Archive of Our Own

This is a story about monsters. The kind that parents tell their children about in the inky-black depths of night, voices hushed to strike dread into the hearts of the young and innocent. 

“Listen to me,” the adults will say, “the world isn’t kind, and if you’re not careful, one day you’ll stumble across one of its monsters to find their eyes upon you and their teeth buried in your throat.” 

Many children will grow up cowed and timid, forever afraid of things lurking silently in the dark. Those otherwise emboldened will set out over sapphire seas and emerald mountains to seek their fortunes, hoping to slay the nightmares plaguing gentle citizens and write their names into the fabric of history. Of these intrepid few, most will perish, doomed to a quick and pointless end. Only a tiny handful - favoured by fickle deities, perhaps, or with luck woven into the tapestries of their fates - will emerge victorious, glory hanging upon them like a tattered mantle. 

Yet, none of them will ever question - not the hapless souls waiting for the kiss of Thanatos’ blade, nor the heroes with triumph clouding their guiltless eyes - just who the real monsters are in the first place. 

So, yes, this is a story about monsters. But it is not, as you might have already gathered, a heart-thumping tale of conquest. It is not a bitter cry for vengeance, or even a cautionary fable about the world’s unseen perils. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

Because this — this is a story about love. The kind of love that songbirds chase and poets covet, but aren’t guaranteed to find outside of their rose-hued fantasies. The kind of love that breaks expectations and transcends limitations, that turns curses into blessings, and heals the litanies of hurt inflicted by people’s carelessness and life’s injustice. The kind of love that sees all - the flaws and imperfections, the furtive secrets and the skeletons shoved deep inside of us to never touch the light of day - and embraces all the same. 

The kind of love that is ineffably, yet irrevocably, magic. 

So, yes, this is a story about monsters. And it is also a story about love. 

Because after all, don’t we monsters deserve love, too? 

___________________

On the burnished banks of a faraway ocean, forever bathed in the faint tang of iron, lay a cave. In the cave dwelled what the townspeople knew only as Medusa - a fearsome monster with a forked tongue and a head full of bloodstained snakes, and eyes so hideous that even the briefest glance into them could turn a man to stone. Fireside whispers were never quite clear on how Medusa came to live here, or how long it’d made the beach its hunting ground. They were only certain that all the foolish, self-proclaimed heroes who had dared to venture inside its lair were never seen again, petrified eternally in the marble garden of Medusa’s wrath. 

In another corner of the world, surrounded by rocky outcroppings and treacherous waves, stood an island. It was small, unassuming, almost, if not for its fatal reputation that every sailor had etched like a commandment inside their minds. For this island was the home of sirens - half-bird, half-human creatures that had the terrible power to sing ships to their watery graves. 

A siren’s song was a cruel, double-edged sword: in its lilting notes you would see your heart’s most hidden desires, and enamoured, you would grow deaf and blind to everything except the need to keep listening to the song so you could hold your dreams forever inside this beautiful, pocket reality. And so possessed, you would lose all reason and ignore all charted paths to sail headfirst towards the island, where your ship would shatter upon the concealed reefs rising from the sea like daggers, and you would drown, the sirens’ hypnotic melodies trickling into your ears as surely as salt water trickled into your mouth. 

Rumours said the sirens sang because they loved the taste of human flesh; because they took unearthly glee in devouring the corpses that washed up, bloated and pallid, on the island’s coast. But the truth was far more innocuous. The sirens sang because they had to - because their song was as much a part of them as the blood that ran in their veins and the hearts that beat inside their oh-so-human chests. Harmonies burned their throats like a compulsion that demanded attention - a living, writhing call that the sirens were bound to answer with their own lethal voices. They took no pleasure in seeing bodies waste away on their sandy shores, but measured against the perpetual need that threatened to gnaw at them from the inside, the demise of those unfortunate enough to get caught in their spell became unintentional - but acceptable - collateral damage. 

At least, for most sirens. 

One siren in particular always found that his guilty conscience weighed more heavily on him than the indelible pain lodged against his breastbone. Scorned by the others for his delicate constitution, the sight and - stars above - the smell of cadavers putrefying in the relentless sun were already enough to turn his stomach, let alone the knowledge that he was responsible, no matter how partially, for their deaths. 

At first, he tried to convince the other sirens to curb their singing until there were no ships in hearing range, to minimise their harm as much as possible. His pleas fell on deaf ears, though, because what were the words of a single siren against an age-old instinct written into their very bones? Besides, the elders reasoned, if their island was so notorious, then surely it was the sailors’ fault for not taking precautions when navigating through their part of the ocean. If negligence, or worse, hubris, left them defenceless against the sirens’ trance, then surely the humans were the ones to blame. 

The siren didn’t believe this mantra. Couldn’t, really, not when underneath his family’s symphonies, he could still make out the awful, burbling sounds of people taking their last breaths as they sank below the water. 

When persuading his brethren failed, the siren turned to the other side of the conundrum: the humans. He knew, logically, that the humans hated and feared them in equal measure. That they kept away when they had to, but wouldn’t hesitate to carve out his wings and take them back as a trophy given half a chance. But he wanted so desperately to hold on to the hope that maybe - just maybe - they could put aside their ancient animosity and see past his snowy plumage and taloned feet to the good intentions underneath. And so, every time he spotted a boat on the horizon, he would fly over on cautious wings to try and warn the crew away from the island, imploring them to turn around or plug their ears with wax to avoid the sirens’ call. And every time, he would find himself on the pointed end of a weapon or the barbed edge of distrust. 

Every time, he would limp back home with a bruised body and an even more bruised heart. 

With each new wound he added to his steadily growing tally, his hope flickered, and sputtered, and dimmed. Until one day, it went out altogether, and the only thing that was left was the acrid smoke of regret. 

With all his options exhausted and his carefully laid plans laying in shambles around him like a ghostly shipwreck, the siren decided that if he could just refrain from singing himself, he wouldn’t feel like his lips were tainted red with the lives of innocents. And Gods, did it hurt, to keep his mouth closed against temptation as his family’s voices rose around him - like a thousand little pins searing a path of carnage all the way from his lungs to the tip of his tongue. What pained him more, though, were the disdainful sneers of his superiors, scoffing at his futile attempts to preserve something they refused to see the value in. 

For a long time, the siren bore it all: the brunt of their disappointment and the burden of his own resolve. Only in the darkest hours of night, when no shadows troubled the crystal moonlight and he could risk humming gently to ease some of the pressure on his voice box, was he able to find reprieve. 

Yet this, too, was not enough, the sun-bleached skeletons littering the island’s grounds a stark reminder of the havoc that the sirens had, and would continue to wreak. 

Looking out at the detritus of yet another ship crashing despondently against the cliffs, the realisation hit the siren with the force of a fallen star. I can’t do this anymore. The truth echoed bitterly in his head, getting louder and louder as it hammered against the fracturing shreds of his self-control. It left him shaken and disoriented, but also strangely resolute. 

If unrequited loyalty was the only thing shackling him to his home, then there really was no reason for him to stay. 

His mind made up, the siren waited patiently until nightfall before he unfurled his wings and set a swift course across the boundless ocean. He doubted he would be missed, but he didn’t want to chance anyone seeing him and raising the alarm. The elders never did look kindly upon deserters. 

Long distance travel wasn’t something that the siren was at all prepared for. He underestimated how quickly he would tire, and having no sense of where he wanted to go except away , he had to make do with flying aimlessly for hours, sky-blue eyes straining to search for the nearest glimpse of land. The day broke, bright and scorching, as he was still flapping his wings doggedly against the stagnant air currents, and the prickle of discomfort as his fair skin started burning in the sweltering heat became more pronounced with each passing minute. 

