Sleepers & Serpents

A Good Omens fanfiction

That day at St. James's Park in 1841 – the day Crowley asked for Holy Water – left its mark on Aziraphale.

After their quarrel, the angel did not reopen the bookshop for two days. As his opening hours had always been erratic, nobody noticed – or nobody said anything about it to him directly, though he probably would not have cared if they did.

Basically, he sulked.

What did Crowley think he was playing at – asking for something so insanely dangerous?

A loaded pistol would have been safer in the demon's hands than a goblet of holy water!

A bullet into the skull would only mean discorporation, though it still wasn't something Aziraphale liked picturing. He could still come back, whenever Hell decided to process the paperwork for a new body. The angel heard, via Crowley's drunken grumbling in passing once, that Hell was even worse about that sort of thing than Heaven, much slower to deliver and much faster to maliciously mislay important paperwork, mucking it all up, but he wasn't sure he believed this. Heaven was pretty tetchy about handing out new bodies; Aziraphale honestly couldn't imagine anything a snide demon could do to make the process more unpleasant, try though he occasionally did. Then again, perhaps he didn't have quite as much imagination as Crowley. Secretly, he suspected no one – not even most humans – had as much imagination as Crowley.

At any rate, discorporation wasn't necessarily permanent. What would happen to Crowley if he touched holy water was. Even if he claimed that wasn't what he wanted it for, Aziraphale certainly wasn't comfortable just handing it over willy-nilly.

What would he even say as he did so?

Do try not to spill it, my dear?

Who knew what could happen in a moment of desperation! Crowley's grand imagination could get away from him and – in one swoop – he could change his mind and reach for the holy water. Holy water Aziraphale would have given him.

No.

But for some reason, Crowley's imagination didn't fathom that Aziraphale was afraid of things going 'pear-shaped' too. No, he was much too busy sneering at him for describing their relationship as 'fraternizing'.

So, all right, perhaps it wasn't the most accurate term – but there wasn't another word for whatever they were. There had never been a pair like them before. An angel and a demon who weren't at one another's throats, actively trying to discorporate the other and spoil their plans. No other being in the universe that Aziraphale was aware of had an Arrangement like theirs.

And he could hardly call Crowley his friend.

Especially after what had just transpired between them.

You didn't tell a friend you had lots of other people to fraternize with; and your friend wasn't supposed to agree with you before storming away.

They weren't friends – they were an angel and a demon. Opposite sides!

Aziraphale didn't even like Crowley, really. It was simply that he was the only familiar face he could count on running into from time to time.

Although, for someone he didn't like, he certainly found himself listening for the demon's footsteps, for the sound of the bells above the shop door.

But Crowley didn't come, and so Aziraphale decided to open the shop again. Perhaps it was simply that Crowley had seen the closed sign and decided, in light of the heated words they'd exchanged, to respect it for once.

That could be it, couldn't it?

Days slid by, then weeks.

Aziraphale sold three books and didn't even care. Didn't feel the familiar pang in his chest that having to hand over one of his treasures to a persistent customer usually induced. What did it matter?

The change in himself scared the angel rather a lot.

That's not like me, he thought, dully, not caring about parting with one of my books. Whatever has come over me?

It wasn't like him to skip breakfast four days in a row because he wanted to be near the door – just in case – either. Nor was it like him to have nothing but a grimy ashy flavour in his mouth he couldn't blame on the restaurant he chose to have luncheon in.

Crowley would come to his senses soon enough. He'd be around. Blowing off steam somewhere, or doing a temptation himself instead of asking Aziraphale for help or tossing a coin for it – out of spite, no doubt.

Then, one morning, Aziraphale happened to glance at his calendar. He was expecting a delivery of unsold, single-print run books he'd purchased through a recent auction and wanted to be sure of the day so he didn't miss the absent-minded postman, who was always skipping the shop door because it 'looked dark inside' or some such similar nonsense; even if he could literally see Aziraphale frantically waving from the window to get his attention, the scatterbrain liked claiming nobody was there to receive the parcels.

That was when he realised.

A year.

