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“ Vague imaginings of its castle, its three mints, its magnificent apsidal Abbey, the chief glory of south Wessex, its twelve churches, its shrines, chantries, hospitals, its gabled freestone mansions—all now ruthlessly swept away—throw the visitor, even against his will, into a pensive melancholy which the stimulating atmosphere and limitless landscape around him can scarcely dispel”
- Thomas Hardy
Shaftesbury Abbey, August 2023
Crowley sat on a bench, staring intently at the scattered rocky ruins around him. Piles of stone blended jaggedly with carefully seeded flowers and sprouting trees. He scoffed at the old man sitting a few seats away from him, absorbed in a leaflet given out by the gift shop.
A gift shop , Crowley thought humorously. Count on humans to occupy a once holy sanctuary with overpriced mugs and tea towels.
The bench itself was situated in Shaftesbury in the ruins of the town’s Abbey. Despite the lingering and uncomfortable feeling of lightly being scorched by a limp matchstick, Crowley found it relatively easy to remain in the area without too much discomfort, at least for the time being. He found abandoned or ruined places of worship to not affect him in the same burning manner as those which were properly taken care of. If a working church was undergoing a particularly busy service and Crowley found himself walking past, his legs often buckled slightly and his shoes began feeling awfully warm.
It was perhaps why he rather enjoyed the unusual luxury of sitting in an Abbey. Well, the ruins of one. He knew the sight of it would make Aziraphale grieve for the loss of such a momentous pillar in the sphere of God-devoted buildings, yet he couldn’t help but invite him. To share half an hour in an area so full of ghosts of religious devotion, to be there as an angel and demon, was a sentiment which made Crowley’s heart bloom like a thornless red rose.
He absorbed the peacefulness of the place. A small shuffling of tourists studied the various information signs scattered across the grounds and the old man next to Crowley eased out his sitting position and made a beeline for the exit.
Crowley turned to his left. Aziraphale had arrived and with him a predictably forlorn expression.
“I came here in 979 for a ceremonial burial,” Aziraphale stated, eyes scanning the area, his irises heavy with history.
“How very specific, angel.”
Aziraphale was always very specific with his dates. He held an odd sense of nostalgic elegance in the way in which he devoted such an extensive part of his earthly memory to times, calendars and numbers, the likes of which Crowley often forgot. He remembered all the important aspects of human history, though held a strong distaste towards the 14th century, partly due to the Black Death, partly due to the bleak lack of technological advancements (the motorcar, in Crowley’s eyes, could not have come sooner) and had since almost entirely erased it from his memory.
“It was a burial for St Edward the Martyr,” Aziraphale said, “I went riding with him once… poor lad.”
“Martyr?”
“Crowley, dear, anyone would think you weren’t up to date with your royal history.”
“The bastard was only king for three years; I hardly think it necessary to remember such frivolities.”
Azirpahale shook his head lightly. “He was such a young man, so innocent. Whyever would–”
He stopped himself and, out of habit, glanced upwards towards the sky, a small grimace on his face, eyes dull.
Crowley glanced at his companion. He hated the ravenging and remorseful guilt which chewed the insides of Aziraphale’s soul. He knew exactly what he was thinking. I could have saved him… He could have lived past sixteen… If only… If only…
“Didn’t this place used to house nuns?”
By some miracle – not evoked by either of them this time; perhaps it was simply Crowley’s careless question or the way in which his lips upturned into a sneer as his lips produced the word ‘nuns’ – Aziraphale turned to face him with a small chuckle.
“Oh yes, this whole area was practically a nun sanctuary from 888 until 1539. I don't suppose you had anything to do with the English Reformation which dissolved it?”
“I may have ordered Thomas Cromwell to take a carefree trip to Shaftesbury… maybe he took a dislike to the place.”
“Oh, Crowley!”
Crowley laughed at his own words, soaked in lies and mischief. Oh, how he loved to outrage Aziraphale, how he adored seeing the pinkish colour of shock fill his cheeks. “I’m joking, angel. The humans did all this themselves, though I can’t say I didn’t take credit for it.”
A flock of finches flew overhead, breaking the peacefulness for a few moments but inducing a bright smile onto Aziraphale’s face. “I do love the wildlife in Dorset. It’s a pity London is so intent on burning itself to pieces on petrol fumes.”
“You see the odd pigeon,” Crowley replied softly, gently patting Aziraphale’s knee.
Aziraphale lightly scoffed in response but let Crowley’s words swim warmly between them.
An angel and a demon in the ruins of an Abbey. What a sight to behold. Passers-by glanced briefly at the unlikely couple, Crowley with his stylish reddish hair, tight-fitting black trousers and dark glasses, Aziraphale with his angelic white suit and Crowley’s favourite waistcoat. The humans did, however, seem all the more entranced by the ruined stones around them which were organised, seemingly by hand, into odd clumps which did not seem to even remotely resemble an Abbey of any shape or form.
“Look at the stones. They shouldn’t be positioned like that at all!” Aziraphale declared sadly, “I’m in half a mind to find the manager of this establishment and give him a few pointers.”
“They’ve tried their best, my dear. To judge them is to judge the Almighty after all,” Crowley said mockingly.
“You are terrible, dear,” Aziraphale said with a smile, “care to come to dinner with me? I hear there’s a delightful little cafe at the top of Gold Hill.”
“I would like that very much,” Crowley replied.
They both removed themselves from the bench, Crowley with a bold swagger and Aziraphale with a graceful rise which resembled that of a swan exiting the water onto the banks. Crowley held out an arm and Aziraphale linked his own into the crook of his elbow, securing the pair together.