Just as the sun reached its zenith and despair began pooling in glittering droplets at his hairline, a flash of bronze burst through the unending expanse of cerulean like a miracle. It seemed to grow interminably as he flew closer, stretching to fill the horizon where the copper sand gave way to lush, vivacious greenery. Life, said his mind, and a chance of proper survival. 

Beauty, sang his heart, and the promise of a new home.  

Overjoyed, the siren put on a frantic burst of speed, determined to reach land before his wings collapsed from under him. He made it with seconds to spare, toppling inelegantly down onto the beach and righting himself with the last of his strength to take in his surroundings. There was something odd about the place, something peculiar about the pristine slopes of sand and the silence that blanketed everything in a funereal shroud, and had he been less delirious from his journey, he might have been on higher alert. Fatigue had dulled his senses, though, and he stumbled hazily forward in search of somewhere to shelter from the midday sun before he ventured out again for food and water. 

A couple hundred steps from where the shoreline met the sea, the siren came upon a cave, its entrance a dark, gaping maw that veiled the shapes of what lay ahead. Before he could even cross the threshold, a hiss echoed from inside, followed by a deep, sibilant voice.  

“I can sssssmell you, you know. Don’t you dare set one foot inside, or you’ll never sssssee the light of day again.” 

The siren flinched at the threat, but he was tired, and parched, and half-singed from flying across open waters in the middle of summer, and desperation welled up in his chest to mingle with the stubbornness that had made him try, try, and try again to save the sailors who’d greeted him with nothing but scorn and violence. 

“Please,” he begged, “I just need a place to rest for the day. I don’t mean to trouble you, but I’ve been flying for so long. I’m barely standing as is.” 

A sceptical silence descended upon them, heavy with calculation. 

“Flying, did you say?” 

The siren startled, only belatedly realising how much of his monstrosity he’d revealed in a single sentence, and he cursed himself for his ruinous mistake. The person didn’t sound accusing, though - more curious than anything, and without a hint of the hatred he’d come to recognise like an old friend. 

“Y-yes,” he said, testing out the word slowly, guardedly. He’d been burned too many times, the scars mottling his body a testament to his many failures. But he could do this, he thought fervently, one last time - serve what little remained of his hope on a platter and pray the other person didn’t devour it whole. “I’m a siren, you see, and I know you think I’m dangerous, but I swear I won’t hurt you, I – ” 

Laughter erupted from the cave. It was less laughter, really, and more of a cackle: loud, full-bodied, and entirely unselfconscious. It took the siren by surprise - not only because no stranger had ever laughed at him before, either too stupefied or too busy attempting to impale him with whatever pointy thing happened to be nearby, but also because the warmth of it calmed his fraying nerves like nothing else had in quite a while. 

“I - I beg your pardon?” he asked as the cackles morphed into half-aborted chortles.  

“Ohhh, this is precioussss,” the voice howled somewhat hysterically. “You think you’re dangerous? You have no idea whose lair you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?” 

The siren shifted fretfully. “I must confess I haven’t had time to gather my bearings, and my knowledge of these lands is woefully inadequate. Would you, ah, care to elaborate, or…?” 

“Would I care to elaborate? Hah!” The voice barked. The siren could tell they were moving, inching gradually closer to the mouth of the cave. A figure emerged from the gloom, shadows clinging to them like an impenetrable shield. 

The siren braced himself, preparing to flee or, Gods help him, fight, if it came to that. Oh, how he didn’t want it to come to that. 

“Let me put you out of your misery, then, sssssshall I?”

And the figure stepped fully into the light. The siren’s breath stuttered in his chest. 

The person stood tall and proud, wrapped in a soft black tunic that trailed across their lithe frame in a gentle cascade. Where the fabric dipped low over their bare torso, the siren spied the telltale iridescence of scales, glinting like rutilant jewels in the blinding sunshine. They had an angular sort of face, punctuated by an aquiline nose and cheekbones that seemed chiselled from alabaster. A strange contraption, made up of two dark pieces of glass and spindly metal legs, hid their eyes entirely from view. 

But this novel device wasn’t the most arresting thing about them. No, what drew the siren’s gaze was the nest of scarlet snakes encircling their head like a live headpiece, each one curling and uncurling rhythmically as if performing a complex, choreographed dance. One of the snakes fixed their beady eyes on him, and he felt ice drip down his spine. 

Medusa . He’d heard the stories, of course, but they were only ever that - stories, with no way to prove that they held any merit or substance. Gods knew the ones they told about him and his siblings were… exaggerated, to put it mildly. This Medusa certainly looked like the real deal, though, standing in front of him with one hand propped defiantly on their hip. 

Now the earlier warning made sense. Never see the light of day again. If the stories were to be believed, Medusa could turn people into stone with a single look. Were it not for the glasses covering their eyes, the siren may as well have been staring Death straight in the face. 

Medusa’s lips twisted into an artful smirk. “Not feeling so dangerous now, hm?” 

The siren swallowed the lump in his throat and squared his shoulders. They were both monsters, here. Just because he didn’t like his fangs didn’t mean they weren’t there. 

“Who you are does not make me any less capable of harm - which, as I was saying before I was interrupted, I have no intention of letting come to you or anyone else. At least, not by my hand.”

Medusa quirked an eyebrow, visible even above their tinted lenses. The siren wasn’t particularly skilled at reading others’ expressions, but if he had to hazard a guess, he would have said they looked almost… amused? 

“Do you always let your moral compass do the talking, or is this little performance all for me? Because if so, bravo! You’d make for a terribly convincing thespian.”

“Trust me,” sniffed the siren, weariness widening the cracks in his mask of polite composure, “I wouldn’t need to stoop to dramatics to make you hang onto every word I say. Now, if you are quite finished doubting my sincerity, I would dearly appreciate an answer on whether I may stay here for the night. If I must find alternative accommodations, I’d prefer to get on with it while it’s still light out.” 

The corners of Medusa’s lips twitched, a barely discernible movement that nonetheless transformed their countenance into something far softer and more charming than they had any right to be. 

“Well, since you’ve asked so nicely - I’m sure one night won’t hurt.”

Joy bloomed, fragile yet incandescent, in the siren’s heart. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” he babbled, beaming so hard it hurt. “This is so incredibly kind of you.” 

“Ugh, not kind,” Medusa scoffed, “just practical. Wouldn’t want to sleep with my ears covered tonight, ’s all. Ssssso. Yeah. Come along, then, erm…” 

It took him several seconds to decipher the pause. “Goodness, where are my manners? I’m Aziraphale, of the Eastern Isles. And you?” 

“Oh, there’s no use pretending, siren,” came the drawled response as the person in question turned around to beckon Aziraphale further into the cave. “Even children on the other side of the Aegean have heard of the vile, evil Medusa.” 

The hint of resentment colouring their voice tugged at a familiar wound in the siren’s chest. His hands tingled with the need to reach out, to soothe, so he clasped them together instead, afraid of overstepping when the other had granted him such immense generosity. 

“But,” and the siren knew he wasn’t imagining the hesitation - the split second of doubt and vulnerability - before Medusa continued, nonchalant as ever.

“Personally, I prefer Crowley.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated to himself as he followed their retreating figure into the dark. The syllables rolled off his tongue like an omen. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you.” 

