Chapter Text
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The next morning, the calls had eventually came. Aziraphale had promptly turned down Gabriel’s invitation--which turned into Gabriel’s desperate demand-- to return to Celestial Station headquarters. Crowley, of course, had received notification from Hastur that Mx. Beelzebub wanted to bring him on, and was delighted that he was parting with Gabriel. On his part, however, Crowley thanked Brimstone Corps. for their offer, and had told them that he was going in another direction.
For them, that direction was westward. Aziraphale, true to his word, had packed up his desk and left immediately with his new partner, Crowley. There wasn’t much on their end to do for paperwork; Aziraphale and Crowley were now free to apply anywhere and everywhere they saw fit. As it turns out, many weather stations were happy to interview for a new weatherman, and the offers did not run short for a new field reporter or storm chaser with such a great record. In the end, they settled in a quiet, northeastern corner of the Dakotas: near enough to the large cities to travel, and yet, far enough away that they would not be bothered.
Aziraphale purchased for them a lovely and rustic lakeside cabin; Crowley spends most of his vacation days fishing and lounging about in the rocky sand.
It’s a typical day, at the end of the week, and Aziraphale smiles at his desk before the camera. The station is small, ( if you can call it a station): their one, large room is divided by collapsable walls, and outfitted with a hand-me-down camera. There are signs and markings still on the floor, from when this building was once a supermarket location. Even though Crowley sweeps every week about half a dozen times, there is always loose gravel and flies on the floor. But the company is kind, the pay is reasonable, and their voices are the only ones on the station.
“Well, that about wraps it up!” Aziraphale says, shuffling his piles of papers. “Looks like it won’t be long until our farmers can get back out in the fields. For those of you who have been hoping to combine: get out there! It’s going to be a great week of sunshine!”
He flashes a smile, and Crowley gives him a black-painted thumbs-up.
“This marks the conclusion of today’s weather report. As always: stay safe, stay healthy, and stay sane out there! You are loved. And I’ll see you all tomorrow morning: bright and early.”
The red light blinks, and Crowley shuts the camera off.
“Well done, you!” He says, striding over. He is making a point of swaying his angular hips, aiming for more of an arrogant sunter. “I truly have the most dashing husband in the world!”
Aziraphale gives a half-hearted wave of false modesty. Thi makes Crowley smile even wider, and, as he approaches, he wraps his arms ever more tightly around his weatherman.
“ Fiend!” Aziraphale laughs. The feeling of his giggling chest blooms joy in Crowley’s beating heart. He leans down and kisses the round of Aziraphale’s cheek.
“Got any plans after this, you fine thing?” the weatherman asks, running his hands through Crowley’s long hair.
“I should probably stop by the store. Make sure we have enough eggs. I wanted to make crepes again, since you seemed to like that.”
Aziraphale’s blue eyes are sparkling.
“I did!”
He gives Crowley and up-and-down look.
“But, wait. Are you trying to tempt me, my dear Crowley?”
“Is it working?”
“Oh, yes! ”
Crowley dips and kisses Aziraphale soundly, letting his lips linger there. It’s been many years, but the novelty of kissing his beautiful weatherman has not been lost--not once , not in a singular day.
“In that case.” Crowley says, drawing his head back enough just to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear, “I should probably get some... other supplies while I am out.”
Aziraphale laughs. He smacks Crowley playfully on his shoulder.
“We are running low.” He replies evenly, as Crowley hoists him once more up to standing. “Can’t imagine why, though. ” He adds coyly.
“Can’t imagine.” Crowley agrees, giving Aziraphale one last kiss. “Meet you at home?”
“Okay.”
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Crowley thinks that he must be the most happy person in the world. The days without Aziraphale seem far away now: here, today, there are years and years of happy memories and time together, while working side-by-side in their own, peaceful world. Yes: one and a while, the small-town bigotry scratches at the smooth surface. But it’s nothing compared to the wonder he feels. There’s nothing that can rupture the bubble of gratitude that he carries with him as he spends every day of life with his best friend.
“Hello, Anthony!”
A woman at the store is waving at him. Dark-haired and friendly, she is one of the regulars at the local coffeeshop where Crowley works part-time while Aziraphale teaches.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Pulcifer.” He returns, smiling as she walks over to him. “How are Newt and the children?”
“Awful, as usual!” She grins at him. “Newt prepared us this spectacular anniversary dinner, and then, Adam got in--” she rolls her eyes. “Well, you know how he is. Might as well be the antichrist, the messes he makes.”
Oh, he knows! He’s babysat for them .
“He’s quite the devil!” Crowley agrees. (Privately, he is grateful that neither he nor Aziraphale wants to have children.) “But a loveable one.”
“Right. But I had to come back here for seconds.”
She eyes the contents of Crowley’s basket.
