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“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.”

—Jane Austen, Jane Austen’s Letters

___

Tadfield, Oxfordshire, 1811

When Aziraphale Fell had agreed to take up the newly-vacant benefice at a parish in Oxfordshire, he could hardly believe his luck—though he did so with no small amount of scruple. He had been approached about the prospect by an old acquaintance. Mr Sandalphon, who had been working as the town curate for close to a decade, had not any fond memory to hold with Aziraphale. On the contrary, Aziraphale recalled it to be somewhat the opposite. Mr Sandalphon had held him to be rather queer, too dissenting in his views on how the Church ought to be. So when he had called for an audience with Aziraphale one day to offer what seemed to be the very job that he had only dared to dream of, he held himself slightly on guard.

'The living in Tadfield, Mr Fell,' Mr Sandalphon had said, with a rather desperate edge to his tone, 'has been vacant for quite some time now. And it is a handsome benefice, I tell you. You would hardly find another living as prosperous as that in nearly all of England.'

' But you have been serving as curate for so long,' returned Aziraphale. 'I know the living does not automatically pass onto you, but surely, for a person with your experience, your patron will make an exception.'

An expression of deep-set fear flared in Mr Sandalphon's eyes, at least, before he suppressed it at the very last moment.

'No, no! The patron, Mr Crowley, is very generous and he has offered me the living. Only-only I think that it is time for me to retire.'

'Retire?' inquired Aziraphale, dubiously. 'Why, you are not even forty! And you know as well as I that a commitment to the clergy is a commitment for life. Unless, you have been able to find yourself a rich wife to maintain you.'

' Please, Mr Fell.' He noted the avoidant nature with which Mr Sandalphon took his remark, but decided to let it slide. 'I know how desperate you are to escape Gabriel's clutches. You've basically been doing his job for him!'

Aziraphale could not but agree with this sentiment. The rectory that Aziraphale had been taking rooms in was not technically assigned to himself, but to its parson Gabriel. But Gabriel also held a benefice in a parish some two hours away and had left the clergy matters to Aziraphale almost entirely, but for the title itself. Aziraphale had been serving as curate for Gabriel's post for close to four years now, though he would conjecture that half the town's residents would have never known to describe what their rector even looked like.

' You are quite certain that I am the right person for this post?'

' It is yours, Mr Fell, should you wish for it. Just say the word and I shall connect you with your patron.'

The prospect of his own living, one which would provide him his own home and potentially afford him the lifestyle of a gentleman, was certainly enticing. But there was something peculiar with the way that Mr Sandalphon, who had never been much of a friend to him, was readily offering his dream job, particularly so if it was a job that he could have taken for himself. It was all rather perplexing.

  Aziraphale did not have scruples about performing his current clergy duties. He loved to serve and to be of use to the celebrating, the ailing, and the grieving. But he also needed to look further into ways he could do so sustainably. The curate's wage he was receiving from Gabriel could hardly afford him anything, and left him quite dependent on the rector, who could at once turn him away from lodging at the rectory if he could so be in the mood to do it. 

Perhaps it was time that Aziraphale thought about himself.

And it was so that, despite the fact that he was almost entirely certain that Mr Sandalphon had been holding a trick up his sleeve in offering Aziraphale the job, he had found himself agreeing to the prospect. Within a week he was introduced to Mr Crowley, his patron. Mr Crowley, a man well into his sixties, owned the estate of Lieven Manor in Tadfield, and lived there quite happily with his wife and two children—a firstborn daughter who was to inherit the property, and a younger son named Anthony, who was (as he had made a point of mentioning to Aziraphale on their first meeting), very near in age to Aziraphale himself.

In all honesty, Aziraphale had initially thought to doubt his patron, based on Mr Sandalphon's suspicious nature in talking of him. He had thought that the patron would be cruel and insufferable, for there had certainly been many of those encountered by men of his profession, and that Mr Sandalphon had only been attempting to praise raptures on his generosity in order to entice Aziraphale to take the post. But on finally meeting with him, Aziraphale had been surprised to find that Mr Crowley was indeed very affable. His hardened features were compensated by a soft and happy smile that Aziraphale had only seen in those with significantly contented families. Aziraphale could not but feel that he had done nothing to deserve his generosity, for livings were traditionally bestowed by patrons only to people they were already well-connected with. Aziraphale had the experience for the job, doubtless, but he knew he had not quite enough to earn Mr Crowley's trust—yet he had it anyway. And Aziraphale was determined to prove that Mr Crowley had been correct in granting it to him.

The living was indeed handsome. The parsonage, located about half-an-hour walk from Lieven Manor, was intricately furnished, with a glebe that augmented much of Aziraphale's earnings so as to allow him to employ a handful of servants. For the first time in his life, Aziraphale was a man of the gentry. In addition to all that, Tadfield also proved to be the most beautiful village he had ever set his eyes on. It held in it a tight-knit community that had a homely air, and in only his first week, Aziraphale had already felt that he could find himself very comfortably settled.

Which still begged the question: What exactly had Mr Sandalphon been so afraid of?

—

"What do you plan on doing now, Anthony?"

Anthony Crowley glanced up from where he had been trailing his finger over a strip of black ribbon to look over at his friend.

"What else is there to do, Anathema? The usual, of course."

"You've already succeeded in driving away the odious Mr Sandalphon. When will you learn to be content?"

Anthony made no response.

"His replacement, I am sure, will be more agreeable—"

The very idea made him scoff.

"They are all the same, Anathema. Have you learned nothing?" Anthony wrenched the silk strip in his palm, gritting his teeth. "They're all sad and miserable. Unwilling to bend to the changing tides of the world."

"They cannot all be like that."

Anthony fixed her with a glare. "They are. Or do you forget that I was once one of them?"

"You were almost one of them."

"Same difference."

"As much as the difference between a tomato and a carriage wheel." Anathema sternly placed her hands on her hips. "Please tell me, Anthony, that you do not mean to continue your ridiculous tricks."

"And why shouldn't I? It's extremely entertaining." He grinned at the fond memory of Sandalphon shrieking across a field, tailed by a pack of reptiles. "And do you not remember what Sandy said when you announced your engagement to Pulsifer?"

"'By the grace of God, she is to marry a man!' Yes, I recall," said she, rather glumly.

"Despite the fact that the laws have ventured outside of man-woman matrimony over thirty years ago. These preachy chuckleheads still insist on their traditional ways, and relish in their own self-appointed superiority above others."

"But I heard that the new parson is much younger. It is quite possible that he would not be so set in his ways."

Here, Anthony had the urge to roll his eyes. "Again, it is all the same. Whatever character you may have in your nature, once you enter into schooling, they will have drilled in you the exact same teachings by the time you take orders. I only got out before they could obtain too great a portion of myself."

Anathema sighed. "But I beg you not to be too hard on the new parson so soon. It will be so dreadful to have a frightened minister on the day of my wedding."

"I promise I will do nothing at all that might encumber your special day. You are far too dear a friend of mine." Anthony laughed and finally retrieved the ribbons for purchase.

"Have you met him?" She asked as they walked to the register. "The new parson, I mean?"

Anthony shook his head. "Only my father has met with him. Though I think he is invited to dinner later. If so, we shall see him then."

"Oh, well that is sure to be interesting."

—

The new parson had been invited to dine at Lieven Manor that very evening, and had been prompt in his arrival. He was escorted to the drawing-room to be in the company of Mrs Crowley while the dinner affairs were being settled. Anthony, who had been strolling the corridors with Anathema and tugging on his far-too-tight cravat, passed by the drawing-room doors and caught a small glimpse.

