Work Text:
•1966•
This will do, Crowley told himself.
It had been a gloomy day in April, fog still heavy on the land, but here he was, signing papers, receiving keys for doors that would most likely splinter and break if pushed at.
"Are you sure, Mr Crowley? The house is in shambles. The renovation will cost more than just ploughing it down and building a new one. It's a fine piece of land, you could build whatever you wanted."
The demon pulled at his turtleneck as the wind picked up. "Call me old fashioned, but some things are worth preserving."
The man adjusted his hat. "Good luck with that then, you'll be spending years on it."
"We'll see about that."
The original meaning of the word paradise had been simple: a garden within walls. The very walls in front of him were broken and tumbling, but the gate, rusty as it was, still hung from its creaky hinges. The gate faced east. As it should. He wanted nothing more than to see Aziraphale stepping through it, the light of dawn reflecting in his hair, coming home.
Crowley walked through the overgrown garden, passed gnarly raspberry bushes among the dried weeds and came to a halt in front of an old apple tree, its branches worn down from weather and age, its leaves riddled with spots.
"Time to start over, old man."
•1967•
Renovations had cost him quite a sum, but a year later the roof was fixed, the windows replaced, three of its eight rooms were finished. The kitchen was prestigious, all black marble and white tiles, polished chrome everywhere. A bedroom, all red and gold. The living room at the centre of it all, with dark leather furniture and mahogany bookshelves, arranged to be zen, whatever that was supposed to mean. The interior designers had gone all out and emptied his pockets.
Crowley had thought himself prepared.
But then, a tartan thermos had been handed over. The angel wouldn't look at him, not properly.
"Well, can I drop you anywhere?" Crowley beckons, his mind on loop, begging, ask me to take you home, let me take you to the cottage.
"No, thank you." Aziraphale turns to him, slightly. "Oh, don't look so disappointed. Perhaps, one day, we could, I don't know," a shy smile tugged at his lips, eyes tinted with a daydream, "go for a picnic." The smile reached his cheeks, but he still wouldn't look at the other. "Dine at the Ritz."
At last, their eyes met, and Crowley wished they didn't.
"I'll give you a lift," the demon offered, hopeful, "anywhere you want to go." Ask me to take you home, please, angel, please.
Aziraphale swallowed something painful. "You go to fast for me, Crowley."
He'd torn it all down the next day, screaming at himself. He'd rebuild it piece by piece, with his own hands. If it would take him decades and a fortune, so be it. He needed something to do, to keep himself busy, sane.
You can't buy an angel's love, you have to earn it.
•1972•
Crowley woke, bolting upright. He squinted at the clock on his cottage nightstand. Sometime past 2AM.
"What the Heavens are those noises?"
He grabbed his black dressing gown, flung it over his black pyjama and pushed his feet into even blacker slippers. He picked up his sunglasses just in case.
Which had been a good idea, as Mrs Greensburrow was out as well, standing between his plot and her's, carrying a frying pan and a wooden mallet, her long grey hair curled up on thick rollers.
"It's the Miltons' sheep." She called out to him over the cacophony of the bleating herd. "I think the fence came loose again. Who knew they'd make such a ruckus at night, fluffy devils they are."
"I really need to start fixing my backyard wall, then." He scratched at his moustache and watched her bang the kitchenware, sheep fleeing from the sound.
"Better do that, or your mister might run off with the sheep once you get him here." She gave him a knowing look. You can't fool old hard-boiled ladies.
"He'd fit right in, got the same hairstyle."
She laughed.
•1976•
Thomas was a carpenter. Crowley had liked carpenters ever since.
The young man standing in the middle of his barren living room had been confused with his request. "You want to line every wall with bookshelves?"
"Yes."
"Floor to ceiling, all of it?" the carpenter's brow was still furrowed.
"Exactly." Crowley felt irritated, shifted from one leg to the other.
Thomas pointed at the single, narrow shelf next to the terrace door. "Anthony, what for? You own only those ten or twenty books."
