Chapter Text
Springtime in the country
Each time I'm shocked by the light
The world lyin' fallow and you are apart from me
Everythin' in my vision is movement and life
Riverboat, wheelbarrow, wildflower and barley
If you follow a winding road towards the heart of the South Downs and hike up the green hills, across the valleys and past the sheep, you might find a small cottage tucked away between the trees. But you probably wouldn’t find it; a miracle has made that certainly impossible. The only beings allowed within the close vicinity of the cottage are the birds, who nest atop the trees and enjoy the scenery (or the occasional wandering sheep, of which Aziraphale is very fond).
Right now, it is springtime. This means the chill of winter lingers in the breeze, and mud piles beneath the wet, tall grass. It means soil is again ready for planting, and the leaves have returned in their full shades of green. But mostly, for Aziraphale and Crowley, it means a new beginning, or a happily ever after, of sorts. The is their first spring in the South Downs, the first spring without answering to the whims of intolerable higher (or lower) authorities, and the first spring in which they have uninterrupted, unviolated, unthreatened time with each other. Only each other. This is neither a blessing nor a curse. It is not fate, either. It is a future they’ve created together, of their own volitions. It is perhaps the single most joyous occurrence either of them have experienced in their time on Earth. And it is beautiful.
The light, toffee colored walls of the cottage are topped with a dark brown brick roof. The windows are adorned with window boxes, which have yet to be filled with plants. Outside the light gray door sits a little porch and brick steps leading up to it. The inside of the cottage is beyond the view of the birds, although they could catch glimpses of movement through one of the many windows on the front wall. If they were paying attention, that is.
These windows shed copious amounts of sunlight into the living room, where Aziraphale and Crowley are carefully shelving books. Or, more accurately, Aziraphale is shelving his books very carefully, and directing Crowley on where to place boxes and what book stacks to hand him.
This is what they have been doing for solidly the past two days. Yes, there are that many books. Crowley wouldn’t want to believe it either, except he’s been with this angel long enough to know, before they even started moving, that he would have to carry a seemingly unending amount of boxes into the house. All of them containing books, and books, and more books.. Then a couple of mugs and tea bags, for good measure. He didn’t really mind as much as he played it off though. He didn’t even complain that much.. Or as much as he could’ve, that is. There was a respectable amount of grumbling in the midst of the two day shelving extravaganza, but that was only warranted, in his opinion. The point is he’s been somewhat happy. Excited, even. All of the recent shell - shocking events have now concluded, and they are set to leave the past far behind them, back in London.
Right now all that matters is helping his angel and getting situated into this new, quaint little cottage. The living room is the last room to be decorated. The couch rests lazily across from a cushioned chair where Crowley will undoubtedly see Aziraphale pinned to for hours with a nice book and a hot cocoa in the future. Empty boxes are scattered about, but other than that everything is in its place, until Aziraphale changes his mind on where that place is. The full bookshelves line the back wall of the living room, making a colorful sort of backdrop to admire. Aziraphale stands in front of it, doing just that. He then reaches down to tend to the final stack of books Crowley has set beside him. The only things askew are the empty cardboard boxes on the carpet, which Crowley kneels down to stack, while looking up and around at the finished room.
It’s strange, how fast they moved everything in and organized it all. While it did take a couple of weeks, it didn’t feel like long at all. In fact, he’s been completely engrossed in the process. So much so, he forgot that they might reach a point of finish.
Not one noise echoes through the cottage while he stacks boxes, and all he hears are books sliding onto the shelf beside him. Not even the birds outside fill the room with any singing. Then he hears an excited “Crowley!” and the very air seems to still.
He gives a small grunt in response and turns to his left to find the angel now kneeling next to him, holding out a book to show him.
“It’s the last book. After this we’re done. Well, there might still be some things to fix up, I mean, plenty, I’m sure, but… for now, we’re done moving in. Officially.” He exclaims eagerly. Then he smiles so wide, Crowley could swear it brightens the sky outside the windows of the cottage. His pale blue eyes are alight with enthusiasm and his blonde hair and usual beige suit are illuminated by the sun shining through the glass. Crowley shrugs with a smile prying on his lips.
“Well then.. do the honors.”
Aziraphale takes a breath, finds an open spot, and slowly places the last book on the shelf.
The last book.
The last book.
The last thing they have to do, mission they have to accomplish, task they must complete for the rest of eternity.
Crowley stares at it. Simply.. stares. For some reason he thinks it might move, or shift, or fly away. It doesn’t. It remains in place, as does the rest of the cottage. Not even the air has moved yet; it seems to remain frozen still, as if it were winter again.
Aziraphale sits back and looks around the room proudly, lovingly, and Crowley starts to feel it crawl into his chest.
He can’t pinpoint the feeling, though he’s felt it before. It’s bothersome and relentless like a pest, but it slowly grows and grips his heart like a chain. He can feel it squeezing. The air still hasn’t moved, and the birds still haven’t chirped, or maybe he can’t hear them over is own rapid heartbeat. He knows he should be happy, should be pleased, should be fulfilled… Should be calm.
