Archive of Our Own

(May 1766)

Business concludes with a handshake and a smile, and if Timothy Hallewell feels a faint giddiness as the folio is briskly wrapped, he makes no mention of it.

“I wish you much happiness of your acquisition,” he says to his guest. “May it be a boon to your collection, Mister Fell.”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale rather absently, his eyes following the parcel as the valet gives a stiff bow and makes for the door. “Your man is reliable, is he?”

“Beyond any dispute.”

The slight chill in Hallewell’s voice brings Aziraphale back into the moment, and he offers a smile to thaw him—not his warmest, but more than enough. “Forgive me. This specific folio is of personal significance to me, beyond the augmenting of my collection. I thank you for your collaboration, sir.”

Mister Hallewell nods, satisfied. “You’ll stay for dinner, of course.”

Aziraphale hesitates. He is feeling guilty about the miracle that had been necessary to part the man from his first-edition folio of Macbeth; what’s more, he knows for a fact that Hallewell is in possession of three unmarried daughters (of an original six) and is known to be downright predatory in his attempts to foist them off upon unattached guests. On the other hand, Hallewell is also known to have a French cook.

“Several others dining tonight,” Hallewell is saying. “The Wetwoods, of course, we dine them twice a week at least. The widow Branthwaite has been making her rounds, and we’re up next. No bother, of course. Cantankerous old biddy, but a rapier wit. Oh, and the Pelhams, they’re in from Wiltshire for the summer and they’re bringing along the most intriguing guest. The Roving Gentleman. Have you heard of him?”

“Can’t say that I have,” mutters Aziraphale, edging toward the door and composing polite excuses in his mind.

“He apparently traverses incredible distances, but only on foot. Where he might actually live, Pelham hasn’t any idea. But they say that this fellow can walk in any weather and remain impeccably dressed when he arrives for dinner.”

“Fascinating.” Aziraphale takes a breath, but is cut off as Mr Hallewell breezes past him to lean out of the study doorway.

“Katherine,” he calls loudly across the front hall. “What’s the name of that Roving creature? Swanning?”

“Goshawk,” comes the reply from the depths of the house. “No—Ravensworth?”

“Er.” Struck by sudden realization, Aziraphale clears his throat. “It, ah, it wouldn’t happen to be Crowley, would it?”

“My dear sir!” Mister Hallewell turns toward him, beaming. “That is the very thing! Have you met the man?”

“Oh, once or twice.”

“Then it’s settled. You must dine with us, and make me an introduction. I collect these interesting people, you know. It’s my most diverting pastime.”

“I’m afraid I’m not dressed for dinner, Mister Hallewell. If it’s quite all right with you, I’ll just nip out to my lodging and change. But you may certainly expect me.”

“Oh, very well, if you must. Christopher, have the groom bring Mister Fell’s horse around.” He shakes a finger under Aziraphale’s nose. “But come straight on back, d’you hear? I shall be bitterly disappointed if I can’t show you off. Seven-thirty, sharp.”

“Plenty of time. If you’ll excuse me.”

He descends the front steps with a gracious nod to the groom, taking the reins. “Hello, lad,” he murmurs, scratching the horse right under the chin, where he likes it best. The gelding—a solid sixteen hands, pale gray with faint dappling over the withers and flanks—nudges Aziraphale’s shoulder, nibbling at him with velvety lips. “Now, none of that.” Aziraphale gently pushes the nose away, smiling as he swings up into the saddle. The gelding stands perfectly still, tame as a kitten; he has been Aziraphale’s mount for several years, and has become something more like a friend than a tool or even a pet.

Down the lane they go, at an easy trot. Marshmallow—though Aziraphale has never admitted the name to any human—responds to his lightest touch, seeming almost to anticipate his thoughts. They pass the graceful brick columns at the end of the lane.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asks. Marshmallow flicks an ear. “Good. I quite agree.”

And instead of turning left to follow the road…with a nudge of Aziraphale’s knees, Marshmallow crosses the broad track and descends the far slope, stepping delicately over the narrow ditch at the bottom and passing beneath the row of elms. Before them stretches several miles of empty, rolling hills, dotted with copses but largely unbroken grass.

It is a blustery, overcast afternoon, rather chilly for mid-May, but Aziraphale feels exhilarated. “Been a while,” he says quietly, using his fingers to comb out a tangle in Marshmallow’s mane. “Roving Gentleman, indeed. Shall I refuse to call him anything but that?”

Marshmallow lowers his head to rub his nose with a knee, and gives his neck a shake.

“Yes, you’re right. Best get a wiggle on, or he’ll be able to mock me, for being late. Off we go, lad.”

Marshmallow is too large and heavy to be particularly nimble, but he makes up for that in both eagerness and power. Down the gentle slope, and his trot transitions smoothly to a canter; Aziraphale leans forward, bracing his feet in the stirrups, grinning as he gives the gelding his lead. The wind ripples the grass like an ocean, the clouds are froth and shadow, the tails of his coat whip out behind him. “Fly,” Aziraphale cries, and Marshmallow stretches into a thundering gallop.

He is all awhirl when they arrive at the inn, and time is short, but he takes Marshmallow to the stable himself. “Won’t be a moment,” he assures the gelding over the stall door, and—after glancing up and down the aisle—flicks his wrist; Marshmallow shivers as the miracle banishes the lather and splatter of their mad dash. “Sorry,” Aziraphale whispers, “but it was either you or me, and I prefer the use of a mirror.”

It is a country inn, only two stories, but perfectly adequate; he has kept a private room there for about a month. Aziraphale jogs up the steps, and is very pleased to see that the wrapped folio has been safely delivered to his room. He gently removes it to the small compartment within his traveling trunk and locks it before washing his hands and face in the basin and running a comb through his hair. The breeches, he thinks, will do nicely, but perhaps the gold-brocade waistcoat and the ivory velvet? But then he frowns at his reflection—too formal. Looks like he’s trying too hard, and that won’t do at all. The wool coat, then, in the pale blue—ah yes, perfect. The gold buttons complement the brocade, but in a way that almost seems incidental.

He gives his boots a quick polish, his hat a quick brush, and himself a final approving glance in the mirror before making a much more stately descent.

“Now don’t you dare slobber on this coat,” he warns Marshmallow, leading him out to the road. There is a mounting block, and it would be more strictly proper and gentlemanly to make use of it, but it is more fun to mount from the ground—the creak of leather as the saddle shifts, the giddy sense of height as the ground falls away, the pride of having completed what always feels like a minor acrobatic trick. They take the road back toward Hallewell’s estate as the evening draws in, mostly at a trot, though Aziraphale does allow Marshmallow a quarter-mile canter down a long straightaway shaded by massive oaks.

He is laughing as he reins the gelding in; Marshmallow does the funny little jig that means that he would like to keep going, but “No,” the angel insists, “I already nearly lost my hat!” and with a snort from Marshmallow they continue on more sedately, turning in at the brick columns just in time to see a carriage pulling away from the steps and several figures moving toward the house.

Even from afar, even in silhouette, Aziraphale knows the figure on the far left. “Well, let’s at least make a bit of an impression,” he murmurs, and squeezes with his knees. Not a wild spree this time, just a bold, confident, rolling canter that eats the distance. The figures turn at the sound of the hooves, and Aziraphale has the deep satisfaction of watching Crowley recognize him as he pulls to a stop in a spray of gravel. Smooth dismount, quick pat on Marshmallow’s neck, avoiding the lips that would absolutely slobber on the wool if given the chance, handing the reins to the groom, climbing the steps.

He introduces himself to the Pelhams, and allows them to introduce him to their guest.

Coat of dark wine without embellishment, black tie carelessly knotted, black satin waistcoat. Simple, but somehow not plain—it is in the way that he wears them, Aziraphale thinks, a natural grace that elevates the simplicity. His own brocade suddenly feels pretentious. He masks this vague discomfort with a smile. “Mister Crowley! How unexpected.”

“Oh, do you two know each other?” Louisa Pelham looks delighted.

“We are acquainted,” says Crowley, inclining his head. “Well met, Mister Fell.”

Aziraphale studiously ignores the warm thrill in the region of his stomach at the sound of that voice. Crowley’s eyes are hidden, even in the deepening twilight, but his chin is high and Aziraphale can tell that he is pleased, which in turn pleases him.

Funny to have a demon for a friend, he thinks, as they ascend the steps to the front door, side-by-side behind the Pelhams. He feels guilty to admit that, even only within his own head, but he has watched human friendships for long enough to know what this is, and it would be more dangerous to deny the truth than to cautiously proceed with what is obviously fait accompli.

Besides, Crowley is actually…rather singular, for a demon.

He introduces Crowley to Hallewell, whose discomfiture at Crowley’s dark glasses is obvious enough to be amusing. When Hallewell turns away, Crowley quirks an eyebrow at Aziraphale, who has to scrunch his face briefly to keep from laughing. They are seated opposite one another for dinner, with one of Hallewell’s daughters placed beside each of them. Aziraphale brings forth his most flowery courtesy for Harriet, glossing over Crowley’s frequent interruptions; for Susanna, Crowley brackets moments of pointed teasing with baffling aloofness, confusing the poor girl until at last Aziraphale is obliged to aim a kick at Crowley’s ankle beneath the table.

You never know how it’s going to go, with Crowley. Sometimes, when they meet, he is taciturn and surly, difficult to engage, and is soon on his way. But this, Aziraphale knows immediately, is one of the good times. Once the wine is properly flowing, they banter easily across the table, delighting the other guests (old Lady Branthwaite laughs so hard at one of Crowley’s ripostes that she nearly has a choking fit, and only Aziraphale sees the gentle flick of Crowley’s fingers that resolves the situation), and Crowley goads Aziraphale into recounting “the time with the barn fire”—which anecdote Aziraphale is forced to concoct on the spot, there having been no such actual incident, and when it is done and the table actually applauds, he looks across with satisfying smugness and Crowley inclines his head, conceding.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks Crowley, in the library after dinner, having escaped conversation with Hallewell and Pelham to watch the widow Branthwaite dominate the card table. “I rather thought you preferred the city.”

Crowley shrugs, swirling the brandy in his glass. “Got bored. Good pickings, places like this. Fun to pluck the strands of a complex, isolated social web. Been touring around a bit. You? Haven’t seen you since Bermuda.”

“Oh, I’ve also been touring around, as you say. Collecting books!”

“Books.”

“You wouldn’t believe it—” Aziraphale leans in, with a conspiratorial air. “Hallewell had a first-edition Shakespeare folio. Macbeth!”

“And he just gave it to you, did he?”

“He sold it to me,” says Aziraphale primly.

“Yeah? How much?”

Aziraphale sips his brandy. “A very fair price.”

“Fair for you, or for what it’s actually worth?” When Aziraphale avoids his gaze, Crowley grins an absolutely wicked grin. “Oh, you didn’t.”

“Shush.”

“Did you swindle—”

“I did nothing of the sort! He just needed a little…encouragement, to sell at all. It was a fair price, truly.”

“All right, all right.” But Crowley is still grinning. “Gonna stay out here for a while, are you? Settle down, perhaps? That Harriet has been making eyes at you all evening.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I may have gotten a bit carried away, at dinner. Laid it on a bit thick.” Aziraphale gives Harriet a rather strained smile as she waves at him from the card table.

“Shall we skedaddle, then?”

“What, now? It wouldn’t be polite, Crowley.”

“That girl is blatantly going to drag you off into a cozy nook to work a proposal out of you the moment this hand’s over. Which would be marvelous entertainment for me, don’t get me wrong. But unless that’s what you want…”

“No. Thank you.”

“Good.” Crowley raises two fingers, and between them is a folded card. “I’m afraid you’ve been called away. I’ll make your excuses.”

Aziraphale hesitates, and then sets down his glass. “Meet you outside,” he mutters, and slips out the door as Crowley marches toward Hallewell and Pelham with the card.

