Chapter Text
A strange light bloomed over Berkeley Square, one warm night in June.
It was there for only a blink of an eye, and gone again before any Mayfair residents and passers-through could really react – insofar as they would’ve reacted at all to just another instance of light pollution, even though it had flashed a few colours unknown to Earth’s spectrum and been emitted by a very cinematic spacecraft hovering just over the rooftops. It was there for just the blink of an eye, but would only end up in a few disreputable papers no one would really actually blink at.
People certainly didn’t blink at the two men, or man-shaped beings, that’d appeared under the dark trees of the square when the light had faded again. They seemed perfectly ordinary, if a little eccentric. They also appeared to be readjusting to the effects of Earthly gravity.
One of them, white-blond and dressed in a tan coat, smiled up at the sky, a hand raised in farewell at the craft speeding away towards the stars. “How lovely of them to drop us off here,” he beamed. “Such a charming bunch.”
“Told you there was life around Alpha Centauri,” smirked the other, dressed all in black and sporting sunglasses at night. “Though I’m still not sure whether they evolved, or they were another of God’s practical jokes…”
“I doubt even you suspected they were quite that advanced, though. And so hospitable!”
“Nothing but the best for our honeymoon,” Crowley aimed to nonchalantly remark, but the way his smile went hopelessly soft betrayed he’d never be able to be nonchalant about this, especially not this soon after their springtime wedding.
Aziraphale beheld him as though seeing him for the first time. It wasn’t just his smile; everything about the demon seemed just a little softer. It probably had something to do with him no longer keeping such a rigid hold on his hair, slowly letting it grow the way a human’s might. It was starting to curl at the ends and around his ears, sporting a copper gleam under the lamplight and looking terribly, unfairly inviting. Aziraphale reached out and gently cupped his husband’s cheek, fingers curling into that fiery hair. Crowley melted into the kiss, and it was almost like their very first, under these very trees one summer night almost two years ago.
They remained very close afterwards, unwilling to let go. “Now that we’re married,” Crowley murmured, “it feels almost wrong to let you go back to that sofa of yours. Or me to that flat where I barely even live at all.”
“Well, I’d assumed we’d go to one of either together tonight, darling.”
“That’s… not entirely what I mean.”
Aziraphale looked up at him through pale lashes. “What are you suggesting?”
Crowley looked back, his eyes fully yellow but bolder than they’d ever been. “Let’s properly move in together, angel.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Crowley immediately jolted, and started backpedaling. “Uh, I don’t – ‘course I don’t expect you to answer that right away – I know how you value your privacy and I can be a bit, well –”
“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, eyes still wide but also shining with joy and more than a hint of tears, “I’d love that.”
“Y – uh, you – you would?”
“Yes,” the angel beamed. “I’d – oh, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined it! A home together, a mixture of our things, our very lives…” He was clearly torn between hugging Crowley closer and freeing his hands into animated gestures, fumbling halfway between their bodies instead. “I’ve adored that shop for over two hundred years, to be sure, but in the end it was a front for my Heavenly duties, you know, coming into contact with humans and being angelic to them, and the best thing I’ve really done with it is host you – and, well, perhaps those beautiful illuminated sixteenth-century –”
“Angel,” Crowley chuckled, prompting Aziraphale to stop chattering. “…Yes, my dear?”
The demon gave him a look like molten gold, closed his eyes and leant in for a heartfelt kiss, languid and slow, stopping time around them without any need for demonic interventions. It said you and me, now and always; it said thank you for giving me everything; let me give you everything, too. “I love you,” the demon muttered. “Let’s go somewhere new together.”
Aziraphale stammered, needing a few tries to find his tongue again. “Together,” he managed, more stars in his eyes than would ever show in London’s light-polluted skies. “…Crowley… could I, um – could I perhaps persuade you to come over to the shop, tonight?”
“No need to ask.” Crowley slipped their hands together, and they strolled out from under the trees. “Shall I fetch you tea and a slice of wedding cake, perhaps? To celebrate?”
Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to weaken Crowley’s knees with a look. “Oh, I was thinking something stronger, and something infinitely more delicious to go with it, my dear.”
The demon flushed as red as his hair, straining not to fling out his wings and get to Soho that much faster.
When morning found them, neither of them had had much sleep, and not only for amorous reasons; there’d also been a great deal of talking. The lack of sleep bothered neither of them. In fact, everything they’d been up to had reinvigorated them a great deal more than sleep would ever have been able to.
Crowley left the bookshop with a spring in his step and his thoughts in overdrive, leaving Aziraphale with a lot to think about and a lot to do as well.
“It’s a big step, to be sure,” the angel had mused that night, eyes shining in the cozy dimness as lamplit shadows rested snugly between his countless antique bookcases. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting all jittery over it.” He smiled at the demon resting long legs across his lap, resting his hands on Crowley’s knees in turn. “Then again, there’s no hiding that from you, is there.”
