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Retiring to a cottage near the sea seemed to be–to use an American expression–a swell idea. At least, at first blush. And, mind you, Aziraphale did indeed blush when Crowley first proposed taking a century or two off together someplace quiet. When Aziraphale eventually stopped fluttering around the shop and said yes, Crowley also blushed which seemed a bit of an overreaction as far as demons and real estate go. Aziraphale chalked it up to Crowley’s bronzer coming off in his sleep, and made a note to steam clean his settee.
The first month on the South Downs sped by: all unpacking and arranging and nipping back into London for things they suddenly realised they could not leave under dustcovers. The second month was like the start of a holiday: orienting themselves to the village, getting sunburnt on the beach, fumbling with the shower head. The third month reminded Aziraphale of that time in 1918 when his ring (and, less importantly, his hand) was run over by a street car. He spent the remainder of the decade in a celestial waiting room while one of Jegudiel’s assistants repaired it (the ring, not his hand).
Their fourth month in residence made it clear that an adjustment period was in order. After several centuries in the hustle and bustle of a major world city, acclimatising to the plodding pace of a tourist town would take work. Aziraphale’s nerves obviously needed time to reset to a slower pace of life. As would anyone’s. Anyone with the exception of Crowley who seemed, in Aziraphale’s frazzled mind, to be gloating about settling in so soon, always smiling smugly at Aziraphale. He radiated a sense of contentment which sent Aziraphale’s soul itching. Still, he carried on.
The fifth month brought stretches of sunshine which threatened to desiccate the cottage. If Aziraphale looked too long, another angel would stare back at him from behind the cracking wallpaper.
In a final bid for sanity, he momentarily extended the delivery range for one of his favourite takeaway spots back in London, but the food arrived cold and slightly congealed, and Crowley yelled at him for using a miracle which surely alerted Heaven to their exact location, and Aziraphale spent the rest of the evening crying in the loo.
When he finally came out, Crowley was waiting with the food warmed over. Aziraphale ate dutifully but it was hardly the same.
Standing legs akimbo, Crowley gripped the back of a kitchen chair, watching him eat. “There’s a community centre inland. Run by the locals. Does all sorts of classes. Maybe we could take cooking lessons.”
Aziraphale wiped his mouth. “I don’t want to cook.” Much sharper than he meant to.
“Fine. I’ll cook. Anything you like.”
“That’s very kind, but…” Aziraphale trailed off.
“But what?”
He stood, wringing the napkin in his hands. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to make this place a home. I know you’ve put a lot of work in–the shelving, the garden, the cloth napkins–and I appreciate that–”
“So you’ve said,” Crowley said flatly.
“Yes, well, I don’t want you to think me ungrateful. I am grateful. Truly. And I have tried to focus on that gratitude, to let it quash my doubts.” His lips twitched into a fond smile. “You know, I wasn’t able to doubt before that whole business in Tadfield. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”
“Great.” Crowley’s fingers curled into a fist, his nails scraping lines in the chair’s varnish. “Glad to be of service.”
“I know this may sound self-serving–just Aziraphale once again trying to insist on his morality, that old story–yet I want you to know that I did try. But despite everything, the fact remains…” He paused, hoping Crowley would fill in the blank.
Instead Crowley glared at him, yellow eyes smouldering. “Go on.”
Aziraphale’s hands fell to his sides. “This isn’t working out.”
“Right.” Crowley took a pair of spectacles from his breast pocket and placed them on his face. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I could do to change your mind.”
“No. You’ve done more than enough already.”
Crowley drummed his hands on the back of the chair. “Well, it was fun while it lasted.”
Aiming for levity, Aziraphale grinned. “For you maybe. Personally, I dreaded every minute of it.”
Crowley’s mouth dropped open. If he were in Hell, several of Beelzebub’s flies would have flown in. Setting down the napkin, Aziraphale walked to his side.
“I’m so sorry, old boy,” he said. “I didn’t mean to–I only meant that–it’s good that you’ve enjoyed your time here, but for me this whole experiment–”
“Experiment,” Crowley whispered indignantly.
“This whole, erm, living situation, well, it’s not how I’d like to pass eternity.”