The demon cleared his throat. "Look, this cottage isn't-- It's not--", he rubbed his face and groaned, "I hope someone will move in with me. He owns a bookshop in London, collects the damn things. Rare first editions of novels and philosophy, some odd Bibles. He doesn't sell much anymore, just hoards them. He could hoard them here, with me." He gestured at his living room.
Thomas nodded at a picture in the crooked bookshelf. "Is that him?"
Crowley's entire demeanour softened as he looked at the bright smile of Aziraphale, framed in gold. "Yeah."
"Looks like an angel." The carpenter teased, the contrast between the two men like night and day.
"He is one." Crowley said matter of factly.
"Ok, then. But why are you paying me to teach you to build them yourself and then supervise when you do? Why not leave it to my boys and me, we could get it done in a couple of weeks."
Crowley flattened a hand over his chest. "I have to build my heart into this house. He can feel it."
Thomas looked sceptical, but he wasn't going to complain about the romantic notion, not when the man would pay him so handsomely. His wife and baby daughter surely wouldn't complain that he'd have a job just two streets over for however long it'll take Anthony to build his nest of books.
"What type of wood do you want?"
"Which one lasts forever?"
•1979•
Crowley sipped at his whiskey, staring up at the angel he'd put on top of the festive tree he'd set up out of boredom. Which was a lie, and he knew it.
"Wish you were here." He raised his glass at the figurine.
His doorbell rang, making his pining heart miss a beat. He put his drink down on the coffee table, grabbed his sunglasses and went for the door. Outside, in the muddy snow, stood a little girl with hand-knit hat and scarf, a bowl of cookies in her gloved hands.
"Beccy?"
The little girl sniffed. "Mummy says you spend Christmas alone."
He pulled at his high waist pants to kneel down. "I do, sweetheart, is that why you're here? Where are your parents?"
"At home, knocking eggs. They said you're soft on children and that I should ask if you wanted some cookies." She pushed out the bowl. "You always say no to mummy but not to me."
"Well, how could anyone say no to you?", he poked the young child in the chest, receiving a good-natured giggle in return. He made a show of choosing one of the sweets, picking a heart-shaped one with sugar pearls embedded in its chocolate icing.
"Did you make these?" He asked and put it in his mouth.
Beccy nodded enthusiastically. "I did! Took me all day!"
"Your mummy must be proud." He hummed dramatically. "They are delicious."
She beamed at him and ate a cookie herself, crumbs sticking to her glove.
"My parents say you know an angel, is that true?" She held out another cookie to him, shaped like a star.
"I do." He ate out of her little hand and winked.
"He's busy helping Santa Claus tonight, right?"
Crowley gasped. "He is! How did you know? It's a secret."
She made a zipping motion over her mouth, smiling brightly.
"I'm sure he'll bring something special to you."
•1981•
Aziraphale had mentioned he missed hot baths and regretted stuffing the entire apartment above his shop with books. He did have a bathroom, somewhere beyond the piles and piles, but it might take a few days to get through it all to clean it up. The faucets would most certainly spout crusty orange water after not being used for so long. It was too much of a bother for the angel.
He'd only get distracted reading, anyway.
So, Crowley went back to the South Downs. He stood in the doorframe to the simple bathroom he had built so far.
It wasn't enough. It had to be better. What would his angel enjoy? What did he want Aziraphale to do in here, beside the obvious that humans would busy themselves with?
He sat down, legs folded, and let his imagination do its thing.
Something… vintage, as humans would call it. A freestanding bathtub far enough off each wall to guarantee enough space to let Aziraphale manifest his bright wings and preen them. He might have to take down a wall for that, but it’s worth it. Then, a three-piece mirror, golden framed. Two sinks embedded in a white cabinet. Why not get a bit posh? Royal blue coloured tiles, no, better, it had to be mosaic, with a golden piece here and there like stars in the night's sky. Golden decorations throughout the room, a few wall-mounted plant hangers.