___________________

For someone so adamant about keeping people out of his den, Crowley was an exceptional host. Granted, Aziraphale didn’t have much experience being a guest, either, but he hadn’t needed to ask for a single thing from the moment he stepped inside. Crowley had simply provided: a cup of spring water, as fresh as morning dew on Aziraphale’s dry lips; a piece of roasted rabbit that burst with decadent flavours across his palate; and a cosy nest, undoubtedly Crowley’s own, that he had tried vehemently to protest and been ruthlessly glared and goaded into accepting. Crowley wore their mask of menace like a second skin, but underneath it, Aziraphale could feel the inexplicable tendrils of reassurance and the implicit, reciprocal understanding that nothing would happen to him - not while he was in Crowley’s care.  

Aziraphale had fallen asleep in the blink of an eye, not a cloud of worry shadowing his mind. He could almost envision his brother Gabriel lecturing him about his naivety, about the risks of putting himself at the mercy of a complete stranger, let alone one with such a sordid reputation. The phantom nagging was easy to ignore, though, especially when he could hear Crowley settling down a considerable distance away, closer to the entrance - as if sitting guard over him and the serenity of his dreams. 

It was one of the most peaceful nights of sleep he’d ever had. 

Aziraphale woke up refreshed, recharged, and reluctant to leave. It wasn’t just about having to part from the creature comforts of Crowley’s den, so welcome after his unexpectedly arduous journey. It was about the revelation of meeting a kindred soul - someone whose jagged edges seemed to mirror his own in a way that he couldn’t quite put into words, but could feel with a surety that thrummed like a bass note inside his veins. He yearned to nurture that fleeting sense of affinity, to see if the similarities between them could form the foundation of something stronger - something more stable, more meaningful, perhaps . Aziraphale had been starved of connection for so long, the possibility of more was enough to make him light-headed. 

But he had promised to stay for one night, and he had no desire to remain somewhere he wasn’t wanted; he’d had a lifetime of that already. So, with a sigh stuck heavily in his chest, he went to search for Crowley, readying himself to say his goodbyes and embark once again on his drudging quest forward. 

Except, he couldn’t find them. They weren’t in the cave or any of its adjacent chambers, which Aziraphale hadn’t seen yesterday and now felt slightly guilty for exploring without invitation. They weren’t on the beach either, as far as he could determine once he flew up to try and spot their lanky figure against the unblemished canvas of sand. That left the forest, bordering the shore in a thick, verdant crescent. Its trees stretched like evergreen giants into the cloudless sky, and the fresh scent of oak filled his nose, accented with the sharp hint of salt. On the forest’s edge, Aziraphale spied a narrow footpath, half-hidden from view but clearly well-trodden, and followed along, keeping an eye out for any signs of danger.   

The path wended scenically through the dense undergrowth, the foliage overhead offering plenty of shade from the blistering sun. Aziraphale’s vigilance dissipated the further inside he walked, and he soon slowed to a leisurely pace, charmed by the signs of wildlife that peeked through all around him. There, a bird alighted with a merry chirp, which was swiftly answered by its equally joyous neighbour. There, a fox slinked inside the shadows, the loud orange of its fur a contrast to the measured silence of its gait. 

The siren was so taken by the landscape that he almost didn’t notice when the trail ended, but the smoothness of stones underneath his taloned feet, small and even in a way that was distinctly unnatural, alerted him to a change in his surroundings. He looked up in question and gasped.   

The clearing was awash with the hues of a hundred flowers, each blossom more glorious than the last. Dark-stemmed rose bushes, laden with pale pink blooms, twined around a pebble pathway that meandered this way and that through the viridian glade. Delphiniums erupted from the ground like indigo arrows, cosseted by the vibrant violet of crocuses and the mellow mauve of irises. Snow-white lilies drooped daintily over proud narcissuses and twinkling constellations of heliotrope. There were fruit trees, too, pomegranates and apples and olives in various stages of ripening, that dotted the perimeter of the garden like stoic sentinels, keeping careful watch over the delicate treasures within. Aziraphale didn’t know what was more mesmerising - the floral tableau painting his vision in an unending rainbow of colour, or the myriad of aromas all vying for his attention, sweet and heady and unbearably intoxicating.      

“Gorgeous, innit,” a voice said from behind him, breaking Aziraphale out of his reverie. The siren let out an undignified squeal and whirled around to fix the intruder with a reproachful glare, the severity of which was immediately undermined by the nervous fluttering of his wings. Crowley smirked from where they were leaning against an apple tree, all loose-limbed grace and smug indifference, and something about how the dappled light shimmered across their face, or how their lip curved lazily above the glimpse of a pointed canine, made Aziraphale’s heart trip over itself and run headfirst into his rib cage. 

“Yes,” he said, trying to hold on to his mild irritation. It was hard to stay miffed, though, when awe kept tugging his mouth into a radiant smile. “It is magnificent . Did you grow this all yourself?” 

Crowley heaved themself upright and sauntered over with a dramatic sweep of their arms. “Who else could get these bloody buggers to behave? It’s like babysitting infants, I tell ya - their temper tantrums are unbelievable . The key, I’ve found,” they said, leaning down conspiratorially towards Aziraphale and lowering their voice to a wicked whisper, “is to scare them into submission.” 

Aziraphale blinked, both at Crowley’s proximity and their gleeful statement. “That is certainly unorthodox. I’ve never heard of plants responding well to censure before.”  

Crowley shrugged and stalked away towards the nearest rose bush, running their fingers over a blackened leaf with intent scrutiny. “A good ol’ talking to does wonders for everybody - or is it everything, in this case? Regardless, if any of my plants ever dare to wilt, or even think about getting spotsssss, I’ll personally feed them to the deer.” 

Aziraphale could have sworn he saw the offending bush tremble, but he decided to chalk it up to the wind. 

“Far be it from me to comment on the finer points of your cultivation methods,” he said tactfully. “If the result is as beautiful as your garden, I am sure any intimidation is wholly justified.” 

Crowley nodded, seemingly appeased. Then they scrunched up their nose in thought. “What brings you out here, anyway? You’re a loooong way away from my cave.” 

Ah. The moment he had been dreading. Aziraphale straightened, the tips of his wings curling instinctively in front of him. 

“Yes. About that.” The sounds didn’t want to leave his throat - an utterly alien sensation for a siren - and he had to force them out slowly, methodically. Each syllable stung the roof of his mouth with dread. 

“I’ve come to thank you for your hospitality; for allowing me to stay with you last night. Now it’s time for me to uphold my side of the bargain and be on my way.” 

Crowley’s hand froze where it was caressing an unopened rose bud. From what Aziraphale could see of their profile, their whole face had flattened - wiped clear of the peaks and valleys that had brought even the tiniest expressions to kaleidoscopic life. 

“You want to leave, then,” they said, and the note of forlorn finality reverberated through Aziraphale’s body with a clang. 

“Your home - it is lovely, ” he hurried to interject, wishing to explain, wishing to placate, but most of all wishing to erase the edge of apathy that had crept into Crowley’s voice, blanketing the landscapes of their personality in an amorphous fog. He was babbling, he knew, but where there had been a dam keeping all his words inside just moments before, now they flowed from him in a torrential outpour. 

“This garden - I cannot even begin to imagine the amount of work you have put into it. It must take up so much of your time and effort. And I would be disturbing that, if I stayed. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, and I would get in your way, and interfere with the wonderful life that you’ve built here, and I cannot do that - not to you.”  

He clamped his mouth shut, teeth clacking against each other in a bony prison, before something more revealing could escape - something like I couldn’t bear it if you resented me, too.  

A hush fell over the clearing, stifling and as thick as molasses. Aziraphale balled his fists against his sides, leaving reddened pinpricks where his talons dug into the soft skin of his palms. The pain was sobering, an anchor tethering him to his tenuous reality.  