The parson raised his chin, meeting his gaze. Anthony very quickly looked away and kept walking.

Anathema nudged his shoulder, and when Anthony turned he saw that she had a smirk playing on her lips.

"He is very good-looking."

Anthony's response was a cold look, neutralised only by the warmth of his rapidly flushing cheeks.

A footman emerged from the drawing-room and called their attention.

"Mr Anthony, Miss Device." He bowed his head. "The mistress requests both of you in the drawing-room."

Anathema raised a brow and mouthed: "Behave."

They entered into the drawing-room, where stood Mrs Crowley next to a young man in a humble black cassock.

"Come and meet our new neighbour," said Mrs Crowley, smiling at the two newcomers. "This is Mr Fell, he took up the parsonage just last week. Mr Fell, you know my daughter is currently settled in London. This is my son, Anthony, and our dear neighbour and family-friend, Miss Device."

They made the necessary greetings. Mr Fell extended a hand towards Anathema, with whom he exchanged a wide smile. When he reached Anthony, the latter hesitated a moment, before settling on a neutral expression and taking the extended hand into a shake.

"How d'ye do, Mr Fell?" said Anthony tonelessly.

The smile on the parson's face withered not a smidge, and in the vigour of his nodding, his white curls bounced on top of his head. He had a firm grip on Anthony's hand, strong and callous. Anthony could not quite place him. He was much, much younger than he had been expecting. Surely he could not have been ordained more than a couple years ago? And yet, he held himself confidently, with the countenance of one who'd been in the clergy all his life—his eyes bright with knowledgeable glee, broad shoulders open and welcoming, and a smile well-stocked with steady streams of enthusiasm.

It was revolting.

—

By the time they had sat down to dine, Mr Fell already had both of Anthony's parents practically wrapped around his finger. Their conversation was more than amiable, filled with jokes and laughter that made Anthony's stomach churn. Beside him, Anathema made a subtle motion to grab his attention.

"You ought to admit defeat now, Anthony," said she, muttering under her breath so that none of the others at the table would hear. "This new parson is very different. You would be quite remiss in driving him away."

Anthony rolled his eyes. "Unlike you, I am not so easily fooled by handsome faces."

"So you admit to thinking he is handsome."

"It does not signify whether I do!" He hissed, silverware digging into his palms. "His affectations say nothing about his true nature. In essence, he is little more than a younger version of all his peers. They all think the same."

"That may be true, but." Anathema threw a pointed glance at Mr Fell's direction, thoroughly assessing him. "I do not get those airs from his direction. He seems genuine, Anthony. Like a person worth knowing."

"Again, you cannot keep making allowances for him merely because he is handsome—"

"You must stop going on about how handsome he is, if you wish to convince me that you hate his guts."

Anthony glared something fierce.

His father's voice boomed from the end of the table. "Now I hear that you are quite alone in your parsonage. We built that to accommodate a family, you know. And there are plenty of fine ladies here in Tadfield whom you will surely encounter."

Mr Fell laughed, and the sound of his laughter was not as booming as Mr Crowley's, but there was a distinguished air to it that could not be placed. 

"Oh, no, Mr Crowley. I am quite satisfied with my current situation," he returned, kindly.

Mrs Crowley threw him a disbelieving look. "But, only think how much better it would be with a wife around! You will not be quite so overworked, and may better perform your clergy duties."

"I do not mind being overworked, ma'am. The duties, of both the clergy and running my own house, do not encumber me at all. I am quite a happy man, thanks in large part to your wonderful hospitality."

"Come now, sir," persisted his mother. "Handsome man such as yourself will have no trouble at all in catching a wife. You are well-situated enough and need not worry about a thing."

Mr Fell's smile turned softer. "I do appreciate the sentiment, ma'am, but I assure you that should I venture to get myself a wife, I would not at all know what to do with her. She will be most dreadfully bored, a most miserable creature. No, I have much better not even try to look for a wife."

A wave of shocked silence passed over the table. Not unpleasant, really, but a great deal shocked.

Anathema threw a knowing look over at Anthony's direction, as though to say I told you so, but Anthony hardly registered it. His mouth hung ajar as he, much like both his parents, sat gaping at Mr Fell.

Mr Fell was unaware of all the sudden attention. He shoved a forkful of food into his mouth and hummed in satisfaction. "What excellent boiled potatoes! If you do not mind, I simply must ask your cook for the recipe."

—

Sundays were always a horrid affair for Anthony's neck. Never had he felt the urge to loosen his cravat greater than on Sundays, when he knew that he had no choice but to wear it as tight as it would go, and the constriction around his throat only made him long for the greater freedom provided by an elegant promenade dress. He eyed Anathema's embroidered gown with slight envy while they walked, arms linked, to enter into the church premises.

He did so dread Sundays.

Before they reached the entrance, they passed by Hastur, decked in a grimy suit. He and Anthony exchanged quick grunts of acknowledgement.

"Crowley," he said in a low, nasty tone.

"Duke."

It was always a bit odd to see Hastur without his sword. Or piss drunk off his arse, screaming bloody murder at everyone passing by on the streets. He was a strange one, all right. One of the peculiar country squires who spent much of his day drinking, swinging his sword, and demanding that everyone referred to him as 'your grace'. 

But hey, even a madman like him was required to clean up during Sundays.

"This is to be Mr Fell's first sermon, isn't it?" Anathema asked while she tugged him over to sit by their usual pew. "I've not looked forward to going to church in so long."

"You are so simple."

"Oh, come, Anthony. Tadfield is not so often blessed with the presence of fine young men."

Anthony shot her a scolding look. She giggled.

"Aside from yourself, of course. And my fiancé as well, though he is from another parish so I suppose he doesn't count."  She sat forward on her seat and eagerly looked up front. "And you know how dreadful these sermons can be. His handsomeness will give me much reprieve and might even get me to sit still for the next three hours."

Anthony held back a grin. "He is sure to make quite a performance."

Anathema tensed up, casting him a wary glance.

"Anthony..."

He did not glance her way.

"What on earth have you done to Mr Fell?"

He caught her arm and shushed her. "Quiet down, he is here. It is about to start.”

The opening proceedings began normally, though he noted that Anathema was on edge the entire time, waiting for something to go wrong. By the time the sermon was about to begin, she turned to him again.

"Anthony, please. What did you do?"

"Relax. It is only a small thing," returned he, smirking delightfully while Mr Fell cleared his throat on the pulpit and opened up the notes and books before him. "I simply did a small switching job."

Anathema gaped. "You snuck into his office and stole his things?!"

"I did not sneak in, the window was open!" He hissed back, barely able to keep down his volume.

Anathema groaned silently, pinching the bridge of her nose. "What did you take?"

"His sermon notes." Anthony took out a small bound notebook from within his coat. "Replaced it with a similar one filled with demonic-looking sigils."

"Oh. My God."

In front of them, Mr Fell's brows drew into a confused furrow. He rifled through his items, mumbling awkwardly. Anathema held her breath.

"And his prayer book," resumed Anthony.

"And what did you replace that with?"

"A copy of Shakespeare's sonnets."

Anathema stared at him. "That is actually kind of romantic."

The grin on Crowley's face withered instantly, giving way to a furious scowl. "Shut up."

They were interrupted by a breathless chuckle ringing from the pulpit.

"Oh. Oh dear," said Mr Fell, smiling nervously. "It appears I have misplaced my... Well, it is no matter. Though it might be a small matter. I am far too young to be forgetting things." 

A round of laughter rang from the audience, smiles instantly brightening everyone's faces while Mr Fell uttered more apologies, then proceeded with his sermon, one that seemed to come entirely from the top of his head.

