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A cottage in the South Downs, in early spring
The new leaves gradually unfurling from the tight fists of their buds on the hawthorn hedge that surrounded the cottage were a light, almost mint green. The grass too was perking up from its dormant winter state, and even perkier, there were the impudent heads of nascent flowers rising up from the flat stars of dandelion leaves dotted about the lawn which Crowley was perennially at war with—on the losing side, largely, it had to be said.
Aziraphale, being an angel with preternaturally acute senses, could smell the aroma from the soil as it warmed under a strengthening sun, day by day. The Earth was waking up again as part of its diurnal rhythm—or at least the part of it that contained a gracious Georgian cottage, with extensive gardens and orchard, situated a convenient distance from the popular ‘Devil’s Dyke’ footpath, as the estate agent’s blurb had put it. Aziraphale had fallen in love at first sight. Crowley, although less expansive and certainly more begrudging about it, initially at least, had, it turned out, essentially felt the same. The pair of them had made a generous offer after only one viewing and bought the property on the spot, despite only having been in the area for a late summer picnic at the Seven Sisters.
Prior to that day, both of them, independently of each other, had been having thoughts about leaving London now that the whole fuss about the failed attempt at bringing about the End of Days had settled down. Aziraphale hadn’t heard a peep from his erstwhile superiors Upstairs. No assignments—nothing. Crowley had reported a similar lack of contact from his ‘people’. Getting out of London as a way of keeping their heads down and the rest of their corporations out of both trouble and harms way had seemed eminently sensible altogether.
There had been no discussion about living arrangements, no loaded questions asked nor declarations made. Aziraphale had found himself on more than one occasion thinking that he might have liked to hear a declaration, or even an opinion on the matter, but none had been forthcoming from his taciturn best friend. For his own part, although he upbraided himself internally on a regular basis for his cowardice, he had yet to find the nerve to say anything about it at all. He wanted to. Well, he daydreamed about it quite a lot, if he were to be entirely honest with himself, but he hadn’t quite managed to summon up the necessary courage.
Crowley was his friend and he knew the old devil was fond of him, of course. Anything romantic between them though, might well be beyond Crowley’s personal tolerance for what he tended to refer to as ‘unnecessary soppiness’. Aziraphale really did not wish to spoil what he had—the prospect of this perfect dwelling, this unexpected happiness—by being greedy, by wanting more. So he had got on with his packing, just as Crowley in his Mayfair flat had busied himself with his, and they had moved in together without ever discussing it at all.
Now here they were, two whole seasons later and at the beginning of a third, more or less happily cohabiting together in a home Aziraphale loved even more dearly having spent autumn and winter there, cosily ensconced with his best friend.
Spring was one of the angel’s favourite seasons. The notion of nature’s rebirth, its celebration in poetry and song from the very earliest times, had never failed to quicken his heart and put a smile on to his face. Which was why he was in the garden by the hedge, seeking out the sunny upturned faces of primroses in the bare earth at its base, taking deep breaths of the newly fragrant air, squinting up now and again at the pale cerulean sky with a fulsome, almost heady delight.
His attention was caught by a noise, barely more than a squeak. Aziraphale dropped his head, eyes searching. It was a bird perhaps, looking for a perfect spot to build its nest—how lovely! It came again, but louder and more drawn out this time, the note pathetic in its timbre, signalling distress and making something in the angel’s heart contract. Aziraphale hunkered down and peered between the bright new hawthorn leaves, looking for the source of the sound. In between the criss-cross of budded branches the shadows resolved themselves into a shape. A tiny shape punctured near its middle by a pair of cloudy dark blue eyes, slit pupils at their centre, framed by brown fur dappled with pale auburn like sunlight. A little face. The squeaky miaow sounded again, plaintive and insistent and Aziraphale could see the small pink opening of the creature’s mouth, tiny pins of teeth framing its tender tongue as it made its feelings known: not so much a distress call as a demand.
“Oh goodness! You poor love,” the angel cooed, reaching out with both hands, “come here, little one … That’s it.”
The kitten, not impervious to the charms of an angel, and knowing a good thing when she saw one, walked into the safety of Aziraphale’s sheltering hold.
“What’s that you’ve got there, angel?”
Crowley was lounging on a chair near the fire in the Breakfast Room, third cup of coffee in one hand, casually flicking through a magazine with the other.
