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It was mid-November in the South Downs, the sky grey and oppressive, the air cool and damp. But Aziraphale Fell was in a lovely mood as he puttered around in his front garden, preparing for the coming winter. He’d left it a little late this year, but it was better late than never, and he was hoping that he could at least get things in order.
As he worked, he happened to notice that the ‘for rent’ sign in the front garden of the house next door had been removed, and he wondered about that for a moment. The house was a good size, perhaps it had been rented by a family? Or maybe a young couple just starting out? Whoever it was, he hoped they were nice. Tadfield was a friendly town, full of amiable people, Aziraphale had been exceptionally happy here since he’d ‘retired’ and left London several years ago.
His train of thought was knocked off the track (not that it had been headed anywhere important) when he heard the sound of music - distant but loud, and growing louder. He looked up from his winterizing materials in time to see a black, vintage car turning onto Thistlewood Lane and barrelling down, kicking up dust. The music got louder and louder until it was almost unbearable, and Aziraphale was a little afraid that the car was going to veer off the road and hit someone or something. But just at the last moment, the car hit the brakes, kicking up even more dust, then swung violently into the driveway of the house next to Aziraphale’s, skidding to a stop.
Aziraphale was completely appalled. This was his neighbor? Shock and disgust quickly turned to anger and he threw down his hoe, deciding he was going to march right over and give that maniac a piece of his mind.
“What are you doing?” Aziraphale demanded once he was a few feet away from the car, even though the man hadn’t gotten out yet. “This is a respectable neighborhood in a respectable town and -”
His words were cut off when suddenly, the driver’s door opened and the man behind the wheel unfolded himself, getting to his feet. He was tall, a little taller than Aziraphale, and lanky, but it suited him. Aziraphale gave him a long look, starting at his feet, which were clad in snakeskin boots. He had on tight black jeans, a black belt with a shiny buckle, then a black silk shirt and black jacket. And his face - good lord, his face was the most beautiful thing Aziraphale had ever seen… what he could see of it. Part of his face was hidden by sunglasses, but Aziraphale had no doubt that his eyes were as beautiful as the rest of him. And to top it all off, he had fiery red curls that fell to just below his chin.
Aziraphale gulped.
The man was smiling at him, but in a mischievous way, like he knew exactly what he was doing, and Aziraphale had the impression that he very well might know exactly what he was doing.
“Can I help you?” he asked cordially, still smiling, and heaven help him, that smile had the potential to be his undoing.
It took Aziraphale a minute to remember why he was there and what he was doing. When he did, he gathered his righteous indignation around himself like a cloak and squared his shoulders. “Yes. My name is Aziraphale Fell, and I live in the house next door -”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Aziraphale Fell. My name is Crowley, and I’m moving into this house,” the man said, jerking his thumb at the house nearest them.
Aziraphale plowed ahead. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Crowley. I came over to -“
“Just Crowley. None of that ‘Mr.’ business.”
“Er, right. Yes. Well, I came over to tell you that this is a quiet, respectable neighborhood, and we don’t like a lot of loud noise and speeding. People like to sleep, because they have jobs and such. Plus, there are children who are running around. So perhaps you could not drive like a bat out of hell and play your music at two hundred decibels?”
Now Crowley was sneering. “Oh, so people have jobs here? I had no idea. And they like to sleep? How very unusual. So am I to assume that the entire neighborhood needs to be silent and in bed at seven pm?”
“That is not what I meant,” Aziraphale huffed, irritated again. “I was only asking you to be respectful.”
“Oh, I’ll be respectful, alright,” Crowley said snidely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to. Ciao.”
He turned and walked off, leaving Aziraphale standing there fuming - and watching him saunter, angry at himself for watching.
The next day, Aziraphale was feeling guilty. His angry reaction to Crowley had been out of character for him, and not very welcoming. That wasn’t the way to make friends, and he knew it. If he had a problem with the way Crowley was driving or listening to music, he should have lodged a complaint politely, not marched over and acted like some sort of harridan.
So he decided on a peace offering. He watched the movers bringing things into the house all day on the first day, then on the next, he waited until Crowley was gone, squalling down the lane, grating Aziraphale’s nerves. But his mind was made up to try to make peace. So he walked over to Crowley’s porch and put a nice bottle of wine with a bow and a note down beside the door, where it would be impossible to miss. The note read, I feel we got off on the wrong foot, and that’s my fault. I apologize. Welcome to the neighborhood. ~Aziraphale
Then he waited.
