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Chapter Text

It’s not that working with old occult books was perilous per se. For one, no matter how many times his younger colleague declared herself a practising witch, their interest was mostly scientific, exploring them as historical and cultural sources they predominantly were. Not to mention, the promises most of the books made either rendered them unfit for this day and age or too precious for anyone to let them see the light of day had they actually delivered on any of them. No, the only real risk was not getting enough funding from private assessments to support his tiny department’s more academic work and succumbing to the overwhelming feeling of loneliness, really.

Not that Aziraphale was some terrible loner, never leaving the dusty labyrinth of the bookshelves. Not at all. He was an accomplished scholar in his field (and it really was fascinating, the kind of career paths one found to utilise the abandoned theological studies) and his expertise was recognised and sought internationally. He might no longer be in contact with his family (see the abandoned theological studies) but he had a very sensible and personable young colleague - who managed to earn two PhDs in the time most people completed their bachelors degree. It’s just, while Anathema was a lovely person, the young American, happily in a relationship with a nice young man, couldn’t exactly relate to a permanently single gay man well into his forties.

In that spirit, and absolutely not feeling any encroaching loneliness, he was preparing to settle down to do some work after bidding Anathema (and Newt, who’d been hovering in the doorway, waiting for her but obviously had been doing his best to avoid giving any impression of impatience) a good afternoon. 

Truth be told, there was an appealing side to settling down with nothing but age-old books for the company, trying to discover their secrets. Some evenings, when he lifted his weary gaze from the pages, he fancied that he could almost hear the pages around his rustling quietly, talking to him, imbuing him with their power to make it easier to share their secrets—That was usually a good sign that it was time to make himself another cup of cocoa. Nothing could ground one in the present moment quite like a decent cup of cocoa.

Still, this afternoon (and evening if he were being honest) was shaping up to be exciting enough. The book that had been donated to the department had been legendary—Until last week he had only ever been able to study fragments of it, preserved on microfiche. Granted, it was also in a rather sorry condition, which was probably the main reason it had been donated in the first place, rather than sold on some auction or through an antiquarian shop. Still, it wasn’t for nothing that Aziraphale had a subspecialty in book restoration (and yes, it also helped to get some additional income but that’s neither here nor there) and their loss was Aziraphale’s gain.

He finished his tea (no beverages allowed in the workshop area - a rule he had established early on and happened to be the main victim of over the years), donned his working gloves and set down to gently clean the pages of the precious book. He had been working for a while, reaching the particularly damaged Index Serpentorum part, when something drew his attention. Some of the damage to the pages was quite obviously due to time and improper storing conditions (or rather being kept in places where ‘storing conditions’ were not two words anyone even thought of together, let alone gave any consideration), but some of the markings on the ritual glyphs depicted for the ritual looked like they were done rather deliberately and were almost as old as the book itself. Now, obviously, they were by this point as much part of the book as the original text was but he thought he could just make out what the unaltered original looked like, if he focussed and used some proper lighting—he reached for a sheaf of paper and started writing.

Two hours later he was done with the transcribing and emerged from his task with two very pertinent observations – it was already rather late and he now had several sheets of paper covered in disarrayed writing that probably would make even less sense in the morning. He could also almost hear the old tomes whispering their unintelligible advice with their rustle. He was tired, it was late, the books were whispering—this just about summed up why it absolutely made sense to decide that instead of going home he could simply use his notes to recreate the original ritual. In the name of science, of course. After all, those pages could make much less sense in the morning and the alterations might not be as clear in the light of day. It made the perfect sense, really. He already had the chalk in his desk and he could take proper photographic evidence when he completed the circle according to the instructions.

It would all be so perfectly sensible. And it was being done in the name of scientific progress in his field! Not to mention, this was shaping to be the most fun he had in quite some time.

He didn’t expect anything to happen. The purpose of the circle was not for anything to happen. Well, semantically speaking, yes, the purpose of a summoning circle was very much to facilitate a summoning but that particular fact should in no way be applicable in this case. Not only was there no particular intent behind it, the ritual offering was also not something of what he could call an occult significance (so maybe he was making himself a cuppa and prepared the second cup in place of an offering just to have something there but he very much doubted that Twinings had some heretofore undiscovered arcane appeal). Which was why, when his very much created-in-the-name-of-science summoning circle suddenly flared up he let out a very undignified yelp and startled back, losing his balance and landing on the floor.

