Aziraphale should have been terrified. Bound and facing the executioners in the very bowels of Hell, he should have been worried that it would all go horribly wrong—that it might not work.
Oh, Hell's disciplinary committee could dunk him in Holy Water, like it was some 17th century witch trial, and he was quite confident that it would do nothing more than get him wet, but if they had even the slightest suspicion that he wasn't who he appeared to be… Well, then he might be in realtrouble. And, it wasn't just himself that he had to worry about. Crowley was on the other end of all of this, and should their ruse be discovered, on either end, they'd both be in the soup—make no mistake.
So, Aziraphale shouldbe terrified.
But, he wasn't.
Because, while Aziraphalemight be terrified by the prospect of all the things that Hell might do to him, and worrying over whether or not Agnes' plan would work, he wasn't beingAziraphale right now. He was being Crowley.
So, it didn't matter if Aziraphale would be a complete nervous wreck, because all he had to worry about, right now, is what Crowley would do. And, what Crowley would dois act totally unaffected by any of it. He'd swagger, and quip, and enjoy the look of confusion on the faces of his former colleagues.
So, Aziraphale didn't have room to be frightened or worried. He carried on the way that Crowley would, trusting that Agnes wouldn't have steered them wrong, and lost himself in the demon's mannerisms.
He asked for a rubber duck.
Crowley wasterrified.
Aziraphale was the type of angel who gave away his flaming sword to a couple of mortals because 'it's cold out there, and she'sexpectingalready,' and he was also the type of angel who thought that killing an eleven-year-old boy was an acceptable price to pay to ensure that he could continue to listen to descent music and enjoy the occasional nibble. He disappeared problematic security guards with a snap of his fingers. He barely batted on eye at Crowley's demonic wiles. And, just yesterday, he'd been ready to go toe-to-toe with Lucifer himself.
As far as angels went, Aziraphale was a total badass.
Yes, he was a dithering idiot half the time, but he was smart, and he wasn't a pushover. He'd helped to thwart the apocalypse. He wasn't going to be intimidated by the Archangel fuckingGabriel.
At least, that's what Crowley told himself.
Truth to tell, (not that he did, when he could avoid it,) Crowley was feeling intimidated.
Or, at least he was, until Gabriel said, "shut up, and die already," then he was just furious.
Where did this smiling prick get off speaking to his angel like that?
If it wouldn't have given the game away entirely, Crowley would have grabbed the smarmy git by the lapels of his too-perfect suit and… Well… probably done something incredibly stupid.
Luckily, Crowley was pretending to be Aziraphale, so he took the high road.
The look on Gabriel's stupid face when he roared out a blast of Hellfire was completely worth it.
"Anyone looking?"
"Nobody. Right, swap back then."
Aziraphale took Crowley's hand- more than ready to take back his own body. As liberating as it had been to emulate Crowley's swagger, to feel like he was the cool cat in the room, he was more than ready to feel comfortably soft in his own skin once more.
Except, nothing happened. His soul remained firmly entrenched in Crowley's body.
"Are you?" Crowley asked.
"Yes," Aziraphale grumbled. "Did you?"
"I'm trying, but it won't-" Crowley squirmed, adjusting himself on the bench, as though he might be able to wiggle himself free from Aziraphale's body. He gripped Aziraphale's hand tighter, and hissed, "Why isn't it working?"
"I don't know." Aziraphale glanced nervously around them, dropping his Crowley act in his panic. "Are you sure you're doing it right?"
"How in Heaven should I know?" Crowley snapped. "I don't make a habit of wearing other people's skins!"
"Keep it down," Aziraphale hissed off the tip of Crowley's forked tongue. "It might be best to take this behind closed doors, anyway. We might be wrong about whether or not we're being watched."
"Yeah, okay. You're probably right. Mine or yours?"
Mine, Aziraphale was about to say, but he corrected himself at the last moment, just in case, and said, "The bookshop."
"Right. Where'd you park The Bentley then?"
"I left it on the street outside your… the flat, in Mayfair."