It was a year to the day since he'd last spoken to Crowley.

He pushed the worry pulsing like mad at the back of his mind away.

They were immortal – a year was nothing to them.

Except... He wished they hadn't parted on such bad terms if they were going to go so long now between meetings.

It's safer, a little voice in his head reminded him.

Safer, yes.

But lonelier, as well.

Then – just as quickly – it was two years.

By the third, Aziraphale wasn't angry any more, and he wouldn't let himself be worried, but he was feeling abandoned and vulnerable.

He thought of going somewhere, a holiday of sorts.

That was, after all, what humans did when they felt melancholy. And if he was meant to live among them, he ought to... To do normal things of that sort. Yes, it seemed only fitting.

There could be some excuse invented – he could go some place he hadn't been before, theoretically in search of a rare book, and take a little rest while he was there.

Wherever there was.

When Aziraphale returned from the trip, he was in better spirits. Not because he carried three leather bags full of new – well, old, obviously, but newly in his possession – books, but because he brought a special creature into the shop along with these tomes.

Aziraphale had never kept a proper pet before, never been inclined to adopt any of God's creatures though he admired them, yet while he was away he'd come across a beautiful black snake with a coppery underbelly and bright, slitted yellow eyes he refused to admit reminded him of anyone in particular.

Through a sheet of glass, the snake had looked at him unblinkingly, and the angel had looked at the snake and felt something in him stir.

It was as if they were made for each other.

The snake breeder who sold him claimed the snake was temperamental, but Aziraphale didn't find him to be so in the least. He was rather shy and didn't like being bothered, was all; that was perfectly all right with the retiring angelic bookseller.

Because the snake had the good sense to stay out of the way of people, Aziraphale didn't bother putting him in a cage – he just let the curious serpent have the run of the shop. The customers never even noticed he was there, often just a few feet away, watching them intently. The only person the snake would slither over to and allow himself to be seen, caressed, or paid attention to by was Aziraphale. The angel fed him, and spoke softly, and always seemed to brighten when he came into view – that was good enough for the snake, who was every bit as unpresuming and undemanding as his owner.

Aziraphale never gave this pet a real name, despite the fact that he grew very fond of him very quickly. He simply had the habit of calling it 'my dear'.

Every once in a while, he would catch himself talking to his 'dear' as if it were more than a mere animal – as if it really and truly understood him and had known him for thousands of years, no doubt just about to answer him back – and would usually take that as a strong hint he'd best sober up because he was drinking a little too much wine with his supper.

Even if he stubbornly refused to admit to himself he was compensating for a certain demon's absence, Aziraphale still felt better when he knew the snake was close by. He still felt the corners of his mouth turn up as the snake would slide up his arm and rest on his shoulders. He still looked into the yellow eyes – eyes somebody else might have found cold and creepy – and felt joy and warmth rush through him. He loved running his fingers along the snake's fascinatingly textured skin, smiling to himself as if he were rubbing his thumb against the world's most valuable onyx stone.

With the snake, he wasn't so alone any more.

"You'll never guess," he told the snake one blustery evening, companionably, setting a cup of tea down on his desk as the creature lifted his head and looked at him expectantly, "what I've done today. I've joined a discreet Gentlemen's Club. It's right on Portland Place, very nice and upscale. They do all kinds of interesting activities. Soon we're meant to be learning this dance called the gavotte. Won't that be fun!" The snake just stared, and Aziraphale projected a flicker of disdainfulness into that stare. "Oh, my dear, I'm sorry; I've forgotten your supper! Naturally you're hungry. Long day for you, slinking around here waiting for me, what. And here I am going on about Portland Place like..." He failed to come up with a suitable simile, and so gave up. "Well, get right on that, shall I?"

There came a day, however, when the snake did not come to see Aziraphale for several hours, and he found him unresponsive to speaking and prodding alike.

Selfish though he knew it was, probably a near-damnable offence, Aziraphale miracled life back into the snake – he was not yet ready to let it go.

He set the snake, breathing easily as if nothing had happened, on his shoulders and went back to work.

