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They had nothing to do that evening. It wasn’t book club day, gardening club day, or ‘going to the pub to be sociable’ day, ergo, there was nothing to do. Plus, the evenings were dark and increasingly icy and a particular cold-blooded being had ‘absolutely no desire to go out in it’. Aziraphale agreed.
That still left them with the conundrum of how to spend their evening. Crowley opted for the television.
Obviously, they had one. He used it for Golden Girls, James Bond, and a myriad of silly films with far too many flashy cars going far too fast. Luckily, he mostly indulged while Aziraphale was out, in the study, or reading Jane Austen in the bath. That evening, however, Zira was quite content to stay in the sitting room. He had a new book. Several chapters in, his partner still hadn’t made his choice.
He liked to think he was patient, (it was a virtue, after all), but even he had his limits.
‘Do pick something, dear boy.’
Crowley, who’d evidently forgotten he was there, jumped and glanced over. ‘Ngk?’
‘Pick something.’
‘S’nothing to pick.’
With great theatricality, Aziraphale got up from his armchair and lent over the back of the settee. He snatched the remote, and tried to change the channel.
‘Angel, you press UP- No, UP- It’s the button the other side, with the arrow- We’re on streaming, there are no channels-’
‘I managed a bookshop for over two hundred years. I guarded the Garden Of Eden. I was on the battlefield with King Arthur. I’m sure I can handle a television.’
A while later, Aziraphale had squeezed in beside Crowley on the sofa. This was a Sitting Job. He’d just gotten the hang of swiping and selecting.
‘Where are those silly American films?’
‘You’re on the English streaming service, they won’t be on the front page.’
‘It’s not a page, though, it’s a screen!’ He nearly whined, (though Crowley would argue he actually whined.)
‘Look, if you just scroll down a bit-’
‘You do it then, if you’re so well versed in technology!’
He dropped the remote onto Crowley’s lap. The redhead contorted his extraordinarily lanky limbs into a position that would better suit ‘scrolling’, and muttered something about:
‘So well versed, me. Practically Bill bleeding Gates-’
‘HALT! What was that one, top left, with the tent and the Victoria sponge?’
‘Uh, Great British Bake Off.’
-
Sometimes, way back in the day, when Crowley was creating stars, he’d get a feeling. That he’d created something that would spiral far out of his control and contort all of time and space with no way of reining it back in. Or in this case, that he’d let Zira watch Bake Off.
The angel was entranced by it. He’d moved his overflowing antique knitting basket from the radio to the tv, and Crowley had barely had a look in since. Maybe that was slightly unfair, considering their date nights and Zira reading him to sleep and letting him sit in his lap while they listened to records- Yeah, slightly unfair.
He surreptitiously ambled over to the sofa and casually sat on the arm of the sofa. Without looking, he tried to slide the remote out from the pile of wool and squishy cushions.
‘None of that.’ Zira said, and swatted his hand away. ‘This Welshman is trying to peel an onion with a potato peeler.’
‘Nhn, that’s not right. That’s for potatoes.’
‘Precisely. Shh!’
Well, fine. He didn’t need a television or his partner to entertain him. He was perfectly capable of entertaining himself. So capable, in fact, that he went to bed at 2PM.
-
After a proper day out at a town several miles away, Crowley was hoping for a nice, relaxing evening. With alcohol. Alcohol and maybe Zira reading Pride & Prejudice to him until they fell asleep on the sofa and woke up with splitting headaches. Perfect plan.
This plan was derailed by Aziraphale practically sprinting to the sofa the second the cottage door was unlocked.
‘Waaa?’ said Crowley intelligently as a cream-coloured blur whizzed past him.
‘I think there’s some of the nice whisky left in the pantry. Be a good chap and pour me a glass? I would do it myself, but someone’s absolutely butchering a lemon meringue pie.’
This is it, Crowley thought as he sauntered into the pantry. I did two Armageddons and ran away to the South Downs only for my best friend to leave me for tv people and their cream puffs.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. Crowley had some houseplants to water, anyway. He was a practitioner of tipsy gardening. Great for the soul, less great for the liver.
He paced up and down the living room with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a plant mister in the other.
‘THOU SHALT NOT WILT. THOU SHALT NOT DROOP. THOU SHALT NOT DRY OUT. WHAT WERE YOU PUT ON THIS EARTH FOR, IF ALL YOU’RE GOING TO DO IS GROW AWAY FROM THE SUN?’
In between the tirades Zira had long since learned to zone out, he caught snippets of Bake Off.
‘Started baking it, had a breakdown, bon appetit!’
