Archive of Our Own

Growing up dreaming of a career in television, it hadn’t really been daytime television Jocasta had in mind. She’d aimed for the gritty and glamorous world of documentaries, but somewhere along the way she’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in the smug cul-de-sac of daytime TV. Life as a producer on Escape to the Country was the furthest thing from the cutting edge of television, and Jocasta spent her days dealing with estate agents and house hunters whose idea of a cosy little cottage was a literal mansion with grounds and space for horses (although currently alpacas were far more fashionable).

Jocasta flicked through the notes on her latest house hunters - Crowley & Fell - over a late breakfast of Maltesers and lukewarm tea. She didn’t get to choose the participants, and suspected they were largely selected on the basis of how delusional they were, if not how much they could annoy her personally. There was a lot of information missing - frankly it was a miracle they’d been chosen considering the state of their application - but on the bright side they didn’t even hint at immigration under their reasons for wanting to move away from London, so they probably weren’t the worst. Jocasta decided to call them in for a chat.

‘So lovely to meet you both,’ said Jocasta, as they arrived - late - for the meeting. ‘Just a few questions before we start filming. I need to check some of your details, nothing to worry about.’

‘I’m not worried, my dear,’ Aziraphale chirruped, positively radiating happiness as he took a seat. ‘I’m really rather excited about the whole process.’

Crowley just smiled, as though Jocasta herself was the one who ought to be worried. She wasn’t, especially, beyond her ongoing fear that just one more pair of delusional retirees calling a bathroom the size of her shared flat “pokey” would finally destroy the last of her will to live before she got so much as an interview for Panorama, but nevermind.

‘First time on television?’

‘Indeed! Is it really that obvious?’ said Aziraphale. ‘Although, technically, no. I did once make a brief appearance with an American televangelist - interesting chap, entirely the wrong idea about a lot of things but I’m sure he was doing his best. The whole thing was unplanned and I wasn’t really…’

He trailed off, noticing a shushing motion from Crowley. ‘But of course you don’t want to hear about any of that. You had some questions for us?’

‘That’s quite alright,’ said Jocasta. Chatterboxes weren’t so bad; much easier to edit them down than to drag something worth airing out of monosyllabic grunts who clammed at the first sign of a camera. ‘I just need to check a few personal details. First things first, names - Anthony Crowley?’

‘Indeed,’ confirmed Crowley.

‘And you must be… I’m terribly sorry, we don’t seem to have any record of your first name, Mr Fell?’

‘It’s Aziraphale,’ said Aziraphale.

‘Of course,’ Jocasta muttered. Her laptop seemed to be playing up, because she couldn’t click into the “name” field. No matter, she could update it later. Hardly likely to forget a name like “Aziraphale”, she thought, immediately before the name slipped, smooth and unnoticed, right out of her memory. ‘OK, um, occupation. You’re a bookseller, is that right?’

‘Quite correct,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Although soon to be retired bookseller. I’m selling up shop ready for our big move.’

He reached out and patted Crowley’s hand, beaming at him with undisguised adoration. Crowley’s answering half-smile was exasperated but unmistakably fond, and he made no move to retrieve his hand. Jocasta’s inner cynic retreated just a bit: she saw plenty of couples who were clearly hoping that a move to the country would paper over the cracks in their long-dead relationships and were more in need of a counsellor than a new house. It was kind of nice to deal with a couple who actually liked each other.

‘Lovely,’ said Jocasta, scrolling down. ‘Hmm, this must be a mistake. Anthony, we have “trophy wife” here as your occupation?’

‘Really, dear.’ It was Aziraphale’s turn for the “exasperated but fond” look, although he was leaning rather more into exasperated.

‘What?’ Crowley adopted a pose of mock-innocence. ‘Am I not a prize?’

Aziraphale tutted, deciding that confirming or denying were both equally unacceptable options under the circumstances.

‘I am dangerously beguiling and not meant for labour,’ said Crowley airily. ‘I make an amazing trophy wife. Scandal of the entire county.’

‘I think,’ Aziraphale began in a tone of great patience, ‘this nice lady would like to know about an actual job. Something that earns money.’

‘Well in that case you shouldn’t have “bookseller” either,’ said Crowley. ‘You only sell one book a decade, usually when the only alternative is actual violence. Besides, must my value be measured in financial terms? Perhaps I don’t want to serve Mammon.’

Jocasta coughed pointedly. She wasn’t sure what was going on with these two - they’d been all doe-eyed just a minute ago - but she needed to turn things around before they had a full-on domestic. ‘Of course it needn’t be a paid occupation, other paths are valuable. It’s just… something like “homemaker” would be a more usual description.’

Crowley glared at her until Jocasta shrank back in her seat. ‘Do I look like I bake scones?’

‘Oh, I’ve got it!’ said Aziraphale, mercifully saving Jocasta from attempting to defend herself. ‘The perfect job for you: Magician’s Assistant.’

‘No.’

‘But you’re so good at it,’ said Aziraphale, warming to the idea. ‘We could get you your own costume. Something to really bring out the magic of the occasion.’

‘No magic,’ said Crowley. ‘Angel, have you forgotten what happened the last time you did your magic show? That birthday party was chaos.’

‘It was a very memorable performance,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Of course it would’ve been even better with help from my glamorous assistant. Ooh, we could have matching costumes! Wouldn't that be lovely?’

‘It would not be lovely, it would be embarrassing,’ said Crowley. ‘I don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with this. Is it some weird kink thing? Because if you really want to tie me up and throw knives at me, I’m willing to negotiate…’

‘... Really?’ Aziraphale looked hopeful. Jocasta opened her mouth to object, but no sound came out. She slunk a little lower in her chair.

‘But no magic.’

Aziraphale pouted. ‘You’re no fun. Well, maybe I’ll just have to revive the act without you. I’m sure lots of these country places have all sorts of village fêtes and shows, I could do a turn at one of those.’

‘You even think about putting on a magic show, and I will divorce you,’ said Crowley. ‘I’m not prepared to put up with that sort of humiliation by proxy.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t divorce me.’

‘I can and I will.’

‘You really can’t,’ said Aziraphale. ‘We aren’t married.’

‘I will marry you,’ said Crowley, leaning towards Aziraphale. It was weird how he made it sound like a threat. ‘I’ll marry you in the most charming, picturesque ceremony that’s everything your whimsical little heart desires. You’ll be so busy planning every detail of the extravagant wedding breakfast that you won’t pay any attention to the terms of the extremely unethical prenuptial agreement I’ll make you sign. You’ll be happy, angel, so happy for those first few years of marital bliss, you won’t have a clue what’s coming. Then, when your guard is down, when you’re all comfortable and complacent that’s when I’ll strike. BAM! You won’t know what to do when I serve the papers. You’ll beg me for another chance, offer to change, suggest therapy, anything, but it’ll be too late. I’ll take you for everything, angel: the house, the car, half your book collection. I’ll tempt all your friends into siding with me, turn the kids against you -’

‘- We don’t have any children either,’ said Aziraphale. He seemed singularly unbothered by Crowley’s menacing tone, which Jocasta thought was fairly impressive. She’d only just met Crowley and she was already afraid of being on the wrong side of a breakup with him.