The night is still overcast, and very dark beyond the reach of the lamps. Aziraphale waits beneath the warm orange glow, and smiles as he hears the groom leading Marshmallow his way.

“Boo,” says Crowley, appearing at his elbow.

Aziraphale starts, and swats Crowley’s arm. “Don’t do that.”

“I wasn’t even sneaking!—this time.” Crowley is pulling on his dark gloves. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Just a moment, I need my horse.”

Crowley looks genuinely startled. “That thing is yours?”

“Of course. And it’s a him. You be nice.”

Crowley grumbles something; Aziraphale ignores him, stepping forward and slipping a coin into the groom’s hand. Marshmallow presses his entire forehead to Aziraphale’s chest and stomach and Aziraphale laughs quietly, idly twisting the gelding’s forelock into a loose braid. “Come on,” he says to Crowley, “come and say hello.”

Crowley’s feet remain firmly on the step. “Well met, equine creature,” he says shortly, turning to the groom. “We require the use of a lantern.”

As the groom hurries off, Aziraphale hops up into the saddle. Crowley’s face is impassive, but Aziraphale is still pleased that he had seen that perfect mount. At a touch of the reins Marshmallow dances to one side, smoothly pivoting his hindquarters so that they are facing the  graveled lane toward the barn. “You could borrow a horse, you know. Very common practice.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself. Where is the Pelhams’ estate?”

“South, past town.”

“Oh, lovely. Come by my room for a drink? You can see the Shakespeare.”

“Don’t care about the Shakespeare. I’ll take the drink, though.”

“Good.” Aziraphale settles back in the saddle, smiling at the groom as he approaches with a lit lantern, which Crowley takes.

They start down the lane, Crowley in the lead but several meters to one side. And he keeps darting little glances over his shoulder. Odd. Marshmallow’s steps are loud on the gravel, Crowley can’t be checking to see that he’s still there. He seems…twitchy, almost.

“No, lad, not this time.” Aziraphale chuckles, turning Marshmallow left, down the lane. “He wants another gallop over the fields,” he explains to Crowley.

Crowley grunts.

“Here, come a bit closer—I can’t see a thing.”

Crowley inches nearer as they walk, and Aziraphale can see the tension in his shoulders, so different from their easy camaraderie at dinner. He casts about for something to distract him, and then smirks. “So…the Roving Gentleman, is it?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“No, no, as nicknames go, you could do a lot worse. It’s charming, honestly. And I was delighted to realize that it was you Hallewell was going on about. You know, he called you Swanning.”

He gets a snort for that. Encouraged, he goes on, prattling about nothing—local gossip, the evening’s food, his growing book collection—rewarded to see, in the lamplight, Crowley’s shoulders relaxing bit by bit. By the time they reach the inn, the demon is behaving much more normally, but he pauses when Aziraphale heads for the stable.

“Just give it to the boy, it’s literally his job.”

“It’ll only be twenty minutes or so. Come along, if you like. Or head up to the room and wait.”

Crowley sits moodily on a bale of hay, watching Aziraphale untack the gelding. Aziraphale does hand off the saddle and bridle to the young stable attendant for wiping-down, but curries the horse himself, humming. “You’ll need a proper bath, old chap,” he says, leading Marshmallow to his stall. “Tomorrow, though. Crowley—want to give him his treat? He loves these little carrots.”

“Nope.”

“Oh, you haven’t paid him any attention at all. Look at him, he’s disappointed.”

“…it is a horse, angel.”

“I know he isn’t one of those monsters that your lot used to parade around on, but Marshm—” He closes his mouth, quick.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Here you are,” he murmurs, letting the gelding’s soft lips scoop the carrot fragments from his palm.

“What did you call it?”

“Him, Crowley, don’t be rude.”

“Did you name that creature Marshmallow.”

“Shhhh.” Aziraphale looks rapidly up and down the aisle, but the attendant has disappeared. “Oh, you—well—I mean, just look at him! He’s just a great big cotton ball.”

Crowley is leaning back, arms folded, expression inscrutable.

“He’s gentle as a lamb, truly. It’s the perfect name, and he likes it, so none of your teasing.”

Crowley says nothing. He stands and stretches, but as he turns away, Aziraphale thinks that he sees the hint of a smile playing about that mouth. “I believe I was promised a drink.”

“Yes, all right. Good night, old fellow.” Aziraphale gives Marshmallow a final pat—and discovers that Marshmallow, while his owner had been distracted, had taken the opportunity to leave a long trail of slobber up his right sleeve.

“Ew,” says Crowley as they exit the barn.

“Yes, well, he does that.”

“Charming.”

“You’d like him, if you gave him a chance.”

“Whatever you say, angel.”

Aziraphale hangs the coat in the corridor outside his room, intending to take it to be laundered in the morning. But when he is finally dressed—late, he and Crowley had been up drinking well past midnight—and goes to fetch it, the stain is miraculously gone.

Crowley remains in the area, staying with the Pelhams at their summer estate, and they see each other often, even after Aziraphale has relocated to the next village with a decent inn and begun a new process of weaving himself into the social webbing (Crowley’s vivid imagery having stuck with him) in order to find more books for his collection. The Pelhams’ estate is near enough to either village and Aziraphale grows accustomed to the sight of his dark friend striding over the hills. Crowley gives only nebulous reasons for his involvement in the scene, but Aziraphale does not press him, worried that any significant thought into the matter might send Crowley scurrying away to parts unknown.

Because it is nice to have him around. Aziraphale is not above admitting that. (…Well, not anymore.) Humans can be lovely—the Pelhams are actually very kind and pleasant and have Aziraphale over to dine often, knowing that he and Crowley are friendly, and Aziraphale genuinely enjoys these sessions—but it is a tremendous relief to have one person in all the world around whom he can simply be…himself. Not A.Z. Fell (he gives the name Avery if pressed, but doesn’t particularly like for anyone to use it; Crowley appears to enjoy inventing increasingly wild options for what the letters must actually stand for, his current favorite being Aziraphale Ziraphale Fell), but the Principality Aziraphale. It is nice to have someone around who understands the pressures and annoyances of living constantly undercover, to whom he can gripe about the home office (and who won’t judge him for it), around whom he can actually, fully relax.

Sometimes they don’t even have a reason for meeting, or for passing time together. Aziraphale will be reading under a tree (with Marshmallow grazing close by) and Crowley will appear and not even have much to say, will just settle half a turn around the tree, or in the grass with his arms folded behind his head. And they stay there, just like that, sometimes for hours, sometimes talking, sometimes not, simply to…exist in the same space for a while. Aziraphale cannot properly describe it (not that he has tried; it makes him feel guilty, somehow), but he is always pleased to see Crowley. Even when the demon is moody or distant, there is still something wonderfully comforting about his mere presence. It makes the world seem a little brighter.

One lazy afternoon in early June they are doing exactly this, which has become one of Aziraphale’s favorite things. He and Crowley have never spent such an extended time in the same place, and he has come to look forward to their meetings, whether out in the fields, or among the shops, or at the Pelhams’ for dinner (at least three times a week). On this particular occasion they are beside a shaded stream on the Pelhams’ estate. Crowley is sitting on a low rock wall, one long leg kicked up so that he is leaning on the cocked knee, idly stripping long grass stems of their seeds; Aziraphale has left his coat, boots, and stockings beside the wall and is wading in the water with his breeches rolled up above his knees, collecting bits of quartz from the stream bed but hindered in this endeavor by Marshmallow. The gelding is rarely tethered—he never spooks or wanders off—and has followed Aziraphale into the stream, behaving himself until Aziraphale bends and then doing his best to knock him over with a nudge of his nose. Crowley cackles laughter every time this happens, especially when Aziraphale slaps at the gelding’s flank with an arm that is now soaked past the elbow.

“Enfant terrible,” scolds Aziraphale, shoving Marshmallow’s shoulder. “Go and bother Crowley. Go on!”

“Hey, no,” says Crowley, as the horse ambles his way. “No—Aziraphale! Oi, call him off!”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale holds up a particularly nice lump of quartz, the size of a pigeon’s egg, admiring the play of dappled light over its surface. “Ooh, look at this one!”

Crowley has rolled to the far side of the wall and is peering over it, looking comically alarmed. “Angel, stop it. This is not funny!”

“What did Marshmallow ever do to you?” Aziraphale puts the quartz into his pocket and his hands onto his hips. “He likes you! See?”

The gelding is stretching his neck toward Crowley with an air of polite interest; Crowley is backing away from the wall, scowling. Chuckling to himself, Aziraphale wades to the bank and steps over the pebbles to wiggle his toes in the grass. “All right, Marshmallow, let him be.”

But Marshmallow is no longer paying him any attention. He lifts his head, nostrils flared, looking past Crowley and up the gentle slope of the open field.

“What’s it doing?” asks Crowley, hands up as though to ward off the horse.

“He hears something.” Aziraphale comes up beside Marshmallow and rests a hand on his shoulder just in front of the saddle pad. “Listen—someone’s coming.”

Crowley turns and they both see Samuel Pelham come tearing over the hill on his favorite little bay mare, with his son hanging on behind him. He is waving as he approaches, and Crowley backs up until his legs hit the wall.

“Fire!” Pelham shouts. “The Burtons’ barn! Thank God the two of you are handy in a pinch like this. Come on—like lightning!”

“On our way!” Aziraphale is already stomping into his boots without bothering about the stockings.

As the Pelhams ride off, Crowley gapes at him. “We aren’t actually going.”

“Of course we are! Leave the hats, doesn’t matter.” Aziraphale bounces up into the saddle without even putting on his coat, gathering the reins. Sensing the urgency, Marshmallow does his excited little jig. “Come on—” Aziraphale holds out a hand. “Up behind me, let’s go.”

Crowley stares as though he had just suggested that they invite Gabriel to tea at the Pelhams’. “No.”

“Yes. People are in trouble, Crowley, and they’re expecting us both after that little charade at Hallewells’.”

“That was you.”

“You started it, and you didn’t mind being featured heavily in the story, did you?” Aziraphale guides Marshmallow forward, right beside the wall—and Crowley. “You won’t be any help at all if you walk there. Up you get. Right now.”

Crowley looks around for a moment as though seeking an escape…but then snarls and climbs onto the wall, hesitating before stretching a leg over Marshmallow and settling himself very gingerly just behind the saddle.

“Nope,” he says at once. “Nope, don’t like this, getting down now.”

Frowning, Aziraphale purses his lips and squeezes with his knees. Crowley squawks and seizes the back of Aziraphale’s shirt in both hands, his knees hooking over the cantle as Marshmallow trots away from the wall.

“Ow,” says Aziraphale. “Let go of the shirt, you’ll wrinkle it!”

“Not a chance in Hell.”

“Hold onto me, you great silly thing.”

“What?”

“And tightly, because we’re about to go very fast.”

He can hear Crowley make a sort of strangled sound in his throat as his long arms snake forward and clutch Aziraphale around the middle.

“Now don’t pinch!”

“Just go.”

“Well, while we do, I need you to work up some rain.”

“Rain?” Crowley is speaking through clenched teeth.

“Yes, rain! And quickly, please.”

Crowley’s grip only tightens as Aziraphale urges Marshmallow into a canter, his chin pressing against the back of the angel’s shoulder. And it’s…rather nice, actually. Obviously he and Crowley have never hugged, that would be ridiculous, and no reason for it anyway. Truly, they have barely ever touched at all. But here, very suddenly, is something almost like a hug—Crowley’s chest and arms feel very warm—and that plus the exhilaration of speed and the thrill of rushing to the rescue has Aziraphale’s cheeks rather flushed.

Feeling a little carried away (but not particularly caring), he gives Marshmallow’s neck a hearty slap. “Fly,” he shouts into the wind.

They fly.

