Chapter Text
Neighbors, insofar as Crowley had had to deal with them throughout his life, had never really been something he’d given much thought to, if he were being honest.
Sure, there had been Mrs. Peabody, the little old lady in the flat below his in Mayfair, to whom he’d bequeathed the plants he’d spirited away in his campaign of terror, and Mx. Jensen in the penthouse opposite his in the 1980s, but he’d never truly had neighbor neighbors before. Not like the ones he had now that he lived at Eden Cottage.
Nearly nine months into living in their Nest, as summer began to peek its way back into the air, Aziraphale got it into his head that they needed to host a garden party. They’d always been terribly introverted creatures, the two of them, and it occurred to Crowley that in nearly a year, they had only met a handful of people from the village, and their neighbors weren’t any of them. So he relented, knowing it would make his angel happy, and resigned himself to a night of socialization.
Aziraphale, being more than a bit out of touch with the times, had handwritten the invitations and had sealed all of them using his custom-made signet stamp and gold wax, and had insisted on sending them via the post, rather than just walking down the lane and giving them in-person.
“It’s more proper this way,” he’d said to Crowley, who couldn’t care less about sending invitations in the first place, especially in the 21st century when Facebook invites were available.
(The signet stamp depicted a set of angel wings and “A.Z.F.” in copperplate script.)
In the end, all of the neighbors had agreed to attend, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, save one.
Mr. Harold A. Thorndyke lived three cottages down the lane from Eden Cottage. He’d lived there, according to the other neighbors, since the 1950s, when his parents had moved there from a post-war London, seeking a new life in the countryside. He was described as “prickly” by sweet Mrs. Geraldine Hammond, “gen’rly unpleasant” by Mr. Stafford, and “a right arsehole” by the Wilsons. Such colorful synonyms would usually be enough to scare off the more casual observer, who would undoubtedly be able to see the forest through the trees and recognize an unpleasant person a mile away, but Aziraphale, being an angel, was not a casual observer.
Which is why, even after three failed attempts to get Mr. Thorndyke to RSVP to the party via post, the former Principality was not yet ready to give up, and had insisted he deliver his fourth invitation personally.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said as he shoved his hands in his jean’s pocket, walking dutifully next to his angel down their long driveway. “Is this really necessary? You’d think after three invitations, the answer would be pretty clear.”
“But he hasn’t answered,” Aziraphale argued. “That’s the whole point!”
“The lack of an answer is in and of itself an answer , angel.”
“Nonsense,” Aziraphale said, primly. “I’m sure there’s been some mistake and he’s just forgotten to RSVP. This should clear things up in no time!”
Crowley snorted, but didn’t say anything. He had a sneaking suspicion that their little visit down the lane would do anything but ‘clear things up,’ but he knew there wasn’t any point in trying to convince Aziraphale of this. When the angel set his mind to something, there was no stopping him.
Mr. Thorndyke’s cottage was modest, painted brown, with neat hedges and a row of hardy, mulberry colored chrysanthemums growing along the front path. There was nary a blade of grass out of order, which Crowley had to admire. A wrought iron gate, much like their own, stood resolute at the end of the walk, and it barely made a sound as Aziraphale released the latch and held it open for Crowley to walk through, indicating it was oiled often.
Aziraphale straightened his bowtie before he reached out and rapped the brass knocker against the door, stepping back to be shoulder to shoulder with Crowley as he waited for the door to open.
Nothing happened.
“Do you suppose he heard it?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley shrugged.
“Maybe Mr. Thorndyke is hard of hearing? Or isn’t home?”
“His car is in the driveway,” Aziraphale pointed out. He knocked again.
Nothing happened.
“Maybe he’s napping.”
Aziraphale huffed and knocked again.
Nothing happened.
“Really now,” he said, frustrated. “This is getting ridiculous!”
“Just put the invitation through the mail slot and be done with it.” Crowley said. “You can’t say you didn’t try.”
“No, I insist on handing it over myself, thank you.” Aziraphale said snippily.