‘I’ll adopt seven of them with them for the express purpose of training them to act all dutiful and disappointed when they have to spend a weekend with you. It’ll eat you up inside, the loss, the loneliness, the pervasive sense of failure. By the time I’m done, you won’t just be divorced, you’ll be the Most Divorced. A broken, bitter shell of the person you used to be; a tragic has-been reduced to pathetic ranting online about supermarket adverts and shouting outside public toilets.’ ¹

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest, apparently satisfied with a threat well-made.

‘Really, my dear, there’s no need to get yourself so exercised about this,’ said Aziraphale. ‘If you’ll recall I was simply trying to help, since you apparently find yourself incapable of answering a simple question.’

‘You know as well as I do that I’ve had two jobs and they both ended badly,’ said Crowley. ‘And we can’t exactly mention either of them on the television.’

Jocasta looked at him carefully, wondering precisely what Crowley’s unbroadcastable occupations might be, and whether she could come up with a suitably euphemistic description. From the look of him sex worker and drug dealer seemed the most likely. Hmm. Leisure Services Professional, perhaps?’

‘Wait, I’ve got it! The very thing,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Influencer.’

‘Oh! Oh, yeah, that’s perfect.’ Crowley smiled, all plans to destroy Aziraphale heart and soul now apparently forgotten. ‘Well done, angel, that’s inspired.’

Aziraphale beamed, radiant as he basked in praise. Jocasta was slightly surprised that someone who looked so proper apparently knew no greater pleasure than getting an A in making up convincing lies for his boyfriend, but if working in TV had taught her anything it was that people are weird.

‘Influencer, lovely,’ Jocasta muttered as she updated her notes. Ordinarily she’d take some more details, not least because much of the Escape to the Country target audience had no idea what an influencer was. Today, though, she was just glad to have an answer at all, and wasn’t about to push her luck.

Crowley leant forward, addressing her in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You can use that on the show, I don’t mind, but the real answer is the one I told you in the first place.’ He winked, and inclined his head towards Aziraphale. ‘I make people ask so many questions about him.’

Jocasta didn’t doubt that, but given how late they were already running and the inherently chaotic nature of the couple in front of her she was planning to skip most of the usual questions and just stick to the brass tacks. ‘So, um, where did the two of you meet?’

‘Heaven.’

‘The nightclub?’

‘Obviously.’ Crowley’s grin had teeth. ‘I know, seems a bit unlikely doesn’t it? Truth be told, it was more his scene than mine. I got kicked out. Unruly behaviour.’

Yeah, Jocasta definitely wasn’t asking any follow-up questions about that.

‘We didn’t meet properly there,’ objected Aziraphale. ‘We only really got to know each other later, in E- er. In the Garden.’

The garden, right, Jocasta nodded, taking “garden” to mean “behind the bushes on Hampstead Heath”. Her mood softened; hanging around cruising spots can’t have been easy for the kindly gent in front of her, but things had been rough for old school queers, hadn’t they? They didn’t have the apps back then. ² And the two of them had obviously made a go of things, there was something quite sweet about that. Hopeful, even.

‘I see you have an interest in horticulture,’ she said, hoping to move the conversation onto safer ground. ‘You’re looking for a property with a decent garden, possibly a greenhouse?’

‘At least an acre,’ said Crowley. ‘Ideally with an established orchard.’

It was, as it turned out, the only requirement the two of them agreed on, with the exception of an absolute need for a decent wine cellar. Oh, and all the impossible contradictions that every Escape to the Country participant asked for: good transport links but no road noise, A Project that isn’t too much work, remote location with all local amenities, sense of community but no actual neighbours. The usual.

Their opposite tastes were pretty common as well. Traditional versus modern, minimalist versus maximalist, artisan crafted versus avant-garde architecture. So common, in fact, that the show had a very simple formula for dealing with them. The first two houses would essentially be one for each half of the couple, with only minor concessions for the other’s tastes. The mystery house would either be a skilful combination of the two or some secret, third thing that somehow appealed to both. Jocasta liked these episodes; if the couple bought the mystery house it proved how clever she’d been to find it for them, if they bought one of the houses chosen to appeal to either one that gave a prurient insight into who called the shots in the relationship.

That was the theory at any rate. In practice no-one ever actually bought a house on Escape to the Country. Theoretically it was a house-hunting show, but people didn’t take part to buy a house. They came to look at houses and complain about them, as is the British way. Still, Jocasta liked to dream, maybe one day.

Preferences duly noted, Jocasta went through a brief overview of how the show worked, finishing up with some examples of what the mystery house might involve. ³

‘For the mystery house we like to do something a bit different,’ said Jocasta. ‘Converted buildings are popular - lots of barn conversions in the countryside, and then there’s converted chapels -’

‘- Absolutely not,’ said Aziraphale.

Jocasta blinked back at him, surprised. He’d seemed so mild-mannered up until now, but suddenly he spoke with fierce determination.

‘No churches, chapels, synagogues, or religious premises of any denomination,’ insisted Aziraphale. ‘No vicarages, manses, parsonages, monasteries, church halls, or anything of the sort.’

‘They won’t really be consecrated ground anymore, I’m sure it would be fine,’ suggested Crowley.

‘Doesn’t matter, it’s not worth the risk,’ said Aziraphale. He was really laying down the law on this one. ‘Crowley, I won’t hear of it.’

Crowley, who had spent most of the interview looking vaguely grumpy and trying a little too hard to seem cool, now shot Aziraphale a look of blatant devotion, like this was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard.

Jocasta frowned. ‘Religious trauma?’

‘Yeah.’ Crowley drew the sound out. ‘You could say that.’

The twisty, single-lane roads around rural Sussex weren’t built for speed, but the scarcity of pedestrians and other vehicles made up for the lack of straight lines. Crowley maintained a leisurely 80 mph en route to the first house, out of consideration for the angel’s delicate sensibilities.

‘What I don’t understand,’ he said, because he’d been wondering, ‘is how the Heaven you even knew what an influencer is?’

‘Beelzebub,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Apparently Gabriel let on that the Spanish Inquisition was one of ours, now they keep asking me to verify whether you earnt any of your commendations. They said you made quite a big deal out of inventing influencers.’

‘Yeah,’ said Crowley. ‘I, um, might have made that up. What did you tell Beelzebub?’

‘That you put months of diabolical plotting into influencers and they were all terribly wicked, just like you.’

Crowley swerved around a hedgehog and blew Aziraphale a kiss. He wasn’t accountable to Beelzebub anymore, of course, but he still appreciated the show of loyalty. ‘Thanks, angel. Knew I could count on you.’

‘Anytime,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Although I wouldn’t have to put so much effort into inventing an occupation for you if you weren’t so committed to the sin of sloth.’

‘Virtuous industry is your department,’ said Crowley. ‘How many jobs is it you’ve had now? Bookseller, bishop, garden designer, music tutor, knight…’

‘I like to keep busy!’

‘Guardian of the Eastern Gate.’ Crowley smirked. ‘Supreme Archangel.’

‘Really?’

‘Commander of the Heavenly Host.’

Aziraphale huffed. ‘Aren’t you tired of this yet?’

‘Nah. Give it another century or two,’ said Crowley. ‘Grand Chief Poobah of All Heaven.’

‘If you persist in referring to me by title, you might at least get it right,’ said Aziraphale primly. ‘That’s Disgraced Former Grand Chief Poobah of All Heaven.’