Crowley’s fingers are digging in now. The spotting of indifferent cumulus clouds overhead have begun to converge upon one another with unnatural speed and purpose, darkening as they coalesce, and a burst of wind at their heels seems to hasten them along; Aziraphale doesn’t think that Marshmallow has ever achieved quite this speed before. He can see the smoke now, over the next rise, and a few others riding that way. Through an open gate, across a road (Marshmallow’s hooves not even touching the packed dirt, so long is his stride) and through a scattering of silver birches whose leaves flutter upward, heralds of the approaching rain. The sun is completely obscured now as they cross the Burtons’ fields.

The barn is separated from the human dwelling by only a narrow cobbled corridor. The Burtons are a small holding, dealing mainly in sheep and several dairy cows. The sheep are all out at pasture and Aziraphale sees several of the cows, with new calves in tow, out in the yard, but…

“The bull,” he cries to Crowley, over his shoulder.

Crowley makes a strange gargling noise.

“I said, I don’t see the bull! You don’t suppose it’s… Dash it all, Crowley, you aren’t even looking!”

Crowley’s entire face is smushed against Aziraphale’s back, only his bright hair visible, flapping in the wind.

Aziraphale slows Marshmallow to a halt a safe distance up the lane. “Get off, let’s go.”

Crowley’s grip does not slacken, but he does peek over Aziraphale’s shoulder, glaring wildly past his askew glasses. He mumbles something.

The humans are looking their way, waving them over. “Hurry up, Crowley, they need help! Get down!”

“Can’t.”

“What the devil do you mean, you can’t?”

Crowley looks away. “Can’t. Don’t…don’t know how.”

Epiphany strikes Aziraphale as thunder grumbles overhead and the first drops of rain spatter the dirt of the lane. He drops his voice. “Oh. Well, just… Keep holding on. I’ll get you down. To the left—just shift along with me. One, two, three.”

Instead of swinging his right leg back, Aziraphale lifts it over Marshmallow’s neck, holding onto the low pommel and hopping to the ground. Crowley stumbles but rights himself by holding on, and seems to have to peel his fingers loose to finally let go. He strides toward the barn without a glance at Aziraphale, who hurries to catch up.

Samuel Pelham jogs to meet them. His face is pale. “Burton’s girl went in after the bull—couldn’t stop her. Sirs, what shall we—”

They all duck as one of the rafters of the barn’s loft collapses in a cloud of ash and a whoosh of flame. The rain is falling harder now, and across the field Aziraphale can see sheets of rain approaching.

“Stay back,” he tells Pelham. “Keep everyone back.”

Crowley is rolling up his sleeves as they walk toward the barn. Aziraphale watches the side of his face for a moment, but he doesn’t look over. “You got the rain—I’ll get this one,” he says quietly, as the heat of the flames washes over them. “And then you’ll get the girl, all right, and I the bull.” Crowley does not respond. Once the smoke has safely obscured them from the view of the humans, Aziraphale raises his hand and draws it downward through the air, miracling protection over them both, and elbow-to-elbow they enter the barn.

The combined roar of both fire and rain is deafening, making talking impossible. They climb over a burning beam that has fallen across the aisle, coughing through the handkerchiefs that they hold over their mouths and noses, waving their arms to squint through the smoke with stinging eyes. Aziraphale snags Crowley’s sleeve and the demon follows him, feeling their way farther back and to the right, to the livestock boxes. 

On the floor, collapsed among the smoldering hay, is Olivia Burton, only twelve years old. Crowley swiftly kneels to check the pulse and flashes a thumbs-up. Aziraphale approaches the bull in the corner of the box, which is down on its knees, trembling and heaving, its flank marred by a long welted scorch.

Crowley slaps at his arm, gesturing. Come on.

Aziraphale shakes his head, waving him away— get the girl out.

Crowley brushes embers from the knee of his breeches, and then points at Aziraphale forcefully—You—but is cut off when the floor of the loft collapses, just over the next box. They huddle together reflexively, Aziraphale leaning over Olivia, Crowley leaning over Aziraphale.

Aziraphale pushes Crowley’s shoulder, hard. GO.

Crowley shakes his head.

Aziraphale points from Crowley to Olivia, and then from himself to the bull—you get the girl, that was the deal.  

Crowley seems to shimmer in the heat, staring at him, eyes inscrutable behind the dark lenses. But at last, with a snarl, he turns and scoops the girl up and over his shoulder.

Aziraphale does not watch them leave. He passes a careful hand along the bull’s flank, not quite touching the blistered surface, watching with satisfaction as the burn knits, leaving a patch of shining hairless skin. It takes several minutes of coaxing to get the bull—still shivering with fear and the memory of pain—to its feet. There is no rope handy to pass through the nose ring and so Aziraphale seizes it with his hand, pulling the animal along step by halting step.

The rain must be truly torrential, because it is doing its job—the flames have lessened, but the smoke has thereby increased, and Aziraphale cannot see a thing as he fumbles his way toward the rear door, one arm in front of his face, one holding tightly to the bull’s ring. His elbow knocks into the door and he fumbles for the latch, coughing…

Something bumps roughly into him, and he turns—Crowley is suddenly close beside him, hair darkened by rain and plastered to his head, steaming in the heat. Bracing himself with a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, he lifts one knee to his chest and slams it forward, breaking the latch. Smoke bellows outward through the new opening, and that rush of air propels them along with it; Aziraphale loses his grip on the nose-ring as he slips to his knees, but is aware of the bull limping past him into the rain.

His arm is seized and he is yanked to his feet, stumbling along until they are well clear and Crowley releases him.

“Stupid idiot,” the demon wheezes.

“The bull is—” Aziraphale interrupts himself with a brief coughing fit, leaning on his knees as the rain soaks him to the skin. “—is the foundation of the herd,” he says hoarsely. “Couldn’t…I couldn’t leave it.”

“So you’ll get yourself…discorporared for a bloody animal? Living things…die. It’s what they do.”

“The girl—is the girl all right?”

But Crowley doesn’t answer. He turns and stalks away through the rippling sheets of rain.

Some hours later, when he finally returns to his inn, Aziraphale finds his coat, hat, and gloves—which he had abandoned by the stream—lying across the top of his traveling trunk. He looks at them for several minutes, thinking longingly of a bath, but then turns with a sigh and walks right out again.

Crowley—who also has not changed his clothes—is perched on a fence behind the Pelhams’ barn, his feet hooked around the upper rail, arms folded, staring out across the fields. The rain has finally stopped, the torn clouds letting a watery golden sunset peek through, and the demon doesn’t turn as Aziraphale’s boots clap softly over the puddled grass. Aziraphale leans on the fence not far from him.

They are quiet for a time, listening to the crickets in the hedge and the distant song of several nightingales in the copse down the slope.

“Lost all the hair on my arms,” says Aziraphale at last. “See?”

Crowley grunts.

“Singed at all, were you?”

Nothing.

Aziraphale sighs. “Oh Crowley, why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t ride?”

Crowley’s shoulders hunch. He is quiet for a while, but Aziraphale doesn’t move. Finally, shortly: “Thought you’d laugh. It’s stupid.”

Aziraphale smiles and shakes his head. “Why would I laugh at you? And when have I ever?”

Crowley turns away.

“Anyway, it isn’t stupid. It’s tricky at first. You know, I… I’d be happy to teach you.”

“No.”

“I think you’d quite like it, once you—”

“No.”

“Well. Suit yourself. But the offer stands.” He reaches out, but draws back his hand before it touches Crowley’s arm. “I’m not going to laugh at you. And I would never have demanded that you ride today if I’d known. That must have been…difficult. I’m very sorry.”

Crowley grunts again, but his shoulders also relax just the smallest degree. “Kid all right?”

“She is. Thanks to you.”

“Shut up.”

“As you like.” Aziraphale straightens, patting the fence. “I’m going for a bath. See you tomorrow?”

No reply, but that’s fine. If Crowley hadn’t run off already, he wasn’t likely to do so now. Aziraphale turns, but before he leaves— “And thank you. For going back in. That was very—”

“Don’t.”

Aziraphale is smiling as he departs.

“Here we are!”

Crowley looks around. “And…where is here, precisely?”

They are several miles from the village. The sunlight of a July mid-morning slants through the trees in visible beams, illuminating a meadow of wildflowers and lush moss. It is enchanting—but more importantly, it is utterly isolated.

Aziraphale dismounts and stands proudly by Marshmallow, holding the reins. “Here,” he says importantly—with a pause for dramatic effect—“is where you’ll have your riding lessons!”

Crowley looks aghast, and actually takes a step back. “No.”

“Yes. Now I won’t have any argument about this, Crowley. You can’t live in this world without knowing how to ride.”

“There are…carriages! So many carriages!” Crowley takes another step back, his eyes darting around. “I’ll go and live in London. No one has to ride a horse in the city.”

“You’re being silly. Look—there’s no one here. Just me. Well, and Marshmallow. And we aren’t going to laugh, or tease, or make this difficult for you. I can teach you, Crowley. Let me help you. It’s me. Just me.”

And when Crowley stops inching backward, Aziraphale smiles. “Come here, now. Come along.” Aziraphale walks over to him and takes his arm; Crowley is very stiff and his feet drag as Aziraphale, with considerable effort, tows him over to Marshmallow, who is contentedly cropping the short grass.

“The first thing you have to do,” Aziraphale says—holding firmly to Crowley’s arm— “is say hello. Tone of voice matters, as well as body language, so for Heaven’s sake, relax. You know Marshmallow. He isn’t going to hurt you.”

Crowley is frowning just as hard as he can, twisting his entire face into it. Aziraphale waits, brows raised expectantly, and eventually the demon heaves a sigh of deep irritation and mutters “Hello.”

“Call him by his name.”

“Angel—”

“We’re waiting.”

Crowley glares, chews on his lip, gazes upward for a long moment, and then grumbles, “Hello. …Marshmallow.”

The gelding lifts his head, chewing.

“Good!” says Aziraphale warmly. “Now let him sniff your hand—like this, see? He can learn a lot about you that way. Gloves off.”

Crowley is still glaring, but Aziraphale stares him down and he pulls off the gloves, shoving them into his pockets and very gingerly extending a hand. Marshmallow—always a gentleman—examines the hand, unbothered by the way that Crowley flinches when the whiskers brush his fingers.

“Excellent. Now. These are the reins.”

“I know what bloody reins are.”

“Are you giving the lesson, or am I? …Thank you. Now. You hold the reins just here, just a bit under the chin. Yes, very good. Now you can lead him.”

“I don’t want to.”

But he still isn’t leaving, and Aziraphale is thrilled—he had not expected to make it this far, at least on the first attempt. “You don’t have to want to, but you’re still doing it. Go on—down to that chunk of granite there on the right, you see, and come straight back.”

Crowley hesitates, his jaw working, and Aziraphale bites the inside of his cheek, because he knows just what will help. “I’ll come along. Let’s go.”

He walks beside Crowley, who leads Marshmallow. The gelding is perfectly placid, as ever; when he noses Crowley’s shoulder curiously and Crowley leaps aside, knocking into Aziraphale, Marshmallow doesn’t even startle.

“What is it doing?”

“He likes you, Crowley, he’s trying to be friendly.”

“Well, tell it to stop.”

“You tell him. He’s a living creature. You have to communicate with him.”

“It’s a horse.”

“A horse with eyes and ears and a brain. He can tell what you think of him, you know. Maybe not in words, but he can sense it. Trust him, and he’ll trust you.”

“This beast must weigh a hundred and twenty stone, and you want me to trust it? It could splatter me like an egg!”

“Could is very different from will. Horses are intelligent, and Marshmallow in particular is very gentle.” They have circled the entire meadow, and when Aziraphale stops, so does Crowley, and Marshmallow. “See? He’ll do what you ask of him. Stand over there, by the tree. I’m going to show you.”

Crowley drops the reins and practically flees to the shelter of a massive oak tree, scowling…but still not leaving. Aziraphale turns Marshmallow. “Now the left side is often called the near side—right is off. Proper mounting is always done from the near side.”