"What? Why?"
Aziraphale lowered his voice to a growled whisper. "You know I don't drive."
Crowley rolled his eyes. Rolled Aziraphale's eyes, and the gesture looked so much more patronizing out of Aziraphale's face than it did when Crowley normally did it. Did Aziraphale always look that condescending?
"Fine," Crowley said, "We'll take a cab, but let's get a wiggle on. I don't know how you wear this many layers. I feel like I'm swaddled up in the entire contents of some Victorian dandy's wardrobe. How can you possibly be comfortable in all this?" Crowley pulled at the tartan bowtie.
"You should talk," Aziraphale said, getting to his feet. "Do you paint these trousers on every morning? I can feel the loss of circulation every time I take a step. I think I've finally realized why you can never sit straight. If I bend my waist at a ninety degree angle, my legs start to fall asleep. I suppose that explains the walk, as well. Though, I imagine they wouldn't be half so uncomfortable if you hadn't gone to such a great effort to fill out the crotch."
Crowley turned Aziraphale's own, wide, blue eyes on him. "What were you doing? Checking to see how you measured up?"
Aziraphale grimaced and pulled at the crotch of Crowley's trousers, as he took a bow-legged step to adjust himself. "It's hard to miss when it causes this much discomfort."
"I've never had any complaints."
Aziraphale huffed in disbelieving irritation, and adjusted himself, or rather Crowley, again.
They managed to get a cab, and made it back to Aziraphale's bookshop, where Crowley wasted no time in removing Aziraphale's tie, jacket, and waistcoat, and Aziraphale quickly disappeared upstairs to change into a different pair of trousers.
Slightly more comfortable, they stared at each other. It was an odd experience—like looking into a mirror to see the expectant look on your own face, but just slightly askew, all the nuances of expression just a bit off.
"Well, now what?" Crowley asked.
"It seems that Agnes' ploy worked. We're both in one piece. Just, not the right pieces."
"She might have mentioned that we were going to get stuck this way."
"I'm not ready to give up hope, just yet," Aziraphale said. "I have a few books on astral projection here, somewhere, that might shed some light on our current predicament."
"Astral projection?" Crowley asked, disbelieving.
"Well," Aziraphale bristled, adjusting Crowley's sunglasses. "Do you have any better ideas?"
"I'm going to get marvelously drunk and hope it all sorts itself out."
Aziraphale considered this as a reasonable alternative for a moment, and finally said. "You get the wine, and I'll get the books."
They met again on the couch in the back room- Crowley with a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses, and Aziraphale with a stack of books.
Aziraphale set the stack down, placing one palm over the cover of the book on top, and met Crowley's eyes. Met his own eyes. Blue where they should be yellow. Rounded pupils where there should be slits. He let out a long breath. "What do we do if we end up stuck like this?"
Crowley looked away, focused on uncorking the bottle and pouring them each a glass. He held his posture tight—somehow managing to convey the image of an offended cat, even with Aziraphale's more rounded edges, instead of his usual sharp angles. "Would that be so bad?"
"I…" Aziraphale started, but he didn't know how to continue. "I… That is… Well, you know that I've always found your form pleasing to look at, but… I prefer it to be on you."
Crowley looked up then, finished with pouring the wine.
"So, you like my body, but not enough to want to be inside it?"
Aziraphale coughed, flushing. "I wouldn't put it like that."
Crowley smirked and handed him a glass of wine, watching as Aziraphale gulped it down with none of his usual attention to the bouquet. "You know, angel. Now that Heaven and Hell have washed their hands of us, it does open up new avenues that might be worth exploring."
"New…" Aziraphale cleared his throat. "New avenues?"
Crowley could feel Aziraphale's heart hammering in his chest. "Well… I mean. No one to bother us about fraternizing. No Beelzebub or Gabriel staring over our shoulders. Just us, and the world. Nothing really there to stop us from enjoying it as we see fit, is there?"
Aziraphale looked down at the slender hand holding his wine glass and swallowed. "Do you think that we could have this conversation again, after we've managed to switch back?"