“There’s no rush,” the demon reassured him. “And no particular need for a lot of change, either.”
“I think… I rather think I want things to, though. Change, I mean.” The angel briefly met Crowley’s eyes before uncertainly looking away again. “This city, these people – it’s been absolutely wonderful, and we both have so many lovely memories, but…”
“Getting out of London,” Crowley quietly surmised. He sat up, intently staring at Aziraphale. “Where’d we go?”
“I don’t know. Not yet.” Aziraphale hesitated. “Not any of our old haunts, though. I want to move forward, forge something new.” He still wasn’t looking at Crowley, but his eyes had taken on a brighter glint, a growing hint of certainty, and his hands grew more animated as well. “I want to… connect with the world. Not too many people, but they’d matter all the more.”
“Not like these faceless masses,” Crowley suggested. “The tourists…”
“Oh, don’t get me started on tourists,” Aziraphale fussed. The demon smirked, knowing all too well what’d happen if he did. He leant back again, content to watch and listen to his husband’s tangent.
“There’d simply have to be a garden,” the angel uttered softly, not so much tacking it onto a list of wishes but quietly marveling at the very possibility. He looked over at Crowley. “A garden for the apple tree.” A while ago, their shared influences and efforts had led to a fully grown apple tree sprouting in Crowley’s apartment, flinging roots right through tile and concrete. They’d both come to care for it a great deal, and not even the demon made pretense not to anymore. Crowley immediately nodded. “We’d be spoiling it even more than we are now, but it does deserve a garden.” He shifted his legs, gently nudging the angel. “And you deserve space for all these books.”
Aziraphale looked around as if seeing the shop for the first time. “Oh, I’d – I’d thought maybe –”
“You’d sell them off? Some of them?” Crowley snorted in amusement. “Which ones? Go on, tell me. Which ones’d be the first to go?”
The angel fell silent for the longest time, intermittently opening his mouth and raising a finger as if about to make a very good point, but abstaining and sinking into increasingly troubled thought every time. Crowley’s eyes glittered with mirth. “Right. There will be no selling.”
“You’d let me keep everything?” The wonder in the angel’s voice and expression were so great Crowley touched a hand to his chest in mock affront[1]. “Angel, please, you offend me. Would you have me part with even one of my beloved rapscallious sprouts?”
“Of course not.”
The demon spread his hands with a flourish. “Well there you are, then. We’re getting you a library.”
“A li-” Aziraphale froze, eyes going wide and halo sparking into being around his hair as he lost track of everything but that thought. Crowley snickered. “Well, yeah, that’s what you’d call a private collection no one else would even think of buying or so much as touching, right?” He yelped as his husband surged towards him, wrapping him up in arms and wings and silver-golden light. “Oi, angel –”
“We’re getting you a garden,” Aziraphale managed between kisses, “and a heated greenhouse, and a jungle in every windowsill –”
“– those not reserved as reading nooks –”
“– and a wine cellar and a, a, a whole village of people for you to torment on your demonic days –”
“– and for you to bless around with on your angelic days,” Crowley grinned. “Lots of goodwill, lots of little restaurants where they’ll get to know you.”
“Oh, you fiend, Hell’s really lost their prize tempter…”
“Hmmm.” Crowley smiled up at his overjoyed husband, all but melting into the couch with happiness and adoration himself. “Not too bad yourself, angel…”
They’d lost and picked up their trains of thought a few more times throughout the night, sketching their shared dream and getting an ever clearer picture of it, even as drink eventually blurred it somewhat. And as he left the shop in the morning, Crowley knew exactly what he needed to do.
A countryside village, a spacious but snug place near it. A garden, the delights of Earth all around them. Yes. The demon all but whistled as he made his way over to his Mayfair flat; he knew just the place.
Aziraphale had proposed marriage to him in just such a place. Exactly a thousand years before that, they’d started their Arrangement in that same place, even though there hadn’t yet been a village then. People being people, both groups of their human followers had banded together and founded one on the spot when their demonic leader and angelic protector had bailed on their duties, eleventh-century monks and Viking invaders together being responsible for the present-day South Downs village of Epfield.
Crowley willed the lift up so fast it creaked, then opened his front door with a thought. His houseplants immediately stood at attention, trembling to see him again for the first time since he and Aziraphale had left on their honeymoon. The apple tree, ever fearless, spread slender branches in the morning sunlight. Everything looked as lush and glorious as the day Crowley had left it.
