Work Text:
Seven years after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, a certain retired angel and his demonic companion moved to a small, albeit miraculously spacious cottage nestled near a small village in South Downs, England. The cottage itself was somewhat of a labor of love for the two, with Crowley constantly outside, pruning back overgrown bushes, mowing down tall grasses, and intimidating the flowers into perfect little rows. Aziraphale, on the other hand, spent much of his time visiting flea markets and antique shops in order to find the appropriate furniture to fill out the empty rooms, not to mention spending countless hours reorganizing his book; he’d never admit that most of this time was actually spent rereading volumes as he uncovered parts of his collection that he had forgotten about. He still retained ownership of his little bookshop in Soho, London, but it now served as a secondary storage location for the books that hadn’t managed to fit into his new home library.
The pair eventually fell into a routine. Crowley would awaken sometime after 11:00 am to a miraculously scalding cup of unsweetened coffee on his bedside table, oftentimes
accompanied by a note that said Off to visit Mrs. Robinson for brunch, be back by afternoon tea!, or In the library! He would slink downstairs, downing his coffee in a few molten gulps before pulling on his wellies, throwing on a floppy sunhat, and making his way out into the garden to tend to whatever tasks he had laid out for the day. Around mid-afternoon, Aziraphale would bring out a pitcher of lemonade and watch the birds until Crowley sauntered over, wiping sweat from his brow, and draped himself over one of the wrought iron patio chairs. They would chat about whatever it is two celestial beings chat about before retiring inside to tidy up and settle in for a little cuddle in front of the telly1. Sometimes they ventured out for dinner, other times they experimented with fresh herbs and veggies in the kitchen. Always, as the sun began to set behind the rolling fields, the pair would wander upstairs, don tartan and black silk pajamas respectively, and fall into bed.
It was a day quite like any other when Aziraphale began to plot. Crowley was no stranger to plotting; he immediately recognized the look on his partner’s face as he trotted down the stairs that morning2.
Aziraphale was sitting in the breakfast nook adjacent to the kitchen, his cup of tea halfway to his mouth and he stared out the window in contemplation. The demon silently approached and settled into the chair across the small round table.
After several minutes with no acknowledgment, he spoke, “What’re you plotting, angel?”
Startled, Aziraphale set his teacup down with more force than expected, some of the amber liquid sloshing out onto the wood. “I am not plotting, merely thinking about something I want to do.”
Crowley made an inquisitive noise and mopped up the spill with an absentmindedly miracled cloth, “Eh, same thing if you ask me. What is it?”
“Hmm?”
“What’s the thing you want to do?”
“Oh, that,” he took a sip of tea, “I was thinking about adding a little building in the backyard.”
Crowley leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands and looking intently at Aziraphale. “What kind of building, angel?”
“I’m not sure yet. Just a fleeting fancy, really, I probably won’t do it.”
“Ngh, sure. If you do, let me know so I can clear you a spot.”
Aziraphale simply hummed and went back to gazing out the window. Definitely plotting, Crowley thought to himself as he slipped on his red wellies and headed out to tend to the new apple tree saplings he had planted the week prior.
It was later that afternoon when Aziraphale appeared in the garden. Crowley looked up from the lilac bush he was currently chatting with3 to see his angel in a pair of sturdy beige canvas trousers with extra patches of fabric around the knees, a white linen shirt rolled up to the elbows, and a brown apron tied around his waist. In his apron were a pair of gloves that matched his trousers, along with a pair of shears, a hammer, and a trowel. The demon watched in amazement as Aziraphale, a few wooden stakes in hand, trotted down to the little pond that lay on the eastern side of the property. The angel stood before the body of water with his hands on his hips, surveying the land for a minute before he walked the circumference a couple of times, testing the ground by stamping on it lightly with his brown workboots.
Satisfied with whatever it was he found, the angel then pulled out a tape measurer and went about methodically setting the wooden stakes in the ground, giving them a few taps with the hammer to ensure they would stay. He jotted down a couple of measurements in a little notebook, nodded, and headed back to the house, giving the dumbfounded Crowley a cheery wave on his way. A few minutes later, he returned, having removed his apron.
“Hello dear, I’m headed out to pick up some things from Mr. Carlson. Do you need anything?”