He did this again, a year or two later, when he found his snaky companion with its head crushed in. A book had fallen from its place and landed on the poor snake, killing him instantly.

When the snake's caved head popped back into place, and he opened his eyes and stared at Aziraphale trustingly, the angel felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his chest.

So he did it again, when the snake ate something he wasn't supposed to and choked. (He'd read a book once which contained a detailed drawing of a snake swallowing a gigantic egg. He'd never known they could choke... How extraordinary!)

And again, when the snake was getting old and tired.

And again, when the snake caught some sort of illness and wasn't recovering.

And again, when the snake lost all appetite and stopped eating for several weeks – despite Aziraphale's desperate coaxing – and wasted away.

Each time, the angel felt less like he was doing something wrong – it was becoming routine fast enough, bringing the snake back from death and from the brink of it, curing these few and far between aliments.

He hated to think of his snake being in any sort of pain when he could do something about it with the merest flick of his beringed little finger.

If it had been a human, somebody might have been paying more attention. He might even have incurred a visit from Azrael, Death himself. But it seemed that nobody cared very much about some pet snake. Nobody save Aziraphale himself, who became increasingly good at ignoring his nagging conscience.

Humans all loved their pets too much – they mourned their lapdogs and house-cats.

They'd have done the same thing as he was doing, if they could.

If it were allowed.

Which it wasn't.

Because it was unnatural.

But, then, humans had one another – they weren't alone.

Without the snake, who precisely did Aziraphale have? Even his least appalling customers would die sooner or later, or simply stop coming to see him and then die somewhere unbeknownst to his cheerful ignorance of their existence being snuffed out. And he couldn't remember the last time Gabriel or anyone else from Heaven had come to check on him.

As for Crowley...

No. His mind wouldn't allow that to be lingered upon. The demon, along with the whole bloody Arrangement, was locked behind a little door Aziraphale had created deep in the recesses of his mind.

Sometimes he did feel badly for the snake's own sake.

"I don't know what sort of life this is for you, my dear," whispered the angel late one night, watching the snake sleep all coiled up on the couch across from him. "Coming and going so often. It must be confusing for you every now and again. I wish you could tell me if you minded it."

But, of course, he didn't really wish that at all.

1862:

Crowley shifted under the heavy duvet and grunted softly to himself. He'd been having rather a lovely sleep – bit longer this time than he usually devoted to the dreamless activity.

But, then, he'd been upset.

And sleeping always made him feel better.

Besides, the longer he was asleep the less time he could consciously consider the fact that, not only had he quarrelled with Aziraphale, but he still didn't have any bloody insurance because the infuriating angel hadn't gotten him the damnable holy water like he'd asked.

If things went wrong, he was fu–

His thought was interrupted by something he couldn't ignore.

He had to go to the lavatory. Now.

"Ugh, don't wan'to," he murmured muffledly, pressing his face deep into his pillow. "Want to sleep."

Don't think about it – don't think about it – don't think about...

Images of gushing rivers over big stupid rocks and majestic waterfalls filled his mind.

"No." He curled himself stubbornly into a fetal position.

I'm not getting up – I'm sleeping forever. Great pustulent mangled bollocks to this whole bloody century! No point getting up, anyway – I've got nothing to look forward to. I haven't even had a job to do – a real temptation on assignment – in ages.

I am not waking up for something as ridiculous as...

Memories of torrents of water falling from the sky just as the door to Noah's ark was slammed shut by the hand of God – the moment Crowley had known this definitely wasn't just a sprinkle – exploded like fireworks in his mind's eye.

That was what did him in.

With a sigh, he flung back the covers and made a sheepish, jiggling run for the lavatory.

"Ahh..."

1940 (nearly 1941):

Aziraphale felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising; he drew himself from the book he was reading like a deep-sea diver rushing back to the surface too quickly.

Somebody was in the shop with him, despite the sign on the door being flipped to closed.

Gabriel and Sandalphon stood in the doorway, beaming megawatt smiles in his direction. Sandalphon was showing way too many teeth, which made him look like a madman, and if Gabriel's smile was indeed warmer, it also sort of gave off the impression he'd rather be somewhere else – his dimming earth-dampened violet eyes didn't exactly radiate genuine delight.

