Chapter Text
For some, the quaint little cottage deep in the woods that Aziraphale had decided to rent would not be considered much of a luxury. In fact, with the near meter of snow that had decided to fall just about soon as he arrived, most would probably consider the conditions downright objectionable. No electricity, no modern amenities to speak of (aside from basic plumbing) and no other signs of civilization for miles.
But it all suited Aziraphale just fine. Away from the hustle and bustle of London (and the weight of his worries) he had three months of nothing but silence, a warm fire, and time alone with his studies to look forward to. The snow didn't bother him at all; in fact it was quite beautiful, and somehow made the world seem even more silent. The views were stunning, even with the trees largely bare, and as far as Aziraphale was concerned, he had everything he needed.
It wasn't even all that lonely for the first few weeks. And he wasn't ever truly alone for long - there was a delivery of food and firewood, and a postman that he at first brushed off and then started to enjoy chatting with.
It was only when the crow first appeared that he realized he was just starting to miss London, a little bit. Or more specifically, his bookshop.
“Hello there.” He’d greeted the bird, when it alighted on his windowsill and caused him to look up from the verse he’d been transcribing. It certainly couldn’t hear him through the glass, but he’d sat and watched it for a few minutes, as it cocked its head at him in that curious manner birds had. Then it seemed to grow bored, and flew off.
He wasn't even sure if it was the same bird, the second time. But it came back a day later, flitting onto the windowsill just in front of his desk again, and startling him with the beat of its wings against the glass. He twitched and nearly ruined half a page.
“Don't do that.” He chided it uselessly, though… when he saw it again, it seemed to land more gracefully.
It kept coming back. It occurred to Aziraphale that it might be hungry; the landscape was largely bare, and there couldn't have been many nuts or fruits to eat. If that was what crows ate? He wasn't even sure. But he started leaving little treats on the windowsill for his new friend; bits of cheese, a piece of pastry with jam. Probably things that weren't super good for it, but… the little creature at least seemed happy, and Aziraphale enjoyed watching it gleefully devour whatever offering he'd left while he worked.
They'd even come to a proper agreement, it seemed. He'd always read that crows were intelligent birds, but this one more so. It started to leave him things on the windowsill in return; a coin, an old looking metal button, a scrap of fabric, those sorts of things. And then one night what looked like one of its own sleek black feathers, except… much too large. Aziraphale was particularly fascinated by that gift, and kept it at his desk. It was far too big to actually have come from his little friend, so where had it come from? A larger bird the poor thing had tussled with? Seemed unlikely. He mulled it over when his eyes started to cross from too much writing, stroking the vanes of the unnaturally soft feather between his fingers.
The nights got colder, and the forest seemed to grow more still. The crow was the only animal he saw anymore; the others had hunkered down or moved on, it seemed. Which worried him, a bit. His little friend hadn't moved on, or maybe it would soon.
He wasn’t even sure why this particular bird was fascinating him so much. There was something in the way it looked at him, seemed to be appraising him, that… felt a little smarter than it should be.
Or maybe he was just truly going stir-crazy. That was the most likely explanation, but…
It didn’t stop him. The next time the bird alighted on the windowsill, Aziraphale was ready. It almost seemed offended; he hadn’t left a snack on the sill this time. Instead he had a bit of his dinner wrapped up in a cloth in his pocket, and he slowly stood from his desk (to avoid spooking the bird) and went to the front door.
He didn’t immediately hear the flapping of wings when he opened the door, which was a good sign. The window above his desk was visible from the front door, sheltered by the slight overhang of the roof. The crow was still there, watching him with those dark little eyes as he took a single step out into the snow.
“Here.” He whispered, slowly reaching into his pocket to unfold the cloth and offer it out.
The bird twitched, its wings flicking like it wanted to flit toward him. For a moment, Aziraphale almost thought it would.
Then its head turned, and it took off away from the cottage in a hurry, its wings batting against the glass before it went.
Aziraphale sighed. Well; it was a wild animal, it wasn’t tame. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected.
The following day, he still didn’t leave food on the windowsill, though. He left it on the front porch, just outside the swing of the door. And when the crow thankfully came back, it gave Aziraphale an almost betrayed look through the window before flitting to the porch instead, just outside Aziraphale’s view from his desk.
But when he went out later, the food was gone, and the cloth it’d been wrapped in was folded neatly.
Smart little thing.
He started propping the door open. Which was less than ideal; it let the cold in, but considering the bird always came around at nearly the same time every day, he didn’t need to do it for long. The crow seemed incredibly hesitant when it saw the open door, but Aziraphale stayed at his desk, and… it took the offering.