Crowley knew what Aziraphale's smile looked like—that beatific angelic glow that suffused his whole face when he was happy. He thought that that must be what his face looked like just now, and he was only sad that he couldn't see it. "Sure thing, angel. Whatever you want."
Crowley took a sip of his wine and nearly spat it out.
"What is it?" Aziraphale asked, concerned.
Crowley stared down at the glass. "What-?" he muttered, mostly to himself, and took another sip. The sensation was a riot of flavors on his tongue. It was rich raspberry and plum, and a hint of leather and herbs- sage, rosemary, and lavender. As he pulled the glass back from his lips, he felt a warm tingle at the back of his throat, and he ran Aziraphale's tongue around, inside his mouth, to savor the taste of strawberries.
"What wine is this?" he asked.
Aziraphale shrugged. "A 2005 Chateauneuf-du-Pape," he said. "He took another drink from his own glass, a sip this time, and wrinkled his nose a little. "It does taste a bit off, doesn't it?"
"Off?" Crowley took another sip, breathing in deeply from his glass before he did, this time, and swishing the wine around in his mouth. "We should lay in a dozen cases. This is the best wine I've ever tasted."
Aziraphale looked down at his glass skeptically. "If you say so, my dear." He set it aside and took up one of the books, settling into his desk chair. "I'll leave the drinking to you, and see what I can learn about out-of-body experiences."
Crowley was happy enough to accept that arrangement. He topped off his glass again and settled himself into the couch.
Aziraphale took off Crowley's sunglasses and set them aside as he opened the book and started to skim the index.
He squinted at it. He held the book at arms length and squinted some more. He put on his own reading glasses, and the words blurred. He took them off again and squinted some more.
As much as he looked and squinted, he couldn't resolve any meaning from the page before him. The words seemed to bounce about on the page. The letters didn't want to stay in the proper order, and no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, he couldn't find any meaning from the jumble of letters before him.
"Crowley, I think there's something wrong with your eyes," he said, finally.
"What do you mean? Bit of light sensitivity, I suppose, but it isn't that bright in here."
Aziraphale hadn't been surprised by the light sensitivity he'd experienced in Crowley's body. He knew that there was more than one reason that Crowley almost never took his sunglasses off. He looked down at the open book again, turning a few pages, but it was all the same mash of unintelligible nonsense.
"No it's… Crowley," he looked up suddenly. "Do you have dyslexia?"
"I don't," Crowley mumbled. "Which one is that? Is that when you can't see things far away?"
Aziraphale pushed the book at him. "Read this."
Crowley took it, held it a little further from his face, and said, "Huh."
Once Crowley had put on Aziraphale's reading glasses and experimented with what he was sure was his new superpower, they settled in with the new strategy of Crowley reading out passages from the books, between sips of wine, while Aziraphale sulked and tried to figure a way out of their predicament—feeling very much that he'd gotten the shorter end of the stick with this whole body swap debacle.
He'd apparently lost his palate and gained an at least moderate case of dyslexia. Since food and books were two of his favorite pastimes, he was even more eager to find a solution to their problem than before.
As the night drug on though, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.
They had settled into the couch together, side by side, and, even if the wine didn't taste as good, the alcohol still had its usual effect. The warmth of Crowley pressed into his side was intoxicating in and of itself, and Aziraphale fell into a comfortable lull as Crowley read.
They were in Crowley's flat in Mayfair. The air smelled fresh and green with the scent of Crowley's plants, but the flat was dim—just the light of the city filtering in through the windows.
Crowley was sprawled out in his throne, his eyes glowing amber in the dimness. "I've been waiting for you, angel."
It was only then that Aziraphale realized that he was in his own body again. He looked down and saw that he was wearing only a thin silk robe, belted loosely around his waist. But, he didn't feel cold. Instead, his skin was pleasantly warm.
"I thought we'd never get here," Crowley continued.