“It’s a little foundling. She was in the hedging at the side of the house. Poor mite is chilled and so very thin.”
Crowley turned his head, put down his cup and heaved himself out of his awkward position on the armchair. He was frowning.
“If that’s a cat …” he warned. “You know cats don’t like me,” he said, directing his words in an accusatory manner at both angel and kitten.
Aziraphale held the kitten closer to his chest and frowned back.
“I cannot in good conscience leave her there to perish. She’s tiny!”
Crowley muttered something indistinct but the ill-nature of his attitude was clear enough.
“Don’t be like that,” said Aziraphale, defensively. “One cannot just pass by when there is a creature in need.”
“This one can,” Crowley grumbled, “What kind of colour is that, anyway?” he said, gesturing at the small bundle of brindled fur in Aziraphale’s arms.
“They call it tortoiseshell, I believe. She’s very pretty, I think.”
“Hmmmph,” said Crowley, unimpressed, “s’pose so, if you like that sort of thing.”
“Look, Crowley, I will feed her and attend to her, um, other needs, until she is grown and healthy and then we can find another home for her. I’m sure someone will want such a darling little girl—aren’t you, precious?”
This last remark was directed at the small feline, who gave an answering ‘prrrp’ noise, nestled closer to Aziraphale’s tweed clad chest and immediately started to purr, the noise surprisingly loud, like a happy little engine in the quiet of the room.
Crowley scowled at the kitten where she lay, eyes half closed, in the crook of Aziraphale’s arm.
“Yeah, fine. Just don’t expect me to get involved,” he said, and then stomped out of the room.
“Never mind the grumpy old devil, darling,” Aziraphale said to the purring kitten, “let’s see if we can find you a little something for your breakfast, shall we?”
Crowley was very out of sorts and found he did not care much for the feeling. There was an interloper in his home (‘our home’, a surprisingly reasonable voice in his head insisted). An interloper in his space, then, encroaching on his territory.
Every time Crowley ventured into what he called the living room, ignoring Aziraphale’s insistence that it be called The Withdrawing room—“This isn’t the eighteen-twenties, angel”—the blessed cat was there. It would be lying, stretched out on his sofa, or playing with the tassels on the extremely expensive Persian rug. Or, worst of all, snuggled up in Aziraphale’s lap, basking in his attention with a smug smile on its (admittedly, very pretty) little face.
The angel doted on his new charge, calling her various (disgustingly soppy, to Crowley’s way of thinking) pet names in a voice that dripped with fondness. He petted her constantly, stroking that tiny furry body with his perfect plump and perfumed hands until the diminutive creature vibrated with purrs loud enough to fill the room.
This outward display of physical affection, along with the way in which Aziraphale invariably looked at the little cat, his eyes soft, cheeks dimpled with a smile, made Crowley hot, cross, and confused. The demon had no idea why it discomfited him so, seeing his friend behaving in this unashamedly loving way, so he attempted to dispel these uncomfortable feelings by stalking about the house in a strop, frequently resorting to the solitary comforts of his bedroom, where he was free to sulk in splendid isolation.
It wasn’t as if Aziraphale was ignoring him, that was not the case at all. The pair of them still went for walks together, for meals out, from time to time. They walked into the nearest village for a drink in the pub or opened a few bottles of wine after dinner as they always had. That, in a way, made the situation worse. Crowley had no genuine grievance to nurse, nothing concrete to complain about, and therefore felt he was unable to say anything specific on the subject, for nothing was being done to, or taken away from him. The very fact that the presence of the wretched feline was causing him so much disquietude was vexing in itself. Aziraphale should be allowed to show affection to this unfortunate orphan, of course he should. So why did Crowley feel so cantankerous and out of sorts?
One afternoon, after a period of fruitless moping in his bedroom, Crowley decided that enough was enough. He would no longer allow his silly objection to a creature scarcely larger than his fist to prevent him from spending time in the warm, comfortable living room with his oldest friend. Crowley, thus resolved, stomped down the graceful staircase and swung open the door to the main reception room of the house, then flung himself dramatically across his favourite sofa, assuming a comfortable lounging position after shifting a number of frou-frou cushions (Aziraphale’s doing, of course) to support his bony frame.
