Idle hands are the devil's playground.
Aziraphale has given the age old saying some thought. Then again, he is an angel, surely it does not apply to him.
It is possible that he should be spending his long (unemployed, retired?) days doing what he always does; cataloguing his books, re-ordering his collections, searching for anyone selling interesting books.
Instead he spends long spots of time thinking about his demonic counterpart.
He's not trying to, quite frankly he's trying hard not to. And more than once he gives himself a headache.
Crowley still comes over, quite often, actually. They spend time together and while there's less looking over their shoulders for possible revenge visits from their former employers, Aziraphale may have nursed a small hope that going from opposite sides to their side would mean that elusive step forward in their relationship. Hadn't he been disappointed.
Nothing has changed between them. Much to Aziraphale's consternation.
So, in other words, Aziraphale is bored. Even his first editions do not call to him the way they used to. 
So he starts studying Crowley. He lets himself look, as in really look. Take in all the little details that he's always been aware of, but has never allowed himself to dwell on.
Crowley's way of dressing and his constant need to change the little details - and sometimes the big ones. On more than one occasion, he's sauntered through the door of the bookshop as a she rather than a he.
Aziraphale finds this rather intriguing. He has, once or twice for a job, changed his appearance to that of a female, but he knows he's not good at breaking habits, and he feels so very comfortable in the way he looks. And the clothes he has fit ever so well. Unlike Crowley, he doesn't just will his clothes into existence, he truly likes well fitted, bespoke suits. The kind that will last a century or two, if cared for the right way.
Doesn't mean he hasn't noticed how easily the change comes to Crowley or how at ease he seems in a female body.
This is where Aziraphale decides, one late Saturday morning, to see if perhaps Crowley is onto something. He stands up straight, in the middle of his rarely used bedroom, above the bookshop . He has a lovely mirror with a frame of cherry wood in one corner and he watches himself, sees all the things he's used to seeing when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. Comfortably dressed in clothes that fit quite well.
Now, if he is to change, he'll need clothes, but unfortunately he can't simply nip down to the tailor's. He'd need an appointment and it would take time - and today Aziraphale is feeling a little impatient. So miracalling the clothes will have to do.
He takes his jacket off and leaves it on the antique chair next to the bed. The waistcoat and shirt follow suit until he's down to his shirt. Then the trousers and the socks.
Aziraphale looks at himself in the mirror. He most certainly does not remember Gabriel's stinging words about needing to lose the gut. He feels comfortable in this body, curves and all.
And it's about to get a lot curvier.
Aziraphale chuckles a little at his own joke.
It's like the body doesn't want to shift at first and Aziraphale understands it. He's not terribly fond of change himself, and it's a trait that the body has become used to as well over the years. If it's not broke, why fix it?
However, this is exactly what he needs to do right now. Change it, give his body the urge to change. Because he wants to.
It does, if slowly. His hips widen a little, his bosom swells; his centre of gravity changes just enough for him to notice. The shirt that was loose on him before is now a little tighter over his chest.
Aziraphale looks at herself in the mirror and feels her cheeks flush a little. She is so unused to seeing herself like this. She looks down and sees nothing but the swell of her breasts, almost visible through the white shirt.
She is not used to the feel of them and realises, as she moves, that perhaps she's better off with a corset of some sort. She huffs and one materialises. It looks a bit odd. Very old fashioned. Perhaps she should…
A nod and a couple of modern magazines land on her bed. She pages through first one, then the other. All look so… generic and boring. She remembers once wearing a bustier and a snap of the fingers, she's wearing one just like it. A rather frivolous thing, she remembers, almost decadent. So well made and comfortable and more supportive than the corset.
Aziraphale pulls the neck of the shirt out a little, nods happily when she sees the embroidered top of the bustier, cream coloured and sturdy - and above all else - comfortable.
Now the outer clothes are a different case. She knows she's a bit set in her ways, but she refuses to feel like that is wrong. Like she should be changing her style completely just because she's chosen a different gender for a while. She does not have Crowley's flair for modern fashion and she knows her limitations. She can not make modern clothes look good on her. No matter what gender she is choosing to appear as. So she'll have to make it work with what she's got.
She digs out her long socks, the white ones, they take very little adjusting to fit her feet and calves and a little wave of the hand and they reach to under her knees. She stares at them. No, not quite what she wanted. Another wave of the hand and they disappear. Shopping would be nice, but as it is, she snaps her fingers and a pair of thigh high silk stockings encase her legs. Not bad. Though of course with this choice, she has to have garters and garter belt as well. She adjusts the style of her underwear to fit, but still be comfortable. With a scrunch of the nose, the plain white underwear turns cream to fit with the bustier and they lengthen a bit to cover the top of her thighs with a thin embroidered frilly border. They look good with the garters, she decides and turns to the next layer.