The demon tutted for a moment. He was strict, but not without appreciation. He sauntered over, momentarily suspending his mission to manifest a watering can and take care of his cowering subjects and spoiled crown jewel. “I trust you’ve all been on your best behavior,” he purred, inspecting leaves and stems, sparking mortification with every careful, feather-light touch. “And you’d better continue that trend, because not too long from now you’re going to be seen by Aziraphale every day –” he faltered for a moment, struggling to keep up his fearsome air with that thought in his head, “– and we don’t want to offer him any less than our best, now do we?” The rustling around him intensified, and the demon smirked. “Thought so.” He dispelled the watering can and stalked over to his office, settling on his throne and reaching for the telephone. He could’ve done this by smartphone, but the occasion called for a bit more gravitas, he decided.
“East Hampshire District Council, how can I help you?”
“Good morning, this is Anthony J. Crowley speaking. I’m interested in buying a certain property near the village of Epfield.”
“Hang on, let me patch you through.”
Crowley waited, and bid more people good morning, and explained his intentions a few times as he was bounced around. “Yes, the abandoned cottage near the lake, on the Serpent Trail.” He smirked; when going for an evening stroll there with Aziraphale, he’d already felt like the place belonged to them. “It didn’t look like anyone’s lived there for a while, so I was wondering who exactly to contact over buying the property.”
“I’m afraid the house isn’t registered to any estate agents any longer. It’s scheduled to be demolished shortly, actually. Ownership of the grounds has already passed back to the municipality.”
Crowley bit back a groan. Bloody complicated nonsense. He missed the time when one could just stake claim to a spot and severely discourage others from doing the same, before every square inch of soil belonged to some vague tangled-up agency or another – before inevitably remembering he’d been the one to spot and encourage humanity’s petty possessiveness and pedantry himself, starting quite early in their history and continuing until, well, his retirement, and sometimes after if he felt like it. It’d all seemed perfectly sinful at the time. He recalled memos sent to Head Office, and various minor commendations. He failed to bite back his groan this time. Bang-up job as always, Crowley. “Well, would there be any way to acquire the property before demolition? I assure you, money is no issue.” He laced his voice with a hint of demonic suggestion, letting the words linger. It took a little more effort across the phone line, but maybe… nothing as dependable as the human vices, after all…
“Good day, sir.” Click.
Crowley yanked the phone away from his ear and gave it a withering look, then slid down his throne and rolled back his head. “Uggh.” He briefly considered making the considerable effort of cursing all of East Hampshire’s phone network, making sure he’d been the last caller of the day and thus at least making an impression, but then decided that’d be overdoing it. Instead, he let glistening black scales creep up and down his body, and slithered over to drape his coils up and down the branches of the apple tree. He could use a bit of a bask, and some time to think this over. He’d need to step up his game, maybe head over in person…
Plotting was just starting to turn to dozing when the phone rang on his end. With something half hiss, half profanity, Crowley’s coils slipped as he fumbled back into a shape with legs to scramble over to it, and hands to pick it up. “Yeah?”
“Good afternoon, dearest.”
The demon’s expression softened, tension leaving his shoulders. “Hi, angel. What’s the matter?”
“I was wondering if maybe you’d be up for a spot of lunch. Centaurian cuisine was lovely, but I’ve ever so missed Earth’s.” Aziraphale sounded like he needed a distraction. Crowley leapt at the chance to indulge him even more readily than usual. “But of course,” he gallanted. “My chariot and I will be right on over.”
Hearing the angel perk up in a giggle was all worth it. “Thank you, my dear.”
Lunch, dinner and a splendid night later, and Crowley had returned to his throne with renewed determination. He wound the line around a clawed fingertip, running a forked tongue across sharpened teeth. He was prepared this time.
“Good afternoon,” he started in his most honeyed voice. “Anthony J. Crowley speaking.” Anything for his angel. Also, the resistance he’d encountered last time had convinced him he was on the right track; he simply had to get his hands on this cottage now. Now it was personal.
“Are you calling about the house on the Serpent Trail? Sir, I told you –”
“ – that it was most definitely scheduled to be demolished, yes, I know. But hear me out.” Crowley hunched over his desk, gesturing as he talked. “I’m sure we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. I could personally make it worth your while if you were to put in a good word here and there –”
“Sir, if you are insinuating –”
“– or I could do my part for the town and district as a whole, of course. I can assure you my presence will do nothing but good for the economy.” This was probably true. Between Aziraphale’s fine taste and tipping habits, and Crowley’s penchant for dramatic impulse buys and his habit of giving insurance and construction companies stuff to do, money had a tendency to get moving wherever they went. “Think about it, is all I’m asking.”
“Sir, with all due respect, you are out of line. Good day.”
“Wait,” he hissed, and the sharp intake of breath told him that this at least had had the intended demonic effect. “Hear me out,” he repeated, straining to get his influence across. Greed hadn’t worked; alright then, plan B. “I’ve seen the property. It will not be easy to demolish. It’s a dangerous wreck of a thing, unstable for one, and also overgrown, thorns and giant hogweed and loads of… copse, all that. Thorny, poisonous. Take it from me, I know a thing or two about vegetation.” He twirled the line again. “And all the way up the Serpent Trail, it won’t be easy – or at all possible – to get the required machinery to the place. Trust me, it’d save you a lot of effort and paperwork to just sell it off to someone who knows how to handle that devilish spot of land.” Sloth, that usually did the trick…
“I’m sure we’ll manage, sir.”