Crowley didn’t come over after he got home that day, which Aziraphale had halfway hoped he would, but Aziraphale noticed that the next morning, when he left the house, presumably for work, he drove much more sedately down Thistlewood Lane, with no music blaring. Aziraphale smiled to himself, however, when he heard Crowley get to the end of Thistlewood Lane and squall tires and crank the music all the way up, presumably to eleven.
Things were quiet for the next week or so, and Aziraphale was glad. If he and Crowley couldn’t be friends, they could at least not be at each other’s throats, and that would be enough. He hoped. Crowley kept his music low and his speed down on Thistlewood Lane, and Aziraphale left him alone.
But on the first Saturday in December, Aziraphale was in the front garden, putting out his lighted nativity, when he heard a scoff from behind him.
“Oh, fuck, don’t tell me you’re one of those.”
Aziraphale recognized Crowley’s voice, and he turned around, puzzled. “I’m sorry?”
“I said, don’t tell me you’re one of those.”
“One of those what?”
“You’re not a bloody damn holy roller or some shit, are you?”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “A holy roller?”
“Yeah. One of those religious nutjobs. The fuckers who hand out religious tracts at Halloween and run around the church, babbling in tongues.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I give out sweets at Halloween, just like anyone else.”
Crowley scoffed. “You’re probably going to start putting out pointed signs about my lifestyle, aren’t you? Because you’re all holy.”
Aziraphale’s mind tripped on the knowledge that Crowley was apparently homosexual, or at least bisexual, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He had more pressing concerns. A muscle in his jaw clenched and he counted to three. “First of all, I have no qualms at all about your lifestyle, whatever it may be. And second of all, I see nothing wrong with celebrating the birth of the Messiah.”
“It’s not even His birth. It was a pagan holiday that the stupid Christians adopted,” Crowley jeered. “Ever heard of Saturnalia?”
“I think you’ll find that I’m a rather educated man,” Aziraphale sneered. “I doubt you’ll be able to teach me anything new. I know the history of Christmas and its pagan roots, and I choose to celebrate it as a Christian holiday, regardless.”
“Well, aren’t you just the Christmas angel,” Crowley taunted.
Aziraphale huffed frustratedly. “What on earth is wrong with having some Christmas cheer? Or wanting to spread it around a bit?”
A smile Aziraphale could only describe as ‘wicked’ spread across Crowley’s face. “You know what, angel? There’s nothing at all wrong with it. And I think you’ve inspired me to put up my own Christmas decorations. Indeed you have. Have a good one,” he called, and then sauntered into his house, hips swaying like a pendulum, leaving Aziraphale to glare at him, wondering what on earth he had planned.
He found out the next day.
It was a chilly day, and Aziraphale spent most of it inside, in his armchair with a good book, but he did hear the occasional noise from outside in the general direction of Crowley’s house. He tried to ignore it, because Crowley was not his business, and was doing a rather decent job of ignoring his neighbor. But when the sun set and darkness fell, it occurred to Aziraphale that he hadn’t gotten the post for the day, so he pulled on his coat and stepped out to walk down to the box.
There wasn’t much in there, just some bills and a couple of Christmas cards, and he was flipping through them in the twilight when something caught his eye. He looked up, towards Crowley’s house, and spotted a large Santa standing in Crowley’s yard, but his arms had been maneuvered to look as if he was holding himself in a private area, and there was a rope of yellow lights blinking in a streaming fashion coming from his crotch. It looked for all the world like Father Christmas was urinating.
Aziraphale scowled, absolutely livid, then stomped into his house and slammed the door behind himself.
Two days later, Aziraphale was standing in his front garden, looking at his new additions: two angels that lit up with warm white lights. He thought they were lovely, and helped distract from the hideousness that Crowley -
He didn’t get to finish his thought before Crowley came out into the front garden, whistling a little tune, with two wire reindeer under his arms. He didn’t look at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was helpless but to watch him as he set them up in the yard, and then positioned one in the front and mounted the other one behind and on top of the first one, so it looked as if they were copulating. Then Crowley plugged them in, and they lit up.
Aziraphale was fuming, absolutely indignant, but Crowley just strolled back towards his house, still whistling a jaunty tune, and tipped an imaginary hat to Aziraphale.
