Chapter Text
When you get a pull in the fabric of your clothes, a disruption, a hurt, you can’t cut it. You can’t break it, because if you do, the whole thing will unravel. No, you have to push it through the weave, wear it against your skin. The tickling of a mistake, not to be ignored and to be wary of in the future.
It was clearly a metaphor; the fabric of clothes as the fabric of life, dealing with the loose thread as a singular moment of either learning and growth or complete and total despair.
Except, in Crowley’s case, they were finding it to be a sadly literal dilemma. The thread was the rip down the back of Crowley’s favourite jumper. And the mistake was falling in love with a man whose cats would be better suited to sauntering around the sulphur pits of Hell than faffing about in a bookshop.
They didn’t even notice the tear until Beez pointed it out at work that morning with a smarmy attitude. In the days since Gabriel’s decisive defeat Beezlebub had only grown more unbearable, though they claimed that was because Crowley themself was nigh on intolerable in their lovesickness. Crowley was surprised The Ark was still afloat with how often they closed early so Beezlebub could go home to ‘scrub off the disgust of having to be around them.’
“Angel!” Crowley shouted, pushing into the bookshop with more force than necessary. They weren’t even all that upset about the sweater, but they had to keep up appearances somehow. “You in? I need to talk to you about your children.”
The disaster must have struck a few days prior; it was the last time either cat was close enough to extend a claw towards them. Sodo had been exceptionally warm and cosy where he was napping on Crowley’s back, who was subsequently napping splayed over Aziraphale’s lap. They vaguely remembered his dismount from their kidneys being a little less fluid than usual but had chalked it up to his inconsistent understanding of how to pilot his body.
“Are you looking for Aziraphale?” an unfamiliar voice asked. Crowley followed it all the way over to their sofa where a woman in large circular glasses and a Victorian looking dress was sitting. She was the picture of a modern witch, and their interest was piqued. “He just went to get some food but he should be back any minute. I said I’d watch the shop, can I help you with anything?”
“Oh, erm, no.” Crowley hooked their cane on the back of Aziraphale’s chair and sprawled on the fraying cushion, cocking their head at the stranger. “Who are you, then?”
“Anathema Device, and…you are?”
They supposed she fit the image they had of Aziraphale’s tarantula owning friend well enough. Another American, though, which would never stop surprising them. She was young, couldn’t have been older than her early twenties, but her eyes were much older. Crowley took off their glasses to tuck inside their jacket. This was Aziraphale’s friend and they were going to do their best to make a good impression.
She frightened them, just a bit. In a good way, if there was a good way to be frightened. But she was odd, and Crowley liked odd. They thought they’d proven that point quite well. “‘M Crowley, Aziraphale’s…um, yeah.” Crowley winced and downgraded their expectations from a good impression to a passable one. “You here to pick up Agnes?”
“You’re Crowley? Huh, Aziraphale was telling me all about you…I wonder…” she trailed off, eyes growing impossibly dark as she appraised them. Her gaze swept across their body, almost seeming to look through them and then focussing on the air immediately around them. Anathema leaned across the table towards them and sniffed deeply, a move matched by Crowley leaning further back into the chair. They frowned, entirely unsure what to make of this.
“What-”
Anathema grabbed their hand and traced a finger over their palm, clearly excited about what she gleaned. “Finally! You sure took your sweet time, hmm?”
“Wot? Ngk, wait…it’s been three weeks, that’d be the first time anyones accused me of going too slow-”
“No,” Anathema interrupted, glossy hair sweeping down her shoulder as she shook her head, “I’ve been waiting for you for years. Ever since I met Aziraphale and figured out the last page of the book.”
Crowley blinked. They blinked again. It didn’t succeed in shining any new light on whatever Anathema was talking about.
She took pity on them when she noticed their confusion, but her pity wasn’t as charitable as she might have thought. It may have actually made things less clear. “Agnes said you were coming. Honestly, I was beginning to worry she got it wrong, but it’s never happened before. You kept Aziraphale waiting much longer than you needed to, didn’t you?”
“Hold on, Agnes…talks to you?”
Anathema rolled her eyes, looking for all the world like Crowley was being the unreasonable one. “Not the tarantula. My great-great-great-whatever grandmother Agnes. She was clairvoyant and wrote a book of prophecies for the family before she was burned at the stake.”