Really? Crowley quietly growled to himself; it had to be the unspoiled countryside, didn’t it? Just his luck. Hardworking honest people. Salt of the earth. Alright. He hadn’t wanted to have to do this, but… “If you don’t give me something right now,” he started, speaking carefully and clearly, “I will call up your manager and have her check last week’s tapes before they’re discarded tomorrow. I’m sure mrs. Delling won’t be happy to see and hear what you and mr. Finnegan have been up to in her office, and she certainly won’t be when I hint to her this wasn’t the first time.”
“H-how on Earth did you –”
“My request stands.”
A hefty sigh was heaved. A pause fell. “Alright. You are in luck, sir. I’m being told there are more parties interested in the property, so I do suppose I shall be able to have the demolition postponed, if not cancelled outright.”
“Ever so glad to hear it,” said Crowley, serpentine grin too wide for his face. Other people? Not a problem. He’d deal with them accordingly. “I am going to want more than a postponed demolition, though.”
Another pause, and Crowley, experienced in these matters, picked up on the minute sound of teeth being clenched. Music to his ears. “You’re welcome for a visit and viewing of the property, sir. Let me schedule an appointment.”
“Thank you. See,” Crowley celebrated, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
When he left London, it was as swift and sneaky as befitted his true nature. The drive to Epfield was only an hour for someone driving the speed limit; Crowley, being a demon driving without an angel to marginally slow down for, arrived in exactly nineteen minutes. The Serpent Trail’s underbrush found itself cowering to the sides and making room for the gleaming black Bentley as it rolled up between oak, birch and beech. The trees found themselves hesitant to litter a single leaf onto its roof. Crowley found himself taking even more of a liking to the area.
The cottage was as lovely as he remembered. He’d only seen it by night last time, but by daylight he could see it was overgrown by a jumble of red, white and pink roses, rising from what had once been a considerably sized garden like a tidal wave of thorns and serrated leaves. He chuckled to himself, reminiscing. “Those good old Yorks and Lancasters. One of yours, angel, one of mine?” In truth, as with anything that messy, it’d been completely humanity’s doing, but the colour coding in particular had made for two series of exceptionally well-received reports to Head Office. The end result of it all still occasionally made both of them smile and chuckle into their drinks. As Crowley exited the car, he picked one of the pink roses and stuck it in his lapel before greeting the dark-haired woman waiting for him closer to the cottage. “Morning, ma’am,” he nodded. “Are you the estate agent?”
“An intermediary,” she replied, coming up to shake his hand. “Call me Eliza.”
“Anthony.”
“I’m afraid we can’t go in, Anthony. It’s very unsafe, they didn’t schedule for demolition for nothing.”
Crowley eyed the building, seeing past the idyll of a shared home with Aziraphale. As of now, the cottage sported splintered walls, sagging beams and a less-than-watertight roof – but somehow it still seemed in better shape than he remembered from their first visit. Maybe it was the daylight. “Eh, I’m sure we can spruce it up.” He surreptitiously snapped his fingers behind his back, and splinters and moss retracted even as the roses subtly cowered back. “Are you sure we can’t take a peek? Doesn’t look so bad to me. You do want to sell it, don’t you?”
“Most certainly, but I will be keeping to safety guidelines.” Eliza gave an apologetic smile, and Crowley quietly gnashed his teeth as he returned it. These people… He clearly had a lot of demonic interfering to do here. He decided to look on the bright side; retiring here was going to be fun.
This was a problem, though. As good a feeling as he had about the place, he didn’t want to get himself and his angel just any old cottage; he had to know what he was getting into. He turned to the house, stroking his chin in thought for a moment – then snapping his fingers. The rustling in the trees froze. The hoverflies in the slanting sunbeams stilled midflight, as did the lark swooping down in pursuit of one of them, beak wide open. Crowley turned back to an unmoving Eliza, giving her a brief albeit redundant salute before walking backwards into the roses.
He quickly found that even while cowering back the best they could, they were still clawing at his trousers and marking up his scaly not-quite-shoes. He let out a quiet growl. “Alright then, you lot, have it your way, let me slip into something a bit more convenient.” This was the Serpent Trail, after all. As he slimmed down and slithered through the undergrowth, he felt strangely at home, and uncharacteristically eager to give the garden an early stamp of approval.