In the meantime, the flames of the circle swirled, before consolidating in the middle and solidifying into a form of—well, from the waist up, the being in the circle certainly was at the very least human-adjacent, if one turned a blind eye to the spattering of black serpentine scales in several places on the skin, or the fangs, or the penetrating yellow eyes on that handsome face that were focussed unblinkingly on Aziraphale. No, on second thought, there was absolutely no turning a blind eye to that gaze for any longer than it took to register that the lower half of the being’s body was a serpentine coil, large enough to support his very shapely and undeniably human-sized torso. 

Aziraphale very much wanted to react but the only part of his brain currently at work was too busy unhelpfully reminding him that the sight before his eyes was not unlike some images known from Asian mythologies and contemplating where Twinings got their teas from and whether that had any significance in the ritual’s effects.

And then of all the improbable things the being could have done, he frowned at Aziraphale still frozen in spot and spoke “You alright?”

“I– Ah– That is to say—”  Aziraphale started desperately, having absolutely no idea what one was supposed to say under the circumstances. That there was no helpful guide for smalltalk topics to be used during a summoning was a serious oversight that he was only now realising the severity of. “I mean, yes, I’m sorry. I have to confess you’ve startled me a bit, my dear.”

The being in the circle tore his gaze from him for a second and carefully looked around. “Were you not the one to call me here?”

“Oh, um, possibly.” Aziraphale felt terribly flustered while the being pointedly looked at the circle, clearly indicating how very non-accidental the summoning business presumably was. “That is to say, I’ve certainly prepared the circle outline but I had no idea of actually summoning anyone. I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you.”

The being was growing visibly amused and Aziraphale couldn’t decide if it was a good thing. “Trial run, was it?”

“Not even that.” Aziraphale looked down. “More of a proof of concept with no thoughts to practical application.”

“Oh, very well done then.” The being commented, deadpan. “Don’t worry though, I wasn’t doing anything of particular import. Truth be told, most guys where I come from are terribly boring. This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

“The feeling is very much mutual,” Aziraphale murmured but the being’s ears must have been sharper than those of a human, because he grinned delightedly at that.

“Well then, why don’t we make the best of it then?” The being asked. “My name is Crowley. What do I call you?”

“Aziraphale,” said Aziraphale, who, despite growing up with cautionary tales of giving one’s name to supernatural strangers (and when it came down to it, also very much the mundane kind of suspicious strangers), had his manners ingrained too firmly to react in any other way.

“Pleased to meet you, Aziraphale,” Crowley extended his hand while simultaneously flicking his tail over the markings of the circle, rubbing them out.

Aziraphale grasped Crowley’s hand while looking down in disbelief. “How?”

Crowley cackled mischievously. “A bit of a trade secret. Promise not to tell?” He waited for Aziraphale to nod. “We try to stay within the circle to make humans think they can hold us as intended. Much better if they think they’re in control and not try to come up with something creative that might actually work.”

“I can see your point. Can I offer you anything to drink?” Aziraphale thought about it. “That is, of course there is always  the tea I gave you for the offering, you can have that if you like but if you were in the mood for anything else, I think I still have that bottle of wine Anathema gave me for my last birthday. I also have some biscuits if you like? We could maybe share them and talk?”

“Wine sounds excellent. Lead the way.” Crowley grinned, extending the sibilant sounds a bit as he slithered behind Aziraphale to the break room. “I have a feeling this is a beginning of  a beautiful friendship.”

Chapter Text

“The point is—” Crowley frowned in concentration, attempting to arrange his thoughts in a manner that could be encompassed by words. And also, to make them make sense, which, fourth glass of wine in, was proving more of a challenge than one would assume. “The point is—Ducks!”

“Ducks?” Aziraphale furrowed his brows, for the first time questioning the decision of retrieving another bottle of wine he remembered about. Perhaps it wasn’t the best of ideas to invite a situation where he’d have a supernatural being of indeterminate power drunk to the point of incoherence. 

“Yeah,” his drinking companion confirmed, visibly pleased with himself. “Ducks. It’s like with the summoning, innit? You always know what you’re getting with ducks. You go to the pond, you see ducks and you know, predictable little bastards that they are, where it's going to go from there. They’re going to ask you for food, and maybe it’s going to be peas or maybe it’s going to be lettuce and maybe they’re even going to ask you for bread, even if they know it won’t end well for them. That’s how it works. And you know how it works. So you’d be bloody surprised if all of the sudden one of the ducks swam up to you and went ‘no snacks for me, ta, but would you be interested in discussing the poetry of Francis Bacon?’, right?”