He wishes it would go away, but of course it does not. It remains in place with that last book, that final straw. As he gazes across the room he feels the walls growing closer, trapping him inside. Closer, closer, closer. Everything is too close, and too quiet. His breathing starts to go shallow. He knows he won’t be able to stop it, he can only escape it. He must escape.
“Umm.. right then, I’m gonna go get some fresh air, go for a walk or something.” Crowley manages out, and Aziraphale looks back at him, bewildered. But he nods. “Alright...”
He takes the approval and immediately stands up with urgency, making his way to the back door. He sees Aziraphale stand up in the corner of his eye and can feel the angel’s concerned eyes burning into his back as he walks away, but he doesn’t care. He needs to move, to leave, to get out of there. To breathe.
He opens the back door and steps outside, closing it behind him and walking forward out onto the grass. Immediately the brightness hits him, making him pause and squint his eyes against the sun. He realizes he doesn’t have his sunglasses. He left them upstairs. It’s been a shift, to not carry them everywhere, but recently he’s felt so comfortable he just.. doesn’t wear them anymore. For the first time since they arrived at the cottage, he longs for them. They were very good at blocking out the sunlight and the pain, whenever either might choose to arise.
He notices though, next, that there’s a mild wind blowing through the outside air. The air is moving again. He takes in sporadic, rattled breaths, and starts to pace. There’s so much room out here, and the grass stretches out as far as he can see. There aren’t any walls moving closer, which is certainly very nice. Some trees stand to the side of the grassy area, and they seem to look at him curiously. He starts to hear birds chirping again. The wind chill makes him shiver. It’s not so bad out here, he soon decides, after a couple paces around an invisible circle.
The damp grass tickles against his ankles, and he starts to look down at it as he walks. It desperately needs trimmed, he observes decidedly. Then he spots something peculiar. A group of of little colorful flowers have sprouted up from the long grass, all on their own. He stops so as not to step on them. They must be wildflowers, he thinks curiously, and squats down to look closer. There are some that are bright yellow, some white, some a soft pink and some a rich purple. They’re quite pretty, he admits to himself, and Aziraphale would like them very much.
He stands up and looks around at the rest of the garden. There are little spurts of them everywhere, sprinkling the tall green grass. It’s a nice area, he must say. But it could do with more flowers and trimmed grass. His breathing has calmed down a little in this line of thought, but his heartbeat hasn’t slowed. He continues to pace.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale is roaming around the interior of the cottage, unsure of what to do with himself. He’s very pleased with his work. It has turned out rather charmingly, as it should after a long moving process and some very precise decorating on his account. He wanders into the kitchen, the only other room on the small, base level of the cottage. There are no walls in between the two. The open floor plan suits them both perfectly, in Aziraphale’s opinion.
The living room has warmer, dimmer lighting while the kitchen is very bright, with white counters and white wooden cabinets on the pale blue walls above them. Crowley’s plants are spread throughout, the tall ones on the ground and smaller ones on the corners of the counters. They add a nice splash of color to the area. To the left of him is the fridge, and in front of him, by the front wall of the cottage, sits a small round wooden table. Behind it is a large window and on either side of it are two chairs. It’s perfect.
He sighs contentedly as he looks at the completed kitchen. They’ll make good use of it, of that he’s sure. He reaches toward one of the white cabinet doors and opens it, viewing the small shelves he‘s stocked with various grains, sauces, and beans. He double checks that everything is properly organized, then closes it lovingly and repeats with the cabinet to the left of it. As he browses, he realizes something he had, oddly enough, not fully considered before: he and Crowley are going to have to cook their own food here. He’s cooked a couple of times in his years on Earth, but not enough to know a lot of recipes, and certainly not enough to be adequate at it.
He does, however, happen to own one book on the subject, because of course he owns at least one book on every subject. He remembers shelving it earlier, so goes back into the living room to search for it. He scans the wall of books for a long time, before letting out an “Aha.”
And there it is: A New and Easy Method of Cookery, by Elizabeth Cleland. He knew the woman for a short time, back when he was in Edinburgh around the 1750s. He enjoyed the bustling atmosphere of the Luckenbooths, an area of market stalls which he visited frequently for the books and poetry being sold, as well as a small library located there he often borrowed from.
This area is where Elizabeth sold her book, and where she lived and ran her very own cooking school for the nearby young ladies of Scotland. When he got the chance to meet her, he expressed his gratitude for her doing good for the younger generation, and his interest in her work. He received one of the first copies of her cookbook to be sold publicly. They remained friendly acquaintances afterward, and she always greeted him fondly each time he returned to the Luckenbooths.
He flips through the book until he finds a section with a wide selection of recipes for soups - that’s an easy enough place to start, he reasons. He can handle making soup.
He brings the book into the kitchen and sets it on the counter, delicately turning the aged pages. He prides himself in keeping his older books in tip-top condition, but tends to be extra timid when handling them just in case. He stops when he sees a recipe he thinks should be just fine: Scotch Barley Broth; a soup with beef, vegetables, herbs and barley. His claps his hands together gleefully. This should be very fun, indeed.