“Hiya, angel. Lovely evening, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale turned on his heel and stormed back into his house, but he didn’t miss Crowley’s chuckle behind him.
It took a couple of days to get the needed supplies, but on the third day, Aziraphale was prepared, and he spent a large part of the day putting out his new inflatables. He’d gotten an inflatable Christmas tree, a trio of snowmen, and a nice Father Christmas, absolutely determined to outdo his irksome neighbor.
And for a couple of days, it seemed he had. He was rather pleased with himself. But on the third day, he woke up to see that Crowley had installed a large, inflatable Winnebago that was incredibly run down looking. He’d also apparently acquired a mannequin and dressed it in nothing but a short bathrobe and one of those awful hats with flaps. He’d glued a cigar into its mouth, and to make things even worse, he’d run a pipe from the Winnebago to the mannequin’s hands - and had something in a puddle at the mannequin’s feet that looked like excrement. Aziraphale could only be thankful that it didn’t smell like excrement.
For a moment, Aziraphale had the most horrible, the most evil of thoughts. He thought about going over into Crowley’s garden and destroying all of those hideous Christmas decorations. He thought about how satisfying it would feel to tear them apart, to leave wreckage in his wake.
But no. That was not who he was. He was not that type of person. He was better than that, and he needed to behave better than that. But what could he do?
Well, the first thing he could do was go to the store and get more lights for his house to distract from Crowley’s… horror show. So he held his head high and went into his house to retrieve his keys, determined to make something so beautiful, it would dwarf Crowley’s obscene display.
Several hours later, he was on a ladder at the front of his house, hanging icicle lights, pondering his next steps. He was eventually going to run out of space for lights, and he didn’t delude himself that Crowley was going to give up goading him. Something had to give. So what could he do to make Crowley stop? Should he perhaps start a petition around the town? Some of the more rigid of the townsfolk would come down on his side, he knew. But those were people he generally tried to avoid. Did he want to align himself with them now? There was the saying that politics made strange bedfellows, he supposed…
Aziraphale had hung as many lights as he could in this spot: he needed to move the ladder. So he started to descend, one step at a time, until somehow or another, his foot slipped on the rung and suddenly, he was falling.
He seemed to fall for an eternity, his arms windmilling uselessly in the air, his mouth open in a silent scream for help, and it flashed through his mind to wonder how badly he’d be hurt before he hit the ground with a dull thud and an ‘oof!’ He lay there for a moment, taking stock of himself, trying to see if he were injured, but he wasn’t sure. He felt extremely jostled, but couldn’t differentiate between jostled and pain right away. His fall had knocked the wind out of him and he gasped a little, trying to recover it, sitting up and feeling dazed.
“Holy shit, are you alright?” he heard from nearby, and looked up to see Crowley rushing over from his driveway, a look of concern on his face.
Aziraphale waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine. Just fine,” he said, although his voice was breathy and weak. To prove it, he made to stand, and there was an explosion of pain in his ankle. He let out a cry, and the next thing he knew, Crowley was under his arm, supporting him, murmuring soothing nonsense.
“There, now. That’s alright, you’re alright,” Crowley said. “Come on. Lean on me, angel. Let’s get you inside.”
It didn’t occur to Aziraphale to argue, he just followed Crowley into the house, trying to focus on the pain and willing it away.
Crowley opened the door and helped him inside, then led him to the couch and tenderly helped him sit. “There you go, angel. You have a seat here. Here, give me that ankle. It needs to be elevated.”
Aziraphale obeyed, lifting his injured ankle, and Crowley pulled a throw pillow over onto the coffee table, then gingerly laid Aziraphale’s ankle on it. That done, he stood up and put his hands on his hips.
“Right. Next you need ice, and probably some ibuprofen. Ice would be in the kitchen. Where would the ibuprofen be?”
Aziraphale just blinked at him stupidly. “Be- beside the kitchen sink.”
“Got it. Back in two shakes,” Crowley said, then disappeared into the kitchen.
There came the sounds of drawers opening and closing, things being moved around, and Aziraphale assumed Crowley was looking for the plastic baggies and a towel to make an ice pack with. But that wasn’t at the forefront of his mind. The most prominent thought in his mind was: what on earth is going on here? Crowley had been so belligerent and rude and offensive, and now he was helping him? Not only helping him, but being firm and soothing (and oh, heavens, that was doing something to him… something he didn’t really have time to think about when his ankle was throbbing and Crowley was in his kitchen). What on earth should he do about this sudden shift?