‘How could I forget?’ said Crowley. ‘Since I am your primary source of disgrace.’

‘Nonsense, my dear, you’re just driving,’ said Aziraphale. ‘In fact, it’s been hours since you did anything disgraceful at all.’

Crowley grinned. ‘Give me a minute. Bound to be a layby around here somewhere.’

Jocasta let out a sigh that was half-relief and half-annoyance as the fancy vintage car skidded to a halt and her house hunters finally showed their faces. Over an hour late, mind you, and there was only so much twittering to camera she could get out of Nicki Chapman without any input from the participants.

Aziraphale hurried along, at least having the decency to look embarrassed to have kept everyone waiting. Crowley followed at a more leisurely pace; he didn’t seem sorry to be holding things up; he actually looked quite pleased with himself.

‘Lovely to meet you.’ Nicki was greeting Aziraphale as Jocasta joined them. ‘I do hope we’ll find the perfect home for you and your husband.’

‘Oh, we’re not married,’ said Aziraphale as Crowley caught up with him.

Jocasta winced, remembering the peculiar way the pair of them had bickered about the subject of marriage at their pre-shoot interview. She hoped they weren’t about to kick off again.

‘Apologies, I should’ve said partner,’ said Nicki, ever the professional. ‘Or would you prefer boyfriend?’

‘Technically not either,’ said Crowley.

‘Long-term infernal nuisance would be most accurate,’ said Aziraphale, casting a sideways glance at Crowley. ‘But partner is fine, thank you.’

‘Charmed.’ Crowley extended a hand to Nicki. ‘I’m a big fan of your work.’ ⁴

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Nicki. ‘Shall we get to the house?’

Finally, thought Jocasta. Time to get things moving.

House number one was the traditional option. A grade I listed Tudor property with ample history and oodles of charm. Predictably enough, Aziraphale was entranced. Equally predictably, Crowley was not.

‘It’s a bit of a state if you ask me,’ he said. ‘All higgledy-piggledy and sagging in parts. Are you sure that roof’s safe?’

Nicki laughed nervously. ‘It’s lasted since the 16th Century, I think it’ll hold up till we finish filming at least.’

‘Really, my dear,’ muttered Aziraphale. ‘The passage of time leaves a mark. You must make allowances.’

‘There’s no excuse for falling apart after just a few centuries,’ said Crowley. ‘Some of us have standards.’

Aziraphale rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to respond, choosing to hurry after Nicki instead, eager to see more. Once inside, the pattern continued. Aziraphale was delighted by the inglenook fireplaces, leaded windows, and period oak beams. By the time they reached the panelled library he was cooing so much he resembled an oversized beige dove. Every new detail, from the roll top bath to the carved Tudor Rose provoked a fresh gasp of delight, rendering him incapable of speech beyond repeated exclamations of ‘Oh, Crowley, look.’

Oh, Crowley looked rather less impressed, grousing about uneven floors, dingy corners, and ceilings so low he was bound to knock himself out. ⁵ He found something to complain about in every room, though he grudgingly admitted that the wine cellar was “adequate” and almost approved of the garage.

‘A fitting space for a classic car,’ said Nicki. ‘And very spacious, plenty of room for additional vehicles.’

‘Perhaps we should get you your own car, angel. Something that would actually suit yellow. A Mini perhaps,’ said Crowley. ‘Or a Volkswagen Beetle. A Fiat 500.’

From the way he spoke, each suggestion was clearly meant as an increasingly cutting insult, but Aziraphale was unperturbed. ‘Don’t let the Bentley hear you talking about other cars, dearest. It would be such a shame if your little joke backfired on you.’

Chortling at his own little joke, Aziraphale turned and wandered off to admire the pergola covered walkway outside. Crowley pulled a face but dutifully followed him back in the direction of the main house.

‘This entrance leads directly into the beautiful contemporary kitchen, which was completely refurbished by the previous owners,’ explained Nicki. ‘Lots of lovely luxurious touches here - marble worktops, and bespoke carpentry by deVOL.’

‘You don’t say,’ muttered Aziraphale, quirking an eyebrow at Crowley. ‘It is very modern. Take a look at those light fittings. Just your style!’

‘Hmm.’ Crowley sniffed. ‘Is that an Aga?’

Perhaps you could use it to bake scones, thought Jocasta mutinously. She could feel a headache coming on.

‘It could really do with a bit more space,’ said Crowley as he prowled around the room which was, to be fair, only about one-and-a-half times the entire size of Jocasta’s shared flat. ‘Perhaps if you knocked through into the drawing room…’

He mimed an enthusiastic swing of a sledge hammer, ignoring Aziraphale’s distressed wince and very nearly barrelling straight into the camera. Entire shot ruined, great.

‘It is Grade I listed,’ Jocasta reminded him as the camera crew re-arranged themselves. ‘You might struggle to get the relevant consents.’

Crowley gave her the sort of bemused shrug that can only be performed by the sort of people who genuinely believe, on a molecular level, that rules don’t apply to them. She wondered if there was perhaps a bit less to him than met the eye and that, for all his artfully posed hints of a dangerous or even criminal past, his jobless wealth was just a good old-fashioned silver spoon. ⁶

This was the worst part of her job - well, apart from the tedium and the fact that her own mother had stopped boasting about her daughter at the BBC in favour of quietly admitting to one who worked in daytime telly - even when participants seemed interesting or charming, at heart they were all overly demanding privileged little shits who kept finding ever more depressing ways of getting right on her tits.

Although the other one, wotsit - Mr Fell - how did she keep forgetting his first name? - was ever so sweet and faultlessly polite. A bit scatty perhaps but he did remember Jocasta’s name, so she supposed she shouldn’t judge. She gave Nicki the nod to move the “you have a look round by yourselves while we set up the final shot on the front lawn” bit and pulled out her notebook to review the schedule for the next house.

#

The back garden was bigger than anyone needed, despite of Crowley’s vexatious complaints about the lack of space for a goat pen or yurts. It was more like gardens, really, and Jocasta was having trouble finding her errant participants in any of them.

Having drawn a blank in the walled kitchen garden, the well-established rose garden, and the manicured lawns, she made her way past clipped hedges to the grove at the edge of the property. The grove was a little wilder than the rest of the garden, containing an irregular collection of veteran fruit trees.

Aziraphale leant against the trunk of an old apple tree, face lit up by dappled sunlight and joy as he gazed at Crowley. He was saying something, voice too soft to be heard by anyone but Crowley, who laughed and moved in closer.

Jocasta paused, uncertain. There really wasn’t time for all this sort of… malarkey, and it was hardly an appropriate place. But there was something so sweet about the besotted expression on Crowley’s face that made her hesitate, reluctant to interrupt their quiet intimacy. Crowley pressed soft kisses to Aziraphale’s forehead, cheek, the curve of his neck. He stroked Aziraphale’s shoulders, his chest, the soft curve of his belly. He moved gently, slowly, and ever lower…

‘Right, hello, yes, come along - er, time to get going,’ Jocasta yelled, waving her arms and doing her best not to look at anything. ‘Back to the house, chop-chop.’

#

‘Now for the fun bit, guess the price,’ said Nicki. She smiled and turned towards Aziraphale. ‘I think you took a real shine to this property, so perhaps you should go first. What do you think the asking price is?’