The shirt changes to fit a little better with her new shape and she quite fancies a skirt. Tartan of course. The first version is a bit on the long side, so with a huff she makes it shorter. Mid thigh.
She catches sight of herself in the mirror and flushes deeply. It's a rather inconvenient if sometimes charming trait of a human body. She can see the embroidered top of her silk stockings and quickly makes the skirt a little longer, just under the knees. It hugs her hips and thighs and feels warm and comfortable. It won't allow her to run a distance, but then again, a lady does not run or rush anywhere - she moves with measured steps.
She admires the skirt for a moment or two. It's good, but there's something missing - it's not quite what she's after. If asked, she'd never be able to explain exactly what she wants, so it'll have to be trial and error.
Perhaps a jacket to match? The first three she conjures up she removes just as quickly. Perhaps, what she really needs to do is look at what she's normally comfortable in. Because she realises that this is how Crowley dresses, he seems comfortable in whatever he wears - even if half of it is far too tight for Aziraphale's liking.
But it always looks good on Crowley.
Another flush colours her face. She doesn't mind too much by now, though. Even if perhaps, she shouldn't be having such thoughts about Crowley while she's only halfway dressed.
She catches her own eyes in the mirror and bites her lower lip. It's not a sin, she tells herself, to appreciate her friend's ability to fit in and stand out at the same time. So, something other than a jacket, perhaps?
She snaps her fingers and a waistcoat manifests itself on her bed. It's cream to match the skirt, but it's lined with tartan and the little pocket for the watch is lined with tartan as well. The silken back is a slightly darker cream.
Buttoning it up, she shifts and adjusts the cut of the waistcoat. One thing is the usual shape and size of a male chest, but her bosom is currently a little too curved to fit a man's cut. The changes made, the waistcoat accentuates her hips and her breasts.
A little too exposed, Aziraphale finds. She goes back to cycling through jackets and ends up with one not too different from her beloved one from the 1830s. It has a slightly different cut to accommodate her new form.
The shoes she cycles through a few - ends up on a pair with a little bit of heel and nice strap clasped around her ankle. Cream to match the rest.
And this is how she goes about the rest of her Saturday morning. Does her inventory, reshelves a few books (to make it harder for any customers to find them and attempt to purchase them).
It takes a bit to get used to the whole heels, and bosom thing, but by the time it's mid afternoon, and she hears the familiar sound of screeching tires outside, she's gotten quite used to it and is very much enjoying the way the body answers to her every whim.
She has a moment of doubt, as Crowley blows through the door, locking it behind him. But it doesn't matter, does it? Which body they wear? Just as Aziraphale takes a quiet delight in Crowley changing his gender, surely Crowley will-
Whatever Crowley will do or not do, is unclear. He stops midways through the shop, mouth open to say something (probably ask Aziraphale out to a late lunch, or high tea, which has become a bit of a habit most every other day now that the world is (temporarily) safe from upstairs and downstairs).
He makes an indecipherable noise, deep in his throat.
"What was that, dear? Aziraphale asks. She's not entirely blind to the reaction and takes no small measure of glee in it as well. She knows she's rather set in her ways, especially compared to her (former) hellish counterpart who changes style like humans change underwear sometimes.
Rather than answering, Crowley stalks around her, trying to see her from every angle. Now a human woman would probably find this quite unsettling, but to Aziraphale it is more or less par for the course. Crowley is rarely still and he's always aware of his surroundings - logic would dictate that he would assess Aziraphale.
Thoroughly. From every and any angle.
Aziraphale catches herself flushing at the unintended double entendre. Which she thankfully did not say out loud.
"Why the change, angel?" Crowley finally asks, as he comes to a stop in front of Aziraphale.
"You seem to enjoy your occasional changes," Aziraphale replies, smiling a little. The familiar tilt to Crowley's head is the first indication that he is adapting to the situation. "I thought why no try it as well?"
"Angel, I change my hair and my shoes - I also like changing my gender on occasion, but I don't think I've ever seen you like this." Crowley cocks his head to the other side.
Aziraphale tries to stay perfectly still. She is aware that she's done something out of the ordinary for herself, but she'd rather hoped… "Is that good or bad?" she manages to ask in an even voice.
Crowley is swaying slowly from side to side, the tip of his tongue wetting his lower lip and Aziraphale is most certainly not mirroring it. She bites down on her own traitorous tongue.