Crowley was reconsidering their viewpoint on odd. “‘Kay…that’s um, interesting. And…Aziraphale ended up in her book?”
“Yes. On the last page, like I said. We’ve been trying to figure out what the final prophecy means for generations, but then I met Aziraphale and I knew it had to be about him.”
Crowley spread their hands weakly, silently begging for a crumb of explanation. Anathema sighed, heavier than they felt was deserved given how mad this conversation was, and pulled a thick book out of her bag. It was weathered and old but well cared for, the pages crinkling as Anathema peeled it open to the last page. She slid it across the coffee table for Crowley to puzzle through the Old English.
The shapes of the letters were unfamiliar, extra vowels and consonants in every other word throwing them off. Crowley tilted their head and read it aloud, the tinkling of the bell ringing behind them.
“When that the angel hereth these words of mine, in his shoppe of other menne's books, then the Deville is certes upon us. Open thine hart to understand. Open thine hart and here, I do say, foolish principalitee, and let harts enjoin. There are other fyres than mine; when the whirl wynd whirls, reach oute one to another. And I shalle be theyr also, butte smaller of Beaste.”
Crowley looked up to Anathema, but she had all of her attention on the door. They turned to see Aziraphale standing in the entrance, still holding the handle while a brisk gust tousled his hair and swept into the shop. He was frozen in place under the spell of Agnes’ words.
“‘When the whirl wynd whirls,’” Crowley murmured.
Anathema beamed, sure that her deductions rang true. “I don’t think anyone else comes close to an angel. And Aziraphale told me your name…Morningstar? The aura fits, and your heart lines match. You’re the ‘Deville,’ Crowley.” Her tone was warmer than it should have been given the words, but Crowley had never been so warmed to hear them.
“What’s that bit about…‘principalitee,’ what's that mean?”
“It’s a type of angel. A guardian, a protector. Remind you of anyone?”
Aziraphale closed the door and walked over to them. He placed his takeaway down on the table and sat on the arm of Crowley’s chair, picking Anathema’s book up carefully. He read the prophecy, eyes sweeping over the page as he read it again and again. Aziraphale closed the book with a laugh and handed it back to her. “Agnes is a bit late, I’m afraid. Our hearts have already enjoined, so to say.”
“Oh, c’mon!” Anathema lamented, but with a gleaming smile. “You couldn’t have waited until I was here? Years, Aziraphale. I’ve been waiting years for this.”
“We’re all here now, my dear. And Agnes was here when it counted. You never mentioned there was a prophecy about me, though.”
“Yeah, well,” she grumbled, “if I told you then you’d make me read it to you, but the pieces weren’t in place yet. I was hoping I’d catch you unawares, give you a cosmic surprise. That you’d see your devil and realise you were in love, but you just had to go and do it all yourself.”
Odd was back in Crowley’s good books. “N’yeah, been there, done that. Happened ages ago, really, it's old news.”
“Old news, right. Three weeks, you said? That’s a bit…”
“Fast? Sure, probably.” Crowley wasn’t overly concerned, as hard as they had both fallen they still managed to keep enough of their sense to hold boundaries and separate spaces. Muriel had to be considered; enjoying Crowley’s company wasn’t the same as wanting them around all the time just yet. And they both had jobs, whole worlds outside of each other.
It was a process to blur three separate lives into one, something they tried to do with care. But Crowley had their heart set on the South Downs, on a crumbling old house far from the coast and with more than enough room for three. Just as a holiday, a long weekend, perhaps. Maybe it could be a goalpost for the future, a more permanent one.
“I was going to say cliché, but fast works too. Were there any rainstorms involved? Falling into each other’s arms under the tempest?”
“No rainstorms,” Aziraphale said, eyes twinkling as he took Crowley’s hand. “There was a lot of falling, though. Onto the ground, I’m afraid. And Agnes, and Gabriel, and…I may have neglected to introduce them to Muriel for a few weeks.”
Anathema groaned, but it was fond in the face of her friend’s disastrous romance. “You amaze me, sometimes. Still, it seems like it’s working out for you. And if Agnes- human Agnes, I mean, wrote about you two, then I’d imagine you’re a sure bet.”