Aziraphale focussed on that. Then, because he was on his third glass at least, he focussed harder. “Are you saying I’m the duck that asked for Bacon?”

“I–Ngk. For the purposes of the example,” Crowley clarified. “Imagine, you’re spending the literal eternity with guys you can hardly stand for more than absolutely necessary. And you know if you ever get summoned it’s going to be the same things over and over And then Bam! A duck asking for Bacon.”

“I prefer Shakespeare,” Aziraphale huffed. “And besides, feeding ducks is quite nice.”

“Never said it wasn’t. Not that I get to do it often”

“That’s a pity.”

“Not many places where I’d get to do that, where there wouldn’t be people around to see me. I’d have to focus the entire time on looking human. Would revert to looking like this otherwise.”

“Oh yes, I can see how that could cause quite a commotion.”

“You could say that. Not that the ducks would care, as long as I had any peas left. Unflappable little buggers,” Crowley said with clear fondness, then frowned again. “Can ducks be unflappable if they flap their wings all the time?”

“I wouldn’t know, my dear,” Aziraphale answered after giving the matter a good thought. “I suppose we’d need to ask ducks.”

III

It had been much later, when the wine bottles were empty, it was getting early rather than late and they were both reclining rather less than gracefully on the available furniture (to be fair, Crowley had practically poured himself onto a sofa as soon as he got here, still very much sober but Aziraphale supposed that could only be expected of a being who, more likely than not, had a serpentine spine) that the not very coherent discussion that might have involved dolphins and cephalopods (neither of them had been completely sure) faded into a comfortable silence. They stayed like that for a bit, silently observing what stars were visible through the window.

Then, after a particularly wicked cloud put the end to the absentminded stargazing, Crowley spoke. “I should probably be getting back now. Leave you to tidy up a bit and go home.”

Aziraphale did his best to hide his disappointment. He attempted a smile. “If you must. It was very nice to make your acquaintance, my dear. And I have to confess, though it wasn’t quite planned, I find myself very happy that this summoning circle attempt ended up rather more practical than initially anticipated.”

“The feeling is mutual. It’s been fun,” Crowley said while, despite his earlier declarations of intending to leave Aziraphale to tidy up, washing their glasses in the small sink in the room and gathering the bottles and throwing them in the bin (Aziraphale made a mental note to later remove them and throw them into a dedicated glass bin—preferably one farther away, not to invite any questions from Anathema). 

“Will I—” Aziraphale hesitated before ploughing on. “Will we see each other again?”

“That depends,” Crowley responded as they were making their way back to Aziraphale’s office.

“Depends?”

“On whether you’d like a repeat of today’s evening. You do know how to call me.” He vaguely gestured at the smeared circle on the floor, making the point.

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked at the casual way Crowley was treating a summoning circle as if it was a- a telephone or some such. “It does feel rather uncivil to bring you here like that when I know the circle actually works.”

“I don’t mind.” Crowley laughed. Then, apparently reading something in Aziraphale’s face, he repeated more seriously. “No, really, I don’t mind at all. There is nothing to do down below other than hanging out with people I can hardly stand or leeching off the streaming services.”

“What, really?”

“Yes, really. Let’s just say that I’ve watched my way through the most popular services’ libraries at least twice . And much as I love the Golden Girls, that should tell you something about my associates. I don’t mind you calling me in the least.”

“In that case, what would you say about meeting at the same time next week?” Aziraphale offered, then thought about it. “Or maybe a touch earlier, next Friday? I can’t say I’m looking forward to trying to stay awake at work tomorrow.”

“Excellent. I’ll hold you to it,” Crowley grinned at him, displaying his sharp teeth and snapped his fingers, disappearing from the spot. 

Aziraphale looked for a moment longer at the thin air where his companion had been a moment earlier. Then he proceeded to look for some cloth to wipe the remains of the circle from the floor.

III

Aziraphale didn’t actually remember making a conscious decision to conduct the next summoning in his flat. They never talked about it with Crowley but then they never actually said anything about spending time in the same place either and his flat, cramped as it undeniably was, at least offered more comfort and privacy than the staff room. Or so he kept telling himself as he packed his notes into his briefcase. 