Aziraphale opened his mouth, about to ask how they had gotten there, but suddenly they weren't in Crowley's flat anymore.
They were in the middle of a bazaar in India—no signs of the mark of modernity anywhere. The marketplace was filled with the noises of bartering vendors and customers, and the sounds of animals. The air was thick with the smells of curry and saffron from the food vendors and spice merchants.
Crowley had his hand held tightly and was pulling him along through the crowds.
"Where are we going?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley turned back, and Aziraphale didn't think that he'd seen the smoked lenses that the demon wore in several centuries.
"I want to show you something.
They were both lounging on low couches, sharing a table at a restaurant in Rome. Crowley was mussed, his cheeks darkened from drinking too much wine. He raised a brow at Aziraphale before he lifted an oyster to his lips and slurped the morsel of meat from the shell. He swallowed hard, making a face, and set the empty shell back down on the tray.
"They taste of semen," he said.
"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale asked, sure that he'd misheard him.
"Ejaculate," Crowley reiterated.
"Oh!" Aziraphale felt his face flush. "Well… I…" He reached tentatively for an oyster of his own, and looked down at the white, gooey, glob inside.
"What, don't believe me, angel?"
"I bow to your no doubt superior expertise." Aziraphale lifted the shell to his lips and slurped out his own oyster. "Though,… I suppose, that if this is what the… um… emesis tastes like, I can understand why so many are eager to perform the act."
"You could try it for yourself and see," Crowley suggested.
Aziraphale wasn't sure what had happened to the table, or if they were even still in the restaurant. The next thing he knew, he was kneeling between Crowley's spread legs, pushing the fabric of his toga up over firm thighs, and bowing his head to the place between. He inhaled the pleasant musk there, and he parted his lips, bending forward…
And closed them around a bite of crepe.
They were in a restaurant in Paris. The sounds of a revolution, out on the street, could still be heard inside the little patisserie.
Aziraphale swallowed, licking the cream from his lips, and Crowley leaned forward, reaching out his hand to swipe a thumb across Aziraphale's bottom lip.
"Missed a bit," he said, slipping the thumb into his own mouth.
"What-?" Aziraphale started, but Crowley was speaking again.
"I think I might have been a little hasty when I banished those shackles earlier. I was just thinking how interesting it would be to have you at my mercy just now."
Aziraphale looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly, causing his fork to rattle against the plate. "We could always miracle them back," he suggested, softly.
And, they were back in the Bastille.
Aziraphale had his back pressed up against the cold, stone wall. His hands were shackled above his head, and Crowley was pressing in against him, his teeth bared.
"What do we have here?" Crowley asked, in a hissed whisper against his ear. "I've found myself an angel all trussed up and ready for the taking. What would your superiors do if they knew about this? How are you ever going to look Gabriel in the eyes again, once he finds out how thoroughly I've plundered your celestial temple?"
A moan escaped his lips as Crowley slipped a hard thigh between Aziraphale's silk stockinged legs, and Aziraphale threw his head back and groaned.
"Oi!" Crowley said, pushing into his shoulder, and Aziraphale jerked upright, blinking his eyes.
"I'm not reading about all this mystic, human, nonsense for my own benefit. How long have you been sleeping?"
"Sleeping?" Aziraphale repeated, groggily.
"Sounded like a good dream."
"A dream…Oh, that was… That was a dream." He blinked again a few times, taking a shaky breath. "Is that what dreams are like?"
Crowley was staring at him strangely. "Haven't you ever had one before?"
"I thought I had," Aziraphale said, though now he wasn't so sure. "I don't really sleep, but I've laid down, and closed my eyes. I've thought of things, relived moments, imagined how things might have gone differently… But, this felt so real." Even as he said it, the details were melting away. The harder he tried to clutch at them, to savor them, the harder it became to remember. "We were in the Bastille," he mumbled to himself, trying desperately to remember the sensations. "You had me chained to the wall."
"Oh?" Crowley asked. "I suppose that explains that then," he gestured down to Aziraphale's crotch.