“Didn’t you say she got burned at the stake?” Crowley asked. They weren’t fully sold on the whole prophecy business, even if Aziraphale and Anathema seemed to trust her words. “Shouldn’t she have predicted that, and like, escaped?”
Aziraphale squeezed their hand and interrupted Anathema before she could start yelling. “It’s a bit of a touchy subject, my dear. Agnes knew the witch-finders were coming so she stuffed her skirts with explosives and shrapnel. She died, but she passed her book of prophecy down to her daughter upon her death. It was the best she could do for her family.”
“Right…what’s the name of the book? Was it ever published?”
“‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch,’ and not really, this is the only copy.” Anathema held the book tightly to her chest as though they were going to steal it. Crowley made no such move. “And don’t go calling her a nutter after her name, because I’ve heard there’s a mysterious ‘J’ in yours that Aziraphale won’t tell me about. I have ways of finding out and I won’t be gentle.”
“M’kay, noted. Sore spot, that.”
Aziraphale turned his attention down to Crowley as Anathema was sucked into something inexplicably interesting on her violently pinging mobile. “Did you stop by for anything in particular, dear?”
“Do I need a reason? Maybe I just missed you.” Crowley simpered at him, playing up the picture of the lovelorn fool they both knew them to be.
“Of course not, but you are supposed to be at work right now.”
“Oh, yeah. Beez called it a day after I smiled one too many times. Said it was ‘unnatural’ and made my teeth look ‘too happy.’ Didn’t feel like sticking around after that one. Although,” they hedged, turning towards him and impudent to the core, “I do have a bone to pick with you.”
“And what’s that?” Aziraphale didn’t look even a shred concerned, tolerant of Crowley’s game and pleased that he was involved at all.
“Your son ruined a perfectly good jumper, and I expect compensation.” They leaned forward and pulled the back of their top out to demonstrate its damages, Aziraphale’s hand brushing over the ruined section.
“Are you sure it was him? And what kind of compensation are we talking about?”
Anathema made a repulsed retching noise at their conversation, which was especially impressive given how much of her attention was caught on her fingers flying over the screen. Crowley feared for whoever was on the other side, she seemed to be casting a spell through the internet. They silently resolved to keep her away from Beez; it wouldn’t do to discover witchcraft at this stage in their life.
“Wasn’t like it was Wings. And Gomorrah’s too distinguished, she’d rather just shed on me. I wanna be there when you trim Sodo’s nails.” They paused for effect, then uttered, “And only I can wear ear plugs.” Their miffed facade fell under Aziraphale’s dramatic gasp, and Crowley suddenly realised why everyone was so done with them both.
Aziraphale summoned his demons with a flick of his fingers, who disturbingly popped up from where they had been hiding underneath the couch. It was impossible to tell what trouble they were ever planning and it was never comforting to be reminded how dedicated they were to lurking. He pulled Sodo up under his front legs, body swinging towards the ground, and held his paw against the pull on Crowley’s jumper. It was a perfect match. Sodo had no remorse.
“Ah, well. I can mend it for you, dearest, or we can get you a new one. Muriel seems to be leaning towards black clothing, I can’t imagine why, so we need to go shopping anyway.”
“Oh, ’m thinking leather jacket for Muriel. And some platform boots. Maybe a tattoo, something tasteful and subtle like Linna’s pawprint on the neck.”
“Anyone else hear wedding bells?” Anathema joked, locking her phone in victory. “Maybe it’s just my own ringing in my ears, I must be mistaken.”
Aziraphale blushed, chastened by the reminder that not everyone wanted to be an audience for their sappy tête-à-tête. “Erm, and how is young Newton? I’ve heard all about your honeymoon but I can’t help but notice that he’s not here.”
“He’s stressed. Dick Turpin isn’t happy about being left in the car port for a month, it kicked the bucket as soon as we parked here. He’s outside and trying to fix it but you know how that goes.”
“Dick Turpin?” Crowley mouthed to Aziraphale.
“Don’t ask,” he mouthed back. “He’s welcome to come inside if he’d like.”