Slipping in through one the almost completely glassless windows, the feeling of homecoming only intensified. He passed his lidless gaze through the shaded room, spotting the fireplace and what must once have been a very cozy living room indeed. A kitchen on the other side, winding stairs with rusty baroque railing leading up…
His further inspection didn’t take any time at all, but was more than thorough nonetheless, to the point where thoroughness turned to lingering, bordering on loitering. By the time he slithered back down, Crowley could see himself and Aziraphale sitting by the fireplace, toasting a fine red and listening to the old classics on the angel’s ancient gramophone. He caught himself getting all sentimental about it. It was settled, he decided as he slid back out the window; he was hellbent on making this work.
Having regained his fingers and snapping them, Eliza briefly started, but Crowley was quick to smooth over the considerable jolt he’d just sent through reality. It’d been for a good cause. “Thank you for showing me this much, madam. You will certainly be hearing from me.”
“Delighted to hear it,” she smiled, shaking his hand. “Although you do have some fierce competition. I’m not supposed to name names or specify numbers, you understand, but…”
“Understood,” Crowley nodded, sauntering back to the Bentley and not taking his competition seriously in the slightest. No mortal upstart would be taking this cottage from him.
A few days, multiple phone calls and almost as many bids later, he was starting to double back on that cocksure attitude.
Money was not an issue for him, nor had it ever been. However, he hadn’t wanted to throw around truly exorbitant sums, at least not out of the gate; he didn’t want to draw too much attention. It was starting to seem like he was going to have to, though. Whatever he bid, he was being matched for it. What was more, it seemed like he was subtly being slandered somehow. “What do you mean the area wouldn’t agree with me?!”
“I’m just saying, sir, a business owner such as yourself –” he’d had to justify himself somehow “– I’m just not sure a village like Epfield would be –”
“I’ll decide that for myself, thank you very much. This is ridiculous,” Crowley hissed into the receiver, his pupils hair-thin slits awash in yellow. “I’m the one to convince you to sell it in the first place, and now you don’t want to sell to me?”
“Not just you, sir, as you recall. Demolition was cancelled because of overwhelming shared interest.”
“Whose?” He’d have a fine bout of cursing. He didn’t have plans for today. He could feel them tingling at his fingertips already, as raring to go as he was himself.
“I can’t tell you, sir, privacy regulations –”
Crowley snapped his fingers, and the other end fell quiet. That did it. No more free will, for just a moment. This took a lot of energy over the phone, and he’d probably pay for it in migraine, but it’d be worth it. He’d make sure of that. “Who.”
“I haven’t been in contact with him personally, sir.” The clerk’s voice had gone flat and monotone, no trace of personality or resistance remaining. “Just heard about him from my colleague. Seems a friendly if fussy sort, uses outdated terms. The cottage was deemed ‘nifty’ quite a number of times, as I recall.”
Crowley’s eyes had gone wide, his entire posture frozen. Then, when the clerk made to speak again, the demon let out a curse not heard since the heyday of Babylon before slamming the phone down, groaning, dragging a hand across his face, picking back up and dialing another number.
“Good afternoon, A.Z. Fell speaking.”
“Hey. I’m coming over.”
“Begging your pardon?”
Crowley didn’t answer, because Crowley was no longer there; the receiver had dropped from his hand as he’d dissolved into a multitude of inky particles, traveling through the line and arriving at their destination in an instant. He hadn’t even fully materialized in the bookshop before taking hold of a very startled angel’s shoulders, giving a wild grin, and kissing Aziraphale hard on the mouth. “You utter bastard. We’ve got the cottage.”
Brief confusion creased the angel’s brow, but then realization dawned. “You don’t mean – oh, Crowley –”
“Just like old times, eh?”
“You were the one thwarting me? Oh, I should’ve known!”
“Should’ve known no one else could be such a pain in my ass!” Crowley found himself unable to stop grinning. “No wonder those people were so hard to influence. Right paragons of virtue, they were!”
Aziraphale gave a bashful smile. “I must confess I’ve been quite liberal with my influences, yes. But!” he perked up, beaming, “They decided to let the house stand all on their own, dearest, that at the very least happened the right way.”
Crowley shook his head in exasperated amusement. “I take it you like it, then?”
“Oh, I loved it the moment I set eyes on it that night. It was the only place I could think of.”
“Well, you’re in luck. Your most persistent rival,” Crowley whipped out his smartphone with all the gallantry he could muster, “will be buying it for you.” The demon started dialing the number, but Aziraphale stayed his hand. “No, please, allow me. It’s the least I could do.”
“I might be able to haggle the price a bit better,” Crowley remarked, turning away and out of reach. “Money’s a demon’s area.”
“Money is no issue for either of us. Also, what’s that supposed to mean?” The angel narrowed his eyes playfully. “Veiled commentary on my coin tricks, dear boy?”
“I’d never,” Crowley grinned, dialing on.