“Eternity,” Crowley hissed. “I never asked you for eternity.”
“No, no, you didn’t. To be honest, even in the short-term–I know our lives are long and I’ve been through much worse–you’d think after the 14th century, I could spend a few months on the South Downs without losing my mind. I suppose I’m not as strong as I’m meant to be. In any case, regardless of how I should feel, in reality, I’m not happy. And that’s not something time will fix.”
Releasing his grip on the chair, Crowley backed away. “I’ll call my solicitor in the morning. Have the deed to the cottage transferred to your name.”
Aziraphale blinked several times. “I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home.”
“Fine, go home, go wherever you like, sell the cottage, use the money to buy books or snuff or whatever it is that makes you happy.”
Aziraphale swallowed. “There’s no need to be cruel.”
“No need to–” Crowley groaned. “You don’t think this is cruel? You don’t think leaving me after a single argument and cold takeaway is cruel? Throwing away six thousand years of friendship–that’s not cruel?”
Aziraphale tutted. “Don’t you think you’re being a tad dramatic?”
“Am I?” Crowley roared worthy of Burbage. “Am I?”
“Yes. You are.”
“I suppose you’d know.” Crowley sneered. “Tell me: how long was it you were in the toilet crying over cold noodles?”
Aziraphale jolted away. Crowley’d been such a dear these past few months; he’d forgotten how this serpent could strike. “Why are you being so mean?” he asked quietly, an honest question.
Crowley shook his head. “No, nope, nope. I’m not doing this. Wobble your lower lip all you like, I’m not going to apologise while you tear my heart out. Again.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said firmly. “You’ve moved house countless times over the years. I don’t see what’s so unreasonable about asking you to do it again.”
Crowley’s brow knit together. “You want me to move.”
Aziraphale nodded. “I know it’s selfish.”
“But you said you didn’t want the cottage,” Crowley said slowly.
“I don’t.”
“Give me a moment to get this sorted.” Crowley’s tongue darted out of his mouth, tasting the air. “You want to move.”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to move as well.”
“Yes.”
Crowley paused. “If I move, and you move, who will stay in the cottage?”
“I don’t know. I suppose that’s something the estate agent will sort out.”
Crowley rubbed his left cheek, petting the snake tattooed there. “So, you don’t want to change anything about our relationship, you just want to have it someplace else?”
Aziraphale nodded. “Preferably someplace with a vibrant arts scene and a more robust public transit system.”
“To clarify, this entire conversation has been about real estate?”
“Yes.”
“Ngk.” The colour (most of it red) drained from Crowley’s face. Crouching, he gripped his knees. “I need to… I’m gonna lie down for a moment.” And, despite their sitting room and its plush settee being no more than a few steps away, Crowley laid right where he stood on the original hardwood flooring.
Aziraphale peered down at him. “Crowley, dear, are you feeling alright?”
“‘M fine,” Crowley mumbled into the timber. “I just need to… never do that again.”
Thoroughly accustomed to finding Crowley face down just about anywhere, Aziraphale started in on clearing away dinner. “Do tell me if you need anything.”
Crowley moaned something that might have been, “Will do.”
Aziraphale was half-way to the kitchen when he had one of those French staircase realisations. “Crowley,” he called over his shoulder. “Forgive me for assuming, but before it seemed as if you didn’t know I was talking about us relocating.”
Crowley made a non-committal noise.
Aziraphale deposited his dishes in the sink. “What did you think I was talking about?”
Crowley was resolutely silent. Aziraphale came back to the table and looked down at him.
“Crowley,” he prodded.
“‘S nothing, angel.”
“It’s not nothing. You were clearly upset about something.”
“Water under the bridge,” Crowley mumbled. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but I wish you’d tell me.” As Aziraphale spoke, he replayed their conversation, and then all of their conversations, and then the entirety of his existence, and then– Aziraphale, hand clasped over his mouth, jumped about a metre backward, hand shaking as he pointed down at Crowley. “Oh, dear lord!”
Given how quickly an angel can think, the last sentence came out something like a very startled prayer: “I don’t mean to pry, but I wish you’d tell me, oh dear lord.”