As seconds ticked by in excruciating silence, the stone facade that had enveloped Crowley began crumbling, bit by broken bit. First, it was a twitch of their fingers, no longer deathly still as they flexed against the tiny bud cupped tenderly inside their hand. Next, it was a tilting of their face, not towards Aziraphale but away, their shaded gaze fixed on a point far into the distance. Finally, it was a tensing of their throat as they swallowed and said, their voice heavy with contemplation. 

“Y’know, I’ve always wanted to find more flowers. Grow my garden beyond the species that are native to this part of the land.”

Their tone took on a wistful cadence, as if chasing a fantasy that was forever out of reach. 

“If you look like me, though,” Crowley continued with a shake of their head, where the snakes were undulating en masse, “it’s a little hard to go anywhere outside the forest without someone deciding to take a stab - quite literally - at the walking, talking abomination. And believe it or not, I don’t always feel like leaving a string of statues in my wake.” 

Aziraphale’s chest twinged at their tired admission. Unbidden, the cries of the drowned rose like a chorus inside his mind. 

“But you,” and here Crowley swivelled to look at Aziraphale, their eyes piercing even from behind their darkened lenses, “you’ve got your wings, don’t ya? You can just disappear into the sky if anyone sees you.”

The siren inhaled sharply. “I-if you put it like that, yes. I suppose I can.” 

A smile pulled at Crowley’s lips, calculating and self-satisfied. With serpentine ease, they slithered over to Aziraphale and extended their hand in one smooth motion. 

“What do you say to an Arrangement, siren?” they asked knowingly. “Help me find new flower varieties, and in exchange, you can stay at my lair. I get to yell at exotic plants, and you get the peace of living with the one and only Medusa.”

For a long, drawn out moment, all Aziraphale could do was stare at Crowley’s hand. At their talons, dagger-sharp but covered completely in dirt. At the tremor that he could just make out, vibrating subtly through their entire arm. 

Crowley had sounded confident - arrogant, almost - and yet…

Their skin was clammy against his own as he reached out, slowly but surely, to seal his fate. 

“In that case, I will gladly accept.” 

___________________

Learning to live with Crowley was like learning how to fly: scary and unfamiliar at first, but achingly instinctual all the same. Initially, Aziraphale’s ingrained politeness, a courtesy as much as a defence mechanism against his family’ constant derision, dictated that he keep strictly to the letter of their Arrangement, and he strove to maintain tidy boundaries between his plant-finding duties and his fledgling companionship with Crowley. Fortunately, his misguided self-restraint didn’t stand a chance against his housemate’s persistent charm. 

“Siren, come over here and help me plant these - what’d you say their name was again?” Crowley asked from where they knelt by a flower bed, cradling the blood-red blossoms which Aziraphale had found that morning in the shade of a remote mountain. 

“Anemones, if I recall the locals correctly,” Aziraphale said, “and are you quite sure you want, or even need my help, for that matter? You know I don’t have your green thumb, it would be a right shame if I ruined…”

Crowley snorted so hard, even with their ever-present shades, Aziraphale could tell they were rolling their eyes. 

“Oh, don’t give yourself too much credit,” they said imperiously, but with the hint of sardonic humour that Aziraphale had learned to secretly enjoy in the past couple of weeks. “You’re sorely underestimating me if you think you can do anything in my garden that I couldn’t fix in a heartbeat. Now stop stalling, would ya, and take this tuber - yessss, just like that, don’t be afraid, it won’t disintegrate just ‘cause you looked at it funny - and dooooooown we go.”

The feel of the dense, wiry roots wasn’t as startling as the warmth of Crowley’s palms cupping Aziraphale’s own as they lowered their intertwined hands into the ground. 

“See,” Crowley said, their voice barely inches from his ear. If Aziraphale turned, he could just imagine the proud slope of Crowley’s nose, the telltale smirk pulling their lips into a wicked line. His throat felt dry, his tongue heavy underneath a tangle of emotions that he didn’t want to peer too closely at. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Now we pack some earth back around the root ball, give it some water, and voila! The anemones live to fight another day.”   

“Ye-es,” Aziraphale agreed, standing shakily up and pretending to dust his hands. Crowley lingered on the ground, eyes trained on the delicate petals in front of them, and Aziraphale was suddenly both grateful for the space and disappointed by the distance between them. 

“That wasn’t bad at all.” 

It wasn’t just that Crowley casually roped him into tending to the garden with them (which, once he got over his fear of irreparably damaging the plants, became its own sort of reward - to watch something grow and thrive and not perish because of him. It was a much-needed reprieve from the trail of deaths that had dogged his steps from the day he could cry.) Even those cherished slivers of time working side by side were enough to make Aziraphale feel included - like he was a welcome presence and not a nuisance to be callously tolerated. 

More than that, though, Crowley always cared about what Aziraphale had to say. Wanted to know about his forays into the wilderness, regardless of how repetitive they soon became or how often Aziraphale wandered off on tangents about an interesting myth that he simply had to eavesdrop on. Wanted to hear about his childhood, about the few good and the many more harrowing memories he had of growing up with the sirens and learning that he could cause havoc just by the virtue of his existence.  

“Gabriel, my oldest brother… He thought we were born better,” Aziraphale confided in the dead of night, as the moon wreathed itself in shadow and the ocean wind threatened to scatter his words across the abyssal plain. The late hour seeped melancholy into the crevices of his soul, and he struggled to wrangle his thoughts into shape before they dissolved in a tidal wave of guilt. Crowley sprawled next to him, their spectral silence at odds with their usual restless energy. Even their snakes lay still, as if transfixed by the somnolent dance of their campfire.

“He believed we were blessed by the Gods with powers beyond the mortals’ comprehension. That it was our divine right, to spread our song throughout the realm and show the humans’ their hearts’ truest desires.” 

Aziraphale let out a trembling breath, and the cadence of Gabriel’s teachings rose within him, their aftertaste as bitter as the day he woke up and realised he was living a destructive lie. “That it was their fault for not being able to appreciate the gift we were bestowing upon them.” 

Thinking about his brethren hurt, left a gnawing pain that ate acid into his insides, but he’d held his story in for so long, now that he’d started, he couldn’t bear to stop. 

“Michael was a pragmatist. They didn’t think it was necessary for the humans to die, but they didn’t see why that meant we had to suffer - not when our song was so vital to our very beings. Sandalphon didn’t really care either way.”  

A smile flitted across Aziraphale’s lips, a crooked, mirthless thing. 

“And then there was me. A cowardly, complicitous monster, too afraid to do anything until there was nothing left to do.”   

Beside him, Crowley stirred, the first hint of movement they’d made since Aziraphale lost himself to his maudlin musings. Their fingers flexed, white-knuckled in the russet sand.   

“You can’t think like that, siren,” they said. There was anger in their voice, banked yet stark against the night’s velvet quiet, and for a moment Aziraphale wondered who they were angry at. “That way lies madness, and not the good kind.” 

Aziraphale sighed, curling his wings around himself in a weak facsimile of comfort. “What do you suggest I do then, Crowley? I can’t hide from the truth, not when it glares back at me every day from my reflection.”  

Slowly, Crowley raised their face to the sky, and the faint glimmers of starlight danced across their skin like a forbidden work of art.

“The truth, Aziraphale, is that you abandoned everything you’d ever known for the choice to do what’s right. That’s not a decision many would’ve even considered, much less taken. And sure, you might’ve hesitated, but who the fuck wouldn’t have? That doesn’t make you a monster. That makes you human .” 

