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WINTER
The bench in St James’ Park was empty.
Not because it was a bad bench, some would say it was one of the best. The wooden planks were a good size, just wide enough to be comfortable and just long enough to accommodate two people, but not so long that a person sitting by themself would look lonely.
It provided a lovely view of the opposite lake, a perfect place to sit and watch the ducks, if you were into that sort of thing. Most of the time, people were, and the ducks provided ample entertainment with their dips and dives.
If you truly understood ducks, you’d be able to see that they were trying to put on a show, puffing out their plumage. Unfortunately, not many people did, and it left them feeling rather put out.
They did at least enjoy the company of the two men, usually sitting on the empty bench. The ducks appreciated the blond one especially. He would even clap sometimes. His friend was less amicable, and the ducks knew that he was only watching them because his friend did too. Still, they liked the attention, even if they were sometimes competing against the red-head for the blond one’s admiration.
Right now, the two men were standing by the fence around the lake edge, not sitting on the bench, and there were no ducks. It had been colder than usual, this winter. A thin layer of ice stretched across the lake and snow blanketed everywhere else.
No chance of sitting on the bench for now, not in this weather.
That was one of the reasons Crowley didn’t like winter. It was too cold and too wet. You couldn’t even use the benches. Far as he was concerned, winter was good for two things: demonic interferences, the ice always made it easy, and an excuse to drink Aziraphale’s cocoa.
He liked to present himself as a coffee drinker, he had a reputation to uphold. In the winter months, Aziraphale would insist he drink a hot mug of cocoa and with feigned reluctance, Crowley would agree to take a cup.
He liked cocoa, so sue him. He liked anything the angel gave him.
Crowley wrapped his arms around himself, scowling. Too cold, he preferred to soak up the sun.
There was a pigeon, staring at him. It had been staring at him for five minutes now. It was beginning to become disconcerting.
Chancing a glance to see if Aziraphale was looking, he stuck out his forked tongue. The pigeon tilted its head.
“Don’t you think?” Crowley whipped his head around.
“Hnng?”
“Wouldn’t you agree, dear boy?”
“Oh,” said Crowley, who hadn’t been listening, “yes.”
Aziraphale beamed, nodding. Crowley felt a little guilty, but not too much.
“I think the trees look rather lovely,” Aziraphale stared up at the sky, eyes bright and creasing with joy.
Crowley followed his gaze, looking up at the branches. “Bad news for bees though.” He folded his arms. “Right?”
Aziraphale frowned, hands clasped over his stomach. “How’d you mean?”
“Well,” Crowley rolled back his shoulders, “weather’s not exactly going to help them, is it Angel?”
Aziraphale had been concerned about the bees, what with their rapid disappearances. Truth be told, Crowley had been monitoring them for a while, even before the angel had brought up the issue.
Bees were good for his plants. Pollination, and all that.
Aziraphale’s expression faltered, lower lip jutting out in a pout. Somehow, he always knew what Crowley was truly saying. “I always thought winter was a lovely time of year.”
Crowley shrugged again. “I mean,” he said, “I guess.”
Aziraphale studied him closely, tugging the lapels of his jacket around him tighter. “It’s all very…” he smiled, a peaceful smile, “quiet.”
Crowley sniffed. “S’pose.”
“What don’t you like about it?”
“I mean,” Crowley kicked at the snow under his feet, “it’s all about Christmas, isn’t it? Hardly a demon’s holiday.”
It almost felt wrong, saying it. A holy holiday from his unholy lips.
“Dear boy,” Aziraphale said, placing a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, “it isn’t just about that, though I seem to remember you liking the present I gave you last year very much, it’s about the snow, and the cold and cosying up to the fire.”
Crowley stared at the hand on his shoulder. His angel’s hand. His cheeks burned. “I don’t really do cosy.”
Aziraphale dropped his hand, clasping them across his middle once again. “I think you do,” he said, “you just haven’t got anywhere to be cosy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley frowned.
“Well, dear, I mean no offence,” Crowley knew Aziraphale meant no harm, and he nodded; the angel could be really quite blunt, “but your apartment is very bare. It’s more a place suited for spring or summer, I should think.”
