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The first time Aziraphale saw his eventual partner, the demon was a snake.
Aziraphale was standing on the wall of the Garden, contemplating the meaning of right and wrong as applied to the allocation of ethereal weapons when a large black snake slithered up beside him and commented, “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”
(This is not precisely what he said, of course. They were speaking in Enochian, which is not the most adaptable language in the world – think French but times 1000 – and lead balloons didn’t exist. Translating from the ethereal language is tricky at best. Please allow for artistic liberties.)
Aziraphale was understandably distracted, but it is impossible not to form first impressions in certain circumstances. Personally meeting the snake whose temptations had changed the entire course of human history qualifies.
The demon was black from snoot to tail, with scales that shone with a rainbow of color in the sun. His (Her? Aziraphale was unclear enough on human sexes without taking demons or snakes into account. Angels were sexless – did Falling stick demons with one or the other organ set? How would he know?) the snake’s eyes were bright and intelligent, the voice cautiously friendly. A handsome snake, despite all the bother they’d just caused.
The chatted for a bit, not yet under the pressure to battle that would develop over the next centuries. At the end of the conversation, as the rain fell, Crawly slithered awkwardly away (the poor thing had legs just a couple of hours ago, after all – quite unfortunate for the species as a whole, it’s not as if Crawly was the genuine terrestrial article) and Aziraphale went to give the Eastern wall a check-over. He assumed, logically enough, that he wouldn’t see the demon again. After all, he belonged in Eden, and Crawly had been slithering off into the World.
----
The second time they met, they discorporated each other.
It was an understandable if regrettable mistake. They both looked drastically different from that day on the wall, and tensions had been on the rise between their respective home offices from the moment more demons slinked up in Crawly’s wake. After all, Aziraphale expected Crowley to be a snake, and Crowley expected the off-the-line generi-angel he’d met a few decades prior.
The Principalities were among the first to receive earthly corporations, and they were basic at best. Clearly based on the appearance of Adam, they lacked a certain sense of fine detail. Crowley would describe it (and did, to Aziraphale’s later frustration) as a “generic Ken doll with wings.” Even his hair – dark like Adam and Eve’s, shorn short – had a too-even plastic look.
But now his eyes were dark blue, his hair and skin a shade lighter to fit the move into northern Africa. The sculpted perfection of his first body looked much more realistic – softer, more human.
But all Crowley saw at first were the wings (angels fluttering them around in full sight was all the rage at the time) and immediately panicked (smiting on sight was also all the rage, and Crowley had just dug his way back to the surface after his last smiting). So he panicked. Ot, when filling out the paperwork later, “calmly booked it.”
Only the angel reached out and grabbed his elbow, and Crowley jerked, hissed, and only realized they were on an unfortunately high cliff (“I was watching the sunset,” Aziraphale defended himself primly millennia later. “I am not responsible for you overreaction!”) when he teetered, the angel tottered, and they plunged to the forest below.
(“If you just let go-”
“Don’t try to pin this one on me, my boy!”)
It was only as the occult spirit of a black snake rose from the unfortunate body that a rolling celestial voice asked, “Crawly?”
“I’ve changed it to Crowley, actually,” the snake hissed as the recognized the shining scepter of a Principality.
“Oh,” the thunder said politely, “my apo-”
And then, they popped out of mortal existence and back to their home offices.
“Shhhhhoot,” Crowley muttered, and set off to begin the requisite paperwork for body number 4.
------
They quickly learned to recognize each other by aura over the years. The more often they met, the less importance physical appearance became. It was too variable, based on time, place, and the look of local humans. There were Crowley’s eyes, of course, but the scaled yellow and black of his Core was easier to identify at any sort of distance. And Aziraphale’s “smug angelic sparkle” (Crowley’s chosen wording) was certainly easier to spot than the occasion-specific corporations heaven assigned after his must rarer decorporations.
It was the Arrangement that changed things.
They met up in England, where Aziraphale had been puttering around copying Old English texts with unwelcome Christian additions (the second half under orders from heaven). Crowley came across from Spain, dark hair and warm tan, slender and lanky for sneaking snakily in the shadows. Aziraphale was a smidge taller, broader in the shoulders and just starting to soften in the middle from the war-ready bodies he was always assigned.
The Arrangement was primarily a form of friendly laziness, born of the shared realization that their home offices were using them – and their precious time – to maintain some esoteric ethereal/occult balance on Earth. But there were side effects – the sort which led to unaccustomed safety.
As they spent more time together, both heaven and hell formed the mistaken impression that they had become proper adversaries. After all, why else would an angel and a demon spend so much time in relative proximity? Certainly not to bicker and try out local wines and delicacies! As such, they were considered each other’s problem, and other agents generally left them alone. Swapping off jobs allowed them to do less work, but also created a point of contact in case something went wrong. (Being accused of witchcraft was a fairly common occurrence for both of them; within a decade of the Arrangement they both had the necessary religious raiment and/or angelic costuming to save the other from the edge of a blade or the crackle of flames).
Aziraphale had a tendency to set down roots every once in a while, settling in for a few decades to read and hoard. This gave Crowley an unofficial base of operations as well, which avoided the weather-related events that sometimes led to discorporation. Occasionally he forgot to pay attention to things like hypothermia or dehydration. But Aziraphale was all about snacks and drinks and warm blankets, so Crowley found himself inhabiting the same body for close on 1000 years.
So by the time Armageddon was on the rise, they had come to know each other not only by aura, but by face. Crowley knew the dark blue eyes, the softness purposefully maintained over the angelic muscles underneath – the curve of his cheek, the hint of a second chin, the bitchy twitch of his lips, the impeccable hands. The angel’s hair curled around his ears, dark blond or pale brown, carefully nondescript, and he wore glasses he didn’t need because he liked the aesthetic, though he was too stubborn to admit it. Crowley despaired over his light colored button ups and collection of sweater vests and bowties. Why he’d decided to just stop in the 50s and stay there was a mystery even to Aziraphale’s closest frienemy. Aziraphale’s appearance was about softness, approachability, all wrapped up in outfits more suited for four decades prior.
And Aziraphale felt Crowley walking in the shop, of course – the shop was fond of Crowley and refused to shut him out – but it was the sight of dark hair in the latest style, watchful eyes, sharp features, just handsome enough to tempt, but not to be too memorable. His movements, clothes, hair, sunglasses, all of it was designed to make him dashing, cool, human. Seeing it always made the angel smile, quite despite himself.
They were comfortable, their corporations. Recognizable as the odd pair who met in the park or at the Ritz. Homey.
Home.