‘Oh, gosh, really, that’s a tough one,’ said Aziraphale. He twisted his hands, looking excessively flustered considering the low stakes of the question. ‘Well, there certainly were a lot of rooms and they were all jolly nice. So several thousand at least. Hundreds of thousands! Or millions, even. Oh, I don’t know!’

‘£2.25 million,’ said Crowley, with the calm, collected confidence of someone who isn’t guessing.

‘Impressive,’ said Nicki. ‘That’s exactly right.’

‘Asking price, that is,’ continued Crowley. ‘They’ll accept 2.1 once the survey shows traces of Japanese Knotweed behind the shed.’

Nicki frowned at him. ‘Did you see Japanese Knotweed?’

‘Not first-hand, no,’ said Crowley. He grinned. ‘Just, you know. Hypothetically.’

Aziraphale fixed him with a very disapproving glare.

‘CUT!’ shouted Jocasta. ‘That’s enough. Let’s get to house two.’

The second house was chosen to appeal to Crowley’s preferences. Built for drama, it was positioned in such a way that it appeared perilously close to the edge of the Seven Sisters chalk cliffs. All concrete and glass, it seemed to glow menacingly in the pale afternoon sunlight.

‘Ready to roll as soon as they pull up?’ Jocasta checked in with the camera crew. ‘I reckon we want reaction shots from both of them.’

‘Oh dear lord,’ said Aziraphale, looking up at the house in dismay. ‘Is that really a residential property? It looks rather more like some sort of industrial storage.’

Crowley didn’t disappoint. ‘Oh - oh, now we’re talking!’ he said, bounding up the front path, all liquid limbs and swagger. ‘Look at that. It’s gorgeous.’

‘Architect-designed,’ Jocasta told them. ‘It’s one of a kind. Completely unique.’

‘You don’t say,’ said Aziraphale.

‘Clever, clever humans,’ said Crowley, somewhat bizarrely. ‘Lovely, clever inventions. How do they think of these things?’

Aziraphale’s lips thinned to the point of near invisibility. ‘How, indeed.’

‘We’re a bit pushed for time, so Nicki’ll meet you inside for the tour,’ explained Jocasta. She was feeling very pleased - strong reactions always made for good content, especially when the property was as genuinely remarkable as this one. ‘Shall we get cracking?’

Inside Nicki introduced the floor-to-ceiling windows, exposed pipework, and starkly dramatic custom light fittings to the couple and the camera. Crowley was fascinated, while Aziraphale gave every indication that he was struggling to maintain his composure in the face of increasing provocation.

‘What are those plastic lumps on the wall for?’ he asked.

‘They’re climbing holds,’ said Nicki. ‘The current owners have kids. I think this is their playroom.’

Jocasta privately thought that carrying the whole ‘nuclear bunker’ aesthetic into the playroom was taking things a bit far, but it wasn’t her place to judge. Well, not out loud at any rate.

‘Practising rock climbing indoors, what will they think of next?’ Crowley shook his head, impressed. ‘Is that the kitchen through there?’

The kitchen was a couple of steps down, dark and imposing. The walls were Vantablack dark, and the room was dominated by a vast stainless steel island. Only the sleek induction hob and imposing wall-mounted knife rack gave away that it was a kitchen. There was no sign of the usual business of a kitchen - no kettle, breadbin, or dish rack, and certainly no novelty fridge magnets holding up shopping lists and leaflets from the council about bin day.

‘How intriguing,’ said Aziraphale, glancing around in cautious distaste. ‘I’ve never seen a mortuary inside a domestic property before.’

‘Isn’t it just?’ Crowley grinned. ‘You could slap a cadaver right down and get to work.’

Aziraphale paled. ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised.’

‘Now this is unusual,’ said Nicki, guiding them on, ‘there’s an enclosed walkway leading to the greenhouse.’

The greenhouse was, like the rest of the house, severely modern. Instead of the usual grid of tiny windows in narrow frames, it was like a geometric rendering of an ancient tree. Constructed out of imposing steel trunks and branches with wide glass panels it sprawled, in tessellated polygons, the entire length of the garden. It was warm and the air smelt rich with loam.

‘Oh. Oh, this is actually rather lovely.’ Aziraphale seemed surprised, but pleased to have found part of the house that didn’t distress him.

‘Hmm.’ Crowley looked thoughtful, considering each plant with a critical eye. They were, as far as Jocasta could tell, in perfect condition, lush and verdant, but if one of them had a flaw Crowley was bound to spot it. He prowled the length of the greenhouse like a serpentine sergeant major carrying out an inspection.

‘I’m sure your plants would do splendidly somewhere like this,’ suggested Aziraphale. ‘You might not have to be so harsh with them. That would be nice, wouldn’t it, dear?’ ⁷

‘Might be a bit too nice,’ said Crowley. ‘I shouldn’t like to spoil them.’

Aziraphale inhaled the scent of an orchid and smiled up at Crowley. ‘A little bit of spoiling isn't so bad, is it?’ It was possible he was batting his eyelashes, although the camera angle wasn’t quite right to be certain.

Crowley grinned back at him. ‘Dangerous business. Start out with a little indulgence, and soon they’ll come to expect it. Before you know what’s happened you’re dancing attendance to a spoilt monster with no-one to blame but yourself for catering to their every whim in the first place.’

‘Gracious.’ Aziraphale’s expression was mild. ‘Anyone would think you had experience of such matters.’

‘Creating a rod for my own back? Not making that mistake again, angel.’

Nicki coughed and stepped forward, pointing out the views of rolling countryside and chalk cliffs on either side of the greenhouse. Well, someone had to keep things safe for daytime television.

‘Now that’s just the thing,’ said Crowley, indicating the jagged cliff edge just a few metres away. ‘Very useful.’

‘Useful for what?’

‘Discipline,’ explained Crowley. ‘All very well to cosset the plants in here, but they need to know what happens if they fail to flourish. Displease me and they’ll find themselves out there on the naughty step.’

‘Wicked creature,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I ought to put you on the naughty step.’

Crowley waggled his eyebrows. ‘Promises, promises. Shall we look upstairs?’

The master bedroom maintained the air of a highly polished multi-storey carpark, though the views from the oversized windows compensated for the dismal decor.

‘I suppose, with a lick of paint to brighten things up, it might have potential,’ said Aziraphale, making a brave bid for positivity. ‘Some nice rugs, perhaps a sofa. Curtains, of course.’

‘Scatter cushions, a pouffe, an antique quilt or two,’ said Crowley. ‘Why stop at soft furnishings? Chuck in a Belle Époque armoire, occasional tables, and of course we can’t forget wall-to-wall bookcases.’

‘I should think at least a modest bookcase is a given, my dear.’

‘And an extensive pile of bric-a-brac, finished off with a generous coating of dust.’

Aziraphale scowled and turned away. Yeah, time to intervene, Jocasta decided. Some gentle bickering was fine on Escape to the Country, screaming rows not so much. This wasn’t Channel 4. She gestured at Nicki to step in.

‘Now there is a full en-suite, but I think this is rather special,’ said Nicki, gesturing towards the oversized bath tub at the far end of the room. ‘Deep enough to soak up to your chin, and with these massive windows all around you’ll have a glorious view of the countryside.’

Politely, Aziraphale wandered over to take a look. ‘It does seem very luxurious.’