It was only in the last decade or so that Crowley had built up enough nerve to offer out his arm but when he first offered Aziraphale his tender-stricken affection, Aziraphale took it gladly and without so much as a second thought. It was as if they had done such a thing thousands of times over the centuries spent in one another’s company. Every time he made the movement towards Aziraphale, Crowley held his breath, certain that the angel would deny his affections, yet this never occurred. Still, Crowley lived in constant fear, perhaps leading to the reason as to why he never attempted anything more. He often thought of moving away from holding Aziraphale’s arm and instead holding his hand, the image of the possible union of their fingertips evoking a strengthening feeling of the utmost joy, but could never bring himself to make the first move. It worried him slightly that Aziraphale did not attempt to either; he must surely be content with the way things were.
They walked in sync along the walkway outside of the ruins, marvelling at the immeasurable hills and countryside that lay resting in the distance.
“Maybe I’ll relocate the bookshop,” Aziraphale murmured, hypnotised by the scenery and clinging gently to Crowley. “I’m sure I’d get much more of an appropriate audience in a place like this.”
Crowley, induced in a honey-like warmth which threatened to engulf his words in sickeningly sweet sonnets of affection, replied safely with the two syllables, “Perhaps.”
After their short walk, they reached the cafe, aptly named The Salt Cellar after its history of being used as such. Aziraphale miracled them a reservation in the most sought after table which faced the large window looking out upon Gold Hill, a street so beautiful even Crowley himself briefly contemplated removing himself from his flat in London and instead taking up residence in the quiet country town.
“Not a bad view,” Crowley said, lowering his glasses to gain a less darkened image.
“Oh, isn’t it wonderful? I wish all streets looked like this one. Imagine!” Aziraphale replied wistfully, now centuries away from the melancholy he appeared to leave behind at the ruined Abbey.
Crowley smiled in response, warmed by his companion’s enthusiasm, before turning to look at the menu to which Aziraphale had already become absorbed in.
A waitress approached their table.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the waitress said, “what can I get for you?”
“Hello, I would like a cheese and tomato panini, thank you, and Crowley would– Crowley, what would you like, dear?”
“I’d like a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”
“I’m very sorry but I don’t think we…”
“Bottom wine rack, you’ll find it,” Crowley replied.
The waitress scribbled down their orders and headed towards the kitchen at the back of the cafe, slightly in a daze.
He winked at Aziraphale who smiled back at him softly.
“I take it the wine was from the collection at the bookshop?” Aziraphale questioned him lightly, all too familiar with how Crowled had miracled various bottles from his shop in the past, always to be returned the next day.
Crowley nodded in response, another thought tugging at his mind. He decided to leave it, at least until after they’d enjoyed their meal together.
Aziraphale’s panini arrived after Crowley had finished his second glass of red wine. He had happily taken up Crowley’s offer of having a glass himself, yet limited his intake as to save room for the main meal.
“Mmm,” Aziraphale murmured after his first bite. He closed his eyes, cheese dangling from the bread and his lips stained with warm, buttery grease, “quite wonderful.”
After Aziraphale had finished his meal and Crowley had finished his fourth glass of wine, the pair vacated the restaurant and decided to go on a wander around the town itself.
Crowley paused a few steps outside of the cafe, facing away from Gold Hill.
“Aziraphale–” Crowley hardly used his full name, always opting for the odd term of endearment.The sudden use of his name made the hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck stand on end.
There was a frail innocence behind his syllables, a timidness which hardly suited Crowley’s usual tone of voice.
“Aziraphale I– I just wanted to ask– it’s no trouble really but…” he stuttered, tripping over his words, both out of anxiety and due to the surplus amount of wine he had just consumed. Usually he miracled it away shortly after dinner but he felt he needed the extra boost of human-like confidence that only alcohol could offer him.
“My dear, what is it?” Aziraphale asked gently.
“Could I possibly hold your hand?” he blurted out.
Aziraphle remained silent for a moment. His features softened. His face flushed pink. A surprised, elated smile upturned his lips.
“Oh Crowley, of course you can! Please, don’t hesitate.”
Crowley’s whole face lit up, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “I just thought– you never– you never attempted to…”
Aziraphale sighed to himself, “I am rather helpless in that department, I really do apologise, but I’ve wanted to for a very long time. I suppose I was nervous that you’d react badly if I ever made such a move.”
“Never,” Crowley replied.
“I wouldn’t want to lose you,” Aziraphale said, almost too softly for Crowley to hear.
And with that, Crowley boldly curled his fingers against Azirpahale’s and felt a soft buzz in his abdomen as their palms finally touched for the first time.
“I could get used to this,” Crowley murmured, looking down at their conjoined hands and smiling broadly to himself.
“Could you also get used to this?” Aziraphale asked him.
Hands still interlocked, he leaned in softly, gently, his movements still brimming with grace and elegance, and placed a light kiss to Crowley’s lips.
He pulled away with such a beautiful look on his face, eyes alight with tenderness and lips softly pulling themselves into a proud smile, that Crowley simply could not help himself but lean in to kiss Aziraphale again. This time, their lips met with a heavier sprinkling of passion and their previous two second kiss blossomed into a longer, deeper entanglement.
“Oh, my dear–” Aziraphale murmured as their lips parted ways.
“Lead the way, angel,” Crowley replied, the kiss still buzzing on his lips, his fingertips full of electricity.
The angel and the demon, still very much holding hands, walked away from the cafe, giddy expressions plastered on their faces, and made their way towards the town centre.