“Why.”

“Dates back to the days of wearing a sword, actually. Now. Marshmallow is rather tall, but here’s the gist of it. Left foot in the stirrup—this is the stirrup—hold the saddle like so, give a little bounce—”

“I don’t bounce.”

“You’ll bounce if I say you’ll bounce. Bounce, like so, and then just—step up! Swing the right leg over, and—there you have it. You sit like this. Heels down in the stirrups, you see, and knees in. Your entire leg should be in contact. I can tell Marshmallow where to go, and how fast, with only my knees. He’s very responsive.”

“Goody for him.”

Aziraphale quietly notes the small triumph of that pronoun. “You hold the reins like this. Not way out at the end, that’s too loose and they’d flap around, but not too tightly, either, or the horse can’t move. Riding is a partnership. Marshmallow will keep you from danger if you trust him, and, you know, if you don’t fall off.”

“Annnd that’s the end of that.”

“You aren’t going to fall off.”

“I always do.”

“You didn’t when we rode to the Burtons’.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Of course it counts. You rode. Not gracefully, perhaps, and not alone, but you rode, and you didn’t fall off. Now come along.”

Crowley blanches…but follows, as Aziraphale guides Marshmallow across the meadow to the small granite boulder, pulling the gelding up alongside it, near side on.

Aziraphale sets down the reins and carefully wiggles himself backward until he is sitting on Marshmallow’s rump, just behind the saddle. He smiles at Crowley—whose dread is palpable—and gives the saddle a welcoming pat.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re doing so well! Let’s keep going!”

“I walked the thing in a circle, bang, lesson one complete, let’s go and have lunch.”

“In a bit. Now, you look at me.”

Crowley slings his head to one side and stares across the meadow for a moment, but eventually, grudgingly, brings his gaze to bear on the angel.

Aziraphale speaks gently. “I’m right here. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I mean, we—we’ve known each other for some time, and at this point, really, either you trust me, and believe me when I say that…or you don’t. In which case, we can just forget the whole thing and you can move to London and that’s that. But if you do trust me, then stand on that rock and I’ll show you how to mount. It’s going to be fine. You have my word.”

Crowley’s eyes are invisible. That is so often frustrating—the eyes are the windows to the soul, after all, and it can be very difficult to tell what Crowley is thinking or feeling, with the shutters closed. Aziraphale looks earnestly into the dark lenses, imagining the yellow eyes behind them, wondering if Crowley can muster the necessary vulnerability to admit that this is a genuine friendship, that the Agreement has grown into something else, to open himself to the possibility of embarrassment, trusting that Aziraphale will keep his word and not laugh.

It doesn’t take long, actually. Crowley huffs, looks down, kicks at the rock, inches forward, glares at the trees, and finally shrugs out of his coat, tossing it over a branch. He steps up onto the rock—and freezes.

“Now,” says Aziraphale, trying not to let his soaring heart show in his face, “you take hold of the saddle. The bit at the front, that’s the pommel, and at the back is the cantle. When you’re mounting from the ground, you’d hold onto both, and let go of the cantle as you swing your leg round. But since you have a mounting block, of sorts, just take hold of the pommel with both hands.”

Crowley chews on his lip and carefully curls his fingers around the pommel. But— “I’m going to kick you,” he says.

“I should hope not.”

“No, I’m saying I can’t get my leg over without kicking you.”

“Yes you can.”

“I blatantly cannot.”

“I’ll lean back, here.”

“No—fuck, angel, you’re going to fall!”

“I’m not falling.”

“You’re not even hanging on!”

“I’m sitting quite comfortably. Go on, now—hold on with your hands, left foot in the stirrup.”

Crowley growls, looking down between his arms and fitting his boot through the side pieces.

“Not quite so far,” says Aziraphale. “You want the tread—that’s the flat bit—right behind the last toe joints.”

“It’ll fall out.”

“It won’t. Now hold on tight, and step up.”

Crowley doesn’t move. “Don’t like this.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t do it. And I’m right here. I won’t let you fall. Now, remember to bounce.”

“I am not bouncing.”

“It helps! It provides momentum!”

“No bouncing.”

“Very well, have it your way. Pretend you’re climbing a ladder, or something. Step up, swing over, sit.”

Crowley screws up his face and moves very suddenly; Aziraphale does have to lean back sharply to avoid the boot that swoops past his chest. And then, just like that, Crowley is sitting a horse—stiff and hunched, but sitting nonetheless.

“Oh, well done!” Aziraphale cries. “Look at you!”

“Where’s the bloody stirrup.”

“Don’t kick! Half a moment.” The angel reaches down, taking hold of Crowley’s right ankle and guiding the foot into the stirrup. “There. No, not so far—there. Heels down.”

“Going to fall.”

“You’re not going to fall. You hold on with your legs. Now don’t squeeze, or—”

But Marshmallow, obeying the usual signal, begins ambling forward. Crowley gives a strangled squeak, hunching over and clinging to the pommel; Aziraphale quickly reaches around and takes the reins, pulling the gelding to a stop.

“As I said,” says Aziraphale, his face now just behind Crowley’s shoulder, “don’t squeeze. Squeezing with your knees is a signal to go.”

“Then how do I not fall.”

“Look. Your feet are connected to the saddle, in the stirrups, and the saddle is connected to the horse. You’re just sitting. Like sitting in a chair.”

“Chairs do not breathe and twitch.”

“You’re twitching far more than Marshmallow. Now, take the reins.”

“No.”

“You know what, you’re right. Little steps. We’re going to go for a walk, just so you can get the feel of it.”

“No galloping?”

“None whatsoever. I’ve got Marshmallow, you just hang on. Let’s go, lad.”

And at a cluck of Aziraphale’s tongue, Marshmallow walks again, over the moss, in and out of the sunbeams.

“You’re so stiff! Relax, Crowley. Move with the horse.”

Crowley says nothing, but after a minute or two he does start to relax. Aziraphale smiles. This is also unexpectedly pleasant—to be so close, his arms bumping now and then against Crowley’s waist or ribs (it would be more comfortable to rest his hands on Crowley’s thighs, but he very carefully keeps them in the air). There is a very agreeable scent to him, something that Aziraphale has only gotten occasional whiffs of in the past but which is now all around his face as it hovers very near to Crowley’s hair. And Crowley is actively trusting him, is only relaxing because he feels safe, which is so lovely that Aziraphale actually has to blink back tears, glad that the demon cannot see him.

When they have completed a few circuits of the meadow, Aziraphale stops Marshmallow. “That was lovely. See how gentle he is? Now, you’re going to hold the reins.”

“No.”

“Yes. Come on, one hand—” And he takes Crowley’s wrists one by one, very nearly having to pry his fingers from the pommel, putting the reins into his hands. “Now, never yank. The reins are to guide the horse. You need to be as gentle as he is. He isn’t going to run off. And I’m still right here.”

“But…erg…”

“Yes?”

“Now…feel like…going to fall.”

“Oh. Well, if you like, I’ll— Would you prefer the shoulders, or—”

“Fine.”

Aziraphale can feel his cheeks reddening as he lays his hands on Crowley’s shoulders. Absolutely absurd, he admonishes himself. This is not the time for such nonsense; Crowley needs confident guidance. He keeps his voice bright and firm. “Put a little pressure downward with your feet—that will help you feel more sturdy. And I’ve got you. So, when you’re ready, just a little knee-squeeze, and tell him to go.”

There is a long pause.

“When you’re ready, Crowley.”

“Not ready.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s—go on, Marshmallow.”

Aziraphale clucks again; Crowley’s shoulders stiffen and he pulls in a sharp breath through his nose, but obviously nothing bad happens as Marshmallow slowly crosses the meadow again.

“Now, just lift the right rein off to the side a bit—remember, you aren’t tugging, you’re guiding. There, that’s perfect! See how he responds?”

“What if I run him into a tree?”

“Well he isn’t stupid, Crowley.”

“So what would he do?”

“He would stop.”

“What if I told him to go?”

“He would be very annoyed with you. Why—you’re not planning on running my horse into a tree, are you?”

“No! I just, what if it happens.”

“All on its own?”

“Yes.”

“Marshmallow isn’t stupid, and neither are you. You are two intelligent, thinking beings working together. So communicate. When you’re going to turn him, look the way you want to go before you move the reins. Talk to him. He may not know the words, but he can sense the meaning by the way that you speak. And he knows what you’re feeling, too. Therefore, your primary job as a rider is…?”

“Don’t fall off.”

“…Close. Don’t panic. When you panic, you can’t think. You lose control.”

“I do not!”

“I meant you in the general sense. Now listen, because this is important. You’re allowed to be afraid.”

“Not afraid.”

Aziraphale does not dignify this blatant lie with acknowledgment. “Fear is just an emotion. You don’t have to run from it—you’re allowed to feel it. Recognize it for what it is. That takes some of the power out of it. You can be afraid and still be in control. As long as you don’t panic, you still have options, because you can still think and make decisions.”

“If I’d known this would be a philosophy lecture, I would’ve stayed home and napped.”

“Remember—heels down, no tugging, move with him.”

“I know all that.”

“Communicate. Don’t panic.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I have ears, angel.”

“Good.” Aziraphale releases Crowley’s shoulders and slides off the back of Marshmallow’s rump, stumbling slightly but recovered by the time that Crowley looks around, his eyes bulging.

“Oi—get back—what are you—”

“Don’t panic, Crowley.”

Marshmallow is still walking, unfazed. Aziraphale jogs up beside the gelding, smiling upward. “Let go of the pommel.”

“No! You…get back up here!”

“You’re doing marvelously. Here.” Aziraphale grabs hold of the reins, leading the gelding. “I’m right here. I’ll walk beside you. Try to relax.”

“You are malicious. Enjoying this, are you? Torturing me?”

“Oh, you’re so dramatic. Listen.”

“…What.”

“I meant the nightingales. Aren’t they pretty?”

“Don’t hear any.”

“You aren’t listening. Just be quiet for a moment.”

And for a wonder, Crowley is. Marshmallow’s hooves thump softly in the moss, the leather of the saddle creaks and mutters, and the trees that surround their little meadow are full of birds—not only nightingales, but blackbirds and chaffinches as well, in a beautiful cacophony. After several minutes, Crowley is looking somewhat less terrified.

It takes time. The work isn’t done in a day, nor in a week, nor a month. But on every fine day—of which there are many, that summer—they practice. Crowley scowls and sighs and complains, but steadily gains confidence in spite of himself, to the point of trotting Marshmallow up and down the meadow all on his own (shouting excitedly to Aziraphale all the while, as though the angel might somehow not be watching). And on the rainy days, the two of them can be found in the Pelhams’ barn, Aziraphale teaching Crowley how to care for tack, how to feed Marshmallow and pick his hooves, how to curry his coat and brush out his tail. Crowley complains roundly about all of this—but he also does it all, and though he ignores Aziraphale’s praise, Aziraphale cannot help but think that unless Crowley were enjoying himself at least a little, he wouldn’t be doing any of it at all.

At the end of the summer (after a lovely party to celebrate the completion of the Burtons’ new barn, which Crowley does not attend), Aziraphale relocates to a new village, some twenty miles away—and without having to be asked, Crowley comes along, taking another room at the inn. (Aziraphale does not comment on this, but neither does he pretend not to be pleased.) They find a new location: a secluded stretch of open woods, all birch and rowan and overgrown hazel shrubs. Practice continues less because Crowley strictly requires it—he likely could sit any well-broken horse at this point, though he has not attempted any other horse than Marshmallow and not yet dared to go faster than a trot—and more out of both habit and (though neither of them have said it, nor would) enjoyment.

“You know,” says Aziraphale one crisp afternoon in early October, from his comfortable seat on a mossy log, “you really ought to have one of your own.”

Crowley puffs, pulling one foot free of the stirrup to stretch his leg and massage the calf muscle—he has been practicing posting while trotting. “One what?”