"Oh, good, angel, good, don't ever doubt that, but you have to give me a moment to adjust here."
Aziraphale most certainly does not flush because her mind goes where it shouldn't.
"Ah!" Crowley suddenly exclaims, snapping his fingers and a rush of demonic power rolls off him.
Aziraphale stares at him, or rather her. "Crowley?" She is if possibly more enticing than ever before and Aziraphale is silently thankful that her body won't give her away the way her male body would, because Crowley might as well have punched her in the stomach.
If a punch to the stomach could ever be this pleasant.
Crowley is dressed in a black business suit, slacks pressed to show folds down the front that look like they could cut any wayward hand, black louboutins with red soles and heels that make her tower over Aziraphale more than usual. The jacket is cut to emphasize her curves and the blood red shirt is open to mid chest, showing off the lace of a black bra. Her normally short hair is cascading down past her shoulders and seem to stay in place by a miracle alone.
Aziraphale isn't sure where to look, but with the heels, her eyes are nearly at level with Crowley's breasts and she's not sure what to do about this. Thankfully Crowley carries on talking.
"See, now we match better," she purrs. "Though Angel, really, your hair?"
"What's wrong with my hair?" she asks defensively.
"It's too short for your current looks," Crowley tells her. "Could you?" She reaches out but hesitates for a moment, before brushing the tips of two fingers along just under Aziraphale's ear.
Aziraphale tries to to not startle. The touch is like a current through her body.
"To here, angel, give it a try," Crowley says, her voice low and intimate. She slowly pulls her hand back, the black lacquered fingernails catching Aziraphale's eyes.
Aziraphale feels like her body is about ten degrees warmer than it should be. She does, however, do as Crowley suggests and a few pointers later, she's sporting a hairstyle she'd never considered - and she's a little embarrassed that she'd completely forgotten about her hair while she'd been choosing body and clothes.
She looks in the small mirror she has down here in the bookshop (the one that angled right allows her to see some of the otherwise hidden corners of the store to keep an eye on customers). Her hair is light and fluffy as always, but it now falls a little longer, brushing the skin under her ear where Crowley's touch still burns her a little. It's like a ghostly touch, as if the fingers are still there, as if Crowley's still somehow touching her.
Focusing on Crowley instead, she gives her a small smile. "Well, what did you have in mind for lunch?" she asks.
Crowley purses her lips and Aziaphale thinks she might have miscalculated this whole business of physical changes. She's normally quite capable of handling Crowley in a female vessel (not like that!) but her own female body seems even more drawn to Crowley like this. 
"I was going to suggest that little bakery around the corner, but since you've," she pauses and even through the dark shades, she's most certainly looking Aziraphale up and down and back up, "dressed up, so to speak, let's do the Savoy. I want to show you off."
Something in the pit of Aziraphale's stomach curls pleasantly. She keeps telling herself that it's the thought of the Savoy and the delightfully decadent desserts they serve there.
It has nothing to do with Crowley holding out her manicured hand, waiting for Aziraphale to take it.
It takes skill and a strong will for Aziraphale to keep her mind off how Crowley's hips swing enticingly as she walks Aziraphale out to the Bently, snapping the doors to the bookshop locked behind them.
The Savoy is both a delight and purgatory to Aziraphale. There is nothing wrong with the food or the service, both are as good as always. No, purgatory is watching Crowley drink her cocktails, her coffee, licking her lips, expressively speaking with her hands, more at ease in her female body than Aziraphale can ever hope to feel in hers.
It's both a delight to behold and absolute torture. It's not that her male body doesn't find both male and female Crowley attractive, it's just that she is absolutely incapable of not feeling her new appearance reacting to every little thing.
She catches herself swaying towards Crowley, like a snake to a charmer's flute, she watches Crowley lick her lips for a stray drop of alcohol, and she desperately hopes her clothes are thick enough to hide how her nipples harden at the thought of applying said tongue somewhere else.
Pressing her thighs together, she knows she needs to control herself and her body's reactions. She's kept mum on her attraction for centuries, why can't she get this body to fall in line?
Of course it's a matter of time before Crowley realises that something off in their usual interaction.
"Are you alright, angel?" she puts her hand on the table right next to Aziraphale's, a whisper of distance between their fingers.
"I may have miscalculated something when I changed my body," Aziraphale admits, not wanting to lie, but most certainly not wanting to tell Crowley that she'll possibly need a change of underwear by the time they get back to the bookshop. She could miracle the slickness away, but she knows Crowley will notice, much like Aziraphale is sensitive to any hellish miracles, Crowley can tell a celestial miracle a mile away. 
