted to show you. Full of hipsters, but the booze is good and it might be fun to get drunk without having to worry about starting fights and pushing people to evil. I'll pick you up at eight."

"Right," Aziraphale said, and his expression was so soft, so glowing, so tender that Crowley gave up on trying to be careful and cool and leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

When he drew back, Aziraphale's face had collapsed into hurt feelings. "I thought," the angel said slowly, "that after all we have just been through, you would have given up on all this tempting nonsense. Are you really still trying to earn points with Hell?"

Panic seized Crowley. "No, no of course not. Aziraphale, listen."

The Bentley door closed behind Aziraphale, and the slam of the bookshop door, bell jangling, followed. Crowley sighed and slammed his head on the steering wheel. Aziraphale would forgive him, of course. He always did. That had always been the Hell of it. It had been stupid to think things would be any different this time.

It was a game they had been playing a long, long time, and he was all kinds of fool and idiot if he was going to suddenly start taking it seriously, even if only a few days ago he had thought Aziraphale was dead.

Our side. It would be nice, really nice, if there was an our side. To be honest with himself, there was nothing in all the universe he wanted more.

"I'll pick you up at eight," he repeated to the closed door, and headed back to the flat to take it out on the plants.

*******

Shinar 2200 BCE

Crawly was beginning to realise that he was not really an Earthly snake, and that some serpentine instincts had failed to transfer with the body transformation. More specifically, he wasn't sure what to do when the sun went down in the desert, and his blood began to slow with the cold. Dig? Did snakes dig? With their tails or their teeth? But he was aware that he had lost a lot of blood, and he wasn't sure if digging would make it worse.

He really, really didn't want to discorporate right now. Not when he was three reports behind and didn't have much to report anyway except how good the beer was in Babylon. He would be in serious danger of not being sent up to the surface again for a very long time, if ever. He was so close to pulling off something really, really big, he couldn't afford to have it be stuffed up by dying in the desert like, well, an animal.

He heard human footsteps and tensed, ready to strike. Humans were handy with sticks, and he was not going to discorporate if he could help it. If some human was lost, well, they shouldn't approach a giant bloody snake in a visibly bad mood.

"No need for that, my beauty," said a melodious voice. "I mean you no harm—Crawly? Well, fancy that. What are you doing here?" There was pleasure in the voice, Crawly registered through the blood loss and cold. Genuine pleasure, from an angel discovering a demon in the desert, and it didn't seem to have anything to do with him being wounded and easy to smite.

Aziraphale bent down, his face framed by long white gold curls, his eyes incredibly kind. Crawly's snake instincts must have reasserted themselves, because he slid up towards the heat, wrapping himself around the warm arm and shoulders, huddling close.

"Oh, dear, you're bleeding. Whatever have you been up to?" Aziraphale chided gently.

Crawly, much to his embarrassment, just hissed. He was very tired, and hurting. At least he was warmer. The angel was almost, well, heavenly snug, blood thrumming under soft skin.

"I'm not sure if I can heal you," Aziraphale said, sounding perplexed. "I mean, you're a demon. There's a good chance I could hurt you further, or even destroy you. But..." He sighed. "Crawly, I hope you don't mind, I'm going to take you home. Warmth and food and rest should help."

Crawly, abandoning all dignity, snuggled in closer.

Home turned out to be a rather resplendent brick house near the ziggurat. Crawly had squeezed his retinas shut in exhaustion, but his tongue flickered lazily out to taste the rich scents of the garden in the courthouse before he was carried up. Lots of plants, flowers, fruit... He decided then and there that he liked plants in houses.

Crawley had already figured out by the fine weave and embroidery of the angel's tunic, the heavy bracelets adorning his arms and the perfumed skin that Aziraphale's virtue had not taken the form of ascetic self denial. Quite unlike the other angels he had occasionally run into, and avoided. None of the other angels, however, would have let a wounded demon curl around them and worried about their well-being instead of taking the chance to smite them back to Hell. The angel of the Western Gate was, as always, a fascinating oddity.

The house was damnably warm, heated by burning palm fronds. Aziraphale sat down, and Crowley reluctantly unwound himself from him, slithering to curl up on his lap. He could feel strength returning to him.

"What do snakes eat, I wonder?" Aziraphale said. "Would you like some eggs, or milk?" he hazarded.

"Ssss all right," Crawly said and unfolded into a human shape, his legs tumbling onto the floor, head still resting on Aziraphale's lap. "I prefer beer, anyway." He felt spacey and confused, and the sight of his long auburn curls glowing against Aziraphale's tunic was oddly the most fascinating thing in the world. He shifted, trying to get comfortable with what felt like four too many limbs, and draped his arms further over the angel's lap. They seemed most comfortable with one loosely wrapped around Aziraphale's waist.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale. "I suppose I ought to get you some clothes."

Crawly rolled and looked up at him. The angel looked uncomfortable, and his skin was suffused with pink. "All right, if you think it really matters," Crawly said, with some confusion, and produced a black tunic, stylishly decorated with red tassels, from the ether. "Better?"

"Sorry. I expect I've rather got used to human sensibilities. Not really used to having a naked man on my lap." Aziraphale seems relieved. He patted Crawly lightly. "I don't know much about wrapping wounds, but I can ask one of the servants."