He was quite taken with it, peering across the tub and out at the rolling countryside beyond. Crowley crossed the room to stand behind him, muttering something that caused Aziraphale to sigh and wriggle happily. The soundman stepped toward, boom ready, but Jocasta stopped him - no point picking up dialogue that wasn’t fit for public broadcast. ⁸

#

Back outside, Aziraphale bemoaned the house’s isolated location - ‘I’d hoped to be able to take a stroll to the shops. Or the Post Office!’ he said, prompting grumbles from Crowley about who uses the Post Office anyway - and fretted about coastal erosion. Jocasta suspected he’d honestly be relieved if the cliff crumbled and the entire property fell into the sea.

‘So, guess the price,’ said Nicki when they were assembled on the front steps. ‘Anthony, you were spot-on last time, can you do as well again?’

‘£1.95 million,’ said Crowley, not even pretending to stop and think about it. He didn’t elaborate either.

Nicki turned to Aziraphale. ‘He sounds very confident. Have you got a better guess?’

‘I doubt that’s possible,’ said Aziraphale, with a disapproving glance at Crowley. ‘I shouldn’t like to pay that much, though. I’ll say… one point eight.’

He said it carefully, sounding deliberately ambiguous as to whether he meant 1.8 million or 1.8 pounds. It scarcely mattered, since Crowley had already guessed the price exactly.

#

‘That’s it for today,’ said Jocasta, glad that the large glass of Sauvignon with her name was a step closer. ‘Tomorrow we’ve arranged some activities - meet some locals, take part in a community activity, that sort of thing - and then on Monday it’s everyone’s favourite: the mystery house.’

‘I must say, I’m rather looking forward to exploring tomorrow,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I want to have a good feel of the area -’

‘ - it’s get a feel for the area, angel,’ Crowley corrected him.

Aziraphale waved him off and continued, unperturbed. ‘Hopefully meet some friendly faces. Perhaps our future neighbours!’

Jocasta smiled at him indulgently. He might be fussy and demanding, but in his happier moments he was like a labrador puppy in the shape of a middle-aged man. ‘Who knows? I hope you enjoy it anyway.’

‘I’m sure we will,’ said Aziraphale. ‘And I’m jolly excited about the final house as well. A mystery! How intriguing.’

‘Yes,’ Crowley agreed slowly. ‘Whatever will you come up with? A treehouse? Converted water mill? An underground eco lodge perhaps?’

‘Aha, no clues,’ said Jocasta. ‘Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise!’

Crowley’s smile was arch and predatory, like he knew something. ‘I’m sure you won’t disappoint.’

Jocasta forced another smile as she bid them goodbye, before watching as they walked, hand-in-hand, along the long path and too many steps to where Crowley had parked on the road. Technically she hadn’t quite got the mystery house sorted. Finding something that appealed to a couple who seemed to have nothing in common except each other was a challenge.

Still, it was a challenge she needed to meet if she expected to have any sort of a career in television. It was just a house. If she couldn’t manage that then, nevermind Panorama, she’d be lucky to find work making shows about flea markets or the day-to-day work of Environmental Health Officers.

The “local flavour” segment was to take place at a rural arts centre in one of the larger market towns. Aziraphale was looking forward to learning something new - and perhaps earning a little certificate! - especially in Crowley’s company. He’d never had much luck getting Crowley to join in any of his hobbies, but he lived in hope.

‘Excited, angel?’ asked Crowley. ‘Only you could get so worked up over a spot of basket weaving.’

‘They don’t just do basket weaving,’ said Aziraphale. ‘There’s spinning, dry stone walling, leatherwork, all sorts of things! Perhaps you’ll find something that interests you?’

‘Nah, you’re alright, angel, I’ve made my peace with the twenty-first century,’ said Crowley. ‘Don’t mind watching you, though.’

Aziraphale flushed. Crowley could be a very appreciative audience. Although - ‘I rather think all eyes might be on you, my dear, if you’re planning to turn up like that,’ he said. ‘You do look lovely, of course, but the film crew might be concerned about continuity given the, uh, change in your appearance.’

They came to a red light and just for once Crowley decided to stop for it. She - yeah, that was the change - turned to look at Aziraphale, all faux-innocence. ‘No-one said I wasn’t allowed to wear a dress.’

‘The dress isn’t a problem,’ said Aziraphale. He was rather keen on the way the slinky little black number clung to Crowley’s lithe body. ‘Humans are becoming more reasonable about such matters, only the most frightful boor would get upset about a dress,’ he said. ‘But they are only human and might struggle to understand how you could make such a… fundamental change to your corporation so quickly.’

‘Fundamental.’ Crowley laughed as she accelerated. ‘That’s a new word for them. You can just say tits, you know. ‘You didn’t mind them so much this morning when you were -’

‘ - Crowley! Mind out for that perambulator,’ Aziraphale squawked, indicating a stationery pram in the middle of the pavement, some fifty metres away, on the far side of the road and in the capable hands of at least two adults.

Crowley slowed to sixty. ‘You worry too much, angel,’ she said, raising a hand to wiggle her fingers. ‘Nevermind the cameras, I’ll make sure the humans don’t notice a thing.’

‘If you’re sure…’

‘I’m sure,’ insisted Crowley. ‘Unless you don’t like me like this.’

‘You’ve always been changeable, and you know very well I adore every version of you,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Fishing for compliments is the sin of pride, wicked serpent.’

‘What about when I am a wicked serpent?’ asked Crowley. ‘Do you like me then?’

‘Yes, dear, you’re the prettiest snake,’ said Aziraphale with exaggerated patience. ‘Is that what you want to hear?’

But Crowley was on a roll. She leant toward Aziraphale, eyes wide and pleading. ‘Would you still love me if I was an aardvark?’

Aziraphale made a show of considering the question. ‘You know, I don’t think I would,’ he said at last. ‘I’m only attracted to demons.’

‘Oi, what do you mean demons, plural?’

‘Really, darling, your egoism is slipping.’ Aziraphale tutted. ‘You can’t possibly require reassurance that I find you more appealing than Dagon. More alluring than Hastur.’

Crowley screwed up her nose. OK, not stinking of fish or poo wasn’t exactly a high bar to pass. ‘You know, a supportive partner would gloss over the whole lack of competition thing and focus on telling me I’m the hottest thing out of Hell.’

‘Yes, I’m sure they would. Rather unfortunate that you got stuck with me instead,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Now be a dear and find somewhere to park. I’d like to take a little stroll before we call in at the arts centre.’

Crowley grumbled about it, but of course did exactly as the angel asked.

They arrived at the rural arts centre a little over twenty minutes late, which was fine by Jocasta, who’d asked them to arrive half-an-hour before the actual start time. She’d brought a minimal crew, and had already rounded up a few pillars of the community types for vox pops about the joys of life in the South Downs. (Largely centred around walking, which Jocasta couldn’t fathom. She didn’t mind travelling on foot, but just walking for the sake of it not to get somewhere? Seemed weird. Still, that was rich people for you; they couldn’t get enough of all sorts of pointless shit.)

Jocasta greeted Aziraphale warmly, but stumbled when she turned to Crowley. Strange, why had she been expecting…

‘Something the matter?’ asked Crowley.

‘Sorry, no, um…’ Jocasta flushed. She couldn’t exactly say oops, I could’ve sworn you were a dude yesterday now, could she? ‘Don’t mind me, I’ve not had my coffee yet.’