“A horse.”

“What for?”

“For riding, and taking care of. Marshmallow is very fond of you, of course—”

“Then why bother?”

“Because he isn’t yours. And I don’t mean that in a selfish way, at all! I mean that you ought to have a horse that you really bond with. It’s a very special thing.”

“Special, maybe, but stupid.” Crowley gives a little nudge with his knees and Marshmallow obediently walks, following Crowley’s guidance in a long serpentine path, winding through the trees. “Living things die, angel. It’s what they do. Stupid to get attached.”

“It’s possible to love something and accept that it won’t always be around, Crowley.”

“You are talking utter poppycock and bollocks.”

“Oh, do enlighten me.”

“Loss hurts. You love something, it goes away, you get hurt. Stupid, by dint of being easily avoidable.”

“So your philosophy is to just never love anything at all, is that it?”

“Precisely.” Crowley halts Marshmallow near enough to Aziraphale that the gelding can nibble at the angel’s shoulder, laughing as Aziraphale swats at him. “You’re only jealous that Marshmallow likes me better.”

“He likes you because you sneak him treats. Don’t think I haven’t seen.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” says Crowley loftily, looking quite at home in the saddle as he starts up another trot.

“Anyway,” calls Aziraphale after him, “there’s an auction next week, out near Cambridge. Come along with me, just to have a look.”

“Fine,” comes the reply, “but you’re wasting your time.”

They hire a carriage for the hour-long drive to the auction and spend a long time wandering the aisles of the long commercial barns among the crowds of humans, debating the virtues of breed and age and even color.

“You’ll want something already broken,” says Aziraphale. “Nice and even-tempered.”

“I’m not getting anything, angel.”

“Right, yes, of course. But if you were to own a horse, you should look for quality of training over appearance. In fact—Crowley?”

Crowley has stopped at the end of the aisle, instead of turning with Aziraphale to walk the other side. “What’s that?” he asks, jogging an elbow.

“Hm?” Aziraphale peers across the courtyard through the milling humans. “In the pen? Those are the younger, unbroken beasts. Definitely not for you. Come on, this way.”

They watch the auction, but Crowley refuses all of Aziraphale’s suggestions, and Aziraphale doesn’t push him. He spends more time watching Crowley than the horses—waiting for the spark. He’s fairly certain that he’ll be able to see it when it happens, having felt it himself when he had first encountered Marshmallow. He had known in that very moment that this and no other was the proper horse for him. And so he waits…and is disappointed. Nothing clicks for Crowley.

At the end of the day, leaving the auction ground to walk to town, they pause to watch the activity in the outdoor pens. Several of the younger horses are putting up a tremendous fuss, deftly evading capture and even aiming kicks at the men who are trying to corral them. Crowley laughs. “Now they have spirit.”

“Yes, and a lot of good it’ll do them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That they’ll be sent to slaughter if they can’t be caught.” Aziraphale walks on.

Crowley hurries to catch up with him. “What—really?”

“Well, yes. Does that surprise you?”

“Seems barbaric, is all.”

“It is, rather. Hopefully they’re all caught and sold.” Aziraphale takes careful note of Crowley’s extra glance back over his shoulder.

The second day of the auction is just as busy, but the first thing that Crowley does upon their arrival is to wander over near the outdoor pens again. Only three of the youngsters remain, trembling with exertion as they stand in a clump at the far end, eyeing and eyed by the frustrated handlers.

“How old are they?” Crowley asks one of the humans, who is perched on a fence post, idly flicking a rope through the dust.

“Little one’s a yearling,” says the man. “Th’ other two’re about three, I’m guessing. An’ none of ‘em likely to see out the day. Knacker man’ll be out this evenin’.”

Standing off to one side, Aziraphale is watching Crowley’s face, and follows his gaze.

He is watching the yearling.

Skinny little thing, all legs, with an exceptionally long back and a slight dish to the nose that is really quite fetching. Very dark—not a single white hair that he can see, though it is quite dirty from all of the activity. Aziraphale steps up beside Crowley at the fence. “Scruffy creatures,” he says quietly.

Crowley shrugs. “Babies are ugly. Universal truth.”

“Unbroken. No training at all.”

“There are trainers, aren’t there?”

“There are. …A lot of work, though, raising a young thing.”

“Not afraid of work.” Crowley hardly seems to notice Aziraphale at all.

“Noted.” Aziraphale walks over to the handlers. “I’ll take the yearling.”

One of the men snorts. “You won’t if we can’t catch it. Right little she-devil, that one.”

“…Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. Do whatever it takes, short of harming the poor thing. I’ll pay double what she’s worth. And the four of you will personally be well-compensated, I assure you.”

Crowley glares at Aziraphale’s beaming smile as the men leap into action. “You’re an idiot.”

“That’s quite rude. I’ve just bought you a horse.”

“A horse that is everything you said I shouldn’t get.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Then what were you nattering on—”

“What I mean is, it matters less than this.”

“Than what.”

“Than the fact that she is yours.”

“…You have lost your mind.”

“Perhaps. Keep an eye on them, will you? See that they’re gentle. I’ll go and settle up.”

By the time that Aziraphale returns, all three of the remaining horses have been caught. The yearling is tied to a post, eyes rolling white, snorting and pawing, jerking her head.

Aziraphale pays the handlers their bonuses, and hurries over. “She’ll hurt her neck, carrying on like that! She’s got to be calmed down.”

“Yes, I can bloody well see that!” Crowley looks genuinely distressed. “What do we do?”

“Remember when the snake startled Marshmallow?”

“Yes, obviously. I was nearly discorporated.”

“You were not any such thing.”

“His feet left the ground—”

“Yes, all right, but that is entirely beside the point. What did I do to help him?”

Crowley’s scowl has very little strength to it. “…Talked to him. Got up close. Shit like that. And it worked, so—go and do it again.”

“No.”

“What.”

“She’s your horse, Crowley.”

“I can’t do that!”

“Of course you can. And be quick about it—she’ll be hurt.”

Crowley makes a wide circle around the post, looking between the horse and Aziraphale with a mixture of anger, confusion, and fear. At the end of the tether, chin in the air, flanks heaving, the filly eyes him warily.

“Er…hey,” says Crowley, and puts out his hands. “Hey. It’s, well, it’s all right. Hi. Hello.”

He glances at Aziraphale, who nods encouragement.

“It’s fine. It’s alllllll fine. Hello, little one. Come on, now. No one’s going to hurt you.” Crowley is speaking very quietly, clearly not wishing to be overheard; Aziraphale gives a surreptitious wiggle of his fingers, causing all of the nearby humans to wander away, suddenly uninterested. Crowley is inching closer.

“Glasses,” says Aziraphale in a stage whisper. “Let her see your eyes.”

“Oh yes, that will calm it right down. Horses love snakes. Marshmallow proved that.”

“He also comes right over to you when you call, even without the glasses. Just try it.”

Crowley looks around, noticing that all the humans have gone, and draws the glasses away from his face, slipping them into a pocket. And does the filly’s nose drop, just a few inches?

“Talk to her.”

“Hi, little one. ‘S all right. Caaaalm down. I know the humans made a bloody mess of it, but that’s all done now. Fuck ‘em, right?”

“Gloves off,” murmurs Aziraphale.

Crowley discards the gloves. He has passed the post now, running one hand up the rope—which has dropped slightly from taut—and holding out the other, looking into the filly’s eyes. “I’m, well, Crowley. And you’re a horse. And an idiot angel bought you for me, so I s’pose you’re…mine. So, it’s all right now. See? Go on, have a sniff.”

Aziraphale puts a hand to his chest. Something beautiful is happening, before his very eyes. The filly snuffles at Crowley’s hand—a smile cracks Crowley’s face wide open—and tears sting at Aziraphale’s eyes, because he can feel it.

He can feel the birth of love.

Small and fragile, it shivers in the air. No one else notices. Thanks to the miracle, no one else is even looking their way. Aziraphale alone is there to behold it, and he tucks it away into his heart as something precious, to be treasured.

“How will we get her home?” asks Crowley. “I mean—back to—oh, you know what I mean.”

“Well, we certainly can’t tie her behind the carriage.”

“Obviously not,” says Crowley rather pompously. “She’d be terrified.” The filly has lowered her head and is trembling all over from the exertion of her fear. He touches the curve of her jaw with careful fingers; she flinches, but then is still.

“I suppose we’ll have to walk.” Aziraphale watches Crowley’s face, but he does not even frown. “Tomorrow, though, or perhaps the next day. She’ll need a good rest.”

“Is there a free stall at the inn? You’d better run ahead and ask. And I want her knee-deep in straw, it’s cold at night. And get the water filled up. She’ll need cleaning, too, but not today. Too much stress. Probably once we’re back home, even. …Well, go on!”

Aziraphale is smiling as he goes.

The filly is safely brought to the stable at their inn. She pins her ears at Aziraphale but follows Crowley meekly, and drinks an enormous quantity of water but is too anxious to eat. Aziraphale assures Crowley repeatedly that the horse will be fine overnight, but hears footsteps in the corridor not long after they’ve retired and peeks out the window to see Crowley crossing the yard. When he has not returned nearly an hour later, Aziraphale pulls on a coat and goes to check—and finds Crowley propped on a hay bale just outside the stall door, fast asleep. The filly snorts at Aziraphale’s approach, but he whispers comfort to her, and miracles up a blanket to gently lay over Crowley.

“You’re a very lucky horse,” he tells her softly.

When he comes back to the stable in the morning, he finds Crowley in the stall, happily currying the filly’s coat. “Not all black,” the demon says in lieu of a greeting. “Right here—see?”

At the back of the filly’s off-hind heel is a spot of white, about the size of an almond.

“That’s meant to be good luck,” says Aziraphale.

“Of course it is.”

They stay three days near Cambridge, until the filly is eating normally and looking around with more interest than fear. The stablehands go in terror of her—she will kick at them if they pass too close to the gate of her stall—and she tolerates Aziraphale’s presence once Crowley assures her that the angel is an acceptable person (though she still will not allow him to touch her), but she fawns over Crowley, absolutely besotted by him. She doesn’t even need a halter to be led; she will hook her chin over his shoulder and follow wherever he goes. But for the long walk, Crowley purchases a fine halter of woven cotton, in dark red.

It takes most of the day for them to walk the distance, but for once Crowley does not complain, not even in his usual just-passing-the-time way. He chatters nonstop, half to Aziraphale and half to the horse, but it’s all quite cheerful.

“Have you thought of what to call her?” asks Aziraphale when they have stopped around midday to allow the filly to graze.

Crowley—who is watching the filly with breathtaking tenderness in his face—suddenly appears slightly abashed. “Well. I think so.”

“Good! What’s the name, then?”

“You might not like it.”

“That doesn’t matter, she’s your horse.”

Crowley looks at him sidelong. “…Lilith.”

Aziraphale laughs, heartily, throwing back his head and holding his stomach. The filly—Lilith—looks at him with distinct annoyance. “P-perfect,” hiccups Aziraphale at length. “Truly perfect. I love it.”

Crowley grins.

Lilith is installed into the box beside Marshmallow, who regards her with bright interest. “Marshmallow, my lad,” says Aziraphale, “this is Lilith. You’re going to teach her how to behave.”

Lilith gives a squeal and kicks at the divider between the stalls; Marshmallow flicks an ear and returns to his hay.

“That went well,” says Crowley.

—

Crowley spends all of his time with the filly. He will call to her as he strides across the yard to the stable, and she will call right back to him. She refuses, violently, to let anyone else touch her, but Crowley can crawl beneath her to brush her belly, can lift her hooves, peer into her ears, tug at tangles in her mane, swat her when she flicks him with her tail. He will cradle her head in his arms, his forehead touching hers, speaking very seriously (about what, exactly, Aziraphale never knows), and she will stand perfectly still, just drinking him in. Their spirits simply align, immediately.