“Mmm. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were getting ready for an anniversary yourself!” she says, winking at him.
Crowley gasps, pretending to be affronted.
“My good lady!” He uses an overdone imitation of Aziraphale. “How uncouth of you to gaze upon another man’s basket!”
The pair of them laugh.Indeed, if Crowley had wanted to be covert, he ought to have gone to the local gas station (or driven an hour out away from their tiny town); among his items are champaign, strawberries, a carton of eggs, heavy whipping cream, and condoms.
“I hope you’re not going to mix those together.” She says, eyeing them doubtfully.
Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You just never know what to expect from The Gays.” He replies sweetly. “Have a nice day, won’t you?”
“Bye, Crowley!” She laughs, shaking her head. As she walks away, she adds: “Say hi to Aziraphale for us!”
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It’s getting late in the afternoon, almost turning into golden-red evening, when Crowley arrives home. He pulls up the long, gravel driveway of their road with the wheels of his Bentley spitting out rocks. The house is a home: thier home, and it’s beautiful. It’s nestled cozily into a thatch of pine trees, and in the fading summer sunlight, it looks like it might be fresh out of a painting. All around the house, Crowley has done vibrant gardening: black-eyed Susans, geraniums, angel-leaves, thistles. It’s an erratic collection, but somehow it all goes together perfectly. ( Aziraphale often fondly calls it ‘Eden’ ).
“Hello!” Crowley calls, feet kicking up small puffs of dust as he walks. “Angel? I’m home!”
A fat, long-haired cat wanders out from the bushes. When it spots Crowley, it putters towards him on squashy, short legs, its tail raising high up in the air.
“Well, hullo, there, Gabriel.” Crowley says fondly, picking up the right ugly thing. “Getting yourself into any trouble?” He scratches at the chin of the ornery cat, and it gives a rumbly and satisfied purr.
“Best boss we’ve ever had.” Aziraphale grins, leaning against the doorway.
He’s changed out of his dapper suit ( even out here, where people wear denim trousers, he insists on being exclusively well-dressed) and is wearing cut-off khaki pants and tartan dress-shirt. “Welcome home, love.”
Crowley stops in the doorway to drop a kiss on top of Aziraphale’s head, and deposits Gabriel the cat onto the threshold. “Happy anniversary,” he replies, extending the store’s cheap plastic bag into Aziraphale’s waiting arms.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have.” his husband replies dryly, receiving the handful of groceries ungratefully. “But what took you so long?”
“Saw Anathema.” Crowley shrugs, stepping into the kitchen. It’s bright, well-organized, and painted a lovely, eggshell blue with white cabinets ( All Aziraphale’s touches ).
“Sounds like Adam is being a terror again.”
“Oh dear.” Aziraphale sighs, sitting down at the table with the pack of strawberries. “I really don’t look forward to when I’ll have him in my English class.”
Crowley laughs and takes the eggs from the satchel. He opens the fridge and depositing them.
“When he does, you’ll be lovely. As you always are.” Crowley reassures.
When he opens his hand to receive the strawberries, Aziraphale is preoccupied. “Angel?”
“What’s this?” Aziraphale says, inspecting the fresh box of condoms. “We’ve been married for nearly seven years, and we haven't used these in ages. Something you’re trying to tell me?”
Crowley grins, leaning over the back of Aziraphale’s chair. “Thought it might be romantic.” he says, puckering his waiting lips.
“Romantic!” Aziraphale laughs, kissing him. “Rubbers are now, for an anniversary present, suitably romantic?”
“No.” Crowley smiles, rubbing his nose on Aziraphale’s. “But this is: I’m taking you out tonight. on the lake, under the stars, for a private picnic with kissing and crepes. Thought that it might be prudent, as you say, to have something available since there won’t be a shower.”
Aziraphale looks like he might just skip right to his orgasm there.
“There’s a lake.” He suggests.
“A lake!” Crowley laughs, and he kisses Aziraphale again. “Sure, Angel. We can go night-swimming."
In truth, their lake wasn’t ideal for swimming; in general, lakes good for fishing are often green, and have silt-coated bottoms. Normally, Aziraphale wouldn’t touch it.
“If you’re lucky,” he adds, “We could even go skinny dipping.”
Delightfully flustered, Aziraphale pushes his chair back from the table.
“Well! Why didn’t you say so, my dear?” He walks towards the doorway of their bedroom. “I’ll go and get us some blankets prepared.”
“Good. I’ll make crepes.”
Aziraphale pauses in the doorway, looking over his shoulder. He smiles at Crowley lovingly, and all the warmth and brightness of a summer sunshine radiates from him. Crowley does not think he has seen anything so lovely, so comforting, in all of his life.
“I love you, Crowley.”
“And I love you, Aziraphale.”
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END.
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