Aziraphale looked down and flushed. He shifted on the sofa, pulling a leg up to hide his enjoyment of the dream. He found that Crowley's long, thin, limbs were easier to bend into odd positions than his own were, and he tucked one foot up under the other thigh and shifted away, finding the position more comfortable than he would have thought possible, despite his predicament. Still, he was very grateful that he'd changed out of Crowley's ridiculously tight jeans. He couldn't imagine how uncomfortable his current state would be if he'd been trapped within their denim confines.
"No need to be embarrassed," Crowley said. "I think I've had that dream myself a time or two." He cleared his throat. "Are you sure that you don't want to have that conversation now? Speaking from personal experience, that thing isn't going to go away on its own. You can take care of it, or… I could. Either way, given the circumstances, it's going to get personal."
"This isn't really where I imagined the next step in our relationship taking us."
Crowley looked away. "Yeah, right, course. Forget I even suggested it."
"No… that isn't what I…" Aziraphale was still overcome with the sensations of his own arousal in Crowley's body, and he could hardly think straight. "You're right. It's personal either way. I know it shouldn't matter, you're the same person on the inside, but I just… don't find you at all physically attractive like that." He let his gaze wander over his own body for a moment. It was a good body. He liked his body the way it was, but with Crowley inhabiting it… It was just all wrong.
"You're not really my type right now, either," Crowley grumbled.
"Still," Aziraphale continued. "There is something very intimateabout the idea of being inside you…" He ran his hands up across Crowley's jaw and into the fine red hair behind his ear, leaning into his own touch.
"Right," Crowley coughed. "Not exactly what I had in mind when I was thinking about having you inside me, but… I guess we have to work with what we've got."
"Might as well give it a try," Aziraphale agreed.
And, it was the green light that Crowley had been waiting on for six millennia. He didn't waste any time closing the distance between them on the sofa, but he stalled when he got there—hovering with his hands not quite touching his own skin. "How?" he asked. "I don't know what to do."
"Kiss me," Aziraphale said.
Crowley closed his eyes and obliged, planting his hands against the back of the sofa to lean in to press lips against lips.
It was all wrong. The mouth beneath his was hard where he always imagined it to be soft. His hands caught in hair that was smooth where it should have been fluffy. And still, it was Aziraphale that he was kissing, and his heart, whoever's heart it was, felt like it was going to burst from his chest.
He reached a hand down between them, fumbling with the buttons and pushing it in under the band of Aziraphale's trousers. And, that wasn't quite right either. It was too familiar, too practiced. But, Aziraphale was hard for him, and his cock, whoever's cock it was, responded to his touch.
Crowley felt his own arousal growing, and he reached for Aziraphale's hand, pulling it to where he needed it most.
Wrong. Long bony fingers. Cool to the touch.
Crowley growled and pulled away. Aziraphale made a displeased grumble. Crowley ignored him. "This isn't working."
"Do you want to stop?" Aziraphale asked.
"No." He gritted his teeth in frustration. "This is ridiculous. It shouldn't matter who's in which body."
"But it does," Aziraphale said, and Crowley wasn't sure if he was concluding the thought or agreeing.
"Just," Crowley growled again, "let me try something." He rearranged himself on the couch and spread his legs apart to make enough room to pull Aziraphale back against his chest. He was happy to see that he fit nicely there, in Crowley's body.
Aziraphale's trousers came off easily, too baggy around Crowley's lean thighs, and he turned his attention to stroking the erection he found there—starting to flag now, despite what he'd said about it not going away on its own.
It took little enough effort to rest his chin against Aziraphale's shoulder and ignore his other senses while he concentrated on the vision before him.
That was all it took; just the sight of Aziraphale's hand stroking Crowley's erection. The rest of the world blurred away to focus on just that hand moving on that cock.
If the response beneath his fingers was anything to go by, the change of positions had helped to assuage any qualms Aziraphale's libido was having as well.