Their words were a heavy brand on Aziraphale’s battered psyche. He swallowed against the maelstrom of gratitude and relief swirling inside his lungs, and with a gentle nod the only sign of his acknowledgement, turned back to watch the flames disappear into the night.   

___________________

Just as Crowley was graciously curious about Aziraphale, so was Aziraphale interested in learning more about them - about the stories that made the person behind the bloody legends come alive in a glorious mess of contradictions. Alas, Crowley wasn’t nearly as good at sharing as they were at listening, and it took a while for them to start opening up to Aziraphale. Even then, they would drop snippets into long, rambling conversations, sprinkle in crucial factoids and anecdotes like they were mere afterthoughts instead of the most private confessions. 

With every new fragment of themself that Crowley offered him, Aziraphale carefully slotted them into the portrait that was beginning to materialise inside his mind. The portrait of someone who’d haunted the lands, alone and hooded constantly from sight, until they happened upon the tinted sea-glass that would protect the world from their accidental gaze. Who’d fed warning whispers of Medusa’s might to sailors too drunk to remember whom they’d sat next to in the dimly lit taverns, but conscious enough to spread the word until the lurid tales caught on like wildfire. Who’d confined themself to decades of isolation, with only their plants’ ephemeral beauty for company - the only living things whose existence they couldn’t cut short with an ill-timed glance. 

Who’d craved the sound of someone else’s voice to break the monotony of their own chatter, and found hope peering through the dark in the form of one soft, anxious siren.  

There were other pieces too, little, imperceptible things that nonetheless added the finishing brushstrokes onto Crowley’s visage. The tiny wrinkle between their brows that formed whenever they were chewing out a particularly stubborn flower. The sleepy blinks of their snakes, indolent and satisfied, as the two of them indulged in naps in the middle of the sunlit garden. The sharp bite of their laughter, raw and heart-wrenchingly genuine, filling the air with the force of their unburdened personality. 

These pieces, Aziraphale collected like treasures - kept them safe under lock and key, like they were his alone to cherish. 

One story, however, Crowley remained fiercely tight-lipped about: the story of how they gained their petrifying powers. To Aziraphale’s nigh encyclopaedic knowledge of mythical creatures, there was only ever one Medusa in the entirety of history. The most similar were the Gorgons, with their fearsome fangs and coiling, serpentine hair, but even they couldn’t freeze men dead in their tracks. Like all unique creatures, Aziraphale knew that Crowley had a special origin story behind the manifestation of their magic. Crowley never brought it up in conversation, though, and the siren never dared to pry. 

If it wasn’t for the statue, Aziraphale would have gone to his grave without hearing Crowley’s secret.    

From above, the statue didn’t look like anything out of the ordinary, except for the fact that it was hidden deep inside the forest, where no trails troubled the surrounding vegetation. The gleaming stone had caught Aziraphale’s attention as he was flying back from an expedition to a neighbouring island, and intrigued, he’d made a spontaneous descent to take a closer look. 

The marble was carved into the figure of a man, his arms held up in a ubiquitous gesture of surrender. The chisel work was masterful, done with a steady hand and deadly precision. Each strand of the man’s hair was pristine in its detail, each fold of his tunic breathtaking in its naturalism. 

It wasn’t until Aziraphale saw his face, terrible in its beauty and palpable fear, that he realised what this must be. The remnants of one of Crowley’s victims. 

The gasp that escaped his lips was involuntary, yet it echoed deafeningly all the same. 

“Ah,” Crowley said, walking out from the treeline. Aziraphale started, but didn’t turn around, rooted in place by the weight of the statue’s stare. “I see you’ve found Lucifer.” 

Questions crowded the siren’s mind, each one more piercing than the last: What happened? Why is he here, in the middle of nowhere? Oh, Crowley, what did you have to do? Only one managed to slip out.

“Who is he?”

In his peripheral vision, Crowley stepped towards the statue and smiled a cold, foreboding smile. Aziraphale could barely recognise them in its twisted caricature.   

“He is the reason I am like thissssss,” Crowley hissed, spitting out each syllable like they were broken glass. The laugh lines around their mouth contorted in a furious grimace, and veins streaked across their temples in a patchwork of bruised lightning. 

Aziraphale’s hands shook slightly as he pressed them against his sides. “You don’t mean…” he attempted, but the sounds died on his tongue, frail and futile.  

As quickly as Crowley’s ire had flared, it vanished, leaving behind the grooves of deep-seated sorrow and the barely discernible sillage of regret. Watching their expression collapse tore something inside of Aziraphale, like a wound had gaped open in the softest part of his chest and started bleeding. 

“Once upon a time,” Crowley began, voice laden with resignation - as if they were launching into a tragic fairy tale, and Aziraphale was compelled to listen, no matter how much his heart ached in the process, “I was a priestess. I know, huuuge shocker, but there used to be a young, pious soul behind all this irreverence and fake bravado, if you can bloody believe it.” 

Crowley let out a caustic chuckle and barrelled on. “I served at the temple of Athena, because baby me thought she was ferocious and wise, and if I was going to pledge myself to anyone on that blasted Pantheon, I could do worse than a warrior Goddess. That, siren, was my first mistake. The second was trusting Luke.”

The vitriol in their tone could have corroded metal. “He came to the temple under the pretence of seeking the Goddess’s blessing, and utter fool that I was, I let him in time and time again - even when he started preaching about how humans deserved more from the Gods, and how priestesses like me were giving too much of ourselves away for too little reward. His little speeches went against everything I’d been trained for, but he was just sssso fucking charming - so clever and silver-tongued that I fell head over heels for him.”

The last sentence, Crowley murmured low under their breath, heavy with hatred and something that sounded unerringly like shame. “I thought he felt the same.”

Aziraphale didn’t realise he had bitten through his lip until he tasted blood. 

“Luke said he loved me,” Crowley continued. Each word was a brutal strike of a hammer against an anvil, vibrating with a horrible finality. “That he wanted to show me just how much he loved me. He thought he’d wrapped me around his finger so tightly that I’d do whatever he fucking wanted. Well, imagine his bloody surprise when I told him I’d promised my chastity to the Goddess. This look - this livid, ruthless look - crossed over his face, and he said, his voice like thunder: Athena isn’t worthy of your vows. But I am. Then he grabbed me and forced his mouth down on mine, and when I pushed him away he just grabbed me again, half-crazed with vengeance and denial, and I - ”

A gut-churning sob racked Crowley’s body, and they doubled over in agony, hyperventilating as they struggled desperately for air. They kept talking, though, stuttering through a manic frenzy, even as Aziraphale dropped down next to them, his hands rubbing soothing circles on Crowley’s back; even as their breath sawed in and out in violent fits as panic wormed its way through their system. 

“I r-ran ins-side the tem-ple and b-begged Athena for help-p, and j-just as Luke was ab-bout to grab me aga-ain, she ap-peared before m-me, in all her g-golden glory, and said: You dare to desecrate my temple with your base, human desires. For this insolence, I sentence you to a life of fear and endless solitude. May your countenance turn so vile, and your pitiful gaze so heinous, that those who cower before your eyes are instantly transfigured to stone. ”

Tears rolled down Crowley’s cheeks in maddening streams. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley and hugged their shuddering form with all his care and overwhelming sadness. 

“Then she vanished, and I could f-feel my body changing - my nails lengthening, my hair becoming hard and scaly, my eyes b-burning like they were on fire. I don’t know if Luke saw Athena, t-too, but he caught me by the wrist and spun me around, and oh, Aziraphale, he was so fucking scared - s-so afraid of me when just seconds ago he’d treated me like fucking cattle. And then right before my eyes, as he was staggering away from me, he began changing, too, solidifying from his feet up until all that was left of him was a statue. He didn’t even get a chance to s-say anything before the marble swallowed him whole.” 