Anathema waved the invitation away. “He’s taken a vow of silence after having to interact with so many people. Newt’s more of a homebody than me, I’m sure he’ll have the car ready and waiting to go straight home once I get Agnes. I’ve been trying to give him time but if he hasn’t fixed it by now then I’m sure he’ll need my help.”
Crowley considered offering their assistance. They did all of the maintenance for the Bentley themself and knew their way around an engine, but decided that the breadth of their goodwill could stay with Aziraphale and Muriel. Climbing under the hood had its own consequences for their body and they didn’t need another flare rearing its ugly head. “Good luck with that,” they offered instead.
“We’ll need it,” Anathema accepted. “I’ll get out of your hair now, we should get on the road before it gets too dark. If we can even get on the road, at least.”
Aziraphale rose with her and pulled out a reusable tote from a desk drawer. “I’ll help gather Agnes’ things.”
Crowley comprehensively ignored them as they scrolled through rental sites. They might have heard their name at some point, or several points, but they had given up on any impression at all and deigned not to participate in drawn out farewells. Aziraphale perched back on the arm of the chair once the door was shut and peered over their shoulder at the gorgeous and staged photos of cottages, sighing at the vistas and meadows surrounding them.
“What d’you think of this one?” Crowley asked, pointing to a mid-sized stone brick affair with two chimneys growing towards the sky. It had the ivy they assumed Aziraphale’s childhood lacked, wooden trellises over a well-trodden path hanging with deep purple wisteria. “If we go in late spring or early summer then everything'll be in bloom.”
“I think it’s perfect,” Aziraphale said, but something about the wobble in his voice told them he wasn’t talking about the house.
Crowley looked up to see him in tears. They were growing used to the phenomenon, their angel couldn’t keep them in his face, but it still drove a stake through their heart to see. Even if he was happy, even if it was because he loved them, they could never stop themself from wiping his tears away.
Aziraphale leaned down for a gentle kiss, nothing deeper than a caress of lips on lips. Crowley was growing used to this phenomenon too, but it was a much easier learning curve to summit. They pulled away with a smile and booked the cottage.
May mornings were a good look on Aziraphale, Crowley decided. Maybe even their favourite look of all, and that was a bold claim. They were twined around him with every limb, head resting on his chest over stripey blue and white pyjamas. Crowley had been surprised the outfit didn’t come complete with a little pom-pom hat when they first saw it.
It was a rare sunny day, the only one in the forecast for their weekend. Muriel was banging around in the kitchen down the hallway and making good on last night’s promise for freshly baked muffins. It wasn’t the first time that Crowley thought they’d never been so happy, their capacity for the emotion seemed to outdo itself every day. Or Aziraphale and Muriel had decided to overload them with it, either option was conceivable.
The lavender growing just outside their window swayed gently in the breeze, sneaking through the cracks in the frame and wafting floral and herbal notes into the bedroom. The air was sweet as a result, light and crisp and fresh.
Crowley hummed at Aziraphale’s fingers in their hair, wrapping around locks to pull faintly and interspersing the act with soft scratches at their scalp. They’d gotten hot flashes overnight; Aziraphale’s warmth was ever present and slightly less favourable in good weather, but they refused to let that stop themself from curling up tightly next to him. Crowley had just shucked their ratty old t-shirt off and dove back in.
The hand not in their hair traced the dips and curve of their spine, tickled against the lines of the flowering apple bough tattooed down their side. They stretched and groaned when it led to a tug against their hair, biting Aziraphale lightly on the chest in retaliation.
“I thought we were on holiday from the cats, dearest,” Aziraphale grumbled, voice still thick with sleep. “I had hoped to go a few days without getting bitten.”
Crowley kissed their damp mouth print in apology and slithered up his body to peck him on the cheek. “Just trying to make you feel at home,” they murmured against his blush. There was a crash sounding down the hallway, the metallic ping of a mixing bowl hitting the ground, which told them that Muriel had the same idea.
“Don’t worry about that! Everything is fine!” Muriel shouted.
Crowley fought against Aziraphale’s hands trying to remove them from his body, going limp and tucking their arms and legs securely under him. If he wanted to get up then he’d have to accept Crowley as a new feature of his body and carry them with him. “Stop moving, ‘m comfy. Muriel said not to worry ‘bout it, can’t we just stay in bed?”