By the end of it, there was hardly a dry eye to be seen.

Anathema shot him a sly look as they emerged from the church, few hours later, after what had been the most compelling sermon the parish had seen in ages.

"When will you ever learn, Anthony Crowley?" 

"I am not giving up, you know."

The look that she gave him was half-concerned and half-consoling.

"One of these days you will see that it is not always good to assume the worst in people."

"I do not do that."

She gave him a pat on the arm, sighing. "Not everyone is out to take advantage of you. Not all people will want to make you conform to a standard, or woo you into an attachment merely for your twenty-thousand pounds dowry."

Anthony pressed his lips together grimly.

"There are genuinely kind people in this world," continued Anathema. "Just because you have had your heart broken more than once does not mean that it will be like that always."

Anthony did not think it worth it to dignify her with a response, so he remained silent to be alone with his thoughts. There were currently matters more pressing than whatever turmoils he had internally.

Moreover, there was also a lot of planning to be done.

—

Mr Fell's moment of endearing bumbling at his first sermon had caught the hearts of the parish. Within a week, everyone talked of his kind countenance, his pleasing manners, his handsome features. He was invited to dinners left and right, hardly spending an evening alone in the parsonage. The people of Tadfield went into raptures at the mere mention of his name—and what a pretty name it was! Aziraphale— like the angel. He was a great favourite wherever he went. Unwed ladies had already begun to set their caps on him, while their parents contrived of every possible endeavour to invite him to. It was the most appalling thing Anthony had ever witnessed. 

The charms of this young clergyman were much stronger than he'd initially conceived. He did not understand all the fuss. Mr Fell was kind, sure, and he made people laugh, but he was dull. There was no concrete evidence that he was, but he was sure to be. One had to be dull in order to be ordained. He felt himself so superior, kept dissent to himself, and had not a revolutionary bone in his body. Everyone else was a fool to fall for his sham. Though Anthony had to grant him credit. It was not so easy to fool someone so ordinarily astute as Anathema Device, and yet she kept defending his character, said that he had done not a single displeasing thing and had rendered everybody a great service in replacing Sandalphon.

Disgusting.

But this was not at all the worst of what Anthony Crowley could do. He need only attack in the right sort of way, to expose Aziraphale Fell's true character, once and for all. 

He had far more tricks up his sleeve.

—

Anthony's plans were detained for a short while when he visited his sister in London for three weeks, but on his return to Tadfield, he had not changed at all in his resolve. His satisfaction was increased on finding that Mr Fell had again been invited to dine at the Manor the night of his return. He sat at dinner with a pleasant air, feeling most invigorated and ready to strike, when his mother turned to him and inquired after his sister.

"She is fine, Mother," replied Anthony, glancing at Mr Fell from the corner of his eye to see if he was listening. "Though we have not had much occasion to talk since Miss Morton was also there."

Mrs Crowley choked lightly on her tea, casting a nervous glance over at Mr Fell. "Well, you know how it is when two friends gather. There is much to talk about."

"Oh yes, they were most absorbed in the other's presence as to have forgotten my existence entirely. My scarred mind must always lament that, though they have gotten into the habit of fornicating like mammals, they have yet to acclimate to locking their own doors."

Mrs Crowley shot him a pointed, scornful look which he ignored in favor of turning to Mr Fell.

"You must excuse their living in sin, Mr Fell. I know you to be just the person, for, having once been a city-dweller yourself, you must certainly know how impossible it is to find suitable town lodgings so late into the Season."

Mr Fell coloured faintly in the cheeks, and a tense silence passed while no one dared to speak.

Anthony felt the beginnings of a triumphant grin forming on his lips.

Mr Fell laughed, full and hearty, until his eyes glistened and he had to wipe them with a finger before a tear could roll down his cheek.

"Don't I know the difficulty!" said he, laughing some more and sending the widest of smiles down Anthony's direction, as though he had just told him the highest of compliments. "I have had to live on little over sixty pounds a year as a curate. If only I had been clever enough as Miss Morton in the ways of economy!" Then, sending a cheeky look and wink over at Mrs Crowley's direction, said: "But, alas, there were not half as much pleasurable delights and enjoyment in my case."

All the others at the dining-table began to laugh, hardly believing what they had just heard from their parson. Mr Fell laughed along with them, and hurried them through a story of one of the most amusing scrapes he had gotten into as a curate. 

Anthony sat grimly in place for the rest of the affair.

It appeared he must resort to one of his more drastic measures.

—

The thing about absolute madmen was that they were less likely to endear themselves enough to obtain a spouse. But, defying all logic, the duke Hastur did indeed have a spouse—significantly more sober, but certainly no less eccentric.

It was to Ligur that Anthony turned to when he was in need of snakes. One of his finest plans, if Anthony might say so himself. It was the one that had finally sent good old Sandy running for the hills, ridding Tadfield of his repugnant scent for all eternity. One night, as a half-moon hung high in the sky, Anthony began the steady trek over to Hastur and Ligur's cottage-house and saw himself to their grounds, where Ligur kept his pets.

The exchange went smoothly. Ligur spoke only one language after all, and Anthony happened to have a ton of it. He slid the wad of cash onto his hands and was assured that everything would be taken care of.

A glint of a metal object caught his eye. One of Hastur's swords lay abandoned over a spread of rose bushes. Anthony leaned down to pick it up, feeling the weight of it on his palm.

"Should get myself one of these things," said Anthony, pulling a few clumsy swings in the air.

Ligur rolled his eyes. "I don't really care what you do, Crowley."

"Hey, can I borrow this? Only for a bit."

It took a short while more of needling before Ligur gave in.

"All right, fine! But you cannot let him know that you have his sword, all right? And I will only cover for you a couple days and no more than that —or he comes to kill you." 

Anthony grinned wickedly, holding the sword out vertically in front of him and making a ridiculous gesture of elegant bowing.

"You have my word, Ligur."

—

Situated a few ways beyond the Lieven estate was an expansive clearing adjacent to the parsonage grounds. This was where Anthony set out to go as he waited for his latest plan to come into fruition. In this spot, Anthony had known the full victory in witnessing Sandalphon running as though his life had depended on it. His final downfall. And in this spot, he would observe yet again the fall of another insufferable stuck-up clergyman.

On that sunny afternoon, Anthony brandished out Hastur's sword, and waited.

He had gotten well into his jabs, parrying with an imaginary attacker. Beads of sweat rolled down his face from the exercise as his old wellingtons slid forward and back on the uneven grass. He stood out in the open in a plain linen shirt, half-tucked into his tight pantaloons, entertaining himself until the arrival of the actual entertainment that he had come to see.

He must have been into his ministrations for close to an hour when a blond-headed figure finally emerged from the parsonage grounds. Anthony pretended not to see, and kept to his jabs as the figure approached the clearing. His heartbeat quickened in anticipation. Waiting. Waiting.

By Jove, what was taking him so long?

Rather than the burning mad dash Sandalphon had exhibited, Mr Fell approached him in a careful brisk-walk. There was significantly less amount of screaming involved. Anthony finally had to drag his body to face him, and mortifyingly, found that a coiled up black snake had curled itself around Mr Fell's shoulders.

He froze.

Anthony knew snakes, and he knew this one to not be dangerous. Even less so for being a house pet. But it was a mightily frightening creature, with a thick and scaly body, muscles protruding sharply with each movement. It draped around Mr Fell and curled very close to his neck, but not a shred of fear could be found on his features. In fact, as he regarded Anthony's presence, he took on a very pleased wide smile.