"Did something go wrong?" Crowley asks, shifting her chair a little closer, then she stops, blinks a couple of times, a flush heating her cheeks. She sniffs the air, sets the chair flat down again and coughs.
Aziraphale stares down at her delicious dessert and for the first time in ages, she has no urge to eat it, feeling like food is the last thing she wants in her body.
That thought sets her off again and she foolishly meets Crowley's gaze and Crowley has pushed her glasses down, so there's no hiding for that horrible moment.
"Angel-" Crowley's voice is low and sounds like the loveliest highgrade chocolate, rich, dark and tantalizing. It does things to Aziraphale and she has to press her thighs together even harder, hard enough that her legs are shaking a little. Their glasses and plates rattle on the table.
Crowley's hand clamps down on Aziraphale's thigh and a high pitched noise escapes the angel, who covers her face with her hands, embarrassed beyond measure. No one seems to notice this and she knows Crowley has had a hand in making it so. For her benefit.
Beyond the hand on her thigh, that is. Like a vice. Like a blacksmith's iron hot from the- Aziraphale stops herself. She has to stop doing this to herself.
"Aaaangeeeel," Crowley singsongs, "did you think that keeping a female body in check would be like keeping your male one?" Her question is soft, and not as teasing as it could have been.
"I've had a human vessel for millennia," Aziraphale tries to defend herself. Why does this one have to be have so differently. She's been in a female body before, and nothing like this ever came up. "I've been female before."
"Ah, but you're used to the male form, angel," Crowley argues. She has yet to move her hand away from Aziraphale's thigh, and she seems to have forgotten.
Aziraphale can not get herself to bring her attention to it.
And then Aziraphale realises what is different this time around. She's never been in Crowley's company for this long while female, and she's most certainly never been in her company while she has been female as well.
Her female body is obviously very much into Crowley's female body. (Much like Aziraphale's male body is very much into Crowley's male body but is so much better at ignoring it). Not to mention, they've always kept a certain distance before, but since the End didn't happen, said distance has been shrinking a little every time they see each other.
And currently that distance is pretty damned small, and Aziraphale can't help but look down at Crowley's hand. She looks up and meets Crowley's gaze, the demon looking down at her hand for a moment, a look of surprise on her face. Then, rather than moving said hand, she flexes her long, dexterous fingers.
Aziraphale is incapable of holding back the gasp. This earns her a raised eyebrow from Crowley, who does it again. And again. Until Aziraphale grabs her hand and holds onto it like a drowning sailor would hang onto a piece of driftwood. 
She keeps it in a vice grip, not daring to let go of it. "Crowley, could you please not do that?" she asks sternly. Or as sternly as one can when one is breathing a little too hard and heavily.
"Sorry, angel," Crowley replies and almost manages to sound like she means it.
"Like I said, I think I might have done something wrong when I changed," Aziraphale tries again. It has to be a major design flaw on her account, because if this is how women feel in general, how will they ever get anything done? And women get a lot of stuff done! And it's never been a problem before, this constant burning between her thighs, in the pit of her stomach, in the centre of her chest.
Crowley winces and Aziraphale realises that perhaps her grip is just this side of painful. She loosens it, but keeps ahold of Crowley's hand. Lest it wander again. Or squeeze.
"I'm sorry, darling," Aziraphale says with a sigh. "Perhaps we should just leave - you can drop me off at the bookshop - and I'll go back to being the male me - and we can have a do-over of this lunch thing tomorrow. Yes?"
Crowley looks at her like she's suggesting a vacation trip to Hell. "Angel, no - sorry, I promise I'll behave, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." She leans forward and Aziraphale's gaze is drawn without her vocation to the open neck of her shirt.
And the whole embarrassment thing drowns in her body's reaction once again. "How do women get anything done if they always feel like this?" she mutters, trying to breathe deeply and steady.
"I think human women are a little better at controlling their own bodies - they've had a lot longer to learn than you who've had what? A couple of hours?" Crowley purses her lips and Aziraphale can not look away. She feels a little cheated when Crowley pulls her hand back and puts it on the table. "Can I ask you a question, angel - a bit on the personal side, so-"
"We're friends, Crowley," she says, feeling the truth in the softness of those words. They warm her from the inside, makes her feel cozy and real. It never crosses her mind that Crowley might choose to ask something as crude as she does.
"Have you considered taking that lovely, voluptuous corporation for a spin?" Crowley asks, her voice little loser and with a distinctive purr. "I mean, you must be curious."
Aziraphale is torn between telling Crowley off and blurting out she's had some alone time with a female effort of her own a few times. Just never with the whole - ahem - package. 