True, Crowley thought, but he liked the starkness of his home. It gave him a break from the endless clutter downstairs, in Hell. Nevertheless, he had to admit that there was something comforting about the bookshop Aziraphale kept.
Though he’d be lying to himself if he said it had nothing to do with who owned it.
He looked at the angel with his flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes, the being he’d been eternally tethered to since he’d watched him pass a flaming sword to the first humans. A single snowflake flurried down to snag in Aziraphale’s hair.
Crowley decided that, yes, alright, maybe there was something he liked about winter after all.
“Besides,” Aziraphale continued, “it’s like you said, we’re on our side now. We can have a proper Christmas this year, if you’d like.”
Crowley stared. In that moment, it slammed into him again, with all the forced of an elephant on motor wheels. Love. Anathema had sensed it on him, his aura so large she could barely see it (much like Adam’s, only less impressive: Crowley’s was pink and stereotypically heart-shaped).
She’d encouraged him to say something, but it had been too long. He’d waited far too long. Though he sometimes thought the angel loved him back, he wasn’t sure, and it scared him too much to find out. Forget heaven and hell, this was truly terrifying.
“Yeah,” Crowley nodded, thinking he’d do anything to please Aziraphale but also that he might like to try Christmas after all, “alright.” He sniffed. “Can’t hurt.”
Aziraphale beamed. “Of course not,” he said. Crowley almost jumped straight out of his scales when Aziraphale linked their fingers.
Slowly, he looked down at their hands, clasped tightly between them. He swallowed.
“You’re frightfully cold, dear,” Aziraphale said, brow creasing, “what say you, we head back to the bookshop for a nice mug of cocoa, eh?”
Crowley made a choked sort of sound in the back of his throat. He nodded, and Aziraphale squeezed his hand, a delighted little smile spreading over his face.
“I don’t drink cocoa,” Crowley remembered.
SPRING
Spring was a time for renewal, Aziraphale thought. Of course, many of the humans agreed but they often mixed renewal with birth and growth. Aziraphale didn’t see nature’s rejuvenation, so much as he felt it, in his heart. A breath of fresh air.
Around him, the trees were blooming full, sticky buds spiking from the branches. They’d unfold into pluming leaves, curling softly in the light breeze.
The grass was a fresh, youthful green and it sprung like a carpet from around the base of sweeping flowers, heads too heavy for their new stems.
The duck pond was especially magnificent, the reeds whispering gently, side to side, the lily pads thick against the water. The ducks were enjoying themselves again too, swimming their darting performances. There was a chick, a few weeks old now, who Aziraphale thought looked quite promising.
“Enjoying the show?” Crowley drawled from next to him, sprawled out across his side of the bench. Aziraphale always sat compact in the corner. He preferred it that way. It gave Crowley more room anyway.
“I think the new ones are rather talented this year,” Aziraphale commented, watching as a line of ducklings lost sight of their mother as she dived for food. She popped up a few meters away and they hurried to meet her only for her to disappear once again.
“Eh,” Crowley said, “they’re all the same to me.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, raising his chin, “well, that’s because you never properly watch them.”
Crowley shrugged. “I just don’t see why they’re so interesting.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale felt a little embarrassed. He’d always found them fascinating. He hated to think that he’d been dragging Crowley out here for all these years only to have him increasingly bored.
“That’s not to say I don’t enjoy watching them,” Crowley said quickly.
Aziraphale smiled, looking away a little shyly. “Oh,” he said, “that’s good. I’m glad.”
Crowley nodded. “Angel,” he said slowly, “what about me?”
Aziraphale frowned. “What about you dear boy?”
“I mean,” Crowley shuffled until he was seated fully upright, “am I interesting? Like the ducks?”
Aziraphale stared at him. “…like the ducks?”
“Yeah,” Crowley said, “you know…” he waved his hand absently in the direction of the pond, “interesting.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale said, “but I wouldn’t compare you to a duck.”
“Oh.” Crowley seemed disappointed. “Alright then.”
“You’re interesting in a different way,” Aziraphale clarified, “I like your company. We talk about things, it’s nice.”
He could feel his cheeks warm, refusing to look at Crowley who stared up at him with huge eyes behind his glasses.
“You think?”
“Of course.”
Crowley grinned. “Here I was thinking you only kept me around for my good looks,” he joked, leaning his head back against the bench as the sun grew a little warmer.
The light caught Crowley’s hair as he stretched, making it seem almost alight. Aziraphale loved whatever form Crowley happened to take, he was always beautiful, and his hair was always constant. Fiery red, sometimes in long curls, sometimes cut short. Unmistakeably Crowley.
A time for renewal indeed, of a centuries old love never quite willing to fade away.
It had been the books, when Crowley had brought him that bag of books he'd thought destroyed. That was when he’d fallen in love, or at least, realised he’d been in love.
His love for Crowley, if that’s what this was, it grew stronger every year. Each spring it bloomed into something brighter. Aziraphale saw love everywhere he went, but maybe that was because he was so full of it himself.
“Well,” Aziraphale said, gulping, “I suppose that is a factor.”
Crowley sat up so fast that his glasses slipped down his nose. “Wha…?” His mouth hung open, his cheeks flushed an adorable pink.
Oh, Aziraphale thought to himself, he simply must compliment Crowley more often.
“Yes,” the angel continued, “you’re very agreeable to look at.”
Crowley choked, still staring, eyes impossibly wide.
Aziraphale grinned, turning to face him. He placed his fingers either side of Crowley’s glasses, sliding them up his nose again.
“Your glasses slipped dear,” his expression grew impossibly soft, “though, I rather think your eyes are lovely without them.”
The angel turned his attention back to the ducks, a few of which were very angrily attempting to form a circle in order to gain his approval.
Crowley simply stared at him, too frozen to vie for his acknowledgement.
Regardless, he needn’t have bothered, as it happened. Aziraphale may have been looking at the ducks, but his attention, if you were to ask anyone, was on the ridiculous being sitting next to him.
Then again, it always was, and always would be.
SUMMER
Summer was a good time of the year. Aziraphale thought so because he knew Crowley thought so. It was something to do with his affiliation with reptiles; Crowley always had more energy during Summer and this time was no different.
He was standing by the fence throwing bread over the railing, completely ignoring the new sign the park had set up warning people ‘not to feed the animals.’ Really, they were asking for trouble.
Crowley, though now on their side, still often felt the inclination to perform demonic acts of annoyance, just as Aziraphale still felt it was his duty to do good. It seemed that, for today, Crowley had selected his task of disobeying park rules in order to feed the ducks.
The ducks of course were very chuffed about the whole thing, and Aziraphale didn’t exactly mind since Crowley was technically doing good by bringing happiness to the local wildlife.
Nearby to Aziraphale, using the next-door bench for entirely the wrong purposes, (unless they really were both secret agents in which case they were doing a terrible job at going unnoticed) were two human women, passionately engaged in a lover’s embrace, faces lined with bliss. Aziraphale could feel their affection for one another, the way it burst from their chests and blossomed about them.
Sometimes he wished he had that with Crowley. Something like that. His love wasn't quite the same as human love, but he wished Crowley knew how much he meant, how he made Aziraphale feel. He wanted to be closer to Crowley, in any way that he could. He had so much love, why shouldn't he share it with the very person it was meant for?
He looked over to where Crowley stood frisbeeing entire loaves of bread into the middle of the lake.
The summer sun had been good to Crowley, and he’d slung his jacket over the back of the bench, rolling up his shirt sleeves. He stood with a permanent swagger, but where he was angled, he was soft at the edges. A beautiful dichotomy, a fallen angel.
A goose nipped at Crowley’s ankles, and he lurched back, hissing angrily at the bird who only hissed back louder.
Aziraphale watched the exchange with a mixture of amusement, affection and despair, which he supposed summed up his entire relationship with Crowley, his sworn enemy.
He sighed, pushing himself to his feet as Crowley shook off the goose hanging by the beak from his trouser leg.
“Angel!” Crowley called as he started to approach. “I’m quite certain these things were sent up from Hell because—"
He let out a little ‘oof’ sound as Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around his middle.
At first, Aziraphale was worried that he’d pushed too far, that Crowley didn’t want such open displays of affection, he should have asked first, but Crowley’s arms soon fell to float about the angel’s ribs, eventually relaxing around his waist.
Aziraphale smiled into Crowley’s shoulder, squeezing him tightly. Crowley squeezed back, tucking his chin into the crook of his angel’s neck and managing to kick off the goose in the process.
Crowley noticed the two girls smiling at them from the bench nearby to their own. His heart leapt in his chest, hope. That’s what this was. Hope for a love like theirs but not quite.
Perhaps, he allowed himself to believe, that maybe there was a chance. He held Aziraphale tighter as the warmth of the summer sun seeped through their clothes. He felt free, in summer, with his angel.
They were free. Together.
A nightingale didn’t sing that day in St James’s Park, but a goose did bite at the legs of a fallen angel and their squarks were a little the same thing.
AUTUMN
The light sifted through the trees, paving the walkways with an autumnal pallet. The lake had become almost unrecognisable, littered with reds and mottled oranges.
The pathways were drenched with splashes of yellow, pedestrians dredging through mushy browns.
Today, the benches were wet. It was raining, the grass collecting thick droplets congealed at the points of each blade.
The park was mostly empty save for a few commuters and a single angel, standing by the lakeside.
He was starting to feel concerned and there was a slight chill to the air. Rain splashed over his nose, but he held his head high. A handful of ducks stared up at him from where they huddled together, wondering why he was standing alone.
Autumn has that effect, loneliness. In all its beauty, there’s something distinctly independent about the way a leaf will float to the ground, assuming its final resting place when it’s trodden into the earth.
Autumn is the season of goodbyes. You let things go, in autumn.
“Sorry I’m late,” Crowley’s voice came from behind, “traffic was hideous.”
Aziraphale smiled. “Never mind dear.”
Crowley nodded and they stared out across the lake.
“Almost winter again,” Crowley pointed out, shuffling a little closer.
Aziraphale nodded. “Almost.”
Crowley scrunched up his nose, attempting to shake off a leaf that had become stuck to his shoe. “Not sure about Autumn,” he admitted, “bit of a mess.”
“The colours are beautiful.”
“Plants all lose their leaves,” Crowley said, “you’d never catch mine doing that.”
Aziraphale turned to Crowley, reaching up to brush a leaf from his hair. “Autumn reminds me of you,” he said simply. “I think it’s my favourite season.”
“Why,” Crowley cleared his throat, “why, uh, why’s that?”
“The colours, like I said. They’re your colours, dear.” Crowley was blushing deeply, he could feel it.
“It’s not because I fell?” Crowley croaked, trying for humour.
Aziraphale shook his head. “No,” he said, “but leaves have to fall, Crowley. If they don’t, the tree dies.”
Crowley swallowed. “So, you’re saying…?”
“Ineffable my dear,” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in his, “but without it, we never would have met.”
Crowley nodded. The rain began to quiet, nothing more than a light patter against the treetops.
“You remind me of summer,” Crowley said, voice almost a whisper.
Aziraphale looked at him with shining blue eyes. “Oh?” he said, “Why might that be?”
Crowley shrugged. He clenched his free hand by his side, closing his eyes with a deep inhale. “Because,” he said, clicked his tongue, “because…” This was harder than he’d thought. “Because,” oh just get it over with already, “because it’s the season I love most of all.”
He wouldn’t look at Aziraphale, he couldn’t look at him.
“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in both hands, “can I take these off?”
He meant the glasses and Crowley nodded. Aziraphale slowly removed his glasses, sliding them into Crowley’s pocket.
“Your eyes are beautiful, dear boy,” he said, and then, “I love you too.”
When the angel pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead, with those words, every season blurred into one. It was winter, with its blankets and snug fires. Spring with the feeling of being alive, with freedom, with rebirth. It was summer with the warmth of the sun and lazy afternoons. And it was autumn with peeling leaves and rain splattering against the windowpanes.
It was each seasonal spectrum rolled into one, an explosion of life’s rotation. All of it, circulating around the two of them, there and then.
It was everything.
Everything.
Aziraphale rested his forehead against Crowley’s, and they stood, giddy, clutching at each other in the way they always had been, but also for the first time.
Their side, their world, revolving around the two of them. In that moment, they were the most important beings in the universe.
Autumn, Crowley thought as he held the angel’s hand in the middle of St James’s Park, was steadily becoming his new favourite season.
Behind them, was an empty bench, but it was hard for anything to feel empty when the world was so full of emotion.