"Why, hello, Mr Anthony!" He said brightly, capturing the head of the snake in his palm and bringing it up in Anthony's direction, as though introducing a child. "It appears I have a few unexpected visitors in my grounds today, but I do not see why that cannot be an occasion to make more friends." Turning to the snake, he said tenderly: "Dear fellow, come meet my friend Anthony Crowley! He has been nothing but most accommodating to me since my arrival in Tadfield."

Anthony was still frozen, his sword half-held in the air, staring dumbly at the parson.

"You are not worried that it might be dangerous?"

Mr Fell only stared in return, his blue eyes widening slightly. His eyelashes fluttered as he glanced down at his new friend.

"All creatures, big and small, are deserving of love," he stated. His free hand came up to brush the pads of his fingers over the snake's coils, gliding over the dark scales. "Though I am afraid I cannot make a home for them in my garden. It was awfully lucky that it was I who stumbled upon them. Had it been any of my servants, I fear they would have come to meet with some harm. Would you happen to know of anyone who can handle them properly?"

Anthony blinked. "I-I happen to know someone," he found himself replying. He inhaled deeply, cursing his own stupidity. He should really stop talking, tell him that the snakes were his problem, but Mr Fell's bright blue eyes were burning so deeply on him and instead he said: "I do very well with snakes, and I know someone who is as well. We can extract them for you."

Mr Fell's face turned into relief, and he made a most grateful wide beam that sent a curl of sensations whirling in his stomach.

Nausea, probably.

"If it is not too much trouble," said Mr Fell as he kept stroking the snake. "I do not want to impose on you more than I ought to, but I am quite at a loss as to what to do with them."

Anthony felt a stab of guilt to his chest, and sighed. "Yeah, all right. Leave it to me, then."

"Oh, thank you, dear Anthony."

His brows quirked up in curiosity, though the back of his neck grew increasingly warm as he processed both the endearment and Mr Fell's plain use of his first name. 

But what he was most surprised to see was that Mr Fell's own cheeks were also faintly red.

"I see you have been dueling!" Mr Fell gestured to his sword. "I do miss fencing. I did quite a lot of it back in university. You seemed as if you were having fun."

"Ah, yeah, fun." He made a few errant swings that, in all likelihood, probably made him look more like an idiot. "I, uh, try to practice. When I can."

"Really?" said Mr Fell, and Anthony tried not to take offence in his slightly doubtful tone. "Well, you handle it adequately enough. But your form could do with some work. Would you like me to teach you?"

He stepped close to Anthony, one hand still petting the snake while the other reached out to take the sword. His fingers brushed the back of Anthony's hand. The fleeting touch burned and scorched all the way up to Anthony's chest and he hastily drew back, jumping away a couple of steps. He breathed hard.

"No, I think I know what I am doing!"

That simple declaration was delivered in a nonsensical yell that used up all the air he had in his lungs. Mr Fell stood still, clutching his hand to his chest, curled over his heart as though to protect it.

"I..." he said, partly shocked. "I am sorry. I did not mean to overstep."

Anthony wanted to groan. He flailed his free hand wildly instead. 

"Just... I will be back in a bit to extract your stupid snakes!"

Unable to bear looking at the parson a second longer, he turned on his heel and marched off in the direction of Ligur's house.

—

True to his promise, he returned an hour later to the parsonage with Ligur's groundskeeper. The groundskeeper, who had been the one to place the snakes into Mr Fell's property, could not but be perplexed beyond his wits at being tasked to clean everything up by the very person who had commanded they be unleashed in the first place. They went about to work, when Mr Fell stepped out from the kitchen, book in hand, and walked over to where Anthony crouched by some bushes, a long, thin snake coiled up the length of his arm.

"I really am quite relieved to see you," said Mr Fell, almost shy.

Anthony looked up. Rays of sunlight streamed from above his fluffy white curls, setting them aglow. 

An actual halo around his head.

He looked away, muttering: "Said I would be here, didn't I?"

Mr Fell giggled softly. "Yes, you did. And I am very grateful. I really must invite you to dine here sometime."

Anthony tensed. "What did you say?"

"I mean, you and your family. And Miss Device," continued Mr Fell. "You have all been exceedingly kind to me. I think it is high time that I return the favour."

Anthony watched the slithering tail of the snake glide over his wrist with rapt attention.

"Should probably invite the other families too," he said. "Make a whole party out of it."

"A supper-party, of course. That would be delightful."

"Yeah."

Mr Fell set a hand on his shoulder, fingers sliding over thin linen, sending packed heat into Anthony's skin.

"I must thank you for all of this, Anthony."

Before he could dwell any further on what exactly he was being thanked for, Mr Fell withdrew his hand and retreated back into the kitchens.

He stared, slack-jawed, at his bereft shoulder.

A snap of a twig drew his attention back to Ligur's groundskeeper who, it seemed, had been watching the entire interaction.

Anthony shot him a murderous glare. "You speak not a word about that, d'you hear me?"

—

The invitations to Mr Fell's supper had been sent out not long after. The date of the supper itself would mark Mr Fell's having settled for three months in Tadfield. One would think that by now, Anthony would have already given up on his plans of making the parson's life more difficult, particularly given how disastrously his last plan had turned out. But Anthony was stubborn. He did not relent as easily, and in a fit of arduous planning, had contrived one last elaborate design to expose Mr Fell's undesirable traits for all of Tadfield to witness.

And the supper-party was the perfect occasion for it.

On the night of the event, Anthony went out to meet his parents by their carriage. Their gazes were drawn instantly into his comically large black coat, the fabric drooping around his wiry arms while the hem brushed the tips of his shoes.

Mrs Crowley sighed.

"Oh, Anthony. What on Jove are you up to now?"

"Me? I am not up to anything! It is dreadfully cold out here."

It was true. They were currently in the middle of a cold fit of weather, and inside all homes had their fires set ablaze. Though this was still no excuse for Anthony's inappropriate attire. 

Mr Crowley heralded his wife into the carriage. "Just ignore him. He will have to take off that coat by the door anyway."

"He is right, Mother." Anthony beamed innocently at the two of them.

His mother seemed to want to protest, but as they were going to be late for the supper, she resigned the case and stepped into the carriage with a forlorn sigh.

—

"Anthony, what on earth are you doing?"

His mother stood trembling, shaking a finger over his form.

Anthony had taken off his coat when they had arrived at the parsonage, exposing his slim evening gown into full view. He was wrapped in a column of pearly white gauze, hinting a shadow from his taut body when he moved due to its plain sheerness. He had gone all-out and worn the lowest neckline. The exquisite black ribbon he had purchased some time ago was wrapped high on his waist, right below his chest—almost a sign of protest. But elsewhere, the gown was a thing of beauty and he knew it. Trimmed at the edges with silver, shimmering with each slight movement. Short capped sleeves left exposed the sinewy muscle of his upper arms, until they were again obscured by a pair of black kid gloves, wrapped up to his elbows. 

He hadn't even bothered to wear a chemise. He wanted the gown to show off his natural form, the way the French did it.

He smiled affectionately at his mother. "Now, you know I have not done anything wrong. This is, after all, proper evening attire. And hardly my first time wearing such an attire."

She spoke in a hushed tone, attempting not to draw even more attention. "I know, Anthony, but we are in the house of a parson! Had we been in anyone else's home, you would not have been remiss, but to turn up like this in here ? And in black, too? He might take it as a personal affront!"

Anthony shrugged. "Then perhaps we shall know here and now what he will do about it."

"I am absolutely done with you. If this ends all bungled up, I will need to give you a stern talking to! But you are grown, Anthony. Sometime or later you will have to give up all of this childish nonsense!"

She huffed and walked away to converse with some of the other guests.