“M’good,” Crowley responded, peering at Aziraphale curiously. “What’s this all about?” he said, gesturing towards the pond.
The angel gave a mischievous smile and a little wiggle of delight. “You’ll see. Be back in tic!”
He walked around the front and gingerly got into his off-white 1957 Aston Martin DB Mark III4 and cautiously pulled out onto the dirt road that connected their cottage to the nearby village.
Mr. Carlson owned the local lumber/hardware store. He was known for sustainably sourcing his supply of lumber, making it Aziraphale’s top choice for today’s mission– not to mention that the only other hardware store in the vicinity was nearly an hour away. He carefully parked the car along the kerb in front of the storefront and entered the door with a little ring from the bell overtop the door.
“Ah, Aziraphale! How can I help you today?” came Mr. Carlson’s voice from behind the counter towards the back of the store.
“Hello! I’ve made a list for you, here,” he said, tearing out the sheet from his little notebook and handing it over to the middle-aged man. “Although I’m far from an expert, so I’m keen to hear your advice on the matter.”
“Hmm, yes, I think we can get all this for you right away. Might I ask what you’re using the wood for?”
“Certainly,” Aziraphale said with a pleasant smile.
✽✽✽
“Thank you ever so much for the help, Mr. Carlson!” Aziraphale said with a wave from the front seat of the Aston Martin.
“Of course! Are you certain everything is going to stay secure on your ride back?” he responded as he scrutinized the planks of wood hanging precariously out from the boot of the car.
“Ah, I’m sure it’ll be perfectly fine5. Send your husband my regards!”
The drive back to the cottage was as uneventful and leisurely as usual. As could be expected, Aziraphale’s driving style was quite the opposite of Crowley’s; he drove precisely five kilometers under the speed limit and was eager to follow even the most superfluous of traffic laws.
By the time he pulled up and parked beside the Bentley, the sun was grazing the horizon, filling the sky with a gorgeous array of purples and pinks. He paused to admire the view before heading inside, carefully placing his keys, complete with a tartan keychain, next to the jet-black ones on the entry table.
He found Crowley, wearing a long black robe with his hair pulled up into a bun, reorganizing his CD collection in the living room. At the sound of the front door closing, he looked up, a quiet smile gracing his face as his angel entered.
“There you are. Thought you were going to miss dinner. I harvested a couple of zucchinis and squash– thought we could do a ratatouille with those tomatoes we got from the farmer’s market.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely. I’ve got a couple of things to put away, then I’ll be right in, dear.” With that, Aziraphale grabbed his work gloves and went back out to the car to unload.
He carefully took the planks down to the pond, stacking them beside the stakes he had placed earlier. He then put the nails, paint, and shingles in the shed before removing his gloves and coming back inside.
Crowley watched all of this through the windows, arching an eyebrow in appreciation as the angel easily lifted the heavy lumber, but still exceedingly curious about what he was planning to build.
“All set, my love,” Aziraphale said after briefly going upstairs to change out of his gardening trousers and into a pair of brown slacks. “Would you like to chop or sautee?”
“Best leave the knife skills to you, o’ Guardian of the Eastern Gate. I’m assuming you’re still not going to tell me what you’re building?” Crowley followed Aziraphale into the kitchen, pulling out the cast iron skillet and beginning to heat some oil.
The angel simply hummed in agreement as he set about washing and slicing the various vegetables.
Prior to their cottage, Aziraphale had never given much thought to the idea of preparing his own meals. He always found it easier to pop over to the nearest sushi restaurant, or goad Crowley into getting them carryout.
By now, the pair was used to the graceful dance of cooking together. There was the casual brush of shoulders and hands pressed to waists as the scent of sautéed onions and bell peppers filled the kitchen. Thinly sliced zucchini, aubergine, squash, and roma tomatoes joined the cast iron, creating perfect circles of alternating green, purple, yellow, and red. Lithe fingers topped the arrangement with basil and thyme from the pots sat on the window sill and perfectly manicured hands placed the pan in the oven.
Soon, the pair were seated at their handcrafted wooden dining room table, mismatched antique chairs lining the sides and a hand-knit table runner laying across the glossy surface.