"Gabriel! What a pleasant surprise." Aziraphale realised, when he said it, that he actually meant it.

He was glad of the familiarity. Crowley had been away too long – about a hundred years now – and Aziraphale was starting to lose track of everyone else down here, since they were always going away. He couldn't pick out faces so well these days; he called customers by their grandparent's names by mistake – sometimes their great grandparent's.

The fact that Gabriel's was instantly recognisable, if nothing else, was oddly comforting.

Sandalphon, on the other hand, he maybe could have done without.

It would take more than a hundred years to make Aziraphale glad to see the person who – no matter how many decades or centuries went by – he could still recall enjoying smiting sinners back in Biblical times a little too much. He always had the lingering impression Sandalphon was just waiting for an excuse to hit him. He tried to remind himself that Sandalphon was one of the good guys, just a bit rougher around the edges, but somehow it always rang hollow. Aziraphale could make himself love Sandalphon – he could make himself love nearly anyone if he had to – but it was from compulsion, strangely theoretical, not from any true feelings.

"Just checking in," Gabriel told him. "We've been hearing things in Heaven, about the war getting rather bad."

Aziraphale bit his lower lip to stop himself asking why no one had come to check on him the first time the whole world went to war, which hadn't been that long ago, really.

Gabriel, he was sure, would not appreciate that.

"Things have been going well," he managed.

"I imagine there are less people buying your material objects, with all that's been happening," Gabriel went on, side-eyeing a nearby stack of books.

"Something smells effeminate," Sandalphon put in randomly, sniffing sharply.

It was, in actuality, Aziraphale's new cologne, but he hastily and offhandedly blamed it on the Jane Austen books and focused on responding to Gabriel's observation instead. "Oh, I don't mind, really, I'm just enjoying the peace and quiet. And I don't need much."

Sandalphon looked around him, at the room of ink and vellum, regarding the weird noise emanating from some distant plumbing with a twitch of displeasure. The lights flickered twice above their heads. "Clearly."

Aziraphale forced a tighter grin. "Er."

"Well, what you're doing is commendable, though I think perhaps you could be more proactive," Gabriel suggested, "as you did report a lot more blessings and on-field work during the last war. I hope you haven't been taking it too easy in your peace and quiet here."

Aziraphale hastily shook his head. "No, of course not."

"Good, good, that's just what I want to hear."

Sandalphon let out a squeal that was almost girlish. Aziraphale's beloved pet snake was crawling around near the big angel's feet.

"Oh, that's–" began Aziraphale, by way of explanation, but not fast enough.

The snake had only been nosing around Sandalphon's ankle curiously, but Sandalphon's instinct, after screaming far more effeminately than Aziraphale allegedly smelled, was to crush its head under the heel of his heavy boot.

Going red in the face, Aziraphale bent over to get at his injured pet and cried, "No! What would possess you to do that? He wouldn't hurt you!"

"Aziraphale, what was that doing in here?" Gabriel pointed at the limp creature in the Principality's elegantly manicured hands.

"He was my friend."

"You're keeping that thing as a pet?" sneered Sandalphon, in mocking disbelief.

"I was," snapped Aziraphale, trying very hard not to cry and thus becoming furiously angry instead. "I've had him for nearly a hundred years."

If there was one thing Aziraphale should not have said, one thing that would have turned Gabriel against him, it was how long he'd had the snake.

Gabriel frowned. "A hundred years?" He studied the way Aziraphale was holding the snake, as if he were going to perform a habitual miracle. "Aziraphale, do you mean to tell me you've been wasting miracles to keep a reptile alive?" The laughter in his voice was not of amusement but disbelief – Sandalphon's joining chuckles, however, were heavily laced with amusement. "After that strongly-worded letter I sent you about using them more wisely?"

"Only... Only... Occasionally..." he stammered. Tears were threatening to break through despite his best efforts. "I didn't think..."