It is as beautiful a love story as had ever been conceived, Aziraphale thinks, often and privately. To comment aloud on the seamless merging of thoughts and affections—and all of this, moreover, in spite of all of Crowley’s former scoffing and protestations—would be to spoil the magic of it; it is enough to bear it witness, and Aziraphale considers it his honor to do so.

They seek out the finest trainer in the area…who nearly quits on the very first day, after Lilith’s hoof whistles past his ear. Aziraphale reasons with the man while Crowley leads Lilith off to one side and has another solemn chat with her, after which the filly—clearly grudging every moment—allows herself to be handled. The man pegs her age at about eighteen months, and comments on her beauty (which Crowley seems to take as a personal compliment).

And between training sessions, there are long walks through the fields, Crowley leading Lilith, Aziraphale riding Marshmallow beside them. They quickly learn that Lilith will not stray far, and are able to leave both horses untethered—which proves very entertaining.

Nimble little Lilith capers around the big gelding, nibbling her lip at his neck or rump as though preparing to nip, but always dancing away when he looks around. Her playful kicks miss him by inches, and Crowley slaps Aziraphale’s shoulder, swearing that Lilith is laughing. After several sessions of this, one day in November Marshmallow simply turns his head and, with startling suddenness, takes hold of Lilith’s ear in his teeth. She shrieks and jerks (and Crowley grunts, gathering himself to stand but stopping when Aziraphale touches his sleeve), but Marshmallow merely holds on until she is still, and then releases her and calmly returns to grazing.

Crowley laughs at Lilith when she comes to him, clearly sulking. “Didn’t even leave a mark,” he tells her, tugging on her forelock. “Big brother put you in your place, didn’t he? Serves you right. Behave yourself, little monster.”

They pass the winter very agreeably.

Crowley declares the eighth of April to be Lilith’s birthday and insists upon a celebration, which occurs in the hazel wood with a pan of mashed oats in place of a cake, for the horses to share. Aziraphale produces a bottle of champagne for the occasion, earning cackling delight from his friend, and they get rather drunk in the middle of the day, giving increasingly elaborate toasts to the health of their equine companions until they’re both breathless from laughing.

Aziraphale has never seen Crowley so happy. He still has his moods—he wouldn’t be Crowley otherwise—but his sulks never last long, because he is never alone. He sits on the fence to watch Lilith’s training sessions (truthfully, she would be unlikely to allow any of it in his absence), and everywhere else that he goes, she comes along. She will only allow Crowley to leave her in a strange barn if Marshmallow is with her, and so invitations to dine rapidly become joint affairs—even once Aziraphale, not wishing to arouse suspicion Upstairs, relocates to another village to sow good deeds (and find more books, having long since exhausted the local supply).

He does not go far.

They still see one another often, and Aziraphale is privately flattered that Lilith is always delighted to see Marshmallow—after all, the filly is so very much like her master, only more transparent in her emotions. As her third year of life progresses, she grows into a truly marvelous creature, long-backed and lean and full of fire, with exceptionally long mane and tail and a natural grace and confidence that would forgive any fault—if she had happened to have one. Crowley dotes on her, and the feeling is very obviously mutual: Lilith exudes menace if a human so much as passes near her, but in Crowley’s hands she is no more than a puppy.

Aziraphale is there on the day that Crowley first takes to the saddle of his fine black mare. Lilith—trained for some months on the wearing of the saddle—stands with Aziraphale holding the reins at nearly their full extent (he still has never touched her), and after a lengthy conversation with her, Crowley takes hold of the saddle, gives a little bounce (which Aziraphale never points out, merely quietly enjoys), and swings up and over. Aziraphale watches the demon’s mild trepidation melt into joy.

“Look,” says Crowley—despite clearly seeing Aziraphale looking right at him. “Look, angel, it’s happening! Finally!”

Aziraphale carefully approaches and hands off the reins. “Go on, take her around.”

And he leans on the fence beside Marshmallow, smiling until his face hurts.

“I think she likes it!” Crowley calls, leaning forward to run his hand along Lilith’s neck below the drape of her mane. “Look, she’s happy! Aren’t you, you evil pony?”

“I think you’re absolutely right.” And Lilith does look happy.

(They both do.)

And a few weeks later—June, very nearly three years to the day since Crowley’s first desperate gallop over the fields of England—Aziraphale watches his friend whoop with laughter as Lilith flies. He had never even cantered while riding Marshmallow, but so complete is the trust and understanding between him and Lilith that his fear is gone, evaporated as though it had never been. Lilith is not as tall as Marshmallow but she is fierce (and Crowley will often quote Shakespeare at her to that effect), and can sprint like a greyhound—though Marshmallow can often catch her up in the straightaway, needing some time to really get going.

They dash over the hills, and Aziraphale sees Crowley looking as though he were born to the saddle, standing in the stirrups, grinning, wild and joyous, and he keeps his pride to himself. Crowley never thanks him, not once, neither for the lessons nor the horse nor the constant steady encouragement, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind. Crowley’s happiness—and his desire, obvious though never stated, to share this happiness with his friend—is gratitude enough.

(1782)

Aziraphale purses his lips, examining the fabrics.

“If you don’t mind an opinion, sir,” says the girl, “you very much suit the blue.”

“You know what—you’re right. I’ll take the blue, and thank you.” He slides a coin across the counter with a wink; the girl blushes happily and gathers up the wool. “Two weeks, you said?”

“Yes, sir, that’ll do it.”

“Then I shall see you in two weeks.”

He is whistling as he steps out of the shop, stepping on the bright leaves scattered in the lane to hear them crunch, smiling at a gaggle of children who scamper past. A very fine autumn afternoon, and a lovely dinner to look forward to—everyone agrees that the Milners set the best table in the district. He is quite lost in these happy thoughts when a whinny—sharp, shrill, cutting through the air like a knife—snaps him to alertness.

Tied at a post outside the public house, lifting her head high, looking right at him with bright expectancy.

Aziraphale smiles with true pleasure.

The other horses have edged off to either side as far as their tethers will allow, leaving a respectful space on either side of Lilith. “Hello, little one,” says Aziraphale warmly, approaching. “Goodness, aren’t you looking fine.”

And she is—well-muscled, dark coat shining, mane elaborately braided, tack oiled and polished. She paws at the ground as though pleased, stretching her nose toward him, but Aziraphale remembers the rules and does not attempt to touch her. “What has it been, dear, six or seven years? Far too long. You must come to dinner tonight—I insist. And bring your master.”

The passersby look at him rather askance, but he ignores them, drawing a card from the inner pocket of his coat; a quick miracle adds a few lines of writing to the back. “May I?” he asks, holding it out, and though Lilith pins her ears, she also stands perfectly still as he moves slowly forward and tucks the card between the pommel and the saddle pad.

“I’ll see you tonight, then.”

Lilith whickers softly, and Aziraphale smiles. “Yes, of course he’ll be there. I’m sure he’s missed you, too. Give my regards to your master, will you?”

He brushes Marshmallow’s coat and braids a ribbon into his tail, in preparation for dinner. “Be nice to see them, eh, old chap?” the angel murmurs, cinching the bridle. Marshmallow turns to nuzzle his shoulder.

They arrive a bit early to the Milners’, on purpose; Aziraphale hands off Marshmallow to the groom but lingers on the steps, tossing pebbles into the fountain. He wants to be there to see it—and he is not disappointed.

Up the lane comes a thundercloud.

Lilith skids to a halt and Crowley leaps from the saddle, sweeping his hat from under his arm and popping it onto his head with that old, unchanging grin (and how nice it is, Aziraphale thinks, to have one thing in his life that is always just the same, even as everything else shifts and grows and dies and blooms all around them). “Mister Fell!” he shouts. “Got your card. Cordially invited, am I?”

“You are.” Aziraphale beams. “Well met, Mister Crowley. And well met to your equine creature.”

Crowley laughs at that, patting Lilith’s shoulder and waving away the groom. “Where’s that brute of yours? I know he’d be bitterly disappointed not to see me.”

“He absolutely would.” They head for the barn.

Crowley calls to Marshmallow. At once the gelding’s head appears over the door of the box, and he does his little jig of excitement to see his old friends. Lilith shakes free of Crowley’s grasp and trots down the aisle to greet Marshmallow, touching noses, ears up, communicating silently but with obvious joy. Crowley watches them for a moment with a beautiful light in his face, and then shoves past Lilith.

“All right, all right,” he says, flapping his arms to make a space. “Clear off, Duchess of Evil, it’s my turn. Hello there, you great lummox. Did you miss me? I bet you did.”

Marshmallow shoves his entire head against Crowley, eyelids drooping happily as the demon laughs and hugs him, scratching along his crest. “You’re so stupid,” Crowley croons, resting his cheek against the gelding’s forehead. “Just a big stupid idiot, aren’t you? —He looks thin, angel, haven’t you been feeding him?”

“He’s getting old, Crowley.” Aziraphale passes Lilith at a respectful distance and pats Marshmallow’s neck. “It will be an easy winter, and we’ll have one last spring together, he and I. Maybe a bit of the summer, if he’s feeling up to it. Then it’s a comfortable retirement for him. Nothing but ease and plenty. He’ll have only the best.”

“Retirement?” Suddenly, much of the verve seems to have gone out of Crowley. “He isn’t old old.”

“He’s twenty-four. He likely has a good stretch left, he’s very hale and healthy. But he’s nearing the end of his rideable years, and I don’t want to put too much stress on his joints. He’s a big fellow.”

“S’pose so.” Crowley’s face has closed, like the shutting of a door that blocks out the sunlight. Marshmallow is nibbling at the hem of his waistcoat, and Crowley runs a hand slowly up and down that long face—noting, perhaps, the speckling of white on the forehead and near the muzzle. “Daft bugger,” he mutters, but is smiling as he extracts his waistcoat from the gelding’s lips. “Come on. Food.”

When Lilith is comfortable they repair to the house, but Crowley is quiet during dinner.

“What’s retirement look like for a horse, anyway?” he asks, later, as they ride out under a frosty moon.

“No more riding, obviously, or work of any sort. Lots to eat, big safe paddock, a few other beasts so he won’t be lonely. I have a lovely place all ready for him, actually. Remember the Pelhams?”

“Of course.”

“They’ve agreed to take Marshmallow. I’ll pay for his keep, of course, but he’ll have care and company in a familiar place.”

“You’ll just…leave him there?”

“Well, I can’t live with the Pelhams. But there’s plenty to do in the area, so I’ll visit him often.”

“Visit.”

“Yes, frequently.”

“I thought you cared about that thing.” Crowley jabs a finger at Marshmallow.

“Of course I care about him. He’s been a wonderful friend.”

“But you’ll just go off to your business, will you? Abandon him?”

“That’s very unfair. I would never abandon him.”

“That’s what you’re doing.”

“What else can I do?”

“You can stay! You can just…keep him! Walk him, if you can’t ride.”

“For a few more years, perhaps, but—”

“You could stop it.” Very low.

Aziraphale sighs. The horses have moved close together; their riders’ knees are nearly touching. They nose at each other, deep in conversation, and the dual staccato beat of their hooves is as lovely a sound as can be found in all of Creation.

“You know we can’t do that,” he says softly.

“Why not? We—we don’t.”

“Special circumstances.”

“Rubbish. Not a demon in Hell who deserves that more than…”

“Nor many an angel in Heaven.”

“So what is the point?”

“The natural order of—”

“Fuck the natural order.”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, as gently as he has ever spoken in all of his life. “Living things die. It’s what they do.”

Crowley has gone very still. Slowly, slowly he stretches out an arm, touching the side of Marshmallow’s neck with his fingers. Then he sniffs, and snarls, and puts his heels to Lilith. They disappear into the darkness.

Aziraphale doesn’t see them again for eleven years.

