Chapter Text
It was pitch black outside, the world around completely devoid of any semblance of life and activity, save for a lone figure, dressed all in black, lurking on the path by the road in front of the cottage belonging to Harold Thorndyke.
Crowley took a long drag on the cigarette he’d manifested on his walk over here. It had been decades since he’d smoked, and even then, he’d only indulged every once in a while. He let out a stream of smoke as he gazed at the dark cottage before him. He had never been much of a lurker; that was more Hastur and Ligur’s scene than his, especially considering the sheer amount of menace required to lurk properly.
But now? Oh, now. Now he had enough.
Crowley dropped the cigarette and stomped out the embers with his boot.
The first thing he did was make sure that for the foreseeable future, Thorndyke would not be able to shake a feeling of ennui whenever he was home. No matter what he did, he wouldn’t be able to get rid of it. He could try it all: tea, hot soaks in an Epsom salt bath, eucalyptus oil, the odd crystal or two, but nothing would release him from its hold.
With a blink, Crowley transformed into his snake form, choosing a small garden snake, and made his way to the front door. Standing on the tip of his tail, he was able to reach the mail slot, which he pushed open with his head, and slithered his way through. He fell with a plop onto the rubber rug below, a bit dazed for a second, but otherwise no worse for wear.
Crowley flicked his tail (since snakes do not have fingers to snap), and time around him crawled to a halt. Humming happily, Crowley then began to slither through the dark house, taking stock of the layout as he did so. He noted that the curtains he’d miracled to always be just slightly loose were still up, but the edges were beginning to fray, and they were a bit lopsided. He smirked, feeling very proud of himself.
In the living room, Crowley miracled everything in the room a single inch - no more, no less - to the right. Not enough to be immediately noticeable, but enough to ensure that old man Thorndyke would bang his toes at least once on the corner of the little in-table next to the recliner, and enough to make him feel that something was, overall, not quite right. This, along with the ennui, would be just enough to make him question his sanity.
In the kitchen, once again, all the labels on the canned goods went mysteriously missing, and for good measure, Crowley also took the can opener, banishing it somewhere in Brighton. From the fridge, he miracled three magnets onto his own back at Eden Cottage: one of James Bond, of whom Crowley was a fan, one that was shaped like a dinosaur, and the other a generic one from some restaurant in the village. He dulled all of Thorndyke’s knives, even his fancy steak knife from Germany. He then unplugged all of his hard to reach appliance plugs.
In the bathroom, Crowley ensured that the shower liner was just this side of too short, making it to where the water from the shower would run down and onto the floor outside the bathtub. He then disposed of every single roll of toilet tissue, all of the napkins, and boxes of Kleenex in the house.
Upstairs, Crowley once again unmatched all of Thorndyke’s socks. (He was sorely tempted to stuff one in the man’s open mouth as he slept, but thought better of it, and didn’t.) In the closet, he left the hangers this time, but ensured that the hooks were slightly bent, so that they would not slide easily along the bar of the clothes rack. He then made sure that all of his shoelaces were tied together, on shoes that did not match, with knots that would not be easy to untie.
Leaving the bedroom behind, he flicked his tail, and all at once, the house was devoid of every single battery in any device that utilized them: the remote controls, the torches, the various convenience devices that required them, but Crowley left the ones in the smoke detectors; he was petty, but not a monster, dammit.
Lastly, every single lightbulb in the house suddenly burned out. (Thorndyke would not know this until later that night, when he’d wake up with an urgent need to use the lavatory, having had indulged in a spicy dinner that evening, only to find that he had no lights, no toilet tissue, and not even a torch to make the experience even moderately more comfortable.)
Satisfied that he’d wreaked a little havoc in all of the most lived in areas of the house, Crowley made his way back to the front foyer. He flicked his tail one last time, allowing time to restart, and slithered his way back through the mail slot in the door into the night air.
He transformed himself back into his favorite human shape, and walked back down the front path, pulling his hair back into a half bun as he did so. He stooped down and pulled a single pound coin from his back pocket, and applied a generous amount of extra strength adhesive to the back, before pressing it down on the walk just outside Thorndyke’s front gate, where anyone passing by would be sure to see it and stop to try and pick it, thus loitering in front of the old man’s house. The glue would cure overnight, and not even King Arthur himself would be able to pry it off of the cobblestone.
He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders before he manifested his wings in all their glory, the black feathers melting seamlessly into the darkness of the night around him. With a kick, he was airborne, and he circled the cottage below him a few times before he swooped down low and pulled a small package from his pocket.