Aziraphale’s customary armchair was empty, but Crowley spotted the angel’s half-moon spectacles resting across an open book of what looked like poetry on the side table, and thought he could discern the distant noises of a celestial being putting together one of his afternoon tea spreads coming from the direction of the kitchen. Clearly the angel would not be absent for too long. A small fire burned in the hearth, as the spring weather remained quite chilly. The architect of all of Crowley’s woes basked on the rug by the fireplace, her tiny, fluffy belly stretched out facing the warmth of the glowing coals. Crowley ignored her, closing his eyes to enjoy the comfort of the room. The long case clock beat out the seconds with its customary steady rhythm. The room smelled of venerable books and Aziraphale’s cologne and the combination served to soothe the demon’s ruffled feelings somewhat. Crowley felt himself relax. Cats had always hated Crowley, so the pesky creature was unlikely to disturb him. He might even take a nap, now he was established here, back in his territory.
The next thing Crowley became aware of was the impression of a gentle pressure on his abdomen. He opened his eyes and looked down for the source of the sensation. The kitten was in the process of curling up on his stomach having jumped up or climbed the fabric of the sofa to reach her present perch. Crowley sat up a little and in response she merely repositioned herself in his lap, her tiny paws kneading at the small swell of his stomach in his fashionable shirt briefly before she settled, forming a perfect furry circle across the top of his thighs.
Crowley stared, astonished, at the kitten, opposing thoughts chasing themselves across his mind. His first impulse was to turf her off at once, but the novelty of being approached in such an artless, friendly way by an animal caused him to hesitate. She looked so small against the black cashmere of his trousers, so perfect, each tiny toe and whisker neat and lovely.
Crowley froze, racked with indecision for a little while, then cautiously extended a hand and ventured to touch the creature, stroking at that dappled fur with a hesitant finger. She was so soft. Crowley ran his hand gently along the curve of her spine. She responded by turning her head so that the top of it was almost flat against his thigh and started purring rhythmically, and so loud he could feel the vibrations thrumming through the muscles in his leg. Crowley continued stroking gently for a while. She looked like she was smiling and suddenly he realised that he was smiling too.
This was… This was—nice.
It was at that moment that Aziraphale entered the room bum first, swinging round as soon as he was through the door to reveal his burden of a heavily loaded tea tray.
“Ah, there you are, dear boy. Sorry that took so long, I had to ice the cake.”
There were pots of tea and coffee and the accoutrements thereof, along with a large iced cake, the dark crimson one with the sweet icing Crowley especially enjoyed. Red velvet it was called, or something, he seemed to remember.
“I was hoping you might come down for a little nibble and a drink,” Aziraphale went on. He said not one word about the cat, still ensconced in Crowley’s lap, merely stooping to put the tray upon the coffee table and beginning to unload the cups, jug, plates and sugar bowl, placing them where they would be most convenient for their respective seats. Once this was done, he looked across at Crowley and it was very obvious from his smile exactly what he was thinking.
“What?” said Crowley, defensively.
“Oh nothing,” the evidently delighted, and rather smug angel replied, “just thinking how very comfortable you both look over there, that’s all.”
"Hmmmph,” said Crowley, shortly. Once again he felt the urge to simply decant the kitten off his legs and on to the floor. But at that very moment, when he looked down at her, she turned her head and opened her eyes to gaze lazily up at him. Those eyes had changed in the time she had been living with the angel and demon. Formerly a hazy, kitten blue, now they were fully yellow. Yellow slitted eyes, curiously like his own regarded him for a moment, then she blinked, slowly a couple of times, yawned prodigiously, and settled back into the cradle of his lap, turning her head once more, then she placed a paw across her closed eyes as if she wished to block out any light that might prevent her from a restful slumber.
She looked—Satan save him, but she did—she looked almost unbearably cute.
Crowley raised his own head to find Aziraphale watching him, a similarly almost unbearable softly affectionate expression on his face.
“Uh,” said Crowley, seeking something, anything, as a distraction from having to hear any soppy nonsense from his friend, “How did she, um, get—I mean, where do you think she came from?”
Aziraphale spoke while pouring Crowley’s coffee and then tea for himself.
