Work Text:
“Oooh, Crowley! Look at that one.”
Crowley glanced up from examining his list of properties for sale. There were a few on this street, all a little wrong so far. None quite what they were looking for. “Which one?”
Aziraphale pointed, standing on his tip-toes to see better over the bulky wall of a hedge. “That one. The last house on the left.”
“I think that’s a cottage, technically.” Frowning, Crowley checked his list. “Yeah. It’s for sale, you wanna check it out?”
“Well, that is the entire reason I’ve been putting up with your awful driving all day,” Aziraphale said primly. He folded his hands together behind his back and set off down the winding dirt lane.
Crowley kicked at a clump of dirt in the road, sending it skittering past Aziraphale, and followed. Dust blew up in his face, and he coughed. Bloody annoying, these kinds of roads. His Bentley would be eternally caked in dirt if they moved here.
“Oh, oh, isn’t it charming?” Aziraphale paused at a towering metal gate, a break in the hedge fortress, and peered into the yard. “There’s even flowers, dear boy! But the gate’s locked.”
He gave his signature pout, eyes big and pleading for his demon to rescue him.
Rolling his eyes, Crowley stepped up and snapped his fingers irritably at the lock. It surrendered, and he shoved the gate open. “Angels first.”
“Oh, that’s very sweet of you.” Aziraphale beamed at him and slipped into the yard. “Quite gentlemanly.”
“Shut up.” Cramming his hands in his pockets, Crowley followed Aziraphale down the long path. The cottage itself nestled back behind old gnarly oak trees, their deep green leaves turning to rust.
The yard was overgrown, snarled vines obscuring one side of the cottage. A vaguely collapsing porch roof jutted out across a deep red door. A two-person wooden swing dangled down, its chains creaking in the chilly breeze.
Bursts of purple inhabited a tangled web of plants near the porch, flowers that Crowley instantly recognized. He paused, frowning. Okay. That wasn’t exactly a good sign.
Aziraphale paused near the bushes, inspecting them with a curiosity that Crowley also instantly recognized. “Oh, look! Berries!”
“Angel!” As Aziraphale reached for the dark orbs, Crowley swatted his hand down. He tangled his fingers with Aziraphale’s and held on tightly. “Don’t eat that. That’s belladonna.”
“But berries.” Aziraphale pouted again. He usually got what he wanted, but not this time. “What’s belladonna?”
“Deadly nightshade. You really don’t wanna eat that.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped. “But I like berries, Crowley.”
Sighing, Crowley pulled Aziraphale up onto the porch and into the cottage, away from temptation. “I’ll plant some safer berries for you, how’s that?”
“Wonderful!” Aziraphale closed the door behind them, and the place plunged into utter darkness.
Well, not quite utter. Some daylight stabbed in through splits in the window shutters, just enough to cast slashes of light on an row of dusty family photos. Something in a cabinet at the end of the hall was glowing.
“Interesting,” Aziraphale murmured, holding Crowley’s hand tighter. He flicked his other hand. “Let there be light.”
Cold light hovered above them, and shadows scurried into the corners of the hall. Crowley led the way down the narrow chasm, heading for a dark blot in the wall that was hopefully the entry to another room.
“Living room,” he said, peering in. A desk in the corner, piled with yellowed paper and a couple weathered books. A rocking chair by the desk, creaking slightly in an unexplained breeze. Musty old armchairs sat in front of a jarringly modern telly.
“Oh my.” Aziraphale stepped into the room and over to the desk. He picked up one of the moldering old books and cracked it open, then yelped and dropped it.
Crowley caught the book before it could hit the floor. A spider skittered across his hands, frantic at the sudden disturbance of its home.
“Whoops, sorry,” Crowley said to the spider. He let it off on the wall, then tipped his head back. Webs dangled from practically every surface, their intricate lacy patterns glinting in Aziraphale’s miracled light. “Looks like there’s already someone living here. A lot of eight-legged someones.”
“And rats. Just over there, in the corner.” More gingerly this time, Aziraphale took the book back and studied it. “Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Seems appropriate.” Crowley waved to the rat before it vanished back into a hole, then grabbed a remote and flicked on the telly.
It crackled at them, flashes of static, and then went black.
“Well.” Still holding the book, Aziraphale came to stand beside him. He glanced up at Crowley, one eyebrow lifted. “This place seems a bit…”
“Spooky?” Crowley asked.
“Mhm.” Aziraphale took his hand and smiled. “What do you think?”
Crowley grinned at him. “It’s perfect. Let’s buy it.”