Crowley couldn't help but cheer his own cock for rising to the occasion, but that feeling of pride diminished slightly as the cock in question demonstrated its remarkable staying power and began spurting ejaculate all over Aziraphale's perfectly manicured hand.
Still, that was a sight to behold, in and of itself.
Aziraphale slumped against him, taking a moment to catch his breath, and then said, "While that seems to have solved my little problem, I think we've caused another," and wiggled back into the rather unsurprising anatomical reaction that was now squashed uncomfortable between them.
"Watch what you're calling little," Crowley hissed without his usual sibilance.
Aziraphale chuckled. "Suppose we ought to swap places?"
"Let me fuck you," Crowley heard himself saying with Aziraphale's voice before he'd properly formed the thought.
"Oh." Aziraphale sat up and turned to face him with unblinking yellow eyes. "Do you think that would… that is to say… would your interest remain… interested." He gestured between them, "under the circumstances."
"I think I'll manage." Crowley rose awkwardly to his feet. "I just need something from the front of the shop."
He returned a moment later with a large mirror in a garishly ornate gold frame.
Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow up when he saw it. "Not your usual sort of marital aid."
"Oh, shut up," Crowley snapped, not without fondness. "Do you want to do this or not?"
"Oh, I'm keenly interested."
"Then lay down on the couch and let me know when I have this thing at the right angle, angel."
It took a bit of rearranging of furniture to get the mirror propped up to their mutual satisfaction, then some eager and well-practiced removal of each other's clothing, and a little miracled slickness, but before Crowley was entirely emotionally prepared for it, he was met with the dual sensation of both watching himself get fucked by Aziraphale while at the same time feeling his cock sink into a warm tight body beneath him.
Their eyes met in the mirror at the same time Aziraphale let out a startled little gasp.
"Okay, angel?"
"Entirely." He let out a long quavering breath. "This is verystrange."
"The feeling of a cock in your arse, or the new meaning we've given to the term 'out of body experience?'"
Aziraphale chuckled, and it caused a pleasant clenching around what Crowley was currently thinking of as his cock.
"Both, I suppose."
"Guess strange is about what we should expect with the week we're having."
Aziraphale hummed in agreement. "I don't suppose you plan on moving any time soon?" he asked, pushing back into Crowley.
Crowley, who'd been quite enthralled with the image in the mirror, was spurred to action.
Aziraphale turned out to be a pleasingly vocal partner, and Crowley was quite sure that his throat had never before made any of the noises that Aziraphale was managing to produce.
Whether it was the alcohol, the endorphins, or the sudden release of six thousand years of pent up sexual tension, Crowley felt the lines between reality and fantasy blur as he thrust into the hard body beneath him and watched himself quiver and moan. By the time he spent himself into Aziraphale, collapsed bonelessly on top of him, and managed to drag his gaze away from the mirror long enough to blink his watering eyes, he was no longer sure where he ended and Aziraphale began.
So, it took him a moment to recognize the absence of the pleasant ache in his balls for the equally pleasant soreness in his arse. The dead weight on top of him was slightly less pleasant, and he wiggled uncomfortably.
"Aziraphale?"
"Hmm?"
"I don't think we need to read any more of those horrible astral projection books."
"Oh!" Aziraphale's blue eyes suddenly popped open and met his in the mirror. "Well," he said, pulling himself off of Crowley, "I'm glad we got that sorted."
"This new Arrangement isn't half bad either," Crowley agreed, stretching and turning over to lounge in a more comfortable position. "Though, I'd like to try kissing you properly this time."
Aziraphale didn't give him the chance, leaning down over him to press soft lips to his.
Crowley slipped his forked tongue into that warm angelic mouth and thought, for the first time in a week that had felt like an eternity, that everything was right with the world.
When they finally broke apart, not so much to catch their breath as to momentarily lay hold of their sanity, Aziraphale asked, "You don't suppose that we'd switch back again if we…?" he trailed off on the specifics of the act in question, a faint blush rising to his cherubic cheeks.
Crowley smirked a demonic smirk. "I hope so," he said, "if only so we can have the fun of swapping back again."