Chapter Text
Crowley is elbows deep in his most stubborn rosebush when he hears the squealing of tires over gravel on the road outside. He freezes for half a second and nearly stabs his nose on a thorn in the process. Surely the Bentley hasn't gone off for a stroll of her own without him, has she? It can't be...
"For God's sake, Ed! That's a first-edition, hand-signed Wind In The Willows you are manhandling-"
"Oh, so the books are more important than my toes?" The second voice sounds a fair bit older than the tone it's taking, early 20s, maybe 30s? "Argh, watch where you're going mate-!"
Crowley peers around a branch to to get a closer look, only to receive a tottering tower of cardboard boxes for his troubles, supported by what look like two pairs of buckling human legs, struggling their way towards the driveway of Lighthouse Cottage. The first man - who is very obviously ill-dressed for the occasion - is clad in attire ridiculous enough to rival Aziraphale's wildest fashion statements. Even from the obstructed view his fence provides, he can already spot fluttering, delicately scalloped lace sleeves, cut in a dramatic asymmetrical slash and frayed artistically, tied back haphazardly around shaking forearms.
"Edward!" Mr Period Drama Star shrieks, and half of the stack goes tumbling down onto 'Ed', who is all but buried beneath the boxes save for a pair of studded leather boots sticking out of the vaguely man-shaped mass. "Are you alright?"
"M' fine," the man groans, shaking back a mane of salt-and-pepper hair as he struggles to his feet. "Just my knee." As his rescuer reaches up to help pull his boyfriend- husband- something(?) free, Crowley finally gets a proper view of the poor sods who'd taken a tumble.
Signor Scarlet Pimpernel bears a striking resemblance to his angel, he notes with a bemused snort. Save for the lack of a general bastard angelic aspect; now that he’s standing up on both his own two feet - he's ever so slightly taller than Aziraphale and has thinner shoulders- that are currently draped in a hideous turquoise macrame jumper that flutters over his lace-sleeved shirt and cravat(Has he never set foot in England during July before? That git is going to bake). His companion, Edward Scissorfeet- Crowley snickers in disgust and awe at the nickname he's come up with for him already- isn't dressed much better. Black leather head to toe, flowing, wild salt-and-pepper hair and a beard as equally streaked.
Clearly they're not locals.
"Is everything alright?" an all-too familiar voice exclaims, accompanied by that distinct putter of footsteps. His angel is hurrying out of their front door, apron still on and flour smeared across his rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes. “What’s happened?" When he catches sight of Edward and he pauses mid stride, dropping to his knees at once to examine him. "Oh dear, your foot! My goodness, I wonder how you could've taken such a tumble-" His brow furrows as he looks from his extravagant footwear to the boxes. And then back down to the foot, which is starting to swell within its leather prison. "Ah. I see."
"It was my fault," the posh one interrupts, blonde waves falling in front of his face as he runs his hands over Ed in a practiced medical check. "These were my books, and I insisted he carry them without specifying where they were to go- really should plan out a moving day better, right?" Aziraphale places a hand on his shoulder and he laughs, a high-pitched, nervous titter of a thing. "Oh, I'm sorry, where are my manners? Stede. Stede Bonnet," he adds hastily. "And this is Ed, my dearest-"
"Friend," the other mutters. Stede doesn't bother looking up, instead fussing over his friend. "No. Don't even think about it."
"It's just my old knee-"
"Darling, you hit your head quite hard, you are absolutely not walking on that bad knee of yours right now," Stede reprimands, albeit with a quaver in his voice, and Crowley has to bite back yet another laugh. Silly as they are, they can't help but remind him of himself and Aziraphale when they were younger. Same good-natured bickering, same quick wit, the sort that comes easily when you know someone well enough. Maybe not the horrific lack of hand-eye coordination or the impulsive stupidity of trying to move God knows how many cardboard boxes all at once.....
"I'll live, mate," Ed mumbles, leaning heavily against his friend's chest and looking every inch a lovesick teenager as his arms slip loosely around Stede's waist. "Really. Look at me. Real champion over here."
"Yes, but-" Stede glances between Aziraphale, his.....boyfriend? (Crowley has given up on what exactly these two are) and the pile of cardboard boxes sitting innocently in the middle of the road. "Either way, you're not walking around on that foot of yours," he adds with a prideful sniff. "I won't allow it."
"Stede."
"Ed."
"I think," Aziraphale interrupts, kind, sweet, perfect angel that he is, wisely reaching down to help with the mess and not whatever rom-com bullshit is happening between Ed and Stede, "we should work on getting those boxes off the road and into your new home first, don't you think?"
Both men nod at him, either stunned into silence by his kindness or grateful that he seems to be taking them seriously. Seemingly satisfied, Aziraphale clasps his hands together behind his back and gives the odd couple one of his signature radiant smiles. "Buck up, then, dears. Let me fetch my husband, and we'll see what we can do."
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Aziraphale doesn't think he's ever seen a moving attempt quite as botched as the one that had just happened across his street. Honestly. As a bookshop owner, the first rule of moving any large object is to keep a clear path to and from it, even if the object is not particularly big or heavy, something which his poor neighbours have failed to account for on all accounts.
Still, Edward and Stede had made for a horribly pitiful sight there in the middle of the road, buried under all that cardboard, and so here he is, forgoing his traditional Sunday baking marathon to help the unfortunate pair in their moving misadventures.
"Crowley," he calls, nabbing a lemonade and some of the chocolate biscuits his love adores as a peace offering as he makes his way towards their garden gate. "Crowley, are you in here?"
"Whu?" comes the groggy reply from somewhere in the bushes. "Yeah- one sec, angel, just gotta get my hair back from the roses. Cheeky little buggers, roses are, bloody pain in the arse to get the leaves out if you stick your head in too far...."
"Darling," Aziraphale huffs, rolling his eyes heavenward. He wonders if Crowley can hear the sound of him sighing as he approaches the shrubbery where he assumes his demon is hiding. "Would you care to explain to me why exactly you've gotten your head stuck so far up the rosebush? Not that I'm complaining."
A rustle as Crowley pushes aside a few branches. "Wellll.....I might've heard the commotion on the street too as I was pruning some of the back branches, and you know me....."
"Dearheart."
"Angel! Can you really blame me? I mean, you've seen those two gits, right? One's dressed like a misplaced Victorian dandy, and the other's wearing...well..." he trails off, and Aziraphale chuckles indulgently. "It was too good not to watch! Even if it, er...."
Aziraphale blinks twice at his husband's behind, and then bends down to help extract him from the bush and dust off his trousers with a small flourish. "You're ridiculous," he admonishes fondly. "Here, drink up," he adds, pressing the lemonade glass to his lips and placing an obnoxiously loud kiss on his forehead when Crowley gazes up at him with a look that is equal parts besotted and exasperated. "We've got work to do," he reminds firmly, giving his husband's cheek a peck as he sets the glass on the ground beside his boots.
"Right," Crowley agrees reluctantly, although not without a smile. Shaking his hair back, he pulls something out of his pocket and tucks it into Aziraphale's hair. "There. Now you're good to go."
"Flowers are not going to get you out of being neighbourly, my love," Aziraphale insists, even as he brushes the petals of the champagne-coloured rose resting in his hair. "Now, remind me where you keep your spare gloves."
Crowley pouts.
"My dearest."
"Fine!" he sighs. "But only because I love you."
"I know you do. Now come on." He takes hold of his hand and leads him to the door. "Let's take care of this."