“I am afraid it looks like she was abandoned. Apparently it happens all the time. I overheard one of our neighbours—the woman that lives just past the church—in the village bakery saying that three further kittens, a ginger and two black and whites, were found in a garden just down the lane from us. It seems careless individuals neglect to get their pets neutered, and then dump the litters when they tire of the work that they entail. It is very sad and most reprehensible. Happily, all the other little ones have been adopted.”
“Yeah, awful,” said Crowley, looking down once more at the furry circle in his lap. This little miracle of life, thrown away like rubbish. How could anybody even consider doing such a cruel thing?
A few weeks later
Aziraphale was conflicted. He was delighted for Crowley in the demon’s own obvious delight at the novelty of having an animal companion, and one so affectionate to boot. The kitten, once she had understood that she was welcome, had barely left Crowley’s side since that first proper meeting of the two, and although Crowley feigned not to care for the attention, Aziraphale could clearly see how touched he was at the small creature’s antics and insistent requests for companionship.
Crowley made himself available, in a subtle way, for play and mischief. He hung about where the kitten was to be found, entertaining her by twitching his hand or foot under a blanket or enticing her with little scrunched up balls of paper, or wool pilfered from Aziraphale’s knitting basket. Once, the angel was sure he had seen the demon tantalising the little cat with a long black feather, for which she expressed a good deal of enthusiasm, racing around and around in pursuit of it and pouncing until she was tired.
The tiny cat was really coming into her own now that she was properly nourished and growing well. She proved to be a small ball of energy and Crowley met the challenge she represented with his own zest for teasing and fun—and a surprising amount of patience—both of which Aziraphale found most endearing. The angel became accustomed to the drumming of paws and feet on the wooden flooring of hallway and stairs, and the distant crashes and expostulations from all over the house, as the pair of them, kitten and demon, cavorted about. Watching the pair of them together made fondness bloom deep in the heart of the angel, which he wondered at from time to time as to the strength of the emotion, then went on with his day.
None of this was an issue. The cat still loved to sit upon the angel’s knee and take her food and treats from him, and Crowley was cheerful and talkative these days—up for chess or a bottle of wine and the usual back and forth of their discussions deep into the night. The problem lay in Crowley’s affection for the animal. Not the fact of it, no, but its demonstration. Aziraphale was forced to bear with equanimity the sight of Crowley petting the kitten; teasing her with long and nimble fingers, rubbing her belly and chucking her under the chin as she reciprocated with the vibrations of her happiness.
Aziraphale had never thought much about being in receipt of touch in the past. Largely, he had routinely avoided it, excepting the times when he was directed to deliver benedictions to his human charges on assignment, and even then, contact was restricted to a fleeting laying on of hands. It wasn’t that he did not care for humans, on the contrary, he loved them very much as it was in his nature so to do. Aziraphale simply felt rather strongly that there was something intrinsically wrong about touching people overly much when they did not have the slightest inkling what he was, and when he was not, strictly speaking, of their kind at all.
Watching Crowley with the cat changed something in Aziraphale. Suddenly the angel found that he wanted to be touched, craved it, even. But only by one person. Only by Crowley, the friend he found he loved. Intimate contact with humans had been expressly forbidden since the unfortunate business of the Nephilim. Dalliances with demons were similarly off the celestial menus for obvious reasons. But now that he was retired, and living in a manner that was practically human, Aziraphale was finding that he longed for the gift of contact with Crowley, his beautiful hands and slender body. To love; to touch and be touched, the human way. And he had no idea whatever what he should do about such notions.
Crowley was sitting on the sofa. Unusually for him, his back was resting in a conventional manner on the cushions of the back rest and his two feet were on the floor. This was because the kitten was lying across his lap, looking like a small sybarite, her rounded belly quite exposed in an attitude of trusting, happy indolence.
Aziraphale, having just entered the room and come upon this pretty scene of friend and cat, decided to be daring and take a seat on the sofa with only a little space between himself and Crowley. He reached over and ran a gentle finger along the dappled flank of their feline companion as he did so.
“May we keep her, Crowley?” he asked, hesitantly, “I believe you have formed a, an attachment to her.”
“Yeah,” said Crowley, looking up and smiling, open and warm, “little bastard’s wormed her way into my go— er, bad books, so I suppose we have to, now.”