"Unbelievable," sighed Gabriel, shaking his head. "Sometimes I truly worry about you, Aziraphale, do you know that?"

The scolding hurt, but not as much as the dawning knowledge that – with this disapproval – Gabriel was not going to permit him to bring back his friend, who had stopped twitching and was most definitely expired from Sandalphon's cruel blow.

"A serpent really isn't an appropriate companion for an angel," Gabriel added, rather obtusely. "Next time, if you must, get a dog or something – and for the love of goodness let the creature die in its natural time."

Aziraphale felt bile burning in the back of his throat. He was sure his scrunched face was red as a cherry. "I don't want a dog," he said miserably.

Gabriel gave him a pat on the arm. "Quite wise. I'm sure you'll have more time to devote to your blessings and assignments without some mutt barking at every stranger that passes."

I wish you'd never come, the both of you, thought Aziraphale, broken-hearted.

He didn't want to see them – he wanted his snake back. He wanted to see those familiar yellow eyes gazing unblinkingly into his own. The angels weren't even paying attention to the fact that Aziraphale still clutched the corpse in his hands. Now that he was no longer poised to resurrect it, they'd lost all interest.

The archangels left that day without even realising what they'd truly done.

They never noticed that something inside Aziraphale, under his embarrassment and blinked-back tears, had completely snapped.

The angel never let himself love another animal in the same way again. To admire God's animal creation, to show it tenderness when he had to, was something he would always do, just part of his nature. But the extra nurturing side of him died that day. He would never deliberately hurt an animal, of course, but there was a kind of emotional wall between him and them for ever after Sandalphon killed his snake.

In 1870, Aziraphale had spent a year learning stage magic, practising slight of hand. He had avoided doing any tricks that involved animals – like rabbits or doves – because he'd been afraid of ending their lives by accident. A bird left too long up a sleeve, or a rabbit put in the wrong end of a trick table under a false-bottomed hat... The result had seemed too ugly to contemplate. Yet, when he would choose to take it up again, years later, his qualms would be quite gone. He'd barely care about expired doves. Sad that it stopped breathing, to be sure, but it was only a dove. He wasn't going to use a miracle to bring it back – because then where could he draw the line?

His fellow angels would never pick up on this dramatic change, though Crowley would, and wonder.

For the time being, Aziraphale sat alone in his shop for hours, holding the dead snake in his hands, thinking about how he never even got to say goodbye. How the last thing the snake saw was an angel's square boot-heel descending upon its poor, trusting head. And it was Aziraphale who had taught the snake to trust angels – the snake had never come around when there were humans in the shop.

When he could stand it no more, he finally found an old wooden box that would serve for a little coffin, set the snake inside of it, then closed it firmly.

"Goodbye, my dear." He set the box down on his desk – he'd bury the snake at St. James's tomorrow, the closest he could give it to a proper funeral, a real goodbye.

As he turned away from the makeshift coffin, swallowing haplessly at a lump in his throat he planned to make a cup of tea – or several – to help dissolve presently, the bells on the shop door jingled again.

"We're closed!" He bristled, then softened somewhat when he saw it was a beautiful woman, looking almost sorry for disturbing him. "Forgive me, miss; I've had a rough day. What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Fell," she said, very proper and very British, and – this is what got him in the end – very compassionate, her high heels clicking on the floor as she approached him, "my name is Rose Montgomery, and I have a proposition for you."

A/N: I had to fudge the dates a bit for this fic. I DID try to use the actual dates from the book/script book, but by my calculations they didn't line up. At all. For example, in script exposition, Gaiman mentions that Aziraphale hasn't seen Crowley in a hundred years when they meet at the church, only I did the math based on the provided dates and, uh, well, it was NOT actually a hundred years. Not quite. Then I was trying to add dates directly from the novel, too, like to factor in when Crowley got up to use the bathroom, and I really geeked myself up doing that. It doesn't help that I personally suck at math, either. So I bent the dates to fit my fic as seamlessly as possible, given what I had to work with and my own limited skill-set. I hope nobody minds this too much.

Reviews welcome, replies could be delayed.