It was peculiar, really how odd it all felt. There was a certain irony that an expert on the occult would regard the events as such but honestly, practical application of his particular branch of study had normally a lot less to do with performing summoning rituals and a lot more with pointing out that no, just because a leader of an archeological team couldn’t recognise a stirrup iron or an unusual belt buckle for what they were, they couldn’t just slap a label ‘unspecified religious artefact’ on them and call it a day. So really, Aziraphale felt he had the right to find the idea of successfully performing magical rituals a bit unsettling.

Which didn’t, by any means, imply that he wasn’t looking forward to seeing Crowley again. He was just perhaps being a little nervous. He looked absentmindedly at the bookshelf in his office before striding towards it, taking a few books and putting them into the briefcase as well. Not that they contained any particular knowledge that would help him in repeating the ritual. 

Just for the comforting support they’d provide, should they choose to whisper to him again  as he did.

III

Aziraphale did his best not to be nervous. After all, what was there to be nervous about? He was simply about to invite a lovely person he got along with swimmingly for a visit to his flat. That was a perfectly normal thing to do, wasn’t it? (Well, possibly it wasn’t a perfectly normal thing to do for him , not really—his flat was rather small and he rarely invited people there when meeting in a cafe or a pub was an option—but he supposed it was at least a perfectly normal thing to do in general.) That the person being invited would arrive in a rather unorthodox manner, well, that was just a technicality, nothing more.

Or so he kept telling himself, copying the glyphs carefully onto the summoning circle, taking short breaks to once again straighten a few pillows or make sure the wine bottles were in the kitchen where he left them (they were). He had almost convinced himself that nothing would happen this time (if it really happened at all—was a very vivid dream really a more distant possibility than an accidental successful summoning?) when, much like on the previous occasion, the summoning circle lit up. He could only watch in fascination as the process from the previous week repeated itself, ending with the familiar figure solidifying before his eyes. 

To his credit, he had at least been prepared enough not to take a tumble in surprise. Instead he smiled at the newcomer. “Hello again, my dear. I hope you don’t mind the change of the venue. I thought we would be more comfortable here.”

“Yeah, hi.” Crowley returned his smile, displaying his fangs in the process as he looked around with curiosity. ”Where is ‘here’?”

“Oh, right,” Aziraphale responded, a bit flustered at realising he forgot to include that particular detail. “This is where I live.”

That seemed to intrigue Crowley who left the circle and started exploring the space more closely. “Looks cosy,” he eventually ventured.

Aziraphale blushed. “I know it’s not much. It’s tiny and it’s above a curry place which means kitchen smells and noise well into the night, not to mention I’m only renting it, but it’s home.” He sighed. “I’ve been saving for a place of my own, a cottage with a garden but even with the odd book restoration jobs I’m taking, there is no way I could afford something that isn’t a complete ruin so I have to make do with what I have.”

“Hey,” Crowley slid closer to him, gently placing a hand on his arm. For someone who half-looked like a cold-blooded creature, his touch felt surprisingly warm. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It does actually look cosy. And it’s got character.” His strikingly yellow eyes met Aziraphale’s, sincerity shining in them. “I like it.”

“Yes, well—” Aziraphale cleared his throat ”—the advantage of living above a restaurant is that one doesn’t need to go far when one starts feeling peckish. Do you like curry, my dear? I could pop down, get us something for dinner. Unless you’d prefer something else?”

“Nah. I mean, no need for anything else, curry is great. I really like Indian food. I would get it any time I could get away with doing so.”

“Should I take that to mean that you don’t mind a bit of heat either?”

“Not in the least.” Crowley grinned. “I’ll have you know I had a hot pepper named after me once.”

“Now you’re just trying to pull my leg,” Aziraphale said, a second before wondering how appropriate it was to use such an idiom while talking to someone who actually didn’t have legs to speak of.

“I’m not. I’m completely serious.” Luckily enough, Crowley apparently paid no mind to such details. “I won a bet.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Then I’ll insist on hearing all about it. Just give me a moment to go down to get our food. I’ll be back in two shakes.” With that, he quickly stepped out and hurried downstairs, suddenly curious about how his guest’s food preferences might correlate with the registered accounts of nāga myths. That was quite an interesting concept to untangle. And perhaps he would, just not today. He was really curious about that bet Crowley mentioned.