“Either way…” Aziraphale tried to finagle the phone from the demon’s hands, ending up touching the screen and accidentally ringing up a bakery in Hambledon, “…I’ll be making the bid.”
Crowley slipped away with a clearly inhuman wriggle. “Come over here and make me.”
“That doesn’t make any sense –”
In the end, after persuading mr. Reeves of the Crumby Bakery (and his wife, who’d pressed in to listen along as she’d seen her husband’s increasingly bewildered expression) to forget all about what they’d gleaned from their increasingly breathless shenanigans, they ended up pressed together rather snugly behind Aziraphale’s desk, practically both making the call, and negotiating a meeting at a Hampshire office where the non-consequential costs would be split down the middle, as they should be. In the end, as the horn was put down and the whole debacle was behind them, they ended up simply beaming at one another in exhilarated disbelief. “We’ve done it, my dear. We’re really… oh, we’re really doing it.” A lesser demon might’ve been incinerated on the spot by the holy light Aziraphale emitted now. “A place of our very own…”
Crowley didn’t seem willing or able to stop grinning as he pulled the angel from the chair, into the shop and into a careless, loose-limbed dance, just taking in their joint happiness. “We’ve gotta celebrate. Night out on the town.”
Aziraphale let himself be spun around, then dipped the demon with a radiant smile. “Oh yes, I rather think so. For soon-to-be old times’ sake.”
“Let’s start with sushi?” Crowley offered.
“And end at that cocktail place you took a liking to.”
“And whatever happens in between, happens,” the demon grinned.
They ended up bouncing all over Soho, finding a different place for every course of their evening-spanning meal and then onwards into the nightlife, as well as ever further into their cups. When they at last found themselves in Chinatown’s intimate Opium cocktail bar on the second floor, its decor all stylish black and red, Crowley no longer really looked cool enough to match the place. Aziraphale wasn’t much better off. “I remember when this place was a brothel,” the angel said ponderously, heavily leaning on the bar. “I mean a walk-up, as they called them. The top floors, just,” he gave an expansive and unsteady gesture, “just like this one.” He gave a wobbly smile into his Urumqui rosewater and honey cocktail. “Lovely girls, they were.”
Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by one of the staff, smiling as she passed them by. “You can’t possibly remember that, sir, every walk-up in this neighbourhood was closed in the seventies – and I have to say you don’t look a day over forty!”
“Oh, flattery, dear girl,” Aziraphale chuckled. He leaned back comfortably, gaining a dreamy look Crowley knew to mean he was getting lost in memories. The demon gently prodded him. “Never took you for one to frequent such – such essstablishments, angel.”
“Oh, not for that, Heavens no.” The demon had to chuckle at the uncoordinated flapping of Aziraphale’s hands, even though he found his own shoulder bumping the angel’s unbidden and unannounced. “Nonono, just helping out. Minor blessings and such, talking the odd gentleman into rethinking their behaviour. They could use it.”
Crowley gave a hazy smile. “Soho really does ssuit you. Almost hate to take you out of it. Though you’d probably never get the Soho out of the, the angel. Right?”
“I’m leaving of my own accord, dear boy.” The angel turned to face him. “But I s’pose it does. Chose it myself, you know,” he remarked, not without a hint of pride. “Went through a great deal of trouble, too.” He nodded sagely. “Knew Gabriel would let me stay if I put it the, the right way, what with the sinful image and all, even back then.” He paused. “Maybe especially back then. So prudish they were.”
“Oh, and tha’ss saying something,” Crowley chuckled.
“Oh hush.” The angel gave a mischievous grin. “If you must know, I always knew I’d fit right in. Misfit between misfits. I’d rather be one here than…”
“Yeah,” Crowley quietly understood.
“What – what about you and Mayfair, then? Can’t believe I never asked how that happened, but seeing as we’re leaving…”
“Oh, that?” Crowley reached for his glass[2], peering into it for a moment. “Well, it’s nice an’ close to Soho. You’ll recall I settled down there no later than 1801,” he proudly recalled. “Keeping an eye on the oppo- opposiss- the other sside, mind.”
Aziraphale gave him a petulant shoulder nudge. “I can be flattered too much, y’know.”
“Mnn,” Crowley objected, vehemently shaking his head. “Never.”
“I can’t have been the only reason.”
“Well…” Crowley took a sip, savouring the sweetness and pretending not to be burned at the same time, “…there was the image thing, same as you. Fitted with what I was trying to be to ‘em. Flash bastard.” He took another, bigger sip. “Really, I jus’… wanna put my plants in a garden somewhere. Fin’lly push the buggers to their full potential. Have a proper view of the stars.” His eyes softened; Aziraphale could tell even through the glasses, even in this muted, red lighting. “Raise chickens, maybe.”
“Chickens, really?” the angel remarked in amusement. He sat up a little straighter, cleared his head just a bit; he wanted to be a little more sober for this.