Anathema sidled close to his side a moment later.

"So I see you've given up on driving the parson away, and have resorted to try and seduce him instead."

Anthony glared at her, a sharp response ready at his tongue, when they were interrupted by the appearance of the host himself by Anthony's elbow.

"Anthony," said Mr Fell, rather breathlessly. He was attired in a long dark coat and somber ensemble typical of his profession. The smile seemed to be fixed on his face. "I am quite glad to see you here."

A rough pounding commenced in his chest, picking up in speed the more he felt Mr Fell's gaze on him. What was it with the supply of air in this room? He was feeling suddenly breathless as well.

"Y-yeah. You invited me, after all."

"So I did."

Anathema gently cleared her throat, drawing their attention. "Thank you so much for the invite, Mr Fell. I do not believe I have been in this home since it has come under your possession. It is very lovely."

They commenced with a few more pleasantries while Anthony stood, puzzled. Mr Fell seemed not averse to his risqué attire, but perhaps that was only because he excelled in hiding it. Anthony might need to commence with a spectacle of even greater scandal if he were to incite a reaction out of him.

At the dining-table, Anthony was situated some three seats away from the end where Mr Fell sat. There was a spread of good food, and pleasing conversation bloomed in the atmosphere. But Anthony was far too preoccupied with his planning to properly pay attention. Moreover, there was the slight distraction of his awkward positioning on the dining-table. He was seated right in front of the fireplace, and for some reason, there was not a fire-screen in sight. Sweat glistened his nape and bare collarbones while he ate his food and tried not to be bothered by the sweltering heat. Across the table, he could see a couple of other guests shivering from the cold.

He groaned. Now seemed the time to set his new plan in motion.

He made to grab for a plate of food that was quite beyond his reach, but instead of requesting a footman to fetch it for him, he himself stood from his seat and edged a little sideways, extending a bare arm over to the plate right in front of Mr Fell.

He made a good show of bending over in the most uncivilised manner. He was causing quite the spectacle, he knew, but it would be worth it, if only to see the rage finally fill up those bright blue eyes.

The plate was still a little beyond his reach, and he bent a little further at the waist, the warmth from the fire-place razing his back. The movement brought the neckline of his gown lower on his chest. The guests had gone silent, he noted with some amusement, but what he was most interested in seeing was how Mr Fell would react.

Only when he was able to hold the plate in a stable grasp did he allow himself to glance up to see Mr Fell's expression.

What he saw took him aback completely. There was no rage. No hint of dismay. No trace of awkwardness. Rather than the expected signs of suppressed disgust, Mr Fell sat with his back ramrod straight, clenching his silverware in a white-knuckled grip. His eyes were wider than Anthony had ever seen them, cheeks tinged red, his lips parted and very dry.

Anthony swallowed, his heart beat picking up, feeling very hot all of a sudden.

In a couple of seconds, the stunned look withered entirely on Mr Fell's face and morphed into fearless determination. He shot up from his seat and took hold of Anthony's arm, pulling with force as he barked orders at the nearest footman.

Anthony, helpless and befogged, moved limply with the direction of Mr Fell's strong grasp. Everything moved quickly, gasps and screams erupted, and Anthony barely had time to process that he had been dragged off to Mr Fell's side by the end of the table before he noted that the back hem of his dress was fully lit up in flames.

"Anthony, Anthony." Mr Fell was saying to him, hands hovering over his arms. "Listen to me. Stay calm. We will take care of this."

A couple of footmen emerged through the doors and barreled straight in his direction. Anthony was given no time to prepare as they swung their arms over at his back, dousing his entire body with a bucket filled with freezing fresh water. 

The entire room rang with a burst of relieved sighs.

The raging fire ceased to be, and was replaced by a billowing smoke that emanated from Anthony’s backside.

He stood in place, mortified and shivering, as he forced himself to glance over at Mr Fell.

There were tears pricking his eyes.

Anthony waited for the outburst.

"How on earth could you have been so negligent as to forget the fire-screen?" He scolded the servants, who at once looked ten times paler than the shivering Anthony himself.

This was evidently their first time witnessing the kind, angelic Mr Fell lose his temper.

"You are all lucky that it did not do more damage! Only think what might have happened, he could have—"

Anthony grabbed hold of his arm, and he stopped talking.

"Aziraphale," he said, the name sounding almost foreign on his tongue, but it certainly grabbed the parson's attention. "It is all a simple error, and I had been careless as well. Pray do not scold them any longer."

Aziraphale's chest was heaving, but there was a softness in his look as he gazed at Anthony, a flash of worry gracing the furrow of his brows. Slowly, he nodded, trembling slightly.

The chattering was picking up again, and Anthony could feel more stares directed at him. 

It was here that he remembered the utter sheerness of his gown, now drooping with the added weight of cold water, clinging to each slight indent of every inch of his body. His heart leapt up in panic.

Aziraphale noted this at just about the same time he did and acted quickly, shoving his arms out of his own long coat to drape it over Anthony's shoulders. Being a few inches shorter, the edges of his coat barely reached Anthony's knees, but the thick fabric was warm. It calmed down his worrying shivers and covered him more than adequately.

The tips of Aziraphale's ears were pink and he looked off to the side, seemingly out of respect.

"You should get changed in the guest wing," he whispered hoarsely. "Let my staff assist you, please."

Guilt was seizing him once again. "No, I can't—"

"Please, Anthony. I insist."

He was startled by the desperation in his tone.

"All right."

—

Half-an-hour later, Anthony stood inside one of the guest-rooms, clad in a generic suit that belonged to the parson. It looked slightly off-kilter on his own lanky form, but was still somewhat respectable-looking. He had stared down at his hands when the assisting staff had left him, and laughed miserably.

What a joke this entire affair had been.

He had succeeded in making a huge spectacle out of himself. But to what purpose? It had brought him no closer to his goal and only given Aziraphale a fright of concern over the safety of his guests.

He sighed, and then came a knock on the door. 

"Yes?" He called back,

"It is me, Anthony." That was Aziraphale's voice.

Rather uselessly, Anthony ran his hands down his torso, attempting to smoothen his clothes. It was futile to try to look good now, when he had stood drenched and practically half-naked in front of the whole party a short while ago.

He closed his eyes, groaning silently. "Yes, come in."

Aziraphale entered the room, gently closing the door behind him.

"I just wanted to check on how you are."

He appeared to be dreadfully shy, though for what reason, Anthony could not tell. This was his house, after all. Anthony was the intruder. The one who had caused him all of those bungles and inconveniences. The one who kept imposing with every level of mischief he could conceive.

"I am all right," he replied. "Thanks for all that. You saw the fire. Dragged me away."

Aziraphale glanced up at him, leaning against the door for support, and worried his lower lip in between his teeth. There was a certain vulnerability to him that Anthony had not expected to see, and it puzzled him greatly. What was he so scared of?

"Anthony, you do not seem to like me very much."

For the first time since he met him, Anthony was thoroughly distraught.

"I do not know what I have done," continued Aziraphale, in a weaker tone still. "But if I have offended you in any way, please allow me to apologise."

Anthony's hands curled into tight fists. He had, time and time again, made himself most inconvenient to Aziraphale, who had after all done nothing to wrong him. And yet it was he who was apologising to Anthony, as though he had been anything less than the ridiculously perfect being that he was.

Absolutely appalling.

"It isn't you," he finally managed to reply. He forced himself to focus, to get the words out of him and, for once in his life, speak in earnest.

Aziraphale's features melted into a look of understanding, a drop of sadness in his glassy eyes.

"You do not like what I am."