Crowley reappeared a minute later, carrying a plastic bag wrapped in a dishtowel, a bottle of water, and a bottle of ibuprofen. He still had that look of concern on his face, and he came to sit down beside Aziraphale gently, so as not to jostle him. He sat down the ice pack, then handed Aziraphale the bottle of water with a “Here you go, angel,” and opened the bottle of ibuprofen, shaking out four pills.
“I usually only take two.”
“Ibuprofen is not only a pain reliever, it’s an anti-inflammatory. 800mg is a safe dose. Just trust me on this one.”
Aziraphale tossed the pills into his mouth and swallowed them, washing them down with the water.
He was surprised when Crowley pulled his sunglasses off and hung them by the arm on the front of his shirt, and Aziraphale’s heart fluttered in his chest. Over the last few weeks, he hadn’t seen Crowley’s eyes, not ever at all, and now he was thinking that he’d been quite deprived. His eyes were a very light brown, almost an amber, and absolutely, stunningly beautiful. But right now, they were trained on Aziraphale’s ankle, and he was picking up the ice pack, pulling back Aziraphale’s pant leg a little.
“The ibuprofen will also be good for the swelling,” he said.
“What swelling?” Aziraphale asked. “It doesn’t look swollen.”
“You just give it time. It’ll swell, at least a little bit,” he predicted, right before he put the ice pack gently on Aziraphale’s ankle.
Aziraphale hissed a little, causing Crowley to look at him with sharp eyes, and their eyes met. It felt like the air crackled, and Aziraphale drew a quick breath. Oh.
“What were you doing up on that ladder?”
“I was… decorating.”
Crowley gave a little smile. “To spite me.”
Aziraphale gave a tentative smile back. “Maybe it was a little bit to spite you.”
Crowley laughed. “A little bit?”
“Oh, alright. Quite a bit to spite you. Tit for tat, and all that. But I really do enjoy decorating.”
He looked around the living room, at the tree and all the decorations. “I see that. It’s all very lovely - as is the decor in the garden.”
Aziraphale grinned. “Do you think so?”
“It’s a little boring, of course. Could do with some color.”
“I’d rather be boring than look like a unicorn - no. No, I don’t want to do this anymore,” Aziraphale said.
“Do what?”
“I don’t want to fight with you. It’s been fun, yes, but you… well, you called me a Christmas angel.”
“I did, yeah,” Crowley said, smiling.
“That’s all fine and well, but I haven’t been behaving like one. And who was the one to rush to my rescue when I was in peril?”
“Ah, you weren’t really in peril. Just a little spot of bother,” Crowley pooh-poohed.
“Why’d you do it?” Aziraphale asked.
“Why’d I do what?” Crowley asked, looking a little shy, averting his gaze.
“Why did you come help me, when I’ve been so awful to you?”
“Well, we’ve been pretty awful to each other, angel…”
“Why’d you do it?” Aziraphale repeated.
Crowley still wouldn’t look at him. “I - I don’t know that I should tell you. You hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, I could never, and I’d very much like to know.”
Now Crowley was squirming. “I… well… You know how some boys in primary school, when they like a girl, they’ll pull her hair? It was kind of like that.”
A smile spread across Aziraphale’s face. “You like me?”
Crowley’s ears were as red as his hair. “Yeah. I mean, why wouldn’t I? And it was stupid and immature and whatever. I don’t know what I was trying to accomplish. I guess I was thinking in the back of my mind that any attention was good attention, maybe? Or that maybe one day I’d quit being a coward and actually talk to you, the way I wanted to?”
Aziraphale’s smile was so big, he thought it would crack his face. “Well, dear, it appears I’m stuck on this couch for a while. I’m infirmed, as they say. And it would be lovely to have some company while I convalesce.”
Crowley looked up at him with a hopeful smile, and oh, God, he was so lovely. “Yeah?”
“Yes, I think so. Why don’t you go look in the drawer next to the refrigerator and get the takeaway menus. We’ll order something to eat - my treat, I insist - and then you and I will sit here and talk, the way we’ve both been hoping to.”
“I’d love that,” Crowley said, his smile dazzling. “What will we talk about?”
“Why don’t we start with town gossip. Have you heard anything about R.P. Tyler?”