Crowley conceded defeat and raised his hands, signaling so.
Aziraphale turned back to the door and knocked a third time, imbuing it with the teensiest, tiniest miracle to make the sound louder inside the house.
A few moments later, the sound of movement on the other side of the door could be heard, and a gruff looking older man opened the door, a scowl situated on his face.
“Wossat?!” He demanded of the two beings outside his door.. “Who the hell are you two?!”
Aziraphale beamed. “Hello!” He said cheerfully. “My name is Mr. Fell, and this is my partner, Mr. Crowley. We own the cottage down the lane. We’re hosting a garden party this coming weekend, you see, and we hadn’t received back the RSVP we sent you, so we wanted to deliver this one to you in person, in case it got lost in the post.” He smiled as he held out the sealed envelope towards Mr. Thorndyke.
“It didn’t get lost,” the old man said. “I didn’t send any RSVP back, because I’m not coming to your garden party.”
Aziraphale blinked.
“Oh, are you sure?” He asked. “It’s going to be very nice! We’ll have hors d'oeuvres and wine, and music! It will be lots of fun!”
Mr. Thorndyke snorted, eyeing the two of them suspiciously. Crowley resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m sure I’m not coming to your poncey garden party.”
Crowley felt the air crackle just a bit, as if it were surprised, at Aziraphale’s indignation.
“Poncey?!” He demanded. “Now, sir, there really is no need to be insulting.”
Mr. Thorndyke smiled nastily. “That was me being nice.” He said. “If you want insulting, stick around. Otherwise, I’d advise you to get off my property this instant, and take your damned invitation with you.”
“Now see here—!” Aziraphale started, but Crowley reached out and put his hand on his Mate’s shoulder, stopping him.
“Azi,” he said. “Let it go.”
Mr. Thorndyke looked at the demon’s hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and sneered. Crowley felt a flare of protectiveness, and squeezed the angel’s shoulder harder, refusing to remove his hand. Mr. Thorndyke turned his gaze upon Crowley.
“You the one that walks around with a cat on your shoulder?” He asked, apropos of nothing. Even worded like a question, Crowley knew Mr. Thorndyke knew the answer.
Crowley nodded. “That would be me, yes.”
“I’ve been finding cat shite in my chrysanthemum beds.” Mr. Thorndyke informed him. “If I find out it’s yours that’s been doing it, don’t think I won’t turn the hose on it.”
Crowley growled, anger flashing deep and hot in his belly, and he took a step towards the crotchety old geezer, ready to give him a flash of Crowley’s serpentine form, but Aziraphale put out his hand to stop him.
“Now see here—” He started, yet again, but Mr. Thorndyke stepped back into his house and slammed the door, cutting him off.
“What a despicable man!” Aziraphale said.
“That’s a word for it.” Crowley growled, clenching his fists so hard he felt his fingernails digging half moons into his palms. “I ought to give him a taste of demonic power, is what I should do.”
“Crowley, no.” Aziraphale reached out and placed his hand on Crowley’s arm; the former demon felt himself begin to relax in his Mate’s grounding touch, if only just a little. “While I don’t disagree that he should be taken down a peg, I also don’t think we should poke the bear, as they say. Just leave him be. He isn’t worth the time or energy.”
“He just threatened Yucca!” Crowley seethed. “If he comes anywhere near her, all bets are off, angel, I’m warning you now.”
“Should it get to that point, you’ll not find me stopping you.” Aziraphale agreed. “But until then, dear, don’t do anything to provoke his ire. It’s obvious he doesn’t care for us all that much, and I fear he may retaliate if we don’t leave him be.”
Crowley couldn’t argue with the angel’s logic, even if he’d wanted to. Still, he glared at the curtained windows of the cottage as they turned to leave, and waggled his fingers, sending the smallest of tiny miracles towards them, ensuring that the next time Mr. Thorndyke pulled them aside, the threads of the stitching would become just this side of loose, making them ever so slightly lopsided no matter how much the old man tried to fix them.
It wasn’t much, but it would do.