Chapter Text

“You seem to be in a good mood,” Anathema commented, looking at Aziraphale over her cup of tea.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale looked up from the notes for a paper he was preparing. 

“You’re in a good mood,” she repeated, grinning.

“What makes you say that, dear girl?”

“You were humming as you worked,” she said pointedly.

“I’m sure there are plenty of people who do,” he said a touch defensively.

“Maybe, but you’re not most people. You insist on not even having a radio on when we’re working on something together.”

“Well, you have to agree it’s terribly distracting. And I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Relax,” She grinned at him. “I’m not saying that seeing you so happy is a bad thing. On the contrary, I love that you’re happy.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale said, while thinking back to the last several weeks. 

Somehow, he himself wasn’t quite sure how, that second time he’d called Crowley to his flat they’d agreed on making the Friday calls a regular occurrence. They’d talk a bit, share dinner, sometimes watch something on the telly (if there was one thing Aziraphale absolutely did not expect it was to discover a mythical snake-demon—or according to some accounts, a snake semi-deity—would be a fan of James Bond films), and on one memorable occasion, they’d fall asleep on the mountain of pillows Aziraphale had gathered up (none on the furniture was designed with snake-beings in mind and he wanted his guest to be as comfortable as possible so he improvised).

Even now he was catching himself thinking of events during the week that he couldn’t wait to relay to Crowley or contemplating different possibilities of amusement they could explore together. He wondered what Crowley’s opinion on board games was. Suddenly he realised Anathema was speaking again.

“I’m sorry, my dear, could you repeat? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I asked if you’ve met someone but I guess your reaction basically answers my question.”

“Really, dear girl, this is hardly the time and place to talk about such things.”

“You don’t mind me talking about Newt.”

“Possibly. But while I’m glad you’re happy together we still have that paper on Stonehenge myths to prepare. And if we want to compare Geoffrey of Monmouth with the sporadic alternate sources of the period before the deadline, we should focus on that.”

“I’m just saying. There is this really nice little bistro I went to on a few dates with Newt, if you’d be interested. Can highly recommend it.”

“I don’t think that’s really—” Aziraphale broke off. “Do you suppose they also do takeaway?”

III

“I think,” Crowley stated, listening to the late-night bustle downstairs and staring at the bulge on the wallpaper in the corner by the ceiling where Aziraphale’s roof left something to be desired when it rained more heavily, “That you should really consider getting that place of your own you’ve told me about.”

“I also told you about why that wasn’t really an option,” Aziraphale looked up from the table where he was setting a dinner for them. “It’s going to be quite a while before I can afford anything inhabitable.”

“I could help you with that.”

“I beg your pardon? I do think that after the last several months we’re a bit past you luring the mortal with the promises of riches.”

“No! Ngyaah, that’s not what I meant. It’s just, we’re friends, yeah? Really good friends?”

“I’d like to think so, yes.”

“So wouldn’t it be pretty normal, if you bought a house you can afford at the moment—”

“One falling apart and unfit for habitation, in other words—’’

“Yeah, that. Wouldn’t it be natural for a friend to help you make it live-able if you did? And if it just so happens that the friend in question has some power at his disposal—” Crowley snapped his fingers and the wallpaper in the corner straightened, looking pristine. “—that would just be a nice perk, right?”

For a moment Aziraphale just looked between his friend and the spot on the wall. Somehow he had little doubt that he did not need to worry that the problem would return the next time it poured. But that meant—the implications of Crowley’s offer were too overwhelming to contemplate at the moment. He swallowed and poured wine into their glasses. 

“I’ll think about it, my dear. But for now, please come to the table. The dinner is ready.”

III

It had probably been the most reckless thing he had ever done. And there was no taking it back, really.

Aziraphale pushed the metal gate leading to the overgrown garden. It screeched terribly and put up quite a fight before opening. He had seen the property before, of course. Once, when he had been here with the estate agent (now at least he no longer had to wonder why the gate was waiting invitingly open when he arrived) but he had somehow managed to forget just how bad it all looked by the time he was actually signing the papers, parting with almost all his savings and becoming the owner of a cottage that could take ‘dilapidated’ as a generous praise.

It was possible that the thick high hedges of the large garden and his own romantic fanciful ideas had clouded his judgement a bit. He looked around, trying to assess the situation more rationally this time. The building was in a complete state of disrepair and had been for some time. At this point he doubted whether having a literal bomb dropped on it would have made it much worse (and come to think about it, by the looks of it it had to have been deteriorating at least since the time of the Blitz). It was entirely possible that the only reason why he had not been warned that the building could collapse on him was that nobody bothered to make a proper assessment over the years. 