Crowley smiled brightly. ‘I get it. I’m a completely different person uncaffeinated myself.’

It was nice of her to be so understanding; Jocasta couldn’t understand why Aziraphale gave Crowley such a dirty look, although Crowley seemed to find that amusing too. Whatever, Jocasta had filming to do, more houses to look at, and her own impending mental collapse to attend to, she wasn’t going to worry about that. Keen to get on, she ushered both of them inside.

The tour of the centre was straightforward, with Aziraphale cooing enthusiastically over everything from spoon carving to corn dolly making, while Crowley drifted behind with barely-polite indifference. She was confused by the scarecrow construction club (‘just tell the crows not to eat your crops… tell them properly’) and briefly intrigued by needle felting (she liked the part about repeatedly stabbing a ball of fluff, but was disappointed that the end result was a little squirrel figure).

Finally, Jocasta introduced the pair to Verity from the floristry group.

‘I hear you’re going to be joining our little group, Mr Fell? How lovely. We’re always eager for new blood,’ said Verity, all welcoming smiles and twinkling eyes. She was a slight, sparrow-like woman in her sixties, with sensible shoes and faded henna in her hair. ‘We’ve got a little friendly competition going: the best arrangement will go on display in reception.’

‘Goodness, I was just hoping to “give it a go” as it were,’ said Aziraphale, looking a little flustered. ‘Being as how I’m a complete novice, I doubt I’m quite up to competition standard just yet.’

‘Oh hush now, with your talented hands you’re bound to be a natural,’ Crowley assured him. She cast a knowing smile at Verity. ‘You wouldn’t believe what he can do with his fingers. Comes of his previous career.’

Verity tilted her head, confused. Jocasta ground her teeth and counted to ten - as humans do - in her head.

‘Repairing antiquarian books,’ explained Crowley, in a tone of innocence which was wholly insincere. ‘Requires a delicate touch.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’ Verity laughed nervously. ‘A steady hand is certainly a bonus. And will you be joining us as well, Mrs Crowley? Er, Miss… or Ms?’

‘Technically it’s doctor ⁹, but just call me Crowley. All my friends do,’ said Crowley. ‘And thank you, I’m happy just to watch Aziraphale and offer immoral support.’

‘Moral support, surely?’

Crowley hummed. ‘That too.’

#

As it turned out, Aziraphale wasn’t bad at flower arranging. He wasn’t exactly good at it either, but that didn’t stop Crowley gazing at him like he was some sort of virtuoso. She had her doubts about Verity’s claim that the competition was just light-hearted fun. The rest of the floristry group all acted nice enough, but Crowley was pretty sure most of them would shank their own grandchildren with rusty secateurs for a shot at victory.

Mrs Moyse, a ruddy-faced retired PE teacher deployed her rugby prop forward skills to shove Aziraphale aside and grab the nicest-looking lilies. Crowley glared at the flowers until the stems buckled and the petals fell, much to Mrs Moyse’s frustrated annoyance. Next to her sat Old Burt, who smelt of onions and complained endlessly about the local children, boasting that he’d easily have taught the “little shits” a lesson if only his daughter hadn’t found his old shotgun and handed it in to the police. How ironic that a sudden and acute dose of diarrhoea sent him running to the toilets for the remainder of the morning.

Across from them Mrs Crankshaw agreed with Burt about unruly children (whose crimes included laughter and vandalising pavements with chalk rainbows), and further opined that it was all the result of too many foreigners and not enough corporal punishment. If she hadn’t riled herself up about it so much, she mightn’t have knocked her own display to the ground, ruining it completely. Her neighbour, Miss Butters, was far less offensive and always kept an emergency curlywurly in her handbag in case she encountered a hungry child. Safe from demonic intervention, the main threat to her arrangement was the fact that she’d been on the gin since 8:30 a.m. and was by now overdue for a little snooze.

Miss Butters wasn’t the only member of the group to be too inebriated to pose much of a challenge, Crowley was surprised - but just a tiny bit impressed - to note. Fair play to them, if Crowley only got out the house for competitive flower arranging she’d want to be drunk for it too. A few other participants suffered a random selection of unfortunate mishaps, and a couple more were simply too incompetent, possibly arthritic, to stand much of a chance of winning anyway.

The angel’s only real competition was Maureen, who shared his table. Maureen had deft hands and a good eye; the arrangement she was putting together was rather too fussy and pastel for Crowley’s tastes, but it had a sort of traditional charm. It was… nice. Worse, Maureen was nice. She chatted happily with Aziraphale, offering him tips about trimming the thorns and showed him how to repair a damaged stem with wire. She gave him plenty of encouragement and some of her foliage. Even Crowley, with her millennia experience of seeing the worst in people, couldn’t find anything sabotage-worthy about her.

Although… kind of rude of her to leave her phone on silent when her daughter was trying to get through.

‘So sorry, I thought I’d turned it off… Oh, it’s Chloe, I’d better… please excuse me.’ Maureen answered her phone, scurrying to the back of the room and waving apologetically as she went. ‘Darling, is everything all right? Oh… Oh, really? That’s wonderful! Congratulations… Yes, yes of course, I’ll come now… no bother at all… Yes, next train to Brighton, I’ll call you from the station. Give my love to Zosia.’

Maureen packed up in a hurry, beaming as she apologised for running off but she simply had to rush to go and celebrate her daughter’s engagement. Miss Butters and the other drunks cheered her on, while Verity offered congratulations and a discount on the bridal bouquets. Aziraphale, sentimental bastard of an angel, beamed with so much soppy joy anyone would think it was his own daughter about to wed.

‘Well done,’ said Verity, awarding Aziraphale first place. ‘I hope you’ll join us again if you move to the area. You’re obviously a natural.’

‘Beginner’s luck, I’m sure,’ said Aziraphale, blushing. ‘I really couldn’t have managed without Maureen’s help. Do thank her for me, please.’

‘I will, but you needn’t be so modest,’ said Verity, holding Aziraphale’s floral arrangement up to admire it. ‘This will look very fine on reception.’

Aziraphale’s glance flickered over to Crowley who, bored now there was no competition to observe, was lounging across an uncomfortable plastic chair and scrolling through her phone. ‘Oh, the reception, yes of course. I’d forgotten about that. I really didn’t expect to win.’

‘I see.’ Verity smiled indulgently. ‘You know, it’s really the members’ job to decorate the reception, and you are our guest today. You take this, I’ll finish up Maureen’s arrangement and we’ll use that for the display.’

‘Well, if you’re sure that’s quite alright.’

‘Perfectly sure.’ Verity passed the flowers back to Aziraphale. ‘Perhaps you’d like to offer them as a gift to your lady friend.’

‘I would, rather,’ admitted Aziraphale. ‘Although… probably best if you don’t let her hear you calling her that.’

Crowley accepted the gift with enthusiastic thanks. Flowers weren’t generally her preference but Aziraphale had made this. Besides, it wasn’t a frou-frou bouquet; the arrangement contained a selection of ferns, in dark and lush shades of green, illuminated by white blooms - roses, tulips, and lily of the valley. The construction wasn’t the sturdiest and a couple of the flowers were a bit squashed, but Crowley had nothing but praise.