"That was supposed to be me, you know?" said Anthony. The parson’s expression opened wide with curiosity, and he continued. "The benefice you hold. It had been set aside by my father for my use. Sandalphon was only supposed to hold onto it as curate until I came of age."

Aziraphale softened. "Anthony, I am so sorry."

He shook his head. "No, no. I do not regret it. I left of my own accord. I couldn't stand the... the teachings. The hypocrisy. The unwillingness to change. The stubbornness in repeating the same old passages, same old prayers, same old sermons."

"You hold a grudge in your heart," said Aziraphale, taking a step towards him. "There is an anger in you that has not been fully resolved."

He chuckled grimly. "I guess. It isn't your fault, though. And I realise now that I should not have taken it out on you. You are only doing your job."

"I hope you know that not everyone in the clergy is like that, dear." 

Anthony stared straight at him. "Yeah, I know that now. Since I met you."

Aziraphale flushed, looking down at his feet. "Well, I do not know—"

"You are better. Much better than anyone I've ever seen. The best of your lot."

"Well, thank you—"

"And I am glad you were assigned here. Glad Sandalphon came running to you to take the living. Really, really glad that I met you."

A hopeful smile flickered on Aziraphale's face, for a moment. It faded into a sly look as he regarded Anthony.

"You were the one who sent him running." His voice was filled with awe. "I knew it had to be something. It was puzzling me to no end why he did not want to take this post. He was frightened of you."

Anthony was partly expecting there to be admonishment. Instead, Aziraphale looked at him, features openly admiring, thoroughly impressed . That look of wonder directed at him in full-force was not something he could have prepared himself for. He flushed all the way up to his ears, and made a feeble attempt at a casual grin.

"Actually, I would venture to say he was more frightened of the snakes than of myself."

Aziraphale laughed, one of those full, hearty laughs that charmed everyone in a room. Only this time, they were alone. Anthony could not but be pleased that he was receiving that laugh with him as the sole audience, as if Aziraphale were making it special, just for him.

He averted that train of thought. Where was his mind going with this?

"Well I am glad," said Aziraphale once his laughter died down. "Had you not been at your most menacing, I would probably still be a penniless curate, working myself to an early grave, as opposed to dining here with all you wonderful people."

"I am sorry." Crowley was proud of himself for finally saying it. It was not something that came easy to him, but he knew Aziraphale deserved it the most. "I promise I will not try anything on you from now on."

"Now I did not say you cannot try anything." A hint of mischief sparked in his blue eyes. Anthony had not been prepared for it at all. "That beautiful dress you wore, for instance, was most welcome."

Anthony flushed bright red and stammered incoherently.

"Now, shall we return to supper? We might still make it in time for dessert."

He extended an arm, and Anthony felt as though he were floating on air when he reached out and looped his hand around it.

Anthony could feel it, the gradual shift in a yet-to-be-seen dance between the two of them. He wondered whether it was palpable to Aziraphale as well, or if it had been conceived only by his imagination. There was comfort in the way he walked by Aziraphale's side, treading the corridors of his house. A sort of feeling of home that he had never before known. He almost struggled to make sense of it.

Almost.

Because as Aziraphale brought up his hand to pat Anthony's on his elbow, Anthony's heart picked up in its pace, a curl of fuzzy delight flaring up his gut, and all at once he knew what had happened. Or perhaps, what had been taking form over the entire duration of time since he'd known the handsome young parson.

Aziraphale glanced up at him, peering through his lashes, and smiled.

"I hope that we can truly be friends now, dear Anthony."

He swallowed hard, attempting to keep himself unaffected even as he was presented with what was perhaps the most arresting sight he had ever been granted to see.

"Friends. Yeah. 'Course."

Dear God, he was doomed.

—

It was a week after the supper at the parsonage when it occurred to Anthony that he had yet to return Hastur's sword.

He could hardly be blamed. As the fair reader here may already be aware of, he had rather a lot more pressing matters to ruminate on. His scheming on the parson, for starters. That had well taken much of his mental capacity. His resolve to a change of heart being yet another. Following the events which transpired in the parsonage, he could not but laugh at his own partly delusional bout of folly. It was by mere stroke of luck that Aziraphale was prepossessing of a thoroughly forgiving heart, that he bore no trace of ill-feeling after all that Anthony had tried to do. For as the days passed and their connection progressed to one of dear, actual friendship, Anthony could hardly remember what it was that initially made him despise him so. 

Aziraphale became a regular guest over at the Manor, calling on the family at first, then spending the rest of the time in the most trifling confabulations with Anthony alone. At times, Anathema accompanied them also. They walked to town and shopped together for hats and gloves and ribbons—the stark difference in their taste being a source of great amusement for them both when it would spark the most cutting arguments. Anthony would own that it was the most fun he had had in quite a long amount of time.

Occasionally, Aziraphale would utter some ridiculous thing, or brush an errant blond curl from his brow, or hurry across the clearing with a newly-purchased book tucked in hand, bouncing with excitement as he opened the pages, and Anthony would find it adorable . Adorable being the last word he would have used to describe a parson, he struggled with the growing flares of sensational turmoil, boiling up in his gut like some grotesque mood-pool of vegetables in a salad. Sensations which grew in intensity the more Aziraphale fixed him with that tender, affectionate gaze, such as to make it difficult for him to think much of anything else. 

That, and Ligur did not remind him to return the sword.

It was late one night, in an hour similar to when he'd ventured out to commence with his snake plan, that he resolved to make another journey to the reptile-owner's cottage-house. He went on foot, not wanting to draw more attention from the household. The light of what had now become a full-moon lit his path adequately, and even without it he would still have comfortably made the trek that, much like the rest of the streets of Tadfield, had become as familiar to him as the veins on the back of his hands.

Unbeknownst to him, off in the cottage-house that very same evening, Ligur had just been in a fit on discovering that Hastur had indeed finally noticed that one of his swords was missing.

The only reason why it took him so long was that Hastur owned a grand total of six different swords, all identical but for the pattern of indentations and scuffing, and he rarely bothered taking inventory. And it may well have been this good luck that had pushed Anthony's fortune for so long, as now that it had all come to light, not even Ligur could calm the enraged duke out of his liquor-induced frenzy. Hastur stormed out, brandishing with him another of his swords, and took off into the night.

With Hastur heading straight for Lieven Manor, and Anthony off to meet with Ligur in that same quiet manner he had always taken to, it was only natural that they would cross paths somewhere along the way. But Hastur had gotten a head-start and was already a considerable distance on foot when Anthony had begun his own trek.

Thus, their crossing-point became the clearing beside the parsonage.

"Crowley."

Hastur sniveled while he stood on unsteady feet, his grimy coat swinging behind him. Anthony drew back a little. "Hastur."

"I know what you have done. Did you really think that you could have gotten away with it?"

Anthony's response was a mere shrug. "I've gotten this far just fine, have not I?"

"You will pay for your crimes!" He brandished his sword, tip at the ready and pointed towards Anthony.

"I was about to return it! Here, you can have it now."

Hastur parried his sword, swinging back Anthony's arm with the force of it.

"You know better than to play with toys that are beyond you, Crowley. You want that sword so bad, then use it! I challenge you to a duel!"

Anthony steered right back, steadying himself as he assessed just how inebriated of a state the duke was in.

The answer was thoroughly and indisputably foxed. Dreadfully in the altitudes. Top-heavy with balls of fire and flashes of lightning.

Drunk as a fucking wheelbarrow.

"Hastur, go home. I will settle this with your husband."

"You ain't goin' anywhere near my husband! Fight me as you would!"

He jabbed, the tip came awfully close to Anthony's chest and would have pricked his linen shirt had he not scrambled back on his light feet.