Flights of fancy aside, there was no way he could actually contemplate making the cottage fit for human habitation without literally rebuilding it and pouring into it at least three times the money he had already spent. This had to be the least rational thing he had done in his life. The only consolation was, with the generous offer he received from the History Channel to come aboard as a consultant for one of their programmes he could recover some of his losses and keep renting his little flat regardless of his irrational real estate purchase. 

At least the garden was lovely.

Chapter Text

He was nervous. There was no denying it. 

Which was ironic, really, because the part that most people would be nervous about, namely summoning a supernatural creature of indeterminate power was coming like a second nature to him now. He could probably conduct the entire summoning process from memory if he tried (he didn’t, he’d always checked with a photocopy of his by now well-worn out notes to make sure he didn’t make any mistakes but they just confirmed that he did, by now, know the process by heart). No, the whole reason behind his nerves was where he was attempting the summoning today.

When he woke up to a lovely summer day outside, he decided that there was no point in delaying and this was as good an opportunity as he was going to get. Decision made, he prepared the food and packed the basket into his Mini (that might have been half his age but was still a perfectly functional car, thank you very much—and Anathema really had no leg to stand on, implying otherwise with the car her young man was happily driving). His resolve lasted until he was about half way to the cottage. After that, he was only getting increasingly certain of what a bad idea this all was. Not to mention, what he was about to do would probably be terribly impolite, getting Crowley here earlier than usual. Not that he really had any other way of communicating with him to give him an advanced notice.

Still, there was nothing for it. He’d have to show Crowley the unrefutable evidence of his lack of judgement sooner or later and at least the day was otherwise nice enough to give him some hope that the rest of his plans could be salvaged.

At least the paving slabs in front of the cottage were smooth enough to allow him to draw the chalk symbols without much of a problem. He hoped Crowley would understand if the by now traditional offering of tea this time came in the form of a lukewarm brew from his thermos. 

The circle activated in the usual manner and a moment later he was face to face with his friend who was blinking at him, narrowing his eyes in the bright sunlight. 

“Aziraphale?” he asked with a touch of uncertainty that immediately had Aziraphale realise the problem.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear. Give me just a second,” he said quickly as he hurried to his car parked outside the entrance gate (he didn’t dare to check if the larger one, intended for vehicles, could be opened at all, He supposed he’d need to make an attempt at some point). He reached into the glove compartment for a pair of dark glasses and brought them back to Crowley. “Here, my dear, try those. I’m afraid I didn’t have the foresight to think the sunlight could bother you.” (Well that, and he suspected Crowley of at least occasionally visiting India which would imply it shouldn’t be a problem.)

“Ah, thanks.” Crowley wasted no time slipping the glasses on. “ And don’t worry about it, really. I just usually need a bit to adjust. It’s never this bright down below so, you know, this was a bit unexpected. And speaking of the unexpected—” He looked pointedly around. “— where are we exactly?”

Aziraphale looked down. Then he tried to meet Crowley’s gaze again, determined to cover this information with humour. “Remember how we were talking about only being able to afford a house if it was in ruins?” He gestured to the cottage. “Well, those are the ruins. The garden in the back is quite lovely though, so I thought you might be persuaded to join me on a little picnic?”

“I’m always happy to join you,” Crowley grinned and picked up the picnic basket from next to where Aziraphale was standing. Then he offered his other hand to Aziraphale who gladly took it. 

It was a bit tricky to walk hand in hand with someone who was moving in a slithering motion but he wouldn’t change that for anything. They rounded the building and Crowley suddenly stopped, setting the basket down and removing the sunglasses as he looked around.

“Full agreement, Aziraphale,” he said, clearly impressed by what he was seeing. “The garden is fantastic. It might need some discipline and showing who's in charge but this place could really be something.”

“You know how to garden then?” This was new information and could certainly be useful now that Aziraphale had saddled himself with this place. He suspected that any bit of advice would be invaluable.”

“I’ve dabbled. Always thought the ones in Babylon turned out quite nicely.” Now that was absolutely something Aziraphale was going to unpack later .

“I’ll certainly be asking you a lot of questions about managing it soon,” he said instead, picking up the basket himself. “But for now, let us settle down for our picnic, shall we?”