It had taken him several months to get it all right. Just one last piece had to be added, and it'd be complete.
A book rest for the bathtub.
•1985•
Crowley had started to work on the garden. The walls were all fixed and now offered a place for the neighbours' black tom Charles to regularly nap on.
He had bought a new kind of climbing flowers to bloom upon the bare stones. Their name had been Pierre de Ronsard, named after a French author. The Germans, however, called them Eden Roses. Now that was a name warranting that the Serpent of Eden would buy forty of their best stock and spend two weeks lining them to his garden wall around the plot, making sure not a single bug dared to bite them, that they were perfectly watered and had just the right amount of sun. A plum tree was transported to his garden that summer, to give shade to a spot that kept drying out. It bore even a handful of fruit come autumn.
Mrs Greensburrow made him plum cake with rum in it. He took a few pieces with him to London. Aziraphale had loved it, demanding the name of the patisserie.
Crowley forwarded the praise, word by word, to Mrs Greensburrow, who looked smugly at her husband.
•1990•
Schnapps. Plum schnapps. Lots of it. Crowley got drunk on the fruits of his labour, and he felt rather proud about it.
Aziraphale didn't like schnapps. Right now, he was probably shooing customers from his stuffy old bookshop to close up, wrinkling his cute nose at whoever dared to touch his Wildes.
Crowley lay right on his lawn in the evening summer sun, surrounded by pink lavender, purple cherry pie flowers, red, orange and yellow moss roses, white blooming sweet alyssum. Alcohol was buzzing through his corporation while he tried his best to figure out which blue flower to add to his garden to have the entire rainbow represented.
"Trouble in paradise?" Mr Greensburrow had asked as he passed Crowley's cottage while walking his dog Ruffus.
"It's not paradise until my angel is here."
Forget-Me-Nots.
•1991•
Mr Greensburrow had passed away, never getting to know the angel his neighbour spoke of every chance he got.
•1992•
Mrs Greensborrow died of a broken heart, they say. He wondered if he'd do, too, if Aziraphale were not just discorporated but gone entirely. If Heaven ever found out about them. He was pacing in his cottage living room. Those endless bookcases, so far only holding a few volumes on gardening, home improvement and astronomy, might never fill up with the bottomless well of stories kept in Aziraphale's possession, love stories centuries-old, cherished by an immortal being trying to understand what love could truly be, in all its forms. His chest ached, his eyes stung with tears he was unwilling to shed.
Crowley had called Aziraphale in the evening, just to talk, hear him be alive.
After a while, the angel's tone had turned mellow. "When are you coming back to London, my dear?"
Crowley twirled the telephone cord around his fingers as he lay on his pliant sofa stuffed with cushions. "I dunno. Another month, perhaps."
"What are you doing, I really wonder." Aziraphale huffed. He missed the demon, he wasn't even trying to hide it that night.
"Eh, nothing much. Just making sure some stuffy politician will build a motorway. Might endanger a subspecies of frogs. Never liked frogs. Will upset lots of people."
And provide a faster route from London to my secret cottage I keep for us.
•1997•
The heating had to be replaced. Crowley wanted floor heating. After walking on it at an exhibition, warmth rising from his feet right up into his more or less cold-blooded body, he wanted it in the entire cottage. Still, he' had kept the miracles to get it done as small as possible.
Miracles were to be used for unimportant things, like money.
•2000•
Well, another millennium done. Nothing new. He's done it five times already.
Just six more to go until he might build up the courage to give Aziraphale a key to the cottage. It took him all year, but the bedroom was finally done. No more sleeping in a regular bed, but a four-poster made from sturdy oak with thick green velvet curtains hanging decoratively from its sides. Sowing the heavy things had been a nightmare. Plush furs were placed around the bed, two silent valets, one on each side next to a matching nightstand of which one was already filled with books Aziraphale never managed to acquire. The wardrobe had a drawer specifically designed for bow ties.
The plant pots and knick-knacks, antique little pieces and candleholders, were all made from brass.