All she manages, however, is a wordless noise.
"Ah, broke you, sorry, angel," Crowley says, not at all sorry judging by the shine to her amber eyes as she tips her glasses down again, eyeing Aziraphale with humour and-
"Would you like to take it for a - a spin?" Aziraphale asks, because she has no survival instinct at the moment, mesmerised by the sway of the serpent in front of her. There is no filter stopping her from making a fool of herself.
And it seems that she is now the one to have broken Crowley, who is staring at her, eyes wide, lips slightly parted and the tip of her tongue just visible. It's not even a joke to say she's broken Crowley, perhaps permanently.
"Angel! You-you-you can't just sssssay ssssssuch things - and in public!" Crowley's voice is almost like a long hiss, even if most of the words lack the letters to make this possible.
Aziraphale feels her face flush with heat and she suddenly understands why humans will sometimes describe embarrassing situations like they want to dig a hole and hide in it. Forever. "I-I'm sorry, Crowley, I promise I won't do that again," she hastily assures her dining companion. Once again she's managed to make a mess of things.
She really does want to go home, put on her old face and body and hide in her bookshop for the foreseeable future.
Crowley fumbles for her hand and Aziraphale can only stare down at their linked fingers. It sends a different fluttery feeling through her belly. This one draws up through her centre, her chest and wraps itself around her heart like a sun-warm serpent.
"Don't be hasty, angel, please - it's not your fault - I was the one asking a rather personal question," Crowley says, voice low and eyes sincere from where she is again looking over the rim of her sunglasses. Their amber colouring gives them a soft glow and Aziraphale can only hang on to her hand, barely blinking should she miss a moment of Crowley's gaze.
"I guess I wasn't quite as ready for this body as I thought I was," Aziraphale apologises, still feeling the heat in her cheeks. "Pride goes before the fall, as they say, I shouldn't have expected to be able to get it right on the first try."
"Ah, angel, you're right to be proud," Crowley almost purrs, "you are gorgeous, lovely, enticing, tempting, and I've never wanted to take anyone up on an offer like that before - but I don't think you're quite ready for that yet."
Aziraphale lets out a breath she isn't aware of having held. Because Crowley is right. While her body seems to be swamped by all these new wants, she's really not sure where to let it go. Dragging her along. "Oh, goodness, thank you, dear," she says, breathing a little easier.
"Promise me something, though," Crowley says, her painted lips curving into her customary smirk, the one some people would call evil, but Aziraphale has learned to see as the harbinger of mischief.
"If I can, you know I will," Aziraphale says, truthfully. She is utterly lost in Crowley's eyes. And she's perfectly okay with that. Her demon knows her well enough to not let her get too in over her head.
Crowley licks her lips and Aziraphale can't take her eyes off the pink tip slipping out for a second or two.
"When you are ready," Crowley says, voice low and dark as the best kind of chocolate, "you'll ask me again."
Aziraphale just stares at her, speechless. Her heart is beating too fast, her body is trembling. The inside of her thighs feel too hot and itch to be touched.
Crowley sits up a little straighter, but she stays close enough to not let go of Aziraphale's hand. "Until then, eat your dessert, angel, you've earned it."
Aziraphale can't find her voice to answer, but she can't stop the smile spreading on her face, the heat suffusing her entire being - physically as well as ethereally. Her grace swells with it, makes her feel like her wings are raring to burst free.
She does, however, keep it all in, takes her cake fork and digs into her dessert, while intertwining her fingers with Crowley's. Her demon might be a mischievous one, but she knows her angel and Aziraphale knows she'll wait for her to be fully ready.
Like she always does.
1There's only so many times you can re-arrange and read the dedications in Wilde and Shakespeare books before it becomes less interesting than thinking about what you'd like for your demon to do to you.Return to text
2Which will most certainly remain closed today. Because the owner is a bit busy changing his gender.Return to text
3Aziraphale has had millennia to learn how to suppress his male body's reactions to anything Crowley and carnal, but his female form is woefully unprepared for the change in hormones.Return to text
4And Aziraphale's from two milesReturn to text
5If said driftwood was big enough to keep said sailor above water, of course.Return to text
6About making an effort. The male one does allow a pair of well tailored trousers to fit quite well, but in terms of fun and refractory period, Aziraphale has been known to, on occasion, go for the female version. And by fun, I mean exactly what you were thinking I meant. There is nothing sinful about this act, angels (and demons, really) were given the same ability to choose and that Aziraphale should occasionally choose this for an afternoon delight, is simply, I feel, a show of diversity and good taste.Return to text