Crowley hiccuped, stumbled over what they were going to say next, but recovered enough to choke out, “At f-first, I was happy . Relieved and fucking overjoyed that Luke wouldn’t be able to hurt me anymore. But then I glimpsed my reflection in an urn, and I was so shocked that I backed into the statue, and the stone was like ice beneath my hands, and the guilt slammed into me so hard that I fell , b-bawling my eyes out. When he was dragging me towards him, Luke’s skin had been warm - uncomfortably hot, almost, but undeniably alive. And I killed him, Aziraphale. He will never again see the light, never draw breath into his lungs, never laugh or cry or ever make a sound.”

“I knew a Goddess’s curse was irreversible, so I hid Luke in the depths of the temple, threw a shawl over my head, and fled, terrified that I might kill anybody else if they somehow saw me. And then later, much, much later, I returned, stupidly risking being discovered, to drag him back here - to serve as a reminder of the atrocities that I’m capable of.”

Crowley fixed their eyes on the statue, their face a whirling tempest of loathing and remorse, and Aziraphale swore he could hear his heart cracking in half.

“So you see, siren. He is the reason I am now Medusa. But I am also the reason why he’s dead.”

That statement did not sit right with Aziraphale. 

“No,” the siren said emphatically. Crowley looked up at him through their glasses, skin pale and blotchy from crying, and if Aziraphale squinted, he thought he could just make out the faint outline of their pupils, elongated yet blown wide in surprise. 

“No, you are most definitely not the reason why Lucifer’s dead,” Aziraphale repeated, shocking himself with the force of his own vehemence. “He brought it upon himself, with his cruel disrespect of you and your commitment to the Gods. If you ask me, his end was far gentler than he merited.” 

Crowley sniffled, a bit incredulously. “Isn’t that a tad vindictive for you, siren? What happened to all that talk about not doing harm to anyone?”

“That sentiment,” Aziraphale said with blazing conviction, “is reserved for the kind and innocent. Lucifer was neither, and his punishment matches his crimes.” 

Then his voice mellowed with tender poignancy. “I am only sorry, my dear, that you were trapped by his actions, and had to endure such a difficult ordeal all by yourself. But if I may, Crowley, and forgive me if I overstep - you are so incredibly strong, to have survived, and rebuilt, and carved out your own path, when even a Goddess stood in your way. And you are so incredibly strong, to have kept your compassion, empathy, and grace even after such a traumatizing event. For that, I admire you greatly.” 

Cautiously, as if afraid of breaking the fragile spell that had fallen over them, Aziraphale brought his hand up and let it hover in the air next to Crowley’s head. And just as cautiously, as the siren’s pulse hammered a steady drumbeat in his veins, Crowley leaned in, allowing him to softly cradle their face. 

With a nervous exhale, Aziraphale swept his thumb across Crowley’s cheek, wiping away the tear tracks marring their porcelain skin. 

“I know you have the power to do things on your own,” Aziraphale murmured, “but if you wish it, let me share your burdens and safeguard your joys. Let me be right there beside you, and I promise, you will never have to be alone again.” 

There was a crystal surety in his declaration, a fond caress and a solemn vow tangled inseparably into one. Slowly, wondrously, Crowley nestled deeper into the warmth of Aziraphale’s palm, and smiled - a watery, tentative smile, but a happy one nonetheless. 

“Yes, siren. I think I’d like that.” 

___________________

Once the pair had bared their souls to each other - laid their sins out and invited judgement only to find, to their complete amazement, that none was forthcoming - any remaining reservations between them disintegrated into nothing. With no walls to barricade their true selves from someone who saw them just the way they were, vulnerable and beautiful and whole, it became easier for Aziraphale to let himself escape from his siblings’ sombre shadows; for Crowley to give themself reprieve from Lucifer’s mordant memory. When one stumbled, the other was there to lift them out of their self-inflicted torment. When one laughed, the other was there laughing next to them, head thrown back and shoulders trembling with mutual delight. 

For perhaps the first time in their lives, they were truly, astoundingly, content. 

But they were monsters - they weren’t born to know the taste of peace against their sharpened fangs; weren’t bred to live life without the shadow of fear looming like a constant companion over their watchful shoulders. And though they never sought out trouble, the world couldn’t let them forget that monsters like them needed slaying. 

Aziraphale woke up to the ear-splitting sound of shouts, polluting the tranquil air of their sanctuary. By the entrance to their den, Crowley crouched, staring at the beach with a tightly controlled tornado of horror and hate. 

“My dear, what in the world is going on?” Aziraphale asked, going from bleary-eyed to alarmed in a split second. 

“It’s humans,” Crowley spat. “Probably another hero, trying to reap the rewards of cutting off my head. But this time, they were ssssssmart enough to bring the cavalry.” 

Indeed, as Aziraphale took a cautious peek outside, he was assaulted by the vision of a massive ship blocking the shoreline, its enormous sails making the sky grey and overcast. He tried to count the figures making their way onto the island, each one more heavily armed than the last, but was pushed back none too gently by a taloned hand.

“Stay inside, siren,” Crowley commanded, their mouth compressed into a grim line. “There’s too many of them, and they’re too well-prepared, which means my usual scare tactics won’t cut it. I’ll have to handle this the hard way.” 

Aziraphale sputtered, shaken. “I can help you!” he exclaimed, spreading his wings to add weight to his argument. “I can circle above to distract them while you…” 

“They’ve got arrows,” Crowley interrupted, “and they won’t hesitate to shoot you down. But you will hesitate, Aziraphale. You will hesitate to hurt them, even if it means you get hurt first. And I can’t have that, siren. I simply can’t.” 

A mantra of No, don’t go, don’t leave me behind erupted in Azirphald’s head, playing over and over on a wretched loop. 

“There must be another way!” he burst out, beseeching, begging his friend to reconsider. “If we just think, regroup for a moment, we can find a way that doesn’t put you in direct danger.”

Before Aziraphale could spiral down into the murky depths of his anxiety, Crowley tugged him into a soul-crushing hug, arms wrapped tight around his back as if to immortalise the imprint of his body in their memory. The embrace sapped the fight out of Aziraphale, let the indignation fizzle out to make space for the all-consuming comfort of Crowley’s presence. 

“You’re not a born fighter, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered, leaning back only to press their forehead urgently against his, “and there is absolutely no shame in that. But right now, I need you to stay here and let me do exactly what I was cursed to do, because I won’t be able to forgive myself if any of those fucking bastards grazed a single feather on your head. Please, siren. Do this? For me?” 

Tears stung Aziraphale’s eyes without permission. Relinquishing his hold on Crowley was the most difficult thing he had ever had to do - more difficult than suffocating slowly on the melodies he’d swallowed down to keep himself from bespelling others, more difficult even than leaving the siren island for an ideal that his family had scoffed mockingly at. He did it anyway, and watched Crowley turn away from him, their snakes nipping zealously at the air like a ravenous crown. 

As their shadow lingered at the boundary between dark and light, Crowley removed their glasses and placed them down inside the cave with measured, painstaking care. 

“Keep these safe for me, will ya,” they said, and stepped outside into the brilliant carnage. 

It wasn’t long before the shouts morphed into screams, their pitch warbling with ill-suppressed panic as the intruders discovered what it actually meant to be on the receiving end of Medusa’s infamous glare. From Aziraphale’s vantage point, he could see the first people fall, transmogrified midstep as they foolishly tried to charge Crowley head-on. Crowley barely faltered as the marble statues toppled one after another onto the sand. They just kept coming - their head held high, back ramrod straight and proud - like a ruler whose rest had been rudely disturbed, and who had risen to mete out rightful retribution, regardless of who dared to stand in their way. 