"We do not even have the provisions for a proper duel," returned Anthony in a calm tone. "We do not have seconds."

"Does it matter? I am the injured party, and I am taking you on in a duel! Now square yourself!"

With no further ado, he swung his sword again at Anthony. With a squeak, Anthony sprung on his knees and jumped off to the side before the sword could make a clean strike over his shoulder.

Hastur came at him still, forcing him to skid backwards on the grass with a few clumsy parries of his own. Anthony could well feel the rise of panic now, his chest constricting. Hastur was unstable and slow-witted, but he was tall and broad-figured, and Anthony had not a smidge of experience with a sword. With a few more grunts, he attempted to fend off Hastur, partly attempting to conceive of some sham that would get him out of this scrape, when a scuff of another pair of boots hurtled towards them. From the corner of his eye, Anthony saw a familiar blond-headed figure approaching.

"Aziraphale?"

The distraction was all that Hastur needed to swing wildly, and with a clang of metal against metal, the sword fell out of Anthony's grasp, rolling and clattering on the sloped ground below, well beyond Anthony's reach.

He was pushed back on the ground, Hastur's heavy boot on his shoulder while he raised his sword above.

"You complete idiot!" Anthony exclaimed, raising his hands. "You aren't supposed to murder people in duels!"

Hastur brought his sword down with a flash of moonlight against metal, ready to deal the final blow.

Anthony squeezed his eyes shut.

The blow did not come.

At another clang of metal, he dared to sneak a quick look. 

Hastur's sword was still raised, vertically and ready to cut through his opponent, only it was obstructed by the other sword drawn defensively across Anthony's entire frame.

Aziraphale held the discarded sword in an unrelenting grip, a look of fearsome determination fixed on Hastur while he forced the latter to withdraw his arm.

Aziraphale took to a ready form, sword held out in front of him, stance at the ready as he watched Hastur's every move.

"Now, Hastur, we cannot have blood soiling these lovely fields, now can we?"

Hastur stumbled a few steps back, sneering.

"That's 'your grace' for you! Who the hell are you?"

"The Archbishop of Canterbury." Aziraphale beamed.

Anthony scrambled to get up. "Aziraphale, what the devil—"

The parson held up a hand, in a small gesture made to respectfully tell him to stop talking.

"Now that is hardly a duel," resumed the parson, in the same kind tone he ordinarily assumed, even as he held the weapon at the ready. "You do not strike a man already on the ground. How about I give you a fair fight?"

"You will pay for this, Crowley!" Hastur charged forward.

Aziraphale cast a brief glance back at him. His free arm is stretched out in front of Anthony. 

"Stay behind me," he managed to get out. 

Anthony returned with a small nod a mere second before Aziraphale turned forward and blocked Hastur's sword.

Anthony could hardly process the scene before him. Hastur, enraged and unsteady, charging madly with strong but uncalculated blows in Aziraphale's direction. Aziraphale blocked each one, the other hand resting behind his back, his expression calm and stony.

Moonlight caught on the swords, illuminating the cloud of Aziraphale's hair, faintly blowing with the wind. He did not struggle, and it became frightfully evident that Aziraphale was skilled with the very weapon he had chanced upon. Not even the unpredictability of Hastur's strikes could move him. Instead, he blocked each one, with sharp manoeuvres,  hardly breaking a sweat, and it was not long before he completely had the upper hand.

He moved forward on Hastur, forcing the latter to slide back and go on the defense. Anthony looked around for anything that might obstruct the opponent, but the clearing was wide open, and there was no wall or corner or even a tree to back him off to.

A furrow came to form on Aziraphale's brow, probably in realisation of the same conclusion Anthony had just come to himself. Perhaps he was planning to disarm Hastur, or merely hoping to tire him out, but there was no telling how long that would take. In a swift moment, chalked down to the same impulsiveness and devious scheming that Anthony tended to resort to in his own attacks, he ran off to the side unnoticed, his feet featherlight and quick, and crept up behind Hastur's back to deliver a heavy-booted kick to the back of his legs.

With a scream, Hastur fell on bended knees to the grass. The sword clattered to the ground and rolled over by Anthony's foot. Anthony snatched it up before it could be retrieved, and when he looked back at the duelists, Aziraphale had a fearsome glare on his cherubic face and the tip of his sword held to Hastur's chin.

"Yield, you fiend!"

Gasping, Hastur held up his hands in surrender. 

Aziraphale drew his sword back down. "Go home, Hastur."

Hastur scrambled back to his feet and, with a few frightened squeaks, ran off in the direction of the cottage-house.

Aziraphale heaved a sigh of relief.

A few steps before him, Anthony stood just as frozen, staring at him.

God damn, the parson was a frighteningly pretty sight, and Anthony was well and truly gone on him, he did not quite know what to do with himself.

Then, Aziraphale turned to him, hard features softening at once.

"Anthony, are you all right?"

"All right? Obviously I am! You literally just came to my rescue."

Relief flooded his face for a moment, only to be replaced with a handsome scowl and a hard slap over to Anthony's upper arm.

"I told you to stay behind me! You could have gotten hurt."

"I had to help you," said Anthony, returning the sword to its scabbard, still tied to his waist, and moving to rub the sting out of his stricken arm. "And I may not know much by the way of the sword, but I do pretty well with my own tactics."

Aziraphale sighed. "I am just relieved that you aren't hurt." There was so much tenderness underlying his tone that greatly piqued Anthony's interest. But overall, Aziraphale seemed avoidant of something, reluctant to mention directly the surge of emotion which threatened to spill in the wavering of his voice and the furious concern shining in his eyes. What he did, instead, was to hold the sword over at his side (he did not have his own scabbard, and therefore had no choice), and turned to the direction of the parsonage.

"I have to go," said Anthony, if only to break the growing tension in the silence that pervaded. "To return the swords, I mean."

The flash of worry returned to Aziraphale's face. "I will come with you," said he. "Only, do have tea at the parsonage first. Only for a bit."

It was not in Anthony's place, nor willingness, to deny him anything.

They crossed the clearing in complete silence, as though they were equally avoidant. Though what exactly it was that they were avoiding, Anthony could not be so sure. For himself, he knew that he was reluctant to talk in fear of blurting out the full extent of his admirations towards Aziraphale, for that might prove to be an even better deterrent for the parson than the snakes. 

But what was Aziraphale trying to avoid?

It was only when they reached the edges of the parsonage grounds, and a small scatter of trees began to obscure the light of the full moon, that Anthony finally gained the courage to talk.

"You should not have done that, you know."

Aziraphale stilled, turning to face him. "Done what?"

"That was foolish. You could have gotten hurt as well. It was not your fight to resolve."

"My dear, he had you on the ground! I could not just stand there and do nothing! It was lucky that I saw you just in time, just as I was walking back home from supper with the Shadwells—"

"And you were infinitely luckier that a sword was what fell into your grasp. Had it been a pistol, you would have been a fool to get yourself killed!" 

"Why should I be foolish in attempting to protect you, no matter what weapon I may have chanced upon?"

Aziraphale's expression turned cold, protesting readily. His shoulders were tense, chest heaving with underlying rage that Anthony had only seen on him once—when he had scolded his own servants at the supper-party.

"I had it under control!" Anthony replied, though they both knew it was a lie. "You just—Aziraphale, you cannot be so impulsive, so-so eager to jump into things on other people's behalf! For Jupiter's sake, do you ever think of yourself?"

The bite was harsh on his tongue, he knew, but that was a trait that Anthony had never learned to extinguish. He gritted his teeth, breathing just as heavily as he stalked forward and backed Aziraphale into a large tree.