Inside the package were seeds. And not just any seeds, but catmint seeds. Crowley began sprinkling them liberally across the roof’s thatch, making sure to cover both sides. A minor miracle caused the seeds to immediately begin sprouting, and Crowley imbued them with just enough of that demonic menace to ensure that by daybreak, they’d be fully grown and flowering, which would attract every cat this side of the South Downs to the man’s cottage, where they were sure to shit, at least once, in his chrysanthemums.
“That’s for Yucca.” Crowley said to nobody.
Satisfied, he flew home, and slipped into bed next to Aziraphale, who he had left sleeping in the bed, not bothering to put away his wings. Yucca, sensing movement, settled herself at Crowley’s side, and he slipped a hand into her soft fur, reminding himself that she was alright, she was safe, and that he had ensured that the wrong that had been done to her was avenged.
***
The next morning, as Aziraphale was just putting a breakfast quiche into the oven to cook for when Crowley got up, a loud banging on the front door made him jump, the door of the oven slamming shut as he did so. Yucca, who had followed Aziraphale downstairs so that she could be let out and fed, looked up from her place in the bow window.
“What on earth?” Aziraphale wondered aloud. He took off his apron and hung it on its hook next to the broom closet. The banging renewed against the wood of the front door, this time even louder, and with more fervor.
Frowning, more than a little peeved at the rudeness of the offending sound, Aziraphale brushed off his jumper and walked through the living room. He opened the door curtly, just as a new round of bangs began, to find Harold Thorndyke standing on his front step.
“Do you mind?” Aziraphale said snippily. “The banging is absolutely unnecessary, I heard you the first time.”
“YOU!” Thorndyke spat.
“Yes, I?” Aziraphale said, beginning to feel confused. Thorndyke’s face was a deep red, almost as if he had spent too much time in the sun, as he stepped into Aziraphale’s personal space, thrusting a finger at him.
“I don’t know how you did it, but I know you and that partner of yours had something to do with it!” He seethed.
“Good sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Aziraphale said, calmly. “And I would very much appreciate it if you would lower your tone and remove yourself from my personal space.”
“Personal space!” Thorndyke roared. “You’re one to talk, after you invaded mine! After what you’ve done, I’ll see to it the only personal space you ever have again is in a jail cell!”
“Mr. Thorndyke,” Aziraphale was beginning to get irritated. “Are you being purposefully obtuse, or are you going to actually tell me what you think it is I’ve done?”
“My roof!” Thorndyke roared. “I don’t know how you did it, but you or that degenerate partner of yours vandalized my property! There are cats all over! They’ve completely destroyed the thatch, and they’ve made an absolutely shite box of my garden!”
“Ah, yes, speaking of cats,” Aziraphale said, stepping out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. “I was hoping to speak with you on the matter of our cat, Yucca.”
Thorndyke snorted. “What about it?”
Aziraphale regarded the man in front of him coldly. “I know it was you that took her.” He said, sharply.
“I dunno what you’re talking about.” Thorndyke said. His eyes were sparkling with triumph, and Aziraphale hated it. “She’s gone, then, is she?”
Aziraphale studied Thorndyke’s face very, very carefully before he said, “Well, no, she isn’t.”
The glee in the man’s eyes dulled, and his lips twitched, just slightly. Any human would likely have missed it, but not Aziraphale.
“You see, we received a call yesterday from a shelter in Kent, informing us that they were in possession of our cat. It seems she had been dropped off there by a good samaritan, hoping to reunite her with her family. Lucky for us, we had the forethought to have her microchipped when she was still a kitten, and the shelter was able to contact us. Upon picking her up, we were informed that the good samaritan in question was a gentleman by the name of H. Thorndyke.”
Thorndyke’s eye twitched this time, and he made a choking sound.
“Well,” he said. “It’s a common enough name, maybe—”
Aziraphale’s eyes were thunderous as he stepped forward, crowding Thorndyke against the edge of the front step. The old man stumbled, and Aziraphale reached out and grabbed his arm, wrapping his fingers tightly around his bicep.
“Don’t try and play coy with me, Harold Thorndyke.” He said, allowing the tiniest bit of righteous anger to seep into his tone. “The fact that you had the temerity to come into our yard and take our cat to a shelter over an hour away is one thing, but to then come over here and accuse me and my partner of a crime you have no evidence that we committed is something else all together.”
“Y-You’re hurting my arm.” Thorndyke stuttered. He was unable to look away from the other man (man-shaped being)’s eyes; were they glowing?!