‘You really like it?’ said Aziraphale. ‘Are you sure? You’re not just saying that to be -’

‘ - Nice? Kind? Angel, don’t spoil things by insulting me,’ said Crowley. She gestured to a nearby storeroom. ‘Still, if you’re in need of a little reassurance… perhaps I could show you how grateful I am.’

Smiling, Aziraphale allowed her to lead him by the hand into the storeroom. ‘Well, my dear, I’m sure I could be persuaded…’

It was barely a week later that the complaint - about upset paint pots and disruption to the seniors’ Tai Chi class - landed in Jocasta’s inbox. Sent to her direct, not even the generic email address. She really ought to reply or escalate… there was a procedure, she was sure it existed even if she’d never bothered to read it. But… oops, her hand slipped and the email from the manager of the rural arts centre fell into her junk mail. Shame.

The mystery house. At last. Jocasta had done the work, and she was certain she’d pulled a blinder. The property was Art Deco, traditional enough to have a bit of history yet modern enough to be striking. Plenty of space for the home businesses that Jocasta’s pretty sure they’re winding her up about (no way have either of those dyed-in-the-wool Londoners ever got milk out of a goat, nevermind made cheese with it). Established trees muffled noise from the excellent transport links and shielded the house from any pesky neighbours, and there was a pub, corner shop, and even a post office within walking distance. In short, it answered all of Crowley and Aziraphale’s contradictory demands.

Jocasta was proud of having found something that neither of the picky pair could object to. Oh, she wasn’t about to get carried away enough to think they might do something extreme like actually buy the house, but she was quietly confident that they’d at least agree that it was a good house.

They agreed alright. They both hated it.

‘Here we are, the mystery house,’ said Nicki as she greeted them on the front steps. ‘As you might have guessed, the location is the first surprise. A little less rural, we’re on the outskirts of the coastal resort town of Worthing.’

‘The town of Worthing,’ said Aziraphale rather pointedly. ‘Not the countryside.’

‘Only a small town, really, very quiet. It’s still part of the South Downs National Park,’ said Nicki. Her smile faltered under Aziraphale’s disapproving glare. ‘Shall we take a look inside?’

Jocasta gestured for the camera crew to follow as she trudged after them in stony silence. How silly of her to think anything would ever go right at all.

‘Are those recessed LED spotlights?’ said Crowley, ignoring the original panelling and beautiful parquet flooring in favour of pointing at the ceiling. ‘Bit tacky.’

‘I’m sure a good electrician could change that easily enough,’ said Nicki. ‘You did say you didn’t mind doing a bit of work?’

Aziraphale sniffed. ‘For the right property.’

And so it went on: a parade of niggles and complaints about every aspect of the house, even the things they’d requested. Aziraphale grumbled that a real fire - which had been #5 on his wishlist - wasn’t worth the bother. Crowley, having sneered at the Aga in the first house, opined that the induction hob was totally out of keeping and that a range cooker would be more appropriate. Every room was too big or too small, too bright or dingy, and the ceilings were all completely the wrong height. The five bedrooms - they’d insisted on a minimum of four - were far too many.

‘We’d hardly want to encourage overnight guests,’ said Aziraphale, and Crowley nodded along fervently.

Jocasta was at her wits’ end. She’d been so sure it was perfect, but they didn’t like anything at all. She must be missing something, but for the life of her she couldn’t guess what.

‘Let’s take a break,’ she said. ‘We’ll come back to the sunroom, outbuildings and garden after, OK?’

Aziraphale pulled Crowley aside while Jocasta attempted to regather the fraying remnants of her sanity. He looked worried. ‘My dear, I think maybe we’re being a tad harsh about the house.’

‘What?’ Crowley grimaced. ‘Angel, we are not moving to Worthing.’

‘Well, obvious -’

‘Have you forgotten the 17th Century? That idiot who thought he was the next John Dee trying to evoke you…’

‘I’m hardly likely to forget,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Dashed nearly sprained a wing getting out of that one, very stupid man. Still, at least he wasn’t as persistent as the little band of Satanists who took a shine to you in the 1970s.’

Crowley made a face at the memory. Blessed pentagram-obsessed weirdos. ‘True, but neither of those were as bad as the aftermath of the Skeleton riot.’

‘I always thought the Skeleton Army was one of your better ideas,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Those Salvationists were getting out of hand, I really couldn’t be doing with all that temperance business. Although I wish they hadn’t thrown all those paint-filled eggs: ruined my second-best frock coat.’ ¹⁰

‘You were the one who complained about them throwing dead rats,’ said Crowley, a tad defensively. ‘I was thinking more about Sandalphon showing up.’

Aziraphale shuddered, a perfectly normal reaction to any mention of Sandalphon.

‘He was very rude to you,’ said Crowley.

‘Nevermind that, he tried to smite you.’

‘Yeah, well. Made a big song and dance about how you should’ve done it,’ said Crowley, grumpy with the resurgence of a centuries-old grudge. ‘He didn’t need to be such a wanker about it.’

It was an unpleasant memory for Aziraphale too, and his frown deepened. ‘I quite agree, and I have no intention of moving here, considering our history with the area. It’s unfortunate that we’ve made things rather difficult for the nice young lady from the BBC.’

He nodded towards Jocasta, who was stress-eating her way through a sharing bag of Maltesers, crunching each one with a degree of force that suggested she was doing it as an alternative to committing a violent crime.

‘She wants to count herself lucky I’ve retired,’ mused Crowley. ‘Plenty of wrath building up there - it would only take the slightest temptation and she’d cheerfully bludgeon either one of us to death.’

‘I’m sure she’s doing her best. It might help if you didn’t keep winding her up,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Changing your corporation every other day can be very confusing for humans, I dread to think how it’s impacting on filming.’

Crowley - now back in his more usual human-male-with-a-hint-of-snake shape - just laughed. ‘Reckon she’s taking it in her stride actually. “Hi, you look… well” is a pretty good recovery for someone who wants to say “fuck, what happened to your tits?”’ he said. ‘Still, if you’re concerned, why don’t we call her over for a quick chat to see what she’s more confused about: my gender presentation or your first name, hm?’

‘There’s no need to be like that.’ Aziraphale scowled. ‘You know perfectly well I only meant to make it a bit less memorable.’

Still smiling, Crowley sidled a little closer, snatching up Aziraphale’s hand to lace their fingers together. ‘Don’t know your own strength, huh, angel?’

‘Oh hush, you absolute menace,’ said Aziraphale, holding steady as Crowley continued to lean into him. ‘I’m sure the telly people don’t want us getting frisky all the time anymore than they want constant complaining.’

‘Shouldn’t’ve invited us on if we’re not allowed to play to our strengths,’ muttered Crowley. ‘Fine, I’ll play nice and pretend this place isn’t the arsepimple of the South Coast. I’ll expect something wicked from you later to balance things out.’

‘Virtue is its own reward, my dear.’

‘For you, maybe,’ said Crowley. ‘I still prefer the Proverbs of Hell - to tempt a demon, offer a tempting reward. Like oral.’ ¹¹

Fortunately for Aziraphale, he was spared the effort of having to feign disapproval as Jocasta chose that exact moment to call them back to filming.

#

Jocasta was just having a very challenging afternoon. Very challenging life, to be honest. No Panorama, no Maltesers, and next to no decent material coming from her blasted house hunters.