The fury reigning on the parson's face could not be masked. 

A thin veil of tears, reflecting slivers of moonlight, came up to his bright blue eyes—a sobering contrast to the cold look he had given when he had been holding the sword to Hastur's chin.

"Aziraphale—"

"You have not the faintest idea how it infuriates me that I can get everyone here to like me—everyone but yourself!" he choked, melting at once into vulnerability.

Anthony crumbled, struck by a blow to his chest that had come from nowhere. 

"What?"

Aziraphale sniffed, his face colouring rapidly. "And I want you desperately to like me, Anthony, but in your eyes it seems I can never do anything right."

Anthony was still at a loss, suddenly forgetting all the words he knew in his mind, now capable only of relying on muscle-memory. "What?"

Aziraphale drew in a breath, closing his eyes and resting his head on the sturdy tree.

"Anthony, I am most inconveniently in love with you." His eyes remained closed, the sword by his side held in a precariously lax grasp. But he stood with his chest out, baring the contents of his heart. "I have been for a long time now."

Anthony forcefully reminded his lungs to keep expanding and contracting, only now knowing, long after he'd gotten himself into an actual duel, what it felt to suddenly have all the bellows to mend with.

"Is this a gammon?"

Aziraphale sprung his eyes open, affronted. "No, this is not a gammon! If I recall, gammons are more your trade than mine." 

"Have you gone mad?"

Aziraphale withered even further at the accusation. A sad sigh escaped his lips. "It seems whatever I do I am always few ways beneath your touch."

Anthony growled. In a flash, he had both hands cupping the parson's cheeks, holding his head still against the tree.

Aziraphale gasped as their faces came only an inch apart.

"Have you forgotten what gammons I'd done to you? To try to send you away? Aziraphale, I sent snakes after you!"

"Well, you also-you also offered to clean them up," he replied, voice small.

"I tried to ruin your first sermon."

"That was you? Oh, I am a huge fan of Shakespeare."

"Why me? You have half the eligibles of Tadfield sweeping after your feet, d'you know that? You could pick anyone out of the lot. Why on earth and heaven and hell and everywhere in the bleeding universe would you pick me?"

Aziraphale coloured up all at once, searching his face with a softer look, lashes low and bashful.

"Why not you?" he whispered, a rustle of leaves causing shadows to dance over his glistening eyes. "Anthony, I do not think you are aware how extremely handsome you are. And amazing. Extraordinary in so many ways. You are a very interesting character and... and from the moment I met you, I had-had always hoped that you..."

"That I would what?"

"Pay attention to me," he finished, sheepishly ducking his chin. "Which is quite absurd, I now realise, considering that you appear to have disliked me all along. I do not know what made me think that someone like you would even—"

Anthony cut him off with a surge forward, dragging Aziraphale's face to slot their mouths together.

Aziraphale made a startled hum, tensing up under Anthony's hold. With a soft groan, Anthony angled his head and sucked on the parson's inviting lower lip, drawing out a disbelieving moan. The sword came rattling to the ground when Aziraphale’s arms came up to sweep through strands of red hair, and he sank into the embrace.

He kept striking with more eager kisses, one after the other over Aziraphale's lips, sweeping off to peck the corner of his mouth before moving to the folds of his chin. 

"A-Anthony?”

Anthony's response was a deep groan and fiery drag of his tongue flickered over his ear, eliciting another sharp gasp. He took one of Aziraphale's hands from his hair and held it in his own, twining their fingers. Aziraphale clutched desperately, as though he was frightened of Anthony suddenly pulling away.

"You are maddeningly perfect." he growled low. Aziraphale shivered under his touch. "But also a little beef-witted."

"What? Anthony!"

"You have me more wrapped around your damn pinky finger than anyone in all of Tadfield. Why do you think I offered to clean up the snakes for you when I had been the one to put them there in the first place?"

"Well, I... I just assumed that you were feeling repentant of—"

"I do not repent." He hissed, dragging his teeth over Aziraphale's earlobe. "I abhor the very idea of it. But you looked at me with those infuriatingly pretty eyes and I lost all sense of myself. Just had to drop everything. You could make me do anything, Aziraphale, I am yours."

Aziraphale whimpered softly, thumb stroking his knuckles where their hands were still entwined. He moved his head and pressed a tender kiss to Anthony's high cheekbone, sighing dreamily.

"I love you, Anthony Crowley. As mad as that is."

Anthony chuckled, pulling back by a fraction to look into his eyes. "May you never live to regret that."

Aziraphale's free hand came to wrap around his waist, drawing him closer, their bodies flushed. "Well..." he said cheekily.

"I feel the same, by the way," Anthony admitted, colouring in the cheeks. "I do not... I am not half as good with words as you are, but I do not want to hear you saying you are beneath my touch ever again."

"Oh, dear. Now I simply must do all I can to keep you happy."

"What makes you say that?"

"I am afraid of your power, my love. One misstep and you can have me running for the hills like old Sandalphon."

Anthony snorted. "Not that they have ever worked on you, but seeing as the further I attempted to drive you away the more I became endearing to you, then I might still have a few gammons up my sleeve." He leaned in, mouthing the last few words over Aziraphale's cheek.

Aziraphale hummed happily, hugging him closer.

"Then by all means. Do your worst."

—

The following afternoon brought a perplexed group into one of Lieven Manor's sitting-rooms. Mr and Mrs Crowley exchanged concerned glances while Anathema Device stood a few ways off to the side, watching the door with wary eyes, bursting with curiosity. 

At last, the door opened, and in came Anthony, followed a few steps behind by the parson. The doors closed behind them, and they stood by the sunlit window as Anthony ran a nervous hand through his hair.

"Anthony, would you mind telling us what all this is about?" Mrs Crowley asked, her gaze shifting with worry, expecting the worst news.

"Right," began Anthony, breathing heavily. "I have asked for you, my family, to gather here for an announcement we are to make."

"Who is 'we'?" Mr Crowley inquired.

Anthony had spent much of the morning ruminating on how he would say his news, only to come to the conclusion that he was still hopeless with the way of words, and that no words could encapsulate the depth of what he wanted to express anyway.

He held out an arm beside him and took Aziraphale's hand in his own. Aziraphale turned to him, eyes shining with wondrously transparent admiration while he returned the motion, sliding his fingers in between Anthony's and cementing the hold with a wistful smile playing on his lips.

Anthony turned to face his parents, willing them to understand.

Mrs Crowley gasped. "W-wow!"

"Congratulations, son," said Mr Crowley, though from his face it was evident that he still did not understand how such a match could have been conceived in the first place. 

Anthony had to laugh. He had not been expecting it either.

His mother swept them both into a hug, tears spilling over her cheeks. "Oh, this is! Most unexpected, of course, but, what a match! A match as great as all I can hope for, would you not agree, husband?"

"Yes," responded Mr Crowley, still jilted. 

His mother stepped back, turned to Aziraphale, and at once they exchanged some joyful words regarding the upcoming nuptials.

Anthony turned towards Anathema. "Have you got nothing to say?"

She grinned. "Congratulations."

"Come on, I know you are dying to gloat. Only you could have foreseen this."

"I do not know what you want me to say, Anthony!" she replied, gleeful. "But if I must be forced, I can only say that I had not foreseen this match. Not exactly, at least."

Anthony raised a brow. "Then what was it you were expecting?"

Anathema placed her hands on her hips, looking meaningfully at Aziraphale, who was now in deep conversation with his overly enthusiastic mother. 

"I cannot predict who you are to marry. But I have always known you were meant to serve the clergy, Anthony."

—END—