The church bells tolled midnight. While most adults worldwide were struck with fear that all technology would cease to work overnight, the village was witnessing the most spectacular fireworks, of which only half was caused by humans.
The kids had a blast. Pun very much intended.
•2003•
Crowley, for all intents and purposes, hated pushing papers. Yet, he had decided to build an office, making the last spare room into something useful. Another framed photograph of Aziraphale on his desk made sitting down for his reports a lot easier.
•2007•
Hell was brooding. He didn't like it. Brooding usually resulted in work for him. He distracted himself by tearing down the kitchen to build something warm and cosy. Dark wood cupboards and shelves, cream-coloured tiles on the floor and above the stove and a worktop that was made from a solid dark brown marble with green streaks. Accessories were kept in cordial brown and black, the pots of herbs on the window sill a mix of both.
He built a small storage room for wine and other spirits. Crowley hesitated, but still decided on painting the walls a russet shade.
He intended to learn to cook one day, might as well make the kitchen lean towards his aesthetic to serve as the perfect stage.
•2008•
The Antichrist was delivered. That was a thing.
He stood in his garden, looking at the cottage he had now owned for forty-two years. It would all be gone, and far too soon. He had a plan. They had a plan. It would work out if he and Aziraphale stuck together. He had to have faith in him. He still had hope in his broken heart that one day Above and Below might get their shit together, and he'd be able to take his angel right here and show him what he'd build.
•2018•
An odd couple with a little girl had moved in down the street. They weren't married, maybe never would, it seemed somewhat complicated. One of them meant to replace Dr Brook, who was finally enjoying his pension at 73. The other, a strange beekeeper, referred to Crowley's sunglasses as black spectacles. He instantly liked the guy.
The apple harvest had been generous, thanks to the bees. A village over they had made cider out of them for him, didn't even ask for a payment. Miraculously, their boiler had stopped its hiccups and worked flawlessly every since.
Aziraphale had enjoyed the cider. Crowley wanted to see him drink it on his, their, terrace. Wanted him to know where the apples came from.
Armageddon was so close.
It hurt.
•2019•
The world didn't end. They had spent one night in Crowley frugal apartment before their head offices had been played for the fools they were.
Later, there had been confessions of love, millennia overdue, spoken through free falling tears and caught with kisses. An engagement, a wedding twelve months later.
"Let me take you home." Crowley had pleaded, hands on the angel's hips as they danced.
"Which one?" Aziraphale had asked. Still, they each owned a place in London, the bookshop and an apartment, even though the latter became more of a storage room for plants and antique art. There was a bed at both, yes, but not one he'd take his husband to.
"Ours." The word, such a small four-letter thing, had unexpected weight to it.
"Dearest, you're keeping something from me, aren't you?" Aziraphale was nuzzling his nose to Crowley's.
"I'm keeping something for you." He kissed him. "Just. Ask me." There was something broken in his voice, something Aziraphale would not tolerate to hear at their wedding day.
"My darling husband, take me home, please?"
He did. They drove to the South Downs as the last wedding guest had left, black Bentley decorated with a wreath and white ribbons. He didn't pull up into the garage, he let the Bentley stay in the driveway, letting his neighbours know. He held the car's door open for Aziraphale, taking his hand and felt it shake.
The angel took a deep breath, shuddering with it. He was sure he had sobered up before they had left London, but he felt drunk and warm. A single, worn down key was held out to him.
"Did you--"
"Yes." Whatever the question, Crowley was sure he probably has done it within the past fifty years he had built this, all of this.
"When?"
Crowley shrugs. "Whenever I had some time off. When you weren't around." Enthralled, he watched as Aziraphale unlocked the front door.
To the angel, the sheer love radiating from the cottage was overwhelming. It made his head swim. One hand above his hammering heart, the other entwined with Crowley's, he let himself be guided from room to room. This was where he belonged, he could feel it to his very core. It was his haven, his home, meant for him, for them. He gently tugged Crowley towards the bedroom.
"Let us never leave."