They weren’t complaining any more, which ought to be a good thing. Only it wasn’t, because they were being so weird.

‘It’s very well glazed,’ says Crowley, of the greenhouse. OK, so it wasn’t fancy like the one at the second house, but still? Well glazed?

‘Indeed,’ agreed Aziraphale. ‘The warmth is most pleasant. One would hardly know we’re in Worthing at all!’

Nicki did her best to drum up some enthusiasm for the triple garage, already occupied by a Rolls. ‘Just the place for a classic car fan, yeah?’

‘They’ve done a lovely job of the guttering,’ Aziraphale cut in. ‘It is very spacious. Room for additional vehicles.’

‘Well, you want to always have at least one car on standby,’ said Crowley. ‘To make sure you can drive away from Worthing as soon as possible.’

Last - and by all means least - the garden room.

‘South-facing, so there’s lots of lovely sunshine from those big windows,’ said Nicki. ‘There’s underfloor heating too, to keep things nice and cosy in winter.’

‘It is very warm,’ said Aziraphale. He turned to Crowley and indicated a sunny spot near the window. ‘We could get a lovely big rock for you to curl up on right there. All these tropical plants, a bit of sunshine, it’d be like a walk-in vivarium!’

Nicki looked confused. ‘Vivarium?’

‘Oh, it’s a sex thing,’ Crowley told her, in a tone that suggested it was meant to be reassuring. ‘He has some very peculiar demands.’

‘Crowley!’

Ignoring Aziraphale’s waspish tone, Crowley shot Nicki a knowing look, the unspoken see what I mean? all too clear as he mouthed, ‘demanding.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to look around by yourselves now,’ said Nicki brightly, after a sufficient pause for editing. ‘We can meet back to guess the price after?’

When it came to it, they insisted on guessing the same asking price - which was exactly right of course. Crowley had to be cheating somehow, but now he wasn’t even being entertaining about it. Probably they should try for a retake, but none of the crew could muster up the enthusiasm to hang around a second longer. Time to call it a day.

Bugger Panorama. Jocasta was just about willing to see if they had any jobs going on Homes under the Hammer.

The sun was out when the day came for filming the final interview, perfect for some nice, picturesque shots of the pub garden and surrounding fields. Jocasta didn’t like to guess how the interview might go - it had been a rollercoaster - but hopefully Nicki would be able to wangle a you’ve certainly given us plenty to think about out of them and then the whole thing would be done.

Her heart sank when Aziraphale arrived by himself, but he cheerfully informed them that Crowley was making some calls and would be along in a jiffy. Aziraphale declined to be drawn on what Crowley was up to or how long a jiffy might last. He made himself comfortable on one of the nicer seats, exchanging polite chit-chat with Nicki and smiling patiently until Jocasta got the hint and fetched him a large sherry from the bar.

‘The first house,’ announced Crowley without preamble when he finally appeared and slunk down next to Aziraphale. It was sheer luck that the camera and sound were ready to catch him. ‘I’ve spoken to the agent. It’s all sorted.’

‘You’re buying the first house?’ said Nicki, surprised but professional enough not to demand what the fuck? which Jocasta admired. ‘You didn’t seem all that keen on it.’

Crowley shrugged. ‘Wonky, dilapidated old mess if you ask me,’ he said. ‘But he likes it, so…’

He nodded towards Aziraphale, who was gazing back at him with an expression of such intense devotion, it scarcely seemed suitable for daytime television. ‘Thank you,’ he said, breathless and giddy. ‘We could get a greenhouse like the one you liked.’

‘Already called the architects, angel.’

‘As for the house itself, if you wanted to make some changes, incorporate some of your style, that would only be fair,’ said Aziraphale. ‘You can have free rein to decorate all… well, at least some… the guest bedrooms at any rate. And the garage!’

‘Just make sure to dust at least once a year and leave me some clear surfaces,’ said Crowley, like he was trying to strike a hard bargain and hadn’t fully capitulated already. ‘And no leaving books on the stairs.’

Aziraphale, by now caught up with so many happy wriggles he was practically vibrating, simply looked amused. ‘Whatever you say, dear.’

‘Well, this is unexpected but a very pleasant surprise,’ said Nicki by way of conclusion. ‘Congratulations, and I hope you’ll both be very happy with your Escape to the Country.’

Afterwards, Aziraphale thanked Jocasta and the rest of the crew effusively, and even Crowley managed a genuine smile when he shook her hand. In spite of everything, Jocasta was pleased for them - they’d been incredibly annoying, even by Escape to the Country standards, but they were kind of sweet. And they’d bought a house, that was novelty in itself.

A fortnight later, Crowley picked up the keys while Aziraphale fussed over an enormous ring-binder full of fabric swatches, colour charts, and lists of local tradespeople. The agent, solicitor, surveyor, and removals company all remarked that was an extraordinarily quick turn around, but Crowley didn’t want to wait any longer and no-one was foolish enough to expect him to.

That same evening Jocasta got an email offering her a job she didn’t remember applying for on Dispatches. More responsibility, far more interesting, and a lot more money - if she was careful she might be able to splash out on a studio flat in zone 6 that was almost as large as Aziraphale’s second dressing room.

She knocked back the last of her wine and grinned. Might as well accept - Panorama wasn’t what it used to be anyway. Time for her to make her own escape.

It felt like a blessing.

SKIP FOOTNOTES

1. Author’s Crowley-inspired unethical life tip: should you find yourself with a husband and a need to keep him in line, occasional updates re Laurence Fox, Graham Linehan etc., may serve as a useful reminder of where his future lies if he pisses you off too much. return to text

2. Jocasta had a collection of apps, but still no girlfriend, boyfriend, nor even an adequate supply of batteries. return to text

3. The explanation was largely for Aziraphale’s benefit, as Crowley had already watched several series of Escape to the Country to research being the most annoying participant possible. return to text

4. If asked, Crowley he would claim was referring to Pop Idol. In truth he was actually far more interested in her coverage of The RHS Chelsea Flower Show. return to text

5. As if any ceiling beam would dare. return to text

6. Crowley did have as much money as he’d claimed on his application, largely acquired by (mostly) legitimate means, investing in the stock market back when he was pretending to be a yuppie. Despite the almost complete lack of financial understanding that went into making them, Crowley’s investments had done extraordinarily well. He’d invested heavily in Apple, for obvious reasons, and also Amazon - mostly to annoy Aziraphale by claiming he was supporting them for the angel’s benefit - someone had to keep customers out of bookshops. return to text

7. Privately Aziraphale felt that shouting at houseplants was the safest outlet for Crowley’s demonic urges so he didn’t really mind, but he knew Crowley would be disappointed if he didn’t seem at least a bit disapproving. return to text

8. The thing that got Aziraphale hot and bothered was actually the promise of 900 GSM Egyptian cotton bath sheets, but we can hardly blame Jocasta for being suspicious. return to text

9. Technically Crowley did hold a doctorate from the University of Padua, although technically she didn’t deserve it on account of having obtained the award by means of infernal wiles rather than doing any actual work. return to text

10. The author hasn’t found any evidence of infernal involvement, but the Skeleton Army was a real organisation and they did have a number of rucks with the Salvation Army, including one in Worthing. return to text

11. William Blake makes no reference to this particular saying: readers may decide for themselves whether to blame him or Crowley for the discrepancy.return to text

(back to footnotes)