“Muriel said the same thing when she spilled an entire tube of paint on the floor. I’m still trying to peel it all up, forgive me if I want to err on the side of caution.”
“Don’t think the muffins have any paint in them,” Crowley pointed out, into the side of his neck and likely too close to his ear to be comfortable. “‘Sides, it’s too early to get up. Can’t see the sun from here yet which means it isn’t even noon, what kind of holiday are you trying to run here?”
“One where we actually get to experience the sun at all, dear. Now come on, up you get.” Aziraphale managed to wriggle free enough to roll Crowley onto their back, eyes crinkling across from them lovingly. “If Muriel sees we’re still in bed then I won’t be able to get the two of you up until it’s dark.”
Crowley grabbed the lapels of his pyjama shirt, internally thrilling the whole time that he had them in the first place, and pulled him into a wet kiss just because they could. And because it made Aziraphale pout when they drew back to hop out of bed. They stumbled with dizziness, their body hadn’t gotten the memo that melodrama was more important than trying to stabilise their blood pressure.
“Let’s try to avoid falling any more, hmm?” Aziraphale climbed out of the covers and drew Crowley against himself, holding them until their vision had cleared and they could hear without fuzziness again. “There you are, love. Will you go check on Muriel while I shower?”
Crowley nodded blearily and held out their arms at Aziraphale’s approach with his own robe. It was tartan, obviously, light blues and beiges weaving together and around the fabric. Aziraphale had been adopted wrapped in a blanket of the same pattern, some old clan alliance that he said he had no interest in seeking out but surrounded himself with anyway. He tugged it gently onto Crowley’s arms and settled it over their shoulders, tied the belt into a loose knot.
His hands found a home in their hair again, detangling and trying to sort it out of its frenzy. It was a routine morning battle that he couldn't win unless Crowley let him comb and plait it, but Muriel had opted to grow her hair out as well and Aziraphale preferred to tame them both together. Crowley removed his hands and kissed the tip of each finger, pushing him towards the ensuite with a grin when they were finished.
The kitchen was in shambles, well dusted in flour and with pots and pans strewn over every free surface. Crowley limped through the arched doorway and braced a hand against the wall to step over a downturned bowl steadily leaking batter on the floor. Muriel was holding a different bowl and mixing it with complete focus.
“Morning, kid,” Crowley rasped. They collapsed onto a chair and tipped forward so they could rest their head on their arm against the kitchen table. The sun hit them perfectly through the open window, dust motes swirling in the beams and dancing along the light. “Need any help?”
“Good morning! I’m quite alright, can I make you a coffee?”
It was a nice offer, really, but Muriel had a habit of trying to sneak marshmallows into everything now that Crowley had proven to not be a fan of the overly sweet treats. They’d been tricked into chugging a sickly thick concoction of coffee, hot cocoa powder, and melted mallows one too many times to fall for it again so easily.
“Nah, I got it, cheers. Can’t let you do all the work.” They peeled themself up and turned on the machine, scooped grounds into the filter with eyes still crusty and half closed. It was a different model than they had at their flat and didn’t have an internal timer for shots, so for the third morning in a row Crowley found themself wiping up the espresso that flowed over the rim of the small porcelain cup placed below to catch it. “Still good for a brunch picnic?”
Muriel wiggled in excitement, a move pulled right from Aziraphale’s book. “Yes! The muffins will be ready in about an hour. That is, I think they should be…I’m not sure if I remembered to put the eggs in this batch.”
“Eh, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Who needs eggs, anyway?”
Crowley threw themself back onto the chair and took up their former position, sipping sideways from their cup in defiance of gravity. There was a commotion in the distance, growing closer and closer until a whole flock of the neighbour’s ducks rounded on the cottage and started digging through the thick grass for grubs and berries fallen off the ripening bushes. Crowley shuddered, but they could deal with it as long as the ducks stayed outside.
It was a different way of life, this. None of the hubbub of the city, a clear view of the stars. No obligations except to each other and days filled with plans that could change on a whim. The ground was softer under Crowley’s feet, the air cleaner in their lungs. A peaceful existence, one that was temporary but begged for them to stay.