He hadn’t expected a show about coffee cake and pork pies to end up quite so emotional, but you never could predict what humans would do.
‘I WILL NOT ACCEPT SURRENDER OR ANYTHING LESS THAN FIFTEEN STRAWBERRIES ON YOU BY SEPTEMBER, AM I CLEAR?’ and he carried on with terrorising the houseplants.
-
Crowley didn’t get needy. It simply wasn’t how she functioned. She did, however, get bored, and sometimes that boredom manifested in her seeking affection. Only sometimes, though. Out of boredom, not neediness.
This time round, she was sitting on the floor and leaning against the sofa. She would love to properly snuggle up to Zira, but unfortunately his giant knitting project occupied the entire rest of the space. This was acceptable, though. Zira was gently running his fingers through her hair, (she wore it down to her shoulders, these days), and she was practically purring. Not that she’d ever admit that.
So imagine her surprise when the contact ceased so Aziraphale could gesture dramatically.
‘She took his custard! Right out of the fridge! Oh, she knew his was fancier than hers. Bet she never used anything that wasn’t tinned or powdered before then!’
‘Angel, wot the bloody somewhere are you talking about?’ She leaned back, seeking that touch again.
‘Custard!’
The hair stroking resumed, but this time Crowley bothered to keep her eyes open. Might as well see what all the fuss was about, while she was there. Pure curiosity. Their custard hadn’t even been in the same fridge.
-
One of the many compromises they’d had to make when moving in together was clutter. In the end, they’d partitioned the cottage. Crowley had the greenhouse, bedroom, and the living room cupboard. Zira had the study, the kitchen, and everything else.
He thought the little knick-knacks, piles of books, and knitting projects scattered around made the place look that much cosier. Crowley disagreed. So now he was reorganising the records, the pantry, and anything he could get away with.
‘Angel, have you seen my label maker?’
‘Brkshflf.’
Crowley stuck his head round the door.
‘I said, have you seen my label maker?’
Zira swallowed the shortbread he’d been snacking on. ‘It’s somewhere on the baking shelf. I used it to label all the flour.’
‘Why in somebody’s name would you need to label flour?’
‘Because, dear boy, unless you want cakey bread or breadish cake, you have to keep them separate.’
The (former) Serpent Of Eden decided that ‘the baking shelf’ (which now encompassed most of the pantry and some of the meticulously organised cupboards) was beyond him. Bleaching tea stains out of mugs it was, then.
Usually, reorganising his records was a calming activity. A little bit of peace, quiet, and alphabetical order. Or by order of artist. Or by year of release. He was gonna crack the code to perfect organisation one of these days, he was sure. He had settled himself into the armchair, and started carefully stacking records.
So what if he kept looking at the tv? Worse background noise out there. At least this one had some fainting, polite snark, and an Irish lady woefully misunderstanding gelatine.
-
It’d been a long day. Also, a nice day. Visiting some friends, a quick trip to the Ritz for old time’s sake, (they’d accidentally miracled two nightingales at the same time and last they checked, they were happily wooing each other,) and a leisurely drive home to the tune of OOooooOOO, love, OoOoOO, lover-BOY~.
Now, though, they’d squeezed onto the sofa together with some maple syrup hot chocolate.
Frankly, if Aziraphale thought one more time about how much things had changed and how lucky they’d both been, he was likely to get misty-eyed. What better way to cure a maudlin episode than with some delightful baking?
However, something distinctly unusual was happening. He’d only been halfway through that season, he was sure. Resume watching the finale? He definitely hadn’t seen the finale. Hang on-
‘Dear boy?’
‘Ngk?’
‘Am I right in saying that the red line means watched?’ He said in a dangerously casual tone.
‘Yep, why?’
‘Anthony J. Crowley, have you been watching Bake Off without me?’
‘Not as such? It’s good background noise while I’m in the greenhouse-’
‘How on earth have I never seen you drag a television out there?’
Crowley (slightly smugly) pointed at that infernal glass tablet. Aziraphale had never gotten the hang of it. He’d stick to the typewriter or playing word games on Crowley’s phone.
‘IPad, angel. Y’can take it anywhere.’
-
While the neighbours would probably have something to complain about, (their debates over traditional vs modern trifle did seem to carry), but they didn’t. In between social activities and hobbies, it was nice to sit down to a comforting little series.
…
‘THAT’S NOT HOW ISABELLA MADE IT!’
‘ANGEL, SHE LITERALLY MADE HERS WITH BEEF, SURELY YOU CAN’T BE OFFENDED BY DRAGONFRUIT-’