(1793, Paris)

He straightens his hat, which has fallen askew, scowling and flush-cheeked as he resumes his seat at the little table amidst bewildered but genuine applause from the humans.

“I hope you’re happy. That was humiliating.”

“Not like it’s the first time.” Crowley sips his wine, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“First time in public.”

“Are you saying it was unwarranted?”

Aziraphale smooths his coat and shakes out a napkin. “I believe my acquiescence to the dance concedes its validity.”

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale chops into his plate of crêpes, his humor somewhat recovered as he closes his eyes to savor the taste. “Ahhhh, now that hits the spot.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“…How did you even know I was in trouble, anyway?”

Crowley shrugs, looking off as though uninterested. “Just a hunch. No one had seen you for a bit, so I popped down to see if you were sowing good deeds among the revolution.”

“Well. I can’t say I wasn’t glad to see you. Are you sure you won’t have any of these? They’re delicious.”

“No. Thanks. Maybe some more wine.”

“…You were looking for me?”

“Shut up and eat your paper pancakes.”

“Just a taste? Come on, look at that jam. Mmm, it’s marvelous.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Just one bite?”

Crowley snorts, scrunching his face. “Fine, one bite.”

And he reaches across and plucks the fork from Aziraphale’s hand.

“Hm.”

“Ehhhh?”

“Not bad.”

“What did I tell you?”

“I said not bad.”

“Quite.”

Crowley drops the fork and Aziraphale retrieves it, pretending to not be acutely aware of having shared it, resisting the strange impulse to linger over his next bite.

“And how is Lilith? Still kicking heads in?”

“On the daily. Little hellion.”

“Not slowing down at all?”

“Not a bit,” rather shortly. “And the lummox?”

Aziraphale pauses with a bite halfway to his mouth. The fork slowly lowers. “Crowley…Marshmallow passed. Coming up on two years ago, now. I tried to let you know, but I wasn’t sure if the letter ever reached you.”

Crowley does not look over at him. “…Said he was ill.”

“Yes. I buried him out in the meadow—that first one, remember? Where we…well. No marker, or anything like that. I don’t want the humans to find him. But he always liked it there.”

“Got another one now, have you?”

“No, actually. I…I don’t think I will. It doesn’t feel the same. Marshmallow was special.” Aziraphale pushes the remains of the crêpes around his plate. “Actually, Upstairs has been wanting me to set up a permanent office, of sorts. Like an outpost, or an embassy. I’ll probably be moving to London in the next year or two.”

Crowley grunts.

“I’d love to see Lilith, if that’s all right with you. I’m very fond of her.”

“Fine.”

“You know, Benjamin Pelham is master of that estate now. If you’re ever thinking of a place for Lilith—”

“No.”

“Of course. Forget I mentioned it.”

Crowley grunts again.

Back on English soil, Aziraphale follows Crowley through the bustling port. They can hear Lilith long before they reach the stable where he had rented a box, and Aziraphale has to laugh; Crowley even cracks a grin, which is good to see.

The rather harried stablemaster allows Aziraphale to smooth over the traumatic two days with a hefty bonus to the rental fee, and is clearly deeply relieved to see the back of them all.

Out in the street, Aziraphale gives a little bow. “Madam,” he says. “How well you look. You are the very essence of chaos and spite.”

Lilith—twenty-five now, slightly sunken about the eyes and speckled over the forehead but with every ounce of her old spirit, regards him with mild antipathy. She is saddled and bridled, but Crowley takes her reins and begins walking, and Aziraphale does not question it. At his wordless gesture, Aziraphale hires them a carriage to head north. Lilith is not tethered, but trots alongside, with Crowley hanging out of the window for the entire ride, growling at the driver if the team’s pace becomes too energetic.

“Thank you,” says Aziraphale in the evening, at the edge of the town in Hertfordshire where he had been staying before nipping down to France. The carriage has departed and Crowley is standing, one hand curled over the bridge of Lilith’s nose as she rests her head on his shoulder. “Look, I’ll probably be here for a bit, wrapping up affairs before I head to London. Certainly not before next summer. If you’re around…”

“Maybe.”

“Well. Goodbye for now, then. Unless you’d like a drink?”

“…Sure.”

But at the inn, Crowley seems reluctant to leave the stable. Aziraphale brings out the wine and they sit coatless on the hay just outside Lilith’s box, passing the bottle back and forth.

“D’you remember,” says Crowley, “when it rained and we were stuck in that awful outbuilding for hours?”

“How could I forget? The place was full of rats. And moldy turnip bits.”

“Which Marshmallow kept trying to eat!”

“He would not listen.”

“And you were ready to turn him out into the rain.”

“And you wouldn’t let me!”

“Course not! He’d’ve caught cold. Or something. Do horses get colds?”

“I suppose they must do.”

“Not Lilith. Not been ill a day in her life.” At the mention of her name, the mare lowers her head over the stall gate and snuffles at Crowley’s hair, thoroughly mussing it. He does not appear to mind.

“She’s a magnificent creature. And she couldn’t have a better life.”

“To Lilith!” Crowley raises the bottle. “Finest damn horse ever to walk the Earth. You know, she’s always known just what I’m thinking. Never have to say it. She just knows. What is that? How do they do that?”

“Horses are very intuitive. To Lilith,” Aziraphale adds, tipping the bottle her way as Crowley hands it to him and taking a swig. “But it’s more than that. It’s always been more than that, with the two of you.”

“What, then.”

“Love.”

“Oh, sod right off.”

“You really don’t think she loves you? You’re the only creature on God’s green Earth she’s ever done more than grudgingly tolerate.”

“Not true.”

“Oh?”

“Marshmallow. She likes him. A lot.”

“Yes. They were great friends.” Aziraphale lifts the bottle. “To Marshmallow. A big stupid idiot of a horse, and I love him, and I miss him.” Suddenly there are tears in Aziraphale’s eyes. He takes a swallow and hands off the bottle.

Crowley takes it slowly, his face inscrutable.

Aziraphale folds his arms on his knees and rests his chin there. “He was a right one. Such a dear, dear thing. Taught me how to fly. Taught you how to not panic. Wasn’t he good, Crowley? He was good, wasn’t he?”

“The best.”

“Yes. He was. I miss him.”

“You said that.”

“Well. It’s still true.” He wipes his face. “And Lilith loves you, and that is also true. Finest damn horse ever to walk the Earth. I’m happy for you.”

“What for?”

“Because now you know. The world’s different after you know what it’s like. To love a living thing. Not abstractly, in the general sense—like, obviously I love humanity—not like that, and not humans, either, because they go on. To love something that you know you’re going to lose, well, that changes things. And I’m very proud of you.”

“What.”

“Proud. Me. Of you.”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry. I mean, not sorry, but…sorry. You don’t want to—and that’s fine. Not a problem. I said it, and that’s that. Anyway. If you wanted to visit Marshmallow, there’s no marker, like I said, but he’s under the big oak. The one where you stood and I showed you how to sit. The saddle. You know. That one.”

Crowley downs the last few inches in the bottle.

“Hey!”

“You’ve had enough.”

“Oh. You’re probably right. I should bed.”

He snorts. “Yes, you should bed.”

“Quite. Here I go. …One moment. A farewell to the Mistress of Devilry.” He stands, rather unsteadily, and smiles at the mare. “Lilith, you are a wonder. I am glad to know you.”

He is not certain, the next morning, whether or not he had imagined the feathery-soft brush of Lilith’s nose across his outstretched fingers. He likes to think that it was real.

He does remember being led back to the inn by Crowley, and of making several attempts to remove his boots before Crowley had huffed and knelt and pulled them off, tossing them aside as he had strode for the door.

Lilith and Crowley are gone—whether the night before or earlier in the morning, Aziraphale doesn’t know.

When he visits Marshmallow’s grave a few days later, there are fresh hoofprints in the mossy earth.

(1799)

Something wrong, the letter had said. Quick.

Unsigned, but it didn’t need to be.

The postmark is familiar, and he hires a swift carriage. Only a few hours’ ride out of the city. Late when he arrives, and so he has to wait, but he doesn’t sleep, spending the night staring out the window at the driving rain. Leaving the inn at first light, asking every human that he sees.

He doesn’t have to look for long, or very hard.

The thicket seems to loom out of the mist that blankets the hills, magnifying the sounds that he can hear from far off—a metallic chunk and scrape, rhythmic, grim. The moss cushions his footsteps as he approaches.

A hand-cart, several sets of footprints but most of them leading away again, past the deep tracks that have cut through the mud. A mound in the cart, covered by a length of roughspun cotton. Perfectly still.

Moving closer, across the muddy, misty meadow, following the final set of prints as the rhythmic sounds cease, leaving only heavy breaths.

Beneath the oak but half a turn around, a rough divot chopped into the earth. Crowley leaning on a shovel, coatless, ankle-deep in mud, facing away, head bowed.

Aziraphale closes his eyes for a moment, gathering himself, fighting against the tears that already threaten to burst forth. “Crowley,” he says softly.

Shoulders hunch. Dirt-grimed hands curl around the handle of the shovel, punch it downward once more. “Go away.”

“Crowley, I—”

“Aziraphale. Go away.” Words punctuated by labored breaths. “I don’t want to see you.”

Aziraphale casts a pained glance at the other side of the oak; there is no marker, but he knows, and the fact that Crowley has chosen this spot… He takes off his hat, dithers for a moment, and then simply tosses it, and steps down into the beginnings of a grave.

His boots squelch in the mud. Crowley looks around at last. His glasses are gone, and somehow the confusion in his eyes is more shattering than tears would be. He looks as though he cannot quite believe anything that is happening. “What. What are you.”

“Let me help you.”

Curl of lip as he turns away. “You’ve helped enough. Just leave.” Chop, stomp, scoop.

“Crowley…I understand what you’re—”

“You don’t understand anything.” Chop, pause. Shuddering shoulders. “What have you done?” Eyes smoldering, cheek smeared with mud. “You’ve—those are your best boots.”

“I don’t see what that—”

“They’re filthy. What have you done? ” Facing him fully, a savage stab of the shovel with one arm, hands trembling, teeth bared. “You always do this. Why do you do this?”

“Crowley…”

“Couldn’t just mind your own bloody business, could you?” The demon takes a slow step forward, chin down, wildness in his glare, fury in the tension of his arms. “You’re always doing this. Always meddling. You can’t ever just leave well enough alone. I was fine. Everything was FINE. Then you stuck your stupid bloody nose in where you don’t belong.”

Aziraphale holds his ground, though his heart is breaking. “Try to—”

“No. No. I am done listening to you. All you’ve ever done for me is put me here, in a hole in the ground. This is your fault. All of it. You’re always meddling and I hate it, I hate you. I hate you, Aziraphale. I HATE you, I don’t ever want to see you again, so go away and LEAVE ME ALONE!”

A mighty shove with both hands. Aziraphale tumbles into the mud; it slides up beneath the tails of his coat, squishes between his fingers, splatters his hair as the back of his head strikes the lip of the hole.

Crowley stands above him, fingers crooked, snarling, seething, starkly silhouetted against the mist.

Aziraphale smiles, even as the tears slip down his cheeks.

“Grief,” he says, the word barely able to squeeze through his constricted throat. “This is grief, Crowley. Don’t run from it. Feel it.”

Slowly. So slowly. It seems to take a year at least. But bit by tiny bit, the mouth sags. The fists crumble. The hellish fire behind the eyes dims, and is washed away. Crowley tries to turn but his legs give out and he falls, hands disappearing into the mud up to the wrists, his breath heaving, as though the weight laid upon him will barely allow the passage of air.

Aziraphale rolls to his knees, crawls through the mud, and puts his arms around his friend.

Crowley shakes. Slowly, slowly his head falls, resting against Aziraphale’s. Slowly his fingers close around handfuls of mud.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale whispers, his cheek on Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley weeps.