Muriel sang quietly to the bowl in the crook of an arm, another track from Snow White. Crowley was familiar with the discography at this point, they could probably quote the whole movie from memory if pressed. The tune was ‘With a Smile and a Song,’ something that just about summed up Muriel’s entire being. The batter was doled into the cups of a muffin tin and slid into the hot oven, timer set and kitchen surveyed.
It was a lost cause, and Crowley couldn’t do much to help clean the floor. They didn’t want to, anyway. Muriel met their eyes guiltily and Crowley flapped their hand. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Aziraphale won’t mind cleaning it up. Why don’t you start packing for brunch, ‘m gonna get dressed.”
Muriel brightened at the suggestion and tore through the refrigerator and cabinets to pull out boxes and bags of baked goods. And jam. There was some arbitrary metric for which jars needed to be cold and which ended up in the fridge that was beyond them. Crowley left Muriel to it but resolved to sneak some sausages into the basket, knowing that without any intervention they’d all be crashing in a few hours from a sugar overload.
Aziraphale was fussing over his shirt when Crowley swung into the bedroom, all loose hips and flailing extremities seeking him out with the tenacity of a missile. Their angel’s main concession to being in the countryside was losing the bowtie and leaving his top button undone, a much appreciated gesture that had Crowley pressing their face against the sliver of skin whenever possible. It technically wasn’t possible at the moment, Aziraphale had been trying to do up his vest when Crowley tucked in, but he allowed it with an amused sigh.
His skin was still damp from the shower, smelling faintly of the cedar and cypress soap he used. Crowley smushed their face into it and rumbled their pleasure into the hollow of his throat.
“Need to get ready,” they groused, determinedly acting as though Aziraphale’s arms were keeping them trapped instead of their own dopey neediness. He made to let go but Crowley yanked him back in by the belt loops of his trousers. The movement teetered into another one of those falls that Aziraphale had been trying to avoid, but Crowley had long resigned themself to being swept off their feet.
At least the bed was softer than the floor. Aziraphale let out an ‘oof’ as Crowley landed on top of him, who had made no effort to steady them and accepted their fate.
“Really, my dear?” Aziraphale wheezed. He rearranged their pointy joints and kissed the top of their head anyway, not one to execute his wrath with any real complaint.
“Shouldn’t have made me get up, legs weren’t awake yet.” Crowley hummed at Aziraphale’s hands sneaking down the collar of the robe and flattening over the smooth plane of their back. The position wasn’t comfortable in the slightest. Both of their legs were stretched down to the floor and the unfastened buttons on Aziraphale’s vest dug into their stomach painfully, but there were worse ways to spend quality time together. “Have you seen m’phone?”
“Yes, it’s been beeping under your pillow where you put it to charge, even though I know I told you that’s a fire hazard.”
“Eh, whatever. Love living on the edge, me,” Crowley mumbled as they hoisted an arm out to slap around for it. The casing was a bit too hot to be fully confident that its suffocation was their best move, but Aziraphale didn’t need to know that. They held the screen too close to their face to see it properly but didn’t want to risk Aziraphale’s escape if they moved back enough to get a better distance going.
“Oh, you’re never gonna believe this,” Crowley muttered. “Guess how long?”
“How long, what? What on earth are you talking–” Aziraphale was silenced by a hand over his mouth. He tried to blow it away but when that didn’t dislodge it he was forced to glare at them until they continued. He still had enough self respect not to resort to licking the offending palm, and knew that Crowley likely wouldn’t have budged anyway.
“They gave him three years, sentences just been announced,” Crowley explained while turning their screen towards Aziraphale. Gabriel was far from smiling brightly in the most recent picture that had come out during his trial, more orange than ever to cover how sickly he looked from the stress.
They could feel Aziraphale’s heart pick up into a flutter from their perch, felt his gasp rattling through his chest. As entertaining as Gabriel’s ordeal was to Crowley, Aziraphale struggled with the whole affair. He saw the merit in facing his crimes, that wasn’t the issue. It was that this was his brother, a horrible man, but someone he still felt for. And he found it much harder to revel in someone’s misery than they did, because again, too perfect.
“Oh, well,” Aziraphale breathed out unsteadily. “I suppose…he deserves it, doesn’t he?”