"You have servants?" Crawly smiled, contemplating it, and also contemplating Aziraphale's remark about naked men, and the blush. "Human servants? I mean, I do, but I should have thought an angel—"

"They're useful for cover, dear boy," Aziraphale said defensively.

"Sure." Crawly stretched a little. "I'll be all right now, I think. Healing up nicely. But some food and beer would be welcome."

"Of course." The angel brightened. "Here, lie by the fire, I'll get us sorted out."

Crawly reluctantly unwound himself from Aziraphale's lap, wondering at his own reluctance. He was a sodding demon, snuggling up to an angel should have set him on fire or something, not felt positively cosy. Maybe he really did need to get closer to the fire.

"I hate the cold," he whined.

"Well, that's fortunate," Aziraphale said brightly. Crawly raised a questioning eyebrow at him. "Otherwise I suppose Hell would be quite uncomfortable," he clarified. "All the hellfire and lava and things like that."

Crawly stared. "No one," he said slowly, "has ever put it quite that way to me."

"Was it tactless?" Aziraphale pursed his lips. "I don't have much experience making small talk to a demon. Only to you, really."

"No, that's fine." Crawly sprawled by the fire, as Aziraphale busied himself with jugs and goblets. "I was a seraph anyway. Actually burned less in Hell."

"Well, that would have been some comfort. I hope you enjoy this, it's spiced in quite a fascinating way." Aziraphale put a goblet of thick sweet beer down by him. "I don't have much contact with the higher choirs, but you being a seraph makes sense. Being a serpent and all. I'm afraid you outrank me by quite a bit."

"I don't think that counts now I'm not an angel, really," said Crawly, who had rarely been so bewitched in his entire existence. This angel was chattering about Falling as if it was a mild inconvenience, not a horror and tragedy. He had never met another being who saw it that way—except possibly himself. Aziraphale was being polite about it.

"I suppose not," Aziraphale said awkwardly, and returned to his seat. Crawly rolled a bit so he was seated by Aziraphale's feet, leaning his head against his knee as he drank. He had an uncontrollable instinct to stay in touch. Maybe the angel's presence really was healing him. He could feel his wounds closing, wellbeing and energy returning. That, or it was really good beer. "So, how did you end up in the desert?"

"Temptation gone wrong," Crawly said shortly. He gulped down some beer. "Trying to instigate a bit of disloyalty and rebellion, and they took offence. Didn't want to undo all my good work by sending them away still uncorrupted, so thought I'd make off as a snake. Wasn't as fast on the getaway as I hoped."

"Oh dear. I'm sorry. I mean, not sorry that you failed in your evil schemes, of course," Aziraphale corrected himself. "Sorry you got hurt. I suppose you've got your work cut out for you right now. "Everyone's been behaving quite well since... since the Flood."

"The rainbow's pretty," Crawly said, trying to be vaguely comforting. He didn't like the angel looking sad, which was a confusing thought, because he was pretty sure he was supposed to want the Other Side to suffer.

"Yes," Aziraphale said. Crawly looked up, and the angel's pretty blue eyes, their colour more intense for the black paint surrounding them, were swimming with tears. "Well. They're doing quite nicely here, anyway. King Nimrod has got it into his head to build a tower all the way up to Heaven, to keep everyone together. It won't work of course, but I thought it was quite a touching idea. I wonder what put it into his head?"

"Nrrghk," said Crawly, guiltily. Aziraphale didn't seem to notice. He put down his empty goblet. "So, what are you doing here?"

"A bit of good here and there. Working as a scribe—human writing is the most fascinating thing. Gives me lots of chances to influence things for the better. And the food is just wonderful. The things they can do with flavoured oils..." His voice drifted off into ecstasy. "Well. You must stay for dinner."

"You're very kind. However will I repay you?" Crawly twisted, thinking of the blush, and the silken angel skin, and these quite useful human bodies. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's waist and looked up at him, trying to make it clear that he had certain ideas.

Aziraphale reached down, took his arms, and removed them. "None of that, please, or you'll have to leave." he said, pale eyelashes fluttering with distress. "I am, after all, an angel, and you are most certainly not. I mean, forgive me for saying so. Um."

"Sorry," Crawly said, more disappointed than he wanted to admit. "Can't blame me for trying. Tempting is my nature."

"Of course, dear fellow. Can't condemn you for your nature. But it would be most inappropriate." Aziraphale was very red indeed. "Let's not speak of it again. Now, I have a menu to plan for you."

Crawly got up and moved to his own chair, with considerable reluctance. But he was suddenly very, very afraid that if he pushed, this strange, gentle angel who seemed incapable of following angelic rules wouldn't ever talk to him. Crawly felt he would do absolutely anything to stop that happening. The Earth, intriguing as it already was, somehow felt less lonely and even more interesting.

That had been his first try at tempting Aziraphale. Not a huge success. But the demon who was to become Anthony J. Crowley was an optimist at heart, and never quite gave up on anything. It had always been his downfall, including quite literally.

Notes:

1) Thanks--I guess?--to Answers in Genesis and Conservapedia (never thought I'd write that) for the Young Earth Creationist timeline.

2) I just can't imagine Aziraphale with a long oiled, curly beard. Call it a failure of imagination.

3) Thank you for joining me. Hopefully it will be a fun ride, with a promised happy ending.