Beyond the front line of novices waited the seasoned, battle-hardened soldiers, who knew enough to look at Crowley’s feet instead of their eyes, to monitor their approach through the reflections on their shields rather than risk instant death from a mere glance. They were resolute and unyielding, watching Crowley like the Medusa was prey to be hunted - not a ferocious warrior who had dispatched half of their crew without raising their hand, and certainly not a survivor who had done little more than retaliate against those who wished to do them harm. Aziraphale’s breath caught as Crowley continued walking towards the assembled troops, the fear in his chest solidifying and sinking to the bottom of his stomach. 

He needn’t have worried. As the soldiers fanned out around Crowley, trying to box them in on all sides, Crowley struck . They darted across the sand with preternatural certainty, a blur of ruby lightning too fast for the siren or the soldiers to follow. Blink, and they were moving away from a statue, its mouth gaping in a rallying cry. Another blink, and they were baring their fangs at two men, who’d spun in a hurry to trap Crowley with their blades and met their demise instead. It was as if they were two steps ahead of everyone else, years of experience defending their home coalescing into an assured victory over the hubris of humans seeking to catch the Medusa unawares. 

There was no pleasure on Crowley’s face, though, even as the number of soldiers dwindled into the single digits, and the remaining troops clustered together in a desperate final stand. Only a brittle resignation shone through, tainted by an undercurrent of anguish that the siren felt as keenly as his own. 

Aziraphale didn’t know how it happened. Perhaps the battle fever had gotten to Crowley, the fatigue dulling their senses and unravelling their vigilance. Perhaps the leader - a hulking tower of a man, his golden breastplate polished to gleaming perfection - was just better trained, and had seen a slim opportunity to attack when the others hadn’t. Perhaps the Goddess of Luck had simply chosen to be fickle and smile down at the humans at the wrong time. 

Regardless, the next moment changed everything . 

As Crowley gripped one of the last two men by the shoulder, forcing him to stay still long enough for their powers to take root, the leader rose from behind them, his sword angled to cut through Crowley’s neck with one brutal swing. Crowley didn’t see him, preoccupied as they were with the man rapidly calcifying in front of them. But Aziraphale did. Saw the glint of sharpened steel falling through the air like a vengeful comet. Saw the hunger on the leader’s face, the mania of impending triumph turning his sneer crazed and vicious. Saw everything unfold with agonising clarity, as if time had trickled to a stop and hung, suspended, condemning him to an eternity inside his worst nightmare.       

Aziraphale didn’t think. Couldn’t, really, not against the cries of Please, Gods above, not Crowley, I will do anything, just spare them, please reverberating in his head. 

He simply opened his mouth, and sang. A single, crystalline note that carried every drop of his magic across the entire beach.

The effect was instantaneous. The leader’s bloodlust vanished, replaced by the dazed, besotted look that Aziraphale was all too familiar with. The sword clattered from his hands, lost to the drugging fog of his most secret desires, and he took an eerie step towards where the siren had moved to stand in front of the cave. 

In surprise, Crowley whirled around, instinctively seeking out the source of the sound, and for the first time, Aziraphale gazed straight into Crowley’s eyes in their full, naked glory. Their slit pupils, as dark as the night sky and dilating slowly with dawning horror, were enclosed within the brightest yellow - a breath-taking yellow that brought to Aziraphale’s mind the warmth of sunshine on a marvellous summer day, or the flutter of narcissus petals, vain but oh-so-endearing, amidst the riotous colours in their garden. 

Ah, the siren mused as he smiled, and waited for the cool embrace of stone. At least I could admire Crowley’s true face before I passed. And this way, my song should disappear from Crowley’s mind quickly enough to leave them unscathed.

“NOOOOOO!!!!” Crowley roared, turning back immediately to run right into the leader, whose face was still glazed with ecstasy. In a burst of incandescent rage, Crowley shoved their talons savagely through the soldier’s unarmoured neck, and the final human crumpled onto the copper sand, blood blooming crimson across his skin. Crowley paid him no heed, however, as they stumbled with their eyes shut tight towards their den, hands outstretched in despair to search for Aziraphale. 

“No no no no,” they rambled, careening forward on pure muscle memory, tears gushing down their face unbidden. “You stupid fucking siren, why did you do that, you should have let me die, and now you’re dying, what am I supposed to fucking do ?” 

“Hey now,” Aziraphale chuckled, “there really is no need to swear, my dear. I’d gladly do it all over again if it means you live.” 

“No, shut up, Aziraphale, don’t talk like that, fuck! It’s so bright out here, shit, I can’t bloody think ,” Crowley cursed, feet tripping over each other as they picked their way blindly towards Aziraphale’s voice. 

“Oh, I completely forgot!” Aziraphale said, and hurried inside the cave to grab Crowley’s shades. “Here, put your glasses back on, they should help.”

Crowley reached the cave on unsteady limbs and fell, exhaustion warring with pain on their features. Aziraphale caught them before their knees could hit the sand and propped them back up, carefully securing the glasses back over their eyes. 

“There, my dear. Is that better?” he asked, stroking the tears away from Crowley’s cheeks. 

Crowley sniffled, then scowled, batting Aziraphale’s hand away. “Siren, for Gods’ sake - you can’t possibly be worrying about me right now when you’re about to turn to fucking stone!” 

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale replied, a little haughtily. “I can worry about you whenever I please.” 

“You’re so stubborn, I could just shake you, siren,” Crowley said, their hands raising to do exactly that. Then they paused, lips slackening in puzzlement. “Wait, hold on a minute. How’d you get my glasses? I put them inside the cave, I’m sure of that.” 

“Erm, I do have legs, Crowley. I’m perfectly capable of walking,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley’s mouth dropped open fully, forming a perfect “O” of confusion. Their covered gaze swept over Aziraphale’s body from head to toe, then swept over him again, and again, and again, as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing. Abruptly, they pinched Aziraphale’s arm, earning them a wounded Ow! and a reproachful glare from the siren. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began haltingly, “what colour are my eyes?” 

Aziraphale rubbed at the already reddening spot on his arm. “They are yellow, my dear, and quite a pretty shade at that. It is a shame you have to hide them, they are truly something special. And really, Crowley, did you have to pinch me that hard? You know I bruise easily.” 

“Yes, aren’t you a peach,” Crowley retorted automatically as their frown continued to deepen. “But if you looked into my eyes, how are you still moving, siren? Even if you saw them from a distance, you should be at least half-way to marble right now.” 

Aziraphale pondered that for a second, lifted one foot, put it back down, and wiggled his fingers experimentally. “Well, it appears I have my full range of motion, Crowley, so perhaps your powers didn’t set in properly.” Then his pupils widened in frightened realisation, and he blanched, wings unfurling behind him to prepare to take flight. 

“Oh, Gods, if I’m not petrified then my song’s effects are still there, addling your thoughts! I am so sorry, Crowley, I had to stop him, I thought if I flew far enough away so you would never see me again, the magic would fade. I have to go, I - ”

The feel of Crowley’s fingers closing around his wrist tethered Aziraphale, kept him from floating off into the nebulae of his worries. 

“Siren,” Crowley said, deliberately emphasising every word, “your witchery did nothing to me. I was just startled, that’s all. I promise you.” 

Aziraphale shook his head, still agitated and ready to take off at a moment’s notice. “You must have seen something , Crowley. I poured everything I had into that note. Sirens have snared people in their dreams with less magic; it is nigh impossible for you to be unaffected.” 

