Chapter Text
To be perfectly honest, Aziraphale wasn’t overly fond of movies. He preferred to get his stories by way of book (or, occasionally, radio). But when Crowley suggested a movie night, Aziraphale wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity, if nothing else, he could spend the better part of a few hours staring at the way the light from the screen played over the demon’s face. Delightful things, televisions.
Crowley showed up at dinner time with a paper bag in one hand and a canvas tote in the other. He proffered the paper bag to Aziraphale, who took it, and noted with some delight the savory aromas wafting out of it.
“Indian?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
“Just for you,” Crowley said, flipping the sign on the door to Closed and drawing the shades as he kicked it shut.
“You spoil me,” Aziraphale said, not really meaning it.
“Always,” Crowley said, truly meaning it.
Aziraphale smiled to himself.
The canvas tote produced a bottle of fine liquor, a DVD, and an entire television. They’re sitting on the tartan couch in Aziraphale’s apartment above the bookshop, knees knocking together lightly. Aziraphale has miracled himself a bowl of popcorn (apparently what one eats when watching a film) and, rather incongruously, a cup of tea, which he tipped the liquor into. From Crowley’s long fingers dangled a crystal tumbler sloshing with the liquid. The film, one Crowley claimed he’d never seen, but had come recommended as a delightful comedy, levitated itself across the room and into the DVD player.
An hour later, Aziraphale is plotting a murder.
For a demon, Crowley was extremely squeamish, and this was not a comedy. Aziraphale wasn’t particularly bothered by it, but apparently Crowley was. His first indication was the sound of soft thwoomp of Crowley’s wings manifesting into the material plane. They, like many things about angels and demons, bent reality around them, and somehow managed to curl around Crowley’s body, insinuate themselves between him and Aziraphale without ever moving the angel.
Aziraphale glanced over and saw the sullen yellow of Crowley’s eyes glowing through the sooty darkness of his wings.
“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked.
“‘M fine,” Crowley squeaked, grimacing at whatever was happening on the screen.
Aziraphale considered for a moment, then extended his own wings, wrapping one around Crowley. The demon leaned into the touch, his torso slanting toward Aziraphale.
“We can turn it off, or watch something else,” Aziraphale suggested.
“No, no, it’s… it’s great,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale twitched an eyebrow but said nothing, only tucking Crowley further into his wing’s embrace. Twenty minutes later, the demon was practically lying in the angel’s lap, the bowl of popcorn and teacup long since banished to the side table.
Something (Aziraphale wasn’t particularly paying attention to the screen at this point) made Crowley shriek, and then suddenly, Aziraphale had a lap full of shivering snake. He stroked a finger over Crowley’s scales, hoping he was imbuing his hand with a sense of calm, and switched the movie off as he did so. He curled his wings tighter around them both, and willed the movie to become something else. (Not that either of them was paying attention, but he turned The Exorcist into a documentary on ducks)
Crowley was a snake of varying sizes, depending on his mood, and this was rather the smallest Aziraphale had ever seen him, easily fitting into Aziraphale’s lap. Slowly, the shivering stopped, and (though unlikely for an Earthly snake) Crowley started purring.
“There now,” Aziraphale said softly. “Let’s get you off to bed.”
He scooped Crowley into his arms and proceeded to his rarely used bedroom, willing himself into appropriate clothes as he did so. He had no intention of sleeping, in fact he hadn’t in several millennia, but beds were wide and soft, and he knew Crowley slept. The blankets moved aside obligingly for them, and Aziraphale slid into the bed, his wings still wrapped around both of them.
He didn’t sleep, but his attention did drift outside of his physical form, which spent most of the night stroking absently over the length of Crowley’s scaly body. When his consciousness returned to his body, he found that Crowley was still a snake, but a much larger one, his usual preference in this form.
He was lying still enough that Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he was asleep or not, but the twitching of Aziraphale’s body apparently roused him.
“Good morning,” Aziraphale said carefully.
“Good morning, angel,” Crowley replied, tongue flicking out.
“Did you sleep well?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. “I… yesss,” he said finally.
Aziraphale desperately wanted to press, to find out what Crowley was leaving unsaid, but decided against it. To his delight, however, Crowley moved from his coiled position still half in Aziraphale’s lap and wrapped up and around the angel, over his shoulders and wings, until they were cheek-to-cheek.
“Zzzira,” Crowley said. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Though, if I might make a suggestion?”
Crowley did something with his face that was the snake equivalent of raising an eyebrow.
“Don’t take anymore movie suggestions from demons.”