“I will speak plainly, and I want you to listen very, very carefully to what I’m about to say to you.” Aziraphale said. “If you ever come anywhere near Yucca again, I can assure you, you will regret it, do I make myself clear?”
Thorndyke sneered, looking at Aziraphale in disgust.
“And what’s a softie like you going to do, eh? Going to sic your boyfriend on me? Will he wear that stupid skirt again when he kicks my arse?”
“I’ll have you know that my partner looks extremely dashing in anything that he chooses to wear, and I am especially fond of that kilt.” Aziraphale said. “And though he will never admit it, Crowley is much too kind, I’m afraid. He would never harm a human, not even a human as vile as yourself. But me? I will have no qualms whatsoever in making sure that you will curse the day, the hour, the minute, the very second your parents fucked and conceived you. I will make a roof of catmint and a pantry of labelless cans seem downright pleasant compared to the ire I will rain down upon you should you ever think of harming my cat, and by extension my partner, ever again.” He leaned in close, and allowed his eyes to go full glow. “Have you ever heard of Sodom and Gomorrah, Mr. Thorndyke? Because I have. I was there, you see. And I will not hesitate to give you a personal demonstration should you fail to heed my word. So I will ask again: do I make myself clear?”
Thorndyke stared at him, his eyes wide with absolute, profound terror.
“W-What are you?” He whispered.
“Pray that you never find out, Mr. Thorndyke.” Aziraphale advised. He retracted his Grace, reverting his eyes back to normal, and let go of the man’s arm. Thorndyke stumbled back, falling flat on his arse in the grass. Aziraphale straightened the sleeve of his jumper, and smiled at him.
“Good day, Mr. Thorndyke. Good luck with your roof.”
With that, Aziraphale went back into the cottage, and closed the door.
Yucca meowed up at him from the floor, and he stooped down to pick her up, rubbing between her ears. She purred loudly, and mooshed her paws into his wrist happily.
“I don’t believe we’ll have any further trouble from him, do you?” He asked her.
He walked into the kitchen, and closed the back door, deciding it was best that Yucca stay inside for the time being. He snapped his fingers, miracling the quiche done and the oven off before he climbed the stairs towards the bedroom. Setting Yucca down, he shucked his trousers and jumper and slipped back under the covers as Yucca settled herself at Crowley’s back, between his black wings.
“Angel?” Crowley slurred, stirring from sleep. “Wossat?”
“Shhh,” Aziraphale soothed. He kissed Crowley’s forehead. “Mr. Thorndyke dropped by for a chat. I think he will leave us alone in the future.”
Crowley grinned at him sloppily, still groggy with sleep. “Put the fear of G-d into him, did you angel?” He asked.
Aziraphale hummed and manifested his wings, laying it gently over his Mate and cat, as if shielding them both.
“Fear of me, I believe.” He said. “But never mind that. I’m sure he won’t be bothering us anymore.”
Crowley let out a quiet “ngk” and settled back down into the warm bed, scooching closer and molding himself into the angel. He nudged his wing up against Aziraphale’s, and their feathers brushed together like fingers slipping between one another in a gentle hand hold.
“Wish I could have seen that.” He said dreamily. “You going all avenging angel makes me all tingly.”
Aziraphale chucked. “You fiend,” he said, slipping his hand into Crowley’s red hair.
Crowley didn’t answer this time, falling as easily back into sleep as he’d been roused from it. Aziraphale closed his eyes, and it wasn’t long before he, too, drifted off, his wing still draped protectively over the demon, just as it had on a wall in another place called Eden, so very long ago.
***
Harold Thorndyke, much to the surprise of everyone in the village, sold his cottage two weeks later, to a charming young couple that Crowley vaguely remembered from the painting company he’d hired when he’d first renovated Eden Cottage, though their names escaped him. The young man - who bore a striking resemblance to some Scottish actor Aziraphale was a fan of - had just received his doctorate, and he and his wife had been looking to raise their young daughter in a place with lots of greenery and sunshine, and had happened upon the listing for Thorndyke’s cottage the day it went up for sale, and Thorndyke had accepted their offer on sight, even though it had been several thousand pounds below his initial asking price.
It was never questioned where Mr. Thorndyke went after he moved away, but Crowley had it on good authority that he had elected to move to Milton Keynes, where it was said he passed his days driving his brown sedan around the roundabouts merrily, sometimes muttering under his breath about cats and chrysanthemums.
No one was ever able to explain why, but his canned goods always seemed to be missing their labels. Thorndyke accepted it, and learned to live with the spontaneity of the meals that resulted from it.