“Sure,” Crowley was still looking around distractedly. When Aziraphale cleared his throat he smiled a bit sheepishly (or at least as much so as it was possible for someone with sharp features and fangs). “Listen, how about you set up the picnic spot and I’ll take care of this so it’s out of the way and we can just relax later?” He gestured vaguely to the side.

“As you like, my dear.” Aziraphale didn’t really know what Crowley was referring to specifically, but he had nothing against setting out their picnic and spending time relaxing together so he simply nodded and busied himself spreading out the blanket (really how had the grass got so long again when he’d just cut it two weeks ago?). 

He had just finished arranging dishes on the blanket when he looked up, hearing the snap of Crowley’s fingers. And then he could only stare in disbelief when the old cottage ruins apparently rippled, the building straightening and fixing itself until he was left looking at a brand new Victorian cottage with only the decades old vine climbing on one wall being an indicator of the building’s actual age. With some effort he tore his gaze away from the sight to look at Crowley instead. Crowley, who was wearing the look of satisfaction of having completed a mundane but necessary house chore. Aziraphale was certain he had seen him wearing that exact look more than once when he washed the dishes after their dinner as Aziraphale was busy selecting something for them to drink.

“I guess that should do it,” he said with satisfaction of a job well done. “I hope I didn’t miss anything. Let me know if I did, yeah?”

“I’m sure you’ve done an excellent job, my dear. Thank you.”

“Said I would, didn’t I?” Crowley shrugged disarmingly as if he hadn’t just magically restored an entire house. “Now what have you got for us, Aziraphale?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just an assortment of sandwiches, a pasta salad and I picked up that palak paneer that you like so much.”

“Sounds perfect,” Crowley declared, stretching himself out on the ground with a contented expression, arranging his long tail so it would all be in the sun. He reached for one of the sandwiches and munched on it, rolling to his back, sunning himself like a self-indulgent cat. Aziraphale smiled at him fondly. He returned the smile. “So, have you given any thought to how you want to furnish the place?”

“Not yet. To be honest, I haven’t really taken a good look inside. Would you be interested in joining me in that endeavour after we eat?”

“Sure. Should be fun to look around. Do you want me to toss in a few ideas too?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, my dear.”

III

It was an odd feeling, to be furnishing his own house. In part, because he could hardly believe that he did, in fact, own a house to furnish. Especially since there was no hurry and he couldn’t quite bring himself to transfer all his belongings to the cottage just like that.

At first, it was a reasonable precaution. Having the cottage miraculously restored by Crowley was amazing enough but he couldn’t be sure to what extent his friend’s power could deal with technicalities such as electricity or running water. He had found a local handyman to take a good look at all the wiring and plumbing before proceeding any further.

The old Mr Johnson had declared the house safe and had nothing but praise for the ‘contractors’ who had supposedly helped Aziraphale restore the cottage. He had mentioned that he remembered the cottage had already been in quite a state of disrepair when he was coming here as a boy to get apples from Mrs Henderson and that he didn’t think anyone attempted any repairs after she’d passed away. He had also mentioned that the apple trees in the back of the garden had supposedly the best apples in several villages' radius. Aziraphale suspected that the claim was a bit exaggerated but made a mental note to mention it to Crowley who had been taking a lot of interest in the garden.

After the all-clear from the handyman, Aziraphale began to cautiously make the place his own. He ordered a whole-wall-shelf for one of the rooms to hold his book collection, he scoured Preloved and local second-hand shops and came out victorious with a lovely vintage desk and a glass cabinet and he indulged, buying various kitchen appliances, determined to do more cooking now that he’d (hopefully) have produce from his own garden. He would also, without consciously thinking about, look for any furniture that would be comfortable for someone with more serpentine-like anatomy (and he’d rather not go into detail of how that included a purchase of a low-rise, very sturdy bed that, once assembled, took up one of the rooms almost entirely).

The cottage filled up slowly and every time he drove there, he’d take a box of his belongings, but he was still referring to it as ‘the cottage’ rather than ‘home’ in his head. It was a lovely place to go for a weekend (of which Fridays, spent in Crowley’s company were without fail the highlight while the rest of the time was spent on trying to tidy up or keep up with the garden—he was rather afraid the weeds were winning at the moment).

It was with some surprise that he discovered, some time late August that most of his personal items had already been transferred to the cottage and of everything else he could need on every day basis he had doubles for his flat and the cottage.