Crowley’s hold tightened slightly, but not uncomfortably. Aziraphale relaxed minutely into their touch.   

“I did see something,” Crowley confessed, shushing the siren as he started to argue. “No, let me finish, you absolute idiot. When I heard you sing, I saw you , Aziraphale . Just you, beaming at me, like there was nothing wrong with the world. And when I turned towards the song - when I saw the real you, standing there with dread etched on your features - the you in my head blurred, and the mirage broke.” 

Aziraphale swallowed, awestruck. “But that means…” 

“Yes, siren,” Crowley murmured, tangling their fingers with Aziraphale’s. “ You are my dream. What else could it ever be?” 

Aziraphale’s heart felt like it had suddenly sprouted feathers and soared into the cosmos. He squeezed Crowley’s fingers tenderly, saying nothing and everything with a single gesture. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he whispered, his voice tinged with quiet reverence. “You are my dream, too.”

A smile broke free on Crowley’s face, full of hope and unbridled joy. They brought their hands to gently cup Aziraphale’s face, bending until their lips hovered just above the siren’s. 

“Gods, Aziraphale, I can’t believe I’ve waited so long for this,” they said, leaning closer still. “Can I…?” 

Aziraphale answered by bridging the liminal distance between them and sealing Crowley’s mouth in a kiss. It was messy, and clumsy, and gloriously imperfect, and it took a while for them to find their rhythm - to learn what it meant to give and take in this intimate display of affection. 

It was everything Aziraphale had never known he wanted. 

Time seemed to stop again, ensconcing the pair in a cocoon of infinite bliss. Aziraphale wished he could stay there forever in Crowley’s arms, protected from the harsh realities beyond. When they parted for air, it took all of his self-restraint to keep from tugging Crowley back down, from craving their touch like a parched man craved water. 

“Easy there, siren,” Crowley laughed, but the strength of their embrace belied the casual teasing in their tone. “Let’s not rush things, yeah? After all, we’re not going anywhere, and I have plans to savour every little moment I have with you.” 

Aziraphale tried very hard not to blush, and mostly succeeded except for the faintest dusting of pink across the tops of his cheekbones. “Oh, forgive me if I currently require reassurance of your physical presence. You scared me half to death, you know, sacrificing yourself like that while leaving me to twiddle my thumbs on the sidelines.”

Crowley snorted. “Like you didn’t scare me shitless when you pulled that stunt and looked into my fucking eyes. I’m still not quite sure why you aren’t a chunk of marble right now, to be honest with ya.”

Aziraphale frowned, mulling over a seedling of a thought that had been tentatively blooming in the back of his head. “If you don’t mind, my dear, could you repeat what the Goddess Athena said when she cursed you to become Medusa?”

“Oh, I mind very much, siren,” Crowley grumbled, “but I’ll do it since you asked so nicely. Athena said, and I quote: May your countenance turn so vile, and your pitiful gaze so heinous, that those who cower before your eyes are instantly transfigured to stone.” They shuddered in mock horror. “Ugh, the Gods and their bloody theatrics.” 

Aziraphale didn’t comment on the irony of Crowley’s own dramatic tendencies. Instead, his attention had snagged on a particular bit of language which he had found odd before, but had attributed to the peculiarities of divine pronouncements until this very instant. 

“I think,” he said hesitantly, “that the key lies in the word cower . Athena only doomed those who cower when they see your eyes to a life enclosed in stone. But there is nothing about you that could ever make me fear you, Crowley - not your snark, not your history, and certainly not your eyes, my dear. And so,” the siren finished, his faith and fervour cresting as he laid out his proposition, “your powers didn’t work on me.” 

As Aziraphale watched, Crowley’s face morphed from disbelief, to scepticism, to a cautious, buoyant optimism that lit up their entire being. 

“Fuck, but that’s clever, Aziraphale. I can’t say I’m willing to risk it, but damn if it doesn’t at least sound like a possibility. Athena is the Goddess of Wisdom, after all - she is absolutely the type to sneak a loophole into her phrasing and watch us squirm while we failed to follow her commands to the letter,” they said.

Aziraphale inhaled softly, and reached out to clasp Crowley’s hands. 

“I am,” he said, looking intently into Crowley’s glasses, as if he could pierce through the tinted surface to the beautiful eyes underneath. “Willing to risk it, I mean. I want to know for a fact that I am able to see all of you, if you’ll allow me. I want to know that we can live without any barriers, even the ones we put up for others’ safety.” 

Crowley gulped, their chest rising and falling sharply. “Are you sure about this, Aziraphale?” they asked. “I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not chatting my ear off about everything that catches your fancy.” 

Aziraphale nodded, trying to exude as much self-confidence as he could conjure. “As sure as I am that there will never be anyone dearer to me than you, Crowley. Trust me.” 

Crowley exhaled shakily. “Alright then, siren. Here goes. I’ll do it slowly, and if you feel anything, tell me and I’ll stop, yeah?” 

And with that, they took off their glasses, tucked them into a fold in their tunic, and carefully opened their eyes, inch by tremulous inch. Aziraphale tracked the gradual movement of their lids, waiting to see if the sensation of stone would start creeping up his legs, and cheering inwardly as with each passing second, Crowley’s eyes became more and more visible while Aziraphale remained very much animate. 

Up close, Crowley truly did have the most captivating eyes. There were golden flecks in the honeyed amber of their irises, like tiny sun motes floating on the ocean breeze, and their narrow pupils somehow made them appear even more evocative, bringing every flicker of emotion into striking clarity. Aziraphale gazed into them, mesmerised, forgetting that the threat of petrification ever existed in the first place.  

“Oh, Crowley,” the siren breathed, “for this, I would risk becoming a statue any day.”

Crowley threw their head back and laughed, their delight sweet and palpable, mingling with the heady haze of relief. 

“Clearly,” they said, their grin stretching wide and infectious on their face, “if you can still say stupid shit like this, then you really are immune to my powers. We really can just be us , together, with nothing else between us.”

Aziraphale smiled, and leaned up to resume kissing Crowley senseless. 

“Yes, my dear. From now on, it will always be just us.” 

___________________

The two had been close before, but after that, they became utterly, impossbly inseparable. And why wouldn’t they, when they had found the one person who could withstand their lethal magic with a simple declaration of ardour? Why wouldn’t they, when in a world that had so readily shunned them from human company, they had found the one person who loved them not despite , but because of their monstrosity? 

Together, they would weather many more trials, and many more attempts at their lives by humans who genuinely didn’t know any better. They never took life for granted, though, and if it was at all possible, often preferred to negotiate with or scare the invaders off from their foolhardy missions. A string of fledgling heroes left their shore either with strange tales of a snow-white siren, who greeted them before they could dock their ship and warned them away from incurring his and his partner’s collective wrath, or with bone-chilling accounts of a menacing, serpentine silhouette, accompanied by the discordant beating of wings and the primal hum of a battle hymn that sent shivers down their spines.

And as time went by, the rumours shifted. No longer did fireside whispers tell the story of a snake-haired creature, alienated on their distant island: a symbol of inhuman power and everything not destined for polite society. Instead, they spoke of a formidable pair, who were frightening and unrivalled in their might, but who were also just and reasonable, not driven by blood lust or insatiable hunger. They spoke of a devoted duo, who never left each other’s sides - who would let travellers pass if they didn’t harbour harm in their hearts, but would not hesitate to strike down those who posed a danger to their partner. 

They spoke - with residual fear, yes, but also with budding, newfound regard - of Medusa and the Siren.