“Uh –”
“Don’t worry, judging’s something I gladly leave to Head Office,” the angel smiled. “Still, I’ve never heard you mention this before?”
“Well – have you looked at them, they’re obviously very evil –”
“Dearest.”
“Little avian hellspawn, they are. Thinkin’ of naming a few after my colleagues. They’d probably be more competent at being diabolical.”
“And probably better company, too,” Aziraphale slipped in, innocuously nipping at his cocktail.
“Oh yeah, def’nitely.” Crowley briefly leant his chin in his hand, then sat up rigidly. “Wait –”
“It’s alright, dear,” the angel reminded him. “No more need for… images. It’s just you now. Just me. Just us.”
The demon smiled, not as wryly as he might’ve just a year ago. “Old habits die hard, y’know.”
“I do know.” Aziraphale glanced into his own drink, the sweetness of it still on his tongue. “You know, I’ve been thinking of getting a little more hands-on with the Lord’s creatures myself.”
“Oh?” Now it was Crowley’s turn to pull himself together just a bit, though he immediately moved to take another sip.
“You recall that little stunt you pulled in the Garden, with the bees?”
Crowley almost choked on his drink, but managed to compose himself. “Gh- well, they seemed so defenseless, was all –”
“Oh, I was only startled the first time, but the humans were caught awfully off guard. Eden’s sweet things were to be theirs without issue, you know.”
“I was sent up to cause some trouble! You can’t blame me for following through.”
“Mhmm.” Aziraphale smiled to himself, watching his flustered demon with infinite fondness. After some sputtering, Crowley got back to what he actually wanted to say. “Did do a pretty good job keeping you out of harm’s way afterwards though, didn’t I?” He’d gotten rather good at anticipating the angel getting peckish, rather early on, even Aziraphale had to admit that. “Never had to get honey yourself anymore. Always happened to have some on hand[3].”
“Dearest, it’s not like I have to fear getting stung, or suffer it at all.”
“Well, it’s not like you ever told me that,” Crowley countered. “Not back then, anyway.”
Aziraphale gave the tiniest bastardly smirk. “And it’s not like all of our Arrangement started in 1020, either.” He downed his honeyed drink as daintily as he still could. “Either way, I think I might just take up beekeeping. They’ll be the best-behaved little ladies, to be sure – all the better to pollinate England’s best-behaved, most beautiful garden.”
Crowley smiled as the angel paid their check and stood up, offering a hand to the unsteady demon despite being just as wobbly. He snaked an arm around Aziraphale, not just for balance. “All that… extra space. All that open air.” It’d be as far removed from Downstairs as possible, short of actually going Upstairs. His heart skipped a beat just thinking of it.
“We can feed the ducks at that lake just off the Serpent Trail,” Aziraphale remarked as they half-strolled, half-stumbled through the bustling neon-lit streets. “We’ll be leaving St. James’ Park, but –”
“Eh, they’ll be prohibiting bird feeding there soon anyways, knowing people. Tourists, I mean, not people.”
“Crowley!”
“What, you’re always thinking it.”
“Well, I suppose.”
They chuckled to themselves, letting Soho’s nightlife wash over them as they realized this would be one of the last times they’d do so; the chatter of throngs of people, the cars roaring past, the loud colours lighting up every storefront, Chinatown’s garlands of lanterns. As they rounded the last corner and came up beside the bookshop, Aziraphale slowed, taking both of Crowley’s hands and halting them both just outside the door. “It will be paradise,” he spoke, eyes shining in a flushed face. “A new Eden.”
Crowley heard what the angel wasn’t saying loud and clear. “We can always come back, you know,” he gentled.
Aziraphale glanced around, then up. “I… find myself unwilling to go inside just yet, dear boy.”
The demon raised a hand. “Say no more.”
A snap, a flurry of feathers, and one angel and one demon found themselves perched on the bookshop’s roof, looking out across the streets, overseeing all of Chinatown, Trafalgar Square with Nelson’s ostentatious Needle, the stately outline of the National Gallery and even catching a glimpse of the river Thames off in the distance, London Eye twinkling like Christmas just beyond.
“That’s a lot of memories,” Crowley murmured over the bustle below them. No one looked up or paid them any mind. Neither of them had bothered to put their wings away.
“Too many, I’ll wager,” Aziraphale smiled. It was the kind of smile he’d worn like his own sort of armour for millennia, and Crowley ached to see it now. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, sobering up almost fully. The occasion called for it. “About this?”
The angel turned to face him, and the most peculiar thing happened right before Crowley’s eyes, likely the only ones capable of seeing and appreciating the subtle change. As Aziraphale looked at him, he smiled for real. A white wing folded around the demon, and the angel leant into him. He suddenly seemed fully sober, too. “Yes, dear boy, I am.”