III

“Tulips,” Crowley said decisively over his dessert, after a period of silence.

“I beg your pardon, my dear?” Aziraphale, who had been quite enjoying his eclair looked at him in surprise. Had he not known any better he’d assume that the non-sequitour was a result of his friend simply trying to distract himself (he had been quite intently staring at him eating a moment ago so it was possible he had let his thoughts run away with him).

“We should plant tulip bulbs in front of the window this autumn. They will look great come spring.”

“That does sound lovely but I hardly know anything about tulips. I wouldn’t want them to go to waste. To be honest, half of the time it feels like I hardly know what I’m doing with the garden.”

“I could give you a hand, if you like,” Crowley’s response was immediate and with the way his eyes were shining, it seemed less like he was offering to do a chore and more like he had some great source of entertainment within his grasp.

“Oh, would you? That would be wonderful. I know you said you had the experience but I didn’t want to bother you after you’ve done so much with the cottage.”

“It’s no bother.” Crowley cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in his own eclair. He was addressing the dessert when he spoke next. “I’d have offered earlier but I didn’t want to impose.”

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. “My dear, you should know by now that I’d have welcomed your help. I do hope you can feel at home here. I wouldn’t have this place had it not been for you.”

“But it’s still your place.”

“I’d have no objection to considering it ours, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley’s eyes widened as he met his gaze. “Aziraphale—” he started saying, then he apparently lost his nerve. He looked away, focussing on the garden instead. “It’s already getting dark today. Why don’t you call me again tomorrow morning, we can get started then?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. One of them had to be brave. “Or you could simply stay the night? If that’s something you’d like?”

For a half-serpent being that could easily overpower any human, Crowley seemed surprisingly vulnerable when he met Aziraphale’s gaze again. “I’d like that very much.”

III

The garden had never looked more beautiful. It was truly amazing how much could be achieved by spending a few weekends working side by side (of course, the fact that one of the people working actually knew what he was doing, had supernatural strength and could use magic when needed didn’t hurt either). 

Aziraphale was sipping his morning tea at the table in the kitchen, the coffee machine murmuring quietly as Crowley’s coffee was finishing brewing. The dear loved his sleep very much (and enjoyed the bed Aziraphale selected a lot—it was definitely worth every penny spent on the purchase) but the smell of the freshly brewed coffee usually had the power to draw him out of the bedroom. Sure enough, there was a soft yawning sound coming from the room and a moment later Crowley sleepily emerged.

One would probably assume that shuffling drowsily would be impossible to achieve for a creature that naturally moved by sliding on the floor regardless. One would be wrong. There was something deeply endearing in the sight of not-quite awake Crowley, eyes barely open, hair mussed and usually sharp reflexes retaining the sharpness of a glass marble.

“Good morning, my dear.” Aziraphale greeted, standing up and handing him the cup of fresh coffee.

Crowley took it and sipped it gratefully. “Mornin’. Should be a nice day out. With some luck we could prepare the spot for planting that pear tree for you. Then you could order it and it should be delivered before I get here next week.”

Aziraphale swallowed. There was something he intended to talk to Crowley about and this was probably as good an opening as he’d get. “About that, my dear. I’ve been meaning to ask. Is there actually something dictating that you need to go back to wherever you go?”

“Ngk. Not as such. Why?”

“In that case, there is something I’d like to talk to you about. How would you feel about simply staying here, with me?”

Crowley stared at him for a moment, then finished his coffee in one big gulp, apparently deciding the matter needed more caffeine. He then met Aziraphale’s gaze again. “Seriously? You’d want that?”

“To be honest, my dear, I would want that very much. I’ve observed that the cottage only properly feels like home when we’re here together and I believe I’ve already told you I’m prepared to consider it ours . But this should be as much about what you want.”

“Are you kidding? Give me the flimsiest excuse and I’d never leave.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to think about it?”

“There is nothing to think about.”

“In that case, welcome home, my dear,” Aziraphale extended his hand and Crowley took it eagerly. “You know, I’ve been thinking, there is that little pond in the back of the garden. If we had a couple of ducks, we’d have a way to go feed ducks together without you needing to worry about any prying eyes.”

Crowley grinned, slithering closer to Aziraphale. “Sounds excellent. Where does one even get ducks?”

“You know, I have no idea. But I’m sure we will figure it out.”

THE END