Aziraphale hyperventilated, finding that affectation suddenly very necessary. “You… You…” He continued pointing squarely at Crowley as if accusing him of murder rather than of devoting much of his long life to Aziraphale’s happiness. Feeling entirely on the spot, Aziraphale groped for some sin he could apply here, anything to disperse blame. “Deceit!” He jabbed his finger for emphasis.
Crowley rolled onto his back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, it’s not like I lied. I just… didn’t tell you.”
“How long were you planning on ‘not telling’ me?”
“I would’ve gotten around to it eventually.”
“When, Crowley?”
Crowley dithered. “I mean, it’s not an exact date, but whenever you were too invested to leave. Maybe a hundred years after that.”
“I see.” Aziraphale began to pace, rubbing his smooth thumbnail over his upper-lip. “I imagine you’ve had your share of laughs about silly, old Aziraphale, head in the clouds.”
“Oh, yeah,” Crowley drawled. “I’ve been having a great time. Centuries of longing and self-denial–that’s really where my sense of humour lies.”
Aziraphale barely registered that over the blood pounding in his ears. “I don’t even know what you’re getting out of this.”
“Out of what?”
“Going through the motions of some grand romance when… when you don’t even love me.”
Crowley clenched his jaw. “Just because I’m a demon, that doesn’t mean I can’t love.”
“Believe me: I’m aware. You love your car, your stereo system, your plants–”
“They will hear you!” Crowley hissed.
“I’ve felt your love for more things than I can remember, but never for me. Not once.”
“Really?” With a self-satisfied smirk, Crowley propped his feet on a chair. “I’ve done better than I thought. I would have thought at least once over the past six millennia I would’ve slipped up but apparently I’m a much better demon than you give me credit for.”
Aziraphale added ring-fidgeting to his nervous movements. “I’m feeling quite fragile at the moment, dear boy. So, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Right.” Crowley paused. “It’s like lurking. Demons love lurking. I’ll admit: even I love lurking. If I started lurking right now, your angelic love radar would go, ‘Ping. There’s Crowley out for a lurk, loving every minute of it.’”
“Yes, we’ve established that I can feel you loving things which aren’t me.”
“Well, that poses a problem, now doesn’t it? If I’m supposed to be lurking about causing infernal mayhem, I can’t have every angel in the county knowing.”
Aziraphale stopped pacing. “You can block it. Put your light under a bushel as it were.”
Crowley shrugged. “It’s basic demonic counterintelligence. We may not be able to wash off the stench of evil, but the love thing, we can hide that.”
Aziraphale hesitated. Or, more precisely, engaged in a particularly intense few seconds of hesitation during the overall hesitance that was his existence. He tried to sound casual. “Can you unhide it?”
“Sure.”
“Would you?”
Crowley scoffed. “It’s not a bloody parlour trick.”
“I’m not asking you to entertain me.”
“Then what are you asking?” Crowley propped himself up on his elbows. “What would you get out of it?”
Aziraphale opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I…” Perhaps they could end the conversation there, move back to London, and pray they remember this night as dimly as the palaver in Tadfield.
“Come on. Don’t get squeamish on me now.”
Aziraphale stamped his foot–actually stamped his foot. “You must know already.”
“No, I mustn’t.”
Aziraphale felt a flush rushing to his face. He tried futilely to fan it away. “This is–I don’t think I’m built to withstand this.”
Crowley curled onto his side and caressed the wood flooring. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Two long-standing impulses crossed swords inside the angel. On one side: the desire to lie beside Crowley. On the other: the need to never, ever reveal anything meaningful about his inner life to anyone (including himself).
Overwhelmed by the clashing of metaphorical steel, Aziraphale rocked in place, making a low keen that terminated in: “I hate this place!”
Crowley tsked. “Hate’s a strong word, angel.”
“Well, it’s true. I hate it here. I hate the restaurants, and the quiet, and the sand everywhere, and the sea breeze and what it does to my hair. I hate going into town, everyone walking so dreadfully slow. I hate how long one has to travel to get anywhere remotely interesting and even then it’