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“Crowley!” The blacksmith called with a wave, as he saw a flash of red hair turn into the lane. “Good evening!”
“Evenin’, ‘Ziraphale. Are you well?”
“Indeed!” Aziraphale frowned and leaned on his workbench as the man reached his shop. “You’ve not broken a needle again? You must be the unluckiest thatcher* in the county.”
“No not today,” Crowley winced, putting his hand to his jaw. “I need a tooth pulled.”
“Ahhh.” Aziraphale stood up slowly, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why? You’re the best tooth-puller outside of London. Everyone says so.”
“There’s Sandalphon in Wolvercote…”
“The barber with the gold tooth! No thank you.” Crowley winced again. “And that’s a day’s ride away. I can’t be jostled on a horse for that long.”
Aziraphale wiped his hands on his apron. “My apologies. Of course I'll help. You’re my best customer after all.”
Aziraphale led Crowley through the smithy shop - past the anvil where he shaped glowing-hot metal, his white curls soaked with sweat. Past his tools for sharpening and repairing blades, his strong hands surprisingly dextrous.
Then, past the forge. Farmers would gather near in the winter, sharing news in the warmth. Aziraphale would be glad of the company. This evening, though, they were alone, as they entered a small room at the back. Unlike the rest of the shop, it was clear of clutter - the floor was scrubbed clean and dried herbs hung to keep away the flies. In the centre, a special chair Aziraphale had made himself. Next to his pliers, a pitcher of fresh water and clean rags, and a prized copy of Le Chirurgien Dentiste**, worn soft with handling.
“I’ll take a look now,” Azriaphale said over his shoulder as he rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands. “But you’ll need to come back in the morning, when the light’s better.”
Crowley perched nervously on the chair.
“It’s ok, just lay back,” Aziraphale said. “I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but I find it easier when people aren’t sitting upright.”***
Crowley opened his mouth, and watched as Aziraphale looped the arms of his spectacles around his ears and leant over him. A gentle hand cupped his jaw. “I don’t see any rot, Crowley. Your teeth are remarkably well kept, in fact. Where does it hurt?”
Crowley had shut his eyes at the feeling of Aziraphale’s hand, and breath, gentle on his cheek. But he looked up now.
“M’sorry,” he murmured.
“Whatever for?”
Crowley heaved a sigh and sat up again, scrubbing his hand over his face. Aziraphale pulled up a milking stool to sit by him.
As one of the few literate men in the village, he was often consulted on a range of unusual issues. But Crowley’s reluctant admission caught his breath.
“I just… couldn’t come to you with another broken tool, ‘Ziraphale. I was running out of excuses to see you. But everyone says you’re an excellent tooth puller, you know? Thought we’d be close…and you care for people, afterwards. Though you might care for…” Crowley's throat clicked before he shook his head. “S’stupid idea.”
Aziraphale was quiet, long enough for Crowley to realise the extent of his error. If Aziraphale told someone… but no. The man was kind, they were friends. If nothing else, he would keep Crowley’s secret.
Crowley went to stand, but Aziraphale put a hand on his leg to stop him. “Why do you think I didn’t want to check your teeth in the first place, dear Crowley?” Crowley shrugged, and watched Aziraphale’s eyes grow soft. “I thought it best not to be alone with you. Or get too close. I’d give myself away.”
“Give..?” Crowley’s confused frown slowly lifted into a shy smile of understanding, mirroring Aziraphale’s own.
“Well then. That’s a relief,” the thatcher said after a moment.
“Oh?”
“It’s been costing me a fortune, blunting my blades every week.”
The pair chuckled, their hands slipping into each others as easily as if it had always meant to be.