Harsh, heaving sobs, guttural, raw. Aziraphale holds all of Crowley’s weight as the demon goes limp, helpless, destroyed by this storm, gasping and shivering, his tears dampening Aziraphale’s hair and pattering over the arm of his coat, finally trickling down his cheek to join the angel’s own tears. The mist settles as they huddle in the mud, wisps of it reaching questing fingers into the grave.

After a time—there is no knowing just how long—Crowley is quiet, his body hitching every now and then with the aftershocks of the sobbing. With great care, Aziraphale moves him, still supporting his weight, hobbling on his knees to lift Crowley to the edge of the hole, perching him there and climbing up beside him. For some time more they sit there together, leaning against each other, Crowley sniffing and shivering. Then Aziraphale stands and takes off his jacket, draping it over Crowley’s shoulders. Without a word he goes to the shovel—still upright where it had been planted—and braces his foot against the head, using the handle as a lever to pull up a heavy clump of earth.

He had miracled Marshmallow’s grave into being; it had seemed the most gentle way, fitting for the sweet-tempered gelding. Crowley has chosen a different method for Lilith’s resting place, and it seems equally fitting. He chops and stomps and scoops, over and over again until his shoulders ache, and then he keeps going.

After some little while (it is impossible to gauge the passage of time in this soup of mist), Crowley stands. He folds Aziraphale’s jacket and sets it on the moss beyond the edge of the hole, taking up a shovel that hadn’t been there a moment before.

They dig.

It takes hours. The fog doesn’t begin to lift until much later, when a vague brightness above their heads hints at a clearing up above. They do not stop. Long after the point of exhaustion they toil on side by side, pausing now and then to wipe absently at the sweat that rolls down, or to roll up their sleeves, or to simply lean for a moment, but always returning to the work without sitting or passing a single word. They dig—grunting with the effort of heaving the dirt higher and higher—until the top of the hole is level with the crown of Crowley’s head, a neat square, the bottom stomped smooth.

Aziraphale leans against the earthen wall and crooks a knee; Crowley puts a hand on his shoulder and uses the knee as a step, climbing out. He offers a hand and Aziraphale takes it, bracing his feet against the saturated dirt, scrambling a bit but held by arms that are somehow still strong enough to lift him.

The meadow has cleared somewhat—the trees across the way are visible now, and so is the cart with its burden. Aziraphale walks to it and takes one of the poles, waiting. After a moment, Crowley takes up the other pole. A slight miracle helps them along—Aziraphale doesn’t think that Crowley will mind it at this point, and anyway they would never be able to move the cart on their own without a little help. Carefully they draw it forward, turning until it is quite near the grave.

They stand for a long time at the rear of the cart. At length Aziraphale reaches forward and brushes his fingers over the cotton, which flutters beneath his touch, blooming into beautiful black silk. Crowley sniffles, hands shoved into his pockets; Aziraphale waits again, not looking at him, as patient as the mist itself.

A tumble would be brutal and undignified, and Aziraphale is glad that Crowley clearly agrees. He stands aside and watches solemnly as Crowley’s hands guide the shrouded shape through the air and lower it into the grave.

The silk shimmers faintly in the eerie, indirect pale light.

Crowley kneels at the edge, his muddied, bedraggled hair obscuring his face. Aziraphale sees the tears that fall, twinkling briefly in the mist before disappearing into the gloom below.

At last he turns, sitting with elbows propped on his knees.

Aziraphale kneels beside him, touching his shoulder gently and nodding toward the meadow—go on. I’ll handle this.

Crowley hesitates. Rubs an arm over his face, smearing the mud. Shakes his head. When Aziraphale rises and holds out a hand, Crowley takes it, allowing himself to be helped to his feet. They take up their shovels again.

Beams of afternoon sunlight are cutting through the mist like blades of radiance when at last all that remains is a low mound of packed earth. Crowley tosses down his shovel and goes a little distance into the meadow to sit in the grass. After a moment, Aziraphale joins him. Crowley tenses up but Aziraphale says nothing, letting the sun fall upon his throbbing shoulders and back, closing his eyes and tilting his head to meet that brightness.

He can hear Crowley shifting uncomfortably. He smiles, and opens his eyes. Crowley is looking down, hands twisting in his lap, and Aziraphale can see the struggle on his face, the hurt, the fear.

He puts a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley winces, but does not pull away.

“Don’t apologize,” says Aziraphale. “You’ve done nothing wrong. There is nothing to forgive.”

Crowley shakes his head, still looking down. “You… I…”

“Crowley?”

“…What?”

“Shut up.”

He does. Aziraphale closes his eyes again, pretending not to notice the fresh tears on his friend’s cheeks.

The light slowly brightens around them, revealing glimpses of blue sky above, the light warming toward gold as the afternoon wears on. 

“Is it true?”

Aziraphale had been half-dozing, leaning back on his arms, and blinks. “Is what true?”

Crowley carefully rolls his shoulders, grimacing. “The whole special-place-in-Heaven thing. For animals. Pets and…animals. Dogs and cats. And all that. Is it true?”

“…Not that I am aware.”

Crowley growls low in his throat, clutching handfuls of mossy grass in his fists. He takes a few deep breaths before speaking again. “Then what,” he hisses, “is the bloody point? Of any of it?”

Aziraphale sits up, stretching out his legs in front of him, sighing a long, gentle sigh and looking out across the meadow, watching the slow roll of the mist still gathered in the shelter of the trees.

“There is a word for it, you know,” he says quietly. “Soulish. There are creatures that have the characteristics of a soul, but not the special blessing of the Almighty to eternal life. A spirit, rather than a soul. And the spirit, when freed from the body, returns into the greater life-force of the world. Nothing is ever truly destroyed or lost. Marshmallow and Lilith are still here. Both because their spirits remain in the world, and because they will always be part of us. Perhaps the only creatures in all of Creation to ever have been loved by an angel and a demon.”

Crowley grunts. “Wish that counted for something.”

“I think it does. I think that love always counts.”

There is a long silence. Nightingales sing in the oak tree, above two graves.

“…So the spirit goes on?”

“So they say.”

“But do you believe it? You, personally?”

Aziraphale looks over, meeting Crowley’s anxious eyes very seriously. “With all of my heart.”

Crowley nods. Settles back a bit. Nods again.

With a groan of effort, Aziraphale climbs to his feet, putting hands to the small of his back to stretch it. “Come along. It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“A eulogy.”

“Oh bollocks.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I spoke for Marshmallow, and I’ll happily speak for Lilith.”

Crowley also stands, but is looking at him strangely. “Just…you? All on your own?”

“For Marshmallow? Yes, of course. Should I have invited the humans to a horse funeral? Come along, now. Here—no, never mind, the coats are a mess. We’ll do, just as we are. Stand just here. All right.” He clears his throat.

“We have gathered here on this, the seventh day of September, seventeen-ninety-nine, to honor a very special life.

“Lilith, you were a thorn in my side. A right little she-devil is how the humans described you, and more apt words have never been spoken. You bit when you couldn’t kick, kicked when you couldn’t bite, and when you couldn’t do either, you employed your tail as a whip. You delighted in knocking over buckets, making grooms flee before you, and generally behaving like the viper that you truly, truly were. One time you took the tail of my coat in your teeth and pulled it right up over my head, causing me to sit down squarely upon a pile of fresh manure that, to this day, I am convinced you left there for that express purpose. I had to throw out those breeches, you know.

“You were a malicious terror to the entire world…except for one person.

“There was never a thing Crowley asked of you that you didn’t do, at once and splendidly. When he spoke, you melted. I have never beheld a creature more wholly devoted to its master—though in truth, he was far more of a friend to you than a master at all. I told you once that you were a very lucky horse, and I’ve never been happier to have been proven right. Your life was blessed, because you were loved.

“…And not just by Crowley. I loved you, too. You might not have believed it if I had said it to your face, but since you can’t kick at me now, I get to say what I want. You were beautiful, and loyal, and strong. I loved you not because of how you treated me, but because I could see the softness in you, even though it was never directed toward me. And I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. You were perfect—exactly as you were.

“Living things die. It’s what they do. But first they live. And when all the stars go out and the universe returns to the darkness from which it was birthed, you will go on, because you will still be in our hearts. I am glad to have known you. Thank you for being you.  …Amen.”

“Ugh, you ruined it,” says Crowley, though his voice is thick and watery.

“Sorry. Reflex.”

He remains looking solemnly over the grave as Crowley gradually composes himself.

“Would you like to say anything?”

“Not much left to say.”

“That’s fine. It doesn’t have to be now, anyway, or even here. If there’s anything you ever want to say to her, no matter where you are, or when, you can just…say it.”

Crowley sighs, and sits down on the ground again. Aziraphale sits beside him.

“Does it ever stop?”

“…Not really.”

“Well, that’s very comforting.”

“I’m not going to lie to you. Of course it still hurts. Sometimes I still think that I hear him, and then I have to remember all over again that he’s gone. That will probably happen to you, too. Tomorrow will be difficult. And the next day. And the next. And eventually you’ll be doing all right, and you’ll even go a few days without thinking of her at all, and then something will remind you and you’ll be a mess for a while. But that doesn’t mean that anything is wrong. It’s just part of the process.”

“And…you did all that? The process?”

“Of course. Ongoing, really. But easier now than it was. Time is really just a form of distance—no one knows that better than you and I. And distance doesn’t really fix anything.”

“So what does fix it?”

“Honestly?”

“Of course honestly.”

“This.”

“What?”

“This—what we’re doing right now. Talking about it. Sharing the pain with someone who understands. Doesn’t fix things, really, but it helps. Quite a bit, actually. So… When you want to talk about Lilith, you can talk to me. Always. Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”

“Please don’t start with that.”

“Fine. But it’s true.  …That’s Macbeth, you know.”

“I know.”

Crowley is quiet for some time. The shadow of sunset is climbing the trees now, the shade beneath them deepening into purple.

“Sorry,” says Crowley at last, very quietly.

“Oh, whatever for?”

“For…” Crowley bobs his chin to their left, towards Marshmallow’s grave. “You were. I mean. Alone, and… And I knew. Should’ve been here. Just. Hard to, you know, to think about. Didn’t want to.”

Aziraphale feels a marvelous rush of warmth and affection for him, and has to resist the impulse to put an arm around the demon’s shoulders. “It’s all right,” he says. “Truly. I understand. And so does he.”

Crowley rests his forehead on his arms, crossed over his knees. “He was…pretty great. Not the finest damn horse ever to walk the Earth, but, well, not half bad.” 

“I’m sure he’s very pleased to hear that from you. …You know, I live in London now.”

“I sent a letter, I know you live in London.”

“I’m going to buy a building, I think. For the outpost. You remember that I mentioned it, a while back. I thought maybe I could pretend that it’s a bookshop, just to fool the humans, you see, but really it’s my collection. Little flat up above, something like that. Maybe a spiral staircase—I do love a spiral staircase.”

Crowley does not lift his head. “Might head that way, myself. Better tempting in the city. More going on. Don’t have to travel so bloody far to find people.”

“True, true. And—let me know, will you?”

“Fine.”

“And you’ll be welcome by mine, of course. Any time.”

“Welcome. Me. In a consecrated outpost of Heaven.”

“It will be my posting, and I say that you will.”

Crowley grunts.

Aziraphale stands again, brushing quite ineffectively at the mud caked on his breeches. “Up you get. We’ll come back tomorrow—maybe plant some flowers, that would be nice. But right now we’re going to the village.”

“What for?”

“To find the pub and get extremely drunk. You can’t tell me it isn’t what she would have wanted.”

“…That is a very valid point.”

“Come on. Leave the cart, we can get it tomorrow.”

He holds out a hand. Crowley takes it.

They do plant flowers. And after they’ve both found their places in London, every year they make a little trip south—in September, when the leaves of the oak are just beginning to turn. Just for the day. They bring champagne (and often a hamper), walk over the fields, and sit on the ground to toast the finest damn horses ever to walk the Earth.