Crowley wordlessly pulled him closer, stretching out his own wing. Aziraphale closed his eyes, shutting out the city, only feeling the demon’s warmth. “After all this time, to truly come home to you – no amount of memories is worth more than that.”
Crowley rested his head in Aziraphale’s hair, lost in love and feathers, just feeling his heart fill up. “Likewise, angel. Likewise.”
“We’d better get to packing, what’d you say?” the angel remarked to the demon late the next morning, having just finished up their morning tea. Crowley, being an expert even in his much-despised mornings, immediately caught this for what it was.
Of course, the renovation of their cottage would pan out with supernatural ease, but not quite so fast that either of them should start packing already. They had weeks if not months to prepare. But Aziraphale needed time alone with his shop and his books, to prepare not only physically but also mentally for the fact his collection indeed needed to be packed, as did as the centuries-old smorgasbord of his other belongings. The demon obliged, understandingly and affectionately. “’Course, angel. I’ll leave you to it – you know where to find me.”
“Oh! But the Bentley’s still at the flat, isn’t it? Will you take a cab?”
“You know me better than that,” Crowley chuckled. “No, I think I’ll take a walk, in fact. I’ve only got so many of them left.”
Aziraphale pulled him close for a kiss. “Enjoy the day, dearest.”
“You too.”
Crowley was, in his own eyes at least, less sentimental and less attached to things than Aziraphale. He might strictly speaking only metaphorically shed his skin, being a demon[4] and not an actual snake – but he liked to think he had an easier job than most in letting go. He’d had practice, after all.
On the other hand, though, he’d been in and around London for just as long as Aziraphale had. It was a wretched city, partly built on wretched ideals he might’ve taken credit for but actually had very little to do with –but there was beauty in it too. It was one of a kind, really.
As he passed the Ritz, he admitted to himself he was going to miss it. But if he knew his angel at all, Epfield would boast something at least as sophisticated very soon. And just maybe, they should take to cooking for themselves a little more often, too; the sight of vegetables on a cutting board might be an even better way of keeping his plants in line, and he might just get away with that without eliciting Aziraphale’s disapproving tuts, too.
Crowley gave a rare blink behind his sunglasses, then an even rarer smile while alone in public. Instead of dark glee at the thought of his plants, he’d only gotten all warm and fuzzy thinking about doing domestic human things with Aziraphale. He might’ve told himself to knock it off, once upon a time, but now he figured he might as well enjoy something very long in the making indeed.
There was still a spring in his step as he got home, and took the lift up, and unlocked his front door.
It vanished the exact moment he saw the spindly figure standing underneath the apple tree.
He’d warded his apartment against intruders, of course; not just anyone could get in. But this was one of the reasons they planned on moving. Hell had arranged this place for him, and it still belonged to them before it ever belonged to him.
Crowley had frozen in his tracks, his eyes instantly yellowing, his pupils instantly narrowing to razor slits. The demon before him made to approach, opening their mouth to speak, but Crowley was faster. “Ssshut it,” he hissed. “Just – shut up.”
He’d had dealings with this demon twice before. Where Crowley was concerned, it’d been two times too many, even if both he and Aziraphale were both alive and on Earth to tell the tale.
Xaphan, former brewer of hellfire but since punished by their lower downs by being cut off from said hellfire, raised a bony hand. “I don’t like being here any more than you like me being here,” they rasped. “But hear me out –”
“Bugger that,” Crowley snapped, staying right where he was and snatching his smartphone from his pocket. The other end rang thrice before it was picked up. “Angel? Are you alright? I’ve got a friend here.” His voice left no doubt regarding the kind of friend he was talking about.
“Yes, well… I’m afraid I do too, dear boy.” Neither did Aziraphale’s.
Crowley immediately strode over to Xaphan and grasped their hand, a layer of ash flaking from their skin and smearing his palm in pale grey. “You’re coming with me. You can explain yourself as soon as Aziraphale is no longer alone with that prick of a Principality. Come on.”
“Wait, what are you – no –”
Crowley hadn’t intended to leave the Bentley behind a second time, but circumstances demanded a faster way of travel. He held Xaphan’s wrist in a vice grip. They shrieked and thrashed behind him the whole way through the phone line, and an instant had never lasted longer – but it was only an instant, and when the other demon stood by his side in the bookshop, panting and wheezing and snowing ash onto the carpet, Aziraphale stood before them both unharmed, if a little rattled. Behind the angel, a young man in pristine powder blue was neatly sat on the sofa. The Principality Nithael had already been graciously provided with a fragrant cup of chamomile tea, and gave a little wave over it as he recognized Xaphan.
“Well,” Aziraphale started with the most fragile cheer, helplessly looking at Crowley as the demon glared daggers at the sofa, “you’re back just a tad sooner than we planned, dearest.”
“Just as well,” Crowley replied, venomously. “Seems we’ve got a tad more planning to do.”