“He does, Angel. But, you can still be sad about it. ‘Bout him.” Crowley leaned up, intent on soothing the tears they figured would be gathering by now. Aziraphale’s eyes were dry, however, and as clear as the sky outside. “You good?”
“I think…I’m happy, Crowley. It’s over. For now, at least. I couldn’t have kept him from this, he did it all on his own.” Aziraphale zoned out in thought, mindlessly tapping his fingers against Crowley’s upper arms. They took the moment to indulge in the face they loved more than they thought they could, pale and smooth and somehow still untouched by the sun. He snapped back with a shake of his head and smiled up at them, hopeful and sweet. “Now, does Muriel still want to go on a picnic?”
It took Crowley a second to follow the change in subject. They had been expecting more of a reaction, but Gabriel really did deserve his comeuppance. The upset would likely hit later, once it had time to fully process. “Mhmm, but…the ducks are out.”
“Oh,” he groaned, “are we going to have to do this again?”
Aziraphale tolerated their fear of the monsters to a point, but he wasn’t also stricken with fear at the sight of them so he didn’t quite know how to accommodate it. They’d had a tiff about it before during their walks in St. James’s Park; Aziraphale claimed that someone who worked with exotic animals shouldn’t be scared of ducks, while Crowley insisted that ducks were proof of God’s cruel sense of humour.
There was just something about their eyes. Like they could see into your soul and weren’t impressed with what they found.
“I’m sure they’ll leave us alone if we don’t feed them,” Aziraphale wagered.
“You know they won’t, they tried to take off with my poor hat yesterday!”
The event had been near cinematic in its unfolding. Crowley’s wide brimmed sun hat, black, of course, was propped over their face while they lounged under a large oak tree in the backyard. The ducks approached on silent webbed feet, a gang of about twelve. Aziraphale was reading next to Crowley, off in his own world, and didn’t see them until it was too late. The leader flew up just enough to grab onto the hat in an act of revenge for not receiving any crumbs of the pastries they had both finished.
Crowley’s own screams would haunt themself for the rest of their days. Aziraphale had mostly been impressed by how quickly they could move when their body thought it was a life or death situation. It was for Crowley, though. They barely escaped with their soul intact, but at least the hat had been fine.
“I’ll keep you safe, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was too warm, too enamoured for the situation. Crowley didn’t know if they would survive another encounter. “Now, go get dressed. I still need to fix your hair but I could do with some tea first.”
Crowley grouched and grumbled but heaved themself up to do as instructed. Aziraphale without his morning tea could be a dangerous thing. Best to give him space until he dealt with it.
The Fell siblings and their tagalong grump eventually managed to get organised enough to venture into the yard, wary of any two legged intruders. Crowley’s hair was braided from the temples and pulled back to meet at the base of their skull, keeping the feathery mistakes of bangs they were growing out from getting in their eyes. Muriel’s plaits were much shorter, starting in the same place but falling down in front of her ears like an elf.
Aziraphale kept stretching his hands, cramped from his efforts. Crowley grabbed the hand not toting a basket with the hand not toting their cane to try and work out the kinks. Their picnic spot was a two minute walk away kicking through tall grass while field mice squeaked and skittered. It was in the middle of a meadow, a greyed old bench standing tall for the cottage’s inhabitants to appreciate the view.
And the view was much appreciated. The few clouds in the sky were cottony and pure white, trundling across a painting of bright blue in the soft breeze. Knolls rose and fell gently in the distance, rounded by time and countless footsteps. Other homes were scattered as dark specks along them, the point of a few church spires poking up.
Muriel sat at their feet and leaned back on the scant portion of bench between the two of them. Plates of dense and eggless muffins were passed around, loaded with more jam than was truly conceivable. The sausages were only picked at in favour of fresh bread from the village bakery and slices of custard tart. They’d need a group nap by mid-afternoon, but Crowley found they did little else these days.
Behind them, framed by twinkling stars concealed under the shining sun, their quiet little cottage sat in between chalk hills and lavender fields. There was a sun-bleached clothes line barely visible strung between flaking tree branch posts, and on it hung Crowley’s favourite jumper. It had a large patch on the back, repaired with Aziraphale’s love and a scrap of an old tartan scarf.