“Ah,” said Aziraphale, relaxing. He really had become very attached to the cat himself, and had dreaded having to give her away. “I am so glad. I have grown most fond of her over these past few weeks, despite the little rascal chewing off all the aglets from my shoelaces.”
They sat together for a while, not speaking. Early summer sunlight was pouring in through the French windows, making the porcelain ornaments and Aziraphale’s collection of snuff boxes gleam and glitter upon their shelves.
Aziraphale sighed, contentedly.
“Fortunate, really,” he said, after a while.
“Who, the kitten?” said Crowley. “S’pose she is, really, getting rescued by an angel. All those, uh, cuddles or whatever you call them, you sentimental old thing, that she’s been getting from you.”
“You cuddle her too!” objected Aziraphale, feeling a little stung at being called sentimental, even though he knew he was, at heart. “I’ve seen you—you cuddle and stroke her all the time.”
“Jealous are we, angel?” teased Crowley, his eyes glittering with mirth. He looked so beautiful sitting there in the sunlight, all sleek like the pretty cat on his knee. Aziraphale felt his face heat as the blood rushed to his cheeks. How dare Crowley insinuate that he might be jealous, of all things. And be so terribly correct about it.
Aziraphale cleared his throat. And changed the subject.
“I meant all of us, actually,” he said, lightly.
“All of us what?”
“We’re all fortunate, all three of us, to be here, like this. I love this house so much, it’s such a wonderful refuge, a lovely place to live, so quiet and relaxing and… and…”
“And?” said Crowley.
Aziraphale took a deep breath and turned to look at the handsome, vexing, gloriously fascinating person next to him. The person that he loved and wanted so very much
“And I get to be with my best friend,” he said simply, his cheeks flaming.
Crowley’s eyes widened.
It was at this moment that the kitten chose to stretch, reaching out with her front paws and sinking all eight claws lightly into Aziraphale’s leg. Instinctively, Aziraphale sought to lessen the sting by shuffling sideways until his left thigh was touching Crowley’s. The kitten in response pulled herself forward a little until she made a small, furry bridge between the two of them.
Crowley looked down at the little feline, she raised her head slightly and returned his look with her usual directness, giving a slow blink as she often did, but this time with only one of her lovely eyes.
It was as if she was winking at him.
The demon turned his head. Aziraphale’s familiar face was very near, his eyes were very blue, and his mouth, with those pretty lips, was partly open. A fetching blush stained the ample apple of his cheeks.
Crowley swallowed and leaned in, the frustration and anger of the days before he had befriended the kitten suddenly making sense. This… this unconventional, exasperating, kind, clever, lovely friend was what he wanted. What he had always wanted. And he wanted him in the human way—and in every other way that mattered.
“Darling,” Aziraphale said, softly, as if he had picked up exactly what it was that Crowley was thinking, “I…”
“Yeah, I do too,” said Crowley, and closed the gap between them.
The kiss when it happened, travelled from their earthly forms into the core of their incorporeal essences, such was its intensity. It began as human, tentative, then all at once becoming hot and eager, ending gently and sweetly in something bright and transcendent. They clutched at each other again and soon became lost in the ecstasy of their communion, deepening the kiss, tasting each other, ardent and hungry as if both had been famished for years.
Crowley started to smoulder, and Aziraphale to glow.
The kitten, sensing her work here was done, jumped down from the laps of the two odd people who were so kind to her, and sauntered into the kitchen where she knew there was still some chicken to be had in her bowl, and tasty biscuits too.
A sofa, even one unconsciously widened and lengthened by a combined miracle, is still an awkward place upon which to consummate a relationship. Aziraphale and Crowley did not care. They lay, naked in each other’s arms under the paisley silk throw, exchanging kisses and basking in this newfound expression of their love.
“I should have said,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s neck from where he lay with his head on the demon’s pleasantly furry chest, “I love you very much, my darling.
Crowley clutched at the angel’s generous waist and smiled a genuine smile of unalloyed happiness, his heart light.
“Love you too, angel,” he muttered. And despite these being words he had believed he would never, ever say, he found joy in the utterance of them, and in the answering kiss he received from the object of his passion.
“We should give the kitten a name,” Aziraphale said, after a while, “something pretty. You can choose one, if you like.”
Crowley thought for a moment.
“You found her under the hawthorn, didn't you? Let’s call her May.”
“May! Oh, May is perfect, Crowley.”