Same when he sat a few meters inside the door, as well. He inched closer every day, watching the crow eat, while it watched him warily in return. He wasn’t even sure what the point of this dance was; it wasn’t like it would ever be his pet, nor could he take it back to London, but… maybe he just craved the connection, and a distraction from his work and the problems that awaited him back in the city. This was simple - a problem he could solve, a connection he could make.
Up until the crow didn’t come back.
He’d just been prepared to sit on the porch and see if it still approached, but…
It didn’t appear at all. He’d found with the door open that it would land in a nearby tree, appraise the cottage, and then come down, but it wasn’t even up there. Their usual meeting time came and went, and then at sunset Aziraphale had to admit defeat.
Perhaps he’d moved too fast and frightened it. So the next day he left the food on the windowsill, again. A gesture of peace, of giving it space if it wanted. But the food was left untouched, and was still there the next morning.
His little friend had finally moved on, it seemed. And it shouldn’t have upset him; it was only a bird, and a wild one at that, but for some reason, the loss stung. He felt more lonely than ever, and his writing just wasn’t bringing him the same joy without that steady thing to look forward to every day. A week slogged by, and he got almost nothing done, and his mind began to wander back to home again, precisely where he didn’t want it to go.
He was just considering the horrendous thought of cutting his ‘holiday’ short when there was a new sound from outside, of branches breaking. The sound was so startling, he nearly spilled the tea he’d been nursing as his fire died down.
He set the cup down and reached for his coat, stepping into his boots without bothering to tie them before he threw the door open.
Just in time to catch sight of something dark falling from the canopy, before it hit the snow with a soft thmph that seemed at odds with how violently it came down.
It couldn’t be. Could it? It almost looked like…
Aziraphale surged forward, toward the divot in the snow where the poor thing had landed; it struggled a bit before abruptly going still, a ball of black feathers against the stark white.
The crow. Or at least, a crow. But Aziraphale knew somehow it was the same one.
“Oh…” He breathed as he knelt, hesitantly reaching for it. He’d be heartbroken if it was dead, but a faint twitch confirmed it wasn’t, so Aziraphale very gently reached underneath it to gather it up.
The expression limp as a broken bird came to mind, rather startlingly. There was a patch of blood in the snow where it had fallen, which only made his heart hammer. The poor thing - had it been attacked? A nervous glance upward yielded nothing, just the broken branches above.
“I’ve got you, it’s alright.” He whispered soothingly as he gathered it against his chest, walking as gently as he could back through the thick snow to his door. The poor bird twitched a bit as if to struggle, but clearly didn’t have the strength. So Aziraphale carried it inside and shut the door, gently depositing the bird near the fire before he rushed off for supplies.
A dry towel, a washcloth, a basin of tepid water. He gathered the towel around the little thing in a nest-like fashion to keep it warm, and then wet the washcloth to pat blood from its feathers. It made a soft sound that wasn’t quite right, not really a call or a chirp but more like a wheeze, but didn’t otherwise protest.
Truthfully, he knew just about nothing about avian first aid. There wasn’t much he could do aside from keep it warm and protected, and blotting blood from it was more for the benefit of his own towels, or his sanity. To feel like he was doing something.
The crow seemed to appreciate it, though. It watched him as he worked, only twitching occasionally, until it seemed too tired for even that, and Aziraphale let up.
“I’m sorry I can’t do more for you.” He whispered mournfully; truly, he expected to wake up the next morning and find it dead, but at least it would be warm and safe just before that, and not in the jaws of some predator.
Or hunter. It occurred to Aziraphale then that it might have been shot, but he hadn’t heard any such thing, and who would shoot a crow, anyway?
He sighed, taking the washcloth and replacing the tainted water with a smaller dish to drink from, though the crow didn’t seem interested. He gave its head a soft pet, just a stroke of his finger, and marveled that it felt the same as the large feather that was still at his desk. “Rest, now.” He murmured, and reluctantly headed to bed himself.
…
Whatever Aziraphale had expected to find the next morning when the sun rose (a bird that had passed, or perhaps gotten up and flown away) that was decidedly not what he found.
Aziraphale stood frozen in his nightclothes, his mouth hanging open as he found not a bird, or an empty towel, but a man lying on his cottage floor in front of the fireplace, draped in a feathered cloak that only barely covered him. A man with startlingly red hair, that alarmingly looked at first glance like blood haloed around his head as he slept. Soundly. He hadn't moved as Aziraphale's feet creaked the floorboards, nor as Aziraphale stood there with his mouth agape, not quite understanding what he was seeing.
Where is the crow? Was his first delirious thought, and then…
He is the crow.