Work Text:
Crowley mooched along the village street with his fingertips jammed into ridiculously tiny pockets. Aziraphale was browsing around in the church - or perhaps more to the point, browsing the free book exchange inside the church - which meant that Crowley was at a loose end. There were supposed to be some cottages for sale near here, but they had stopped at a tea shop first and then Aziraphale had seen the sign for the books and that had been that.
He amused himself by glaring at plants in the various front gardens and hissing insults at some of the worst ones. "You're an absolute disssgracce," he told a wilting flower bush.
"Oh," said a prim voice from the house the garden belonged to. "I quite agree."
Crowley's head snapped up like a striking serpent, and he took in the sight of an old woman, very upright, supported by a walking stick. She wore a dress of black lace and a fluffy shawl around her shoulders. Blue eyes glinted beneath her cloud of white curls, and she smiled at him as she observed him in her turn.
She said, "I used to keep it looking very nice myself, but what with one thing and another, the doctor won't permit me these days, and it is so difficult these days to find a really good gardener. Nobody even wants to trespass and do it themselves. Of course, such trespasses would be a crime, and I couldn't possibly encourage it. Don't you agree, Mr...?"
"Crowley," admitted Crowley, who, as a demon, was always down to encourage crimes, particularly harmless ones like fixing a garden up. "It'd be a terrible example to all concerned," he added, unlatching the gate and stepping closer to the plant in question.
"Jane Marple," the old lady remarked, a twinkle in her eye as she settled into a chair on the porch, set a tray of tea-makings on a small table beside her, and retrieved her knitting from its bag. "Of course, if someone did trespass, I'm hardly able to chase them out again, what with my bad knee and all."
Which was how the angel Aziraphale, when he finally came hunting for his husband, found him on his knees, weeding an old lady's garden, and bullying the plants back into line, while the old lady sipped a cup of tea.
Crowley glanced up at him. "Won't be long, angel," he said, then aimed a glare at the plant he was currently working on. "Will I?"
The plant quivered, and seemed immediately greener than before.
A small, fond, smile curved Aziraphale's mouth.
Miss Marple looked at both of them and then also smiled. "Would you like a cup of tea while you wait, Mr...?" She indicated the teapot at her side.
"I would love to." Aziraphale came up the path and took a seat on one of the other chairs. "I'm Mr Fell? And you are?"
"Miss Marple." She removed the teacosy and poured him a cup.
He sipped, and made an appreciative noise.
They both watched Crowley work for a while longer.
Miss Marple said, conversationally, as she picked up her knitting again, "He reminds me of Sammy, the baker's son. He never really fitted in at home, and then he went and got a job as a legal clerk. Such a sharp dresser, and a sharp tongue to match. Always liked to pretend that he was cold and aloof, but really such a tender heart for children and animals - those that wouldn't give him away - inside. And that sad business with the asparagus deeds. Everyone assumed he was to blame, but I saw through that and set it to rights." The needles clicked steadily for a moment. "I am a great believer in justice, Mr Fell. It would not have been right to punish him for something he was innocent of doing."
The angel, who cultivated a soft exterior to hide his core of steel, took a sip of tea, looked at the woman who cultivated a fluffy exterior to hide her core of steel, and recognised a kindred spirit. He said mildly, "I am glad you were able to see justice done."
"Indeed." Miss Marple turned her gaze back to Crowley. "I do believe the young people these days would say that he is 'wicked' with plants. Meaning, of course, that he is very good."
Aziraphale filed the word away as a potential compliment that Crowley might be able to openly accept. "Indeed. In my experience," he said, trying the phrase out, "he is, ah, 'wicked' at many things."
Crowley gave the garden one last glare, dusted his hands off on his jeans, and sauntered over. He draped himself against the back of Aziraphale's chair and asked, "So, what you nattering over?"
"Oh," Miss Marple said, "he was just being kind, listening to me witter on about a law clerk I once knew. A very sharp dresser, he was, much like yourself."
Crowley glanced down at himself, not quite preening, but close. His mouth twitched in a small, pleased, smirk.
Aziraphale set down his cup and rose to his feet. "Thank you for the tea," he said, "but we must be going. You have been very ... hospitable."
"I believe the phrase is 'Always be hospitable to the stranger, for some have thereby entertained angels unawares.' Although I wouldn't exactly describe it as 'unawares', my dear, and angels plural might be marginally inaccurate, but I believe I am correct in saying I am entertaining an angel and his, hm, less than holy husband, shall we say? Would you agree, Mr Fell?" Jane Marple smiled sweetly at him over her knitting.
Crowley drew in a hiss of breath and straightened, shoulders slightly hunched against an expected blow, jamming his fingertips into his pockets.
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and folded his hands. "You are very perceptive, Miss Marple."
"I always have been, Mr Fell."
"Then may it be a blessing unto you." The sun caught his white curls, making them resemble a halo for a long moment. Then he gave her a polite nod and started down the path, with Crowley at his shoulder.
Crowley glanced back as he stepped out of the gate. "Your garden should behave itself for a while. Appreciate the opportunity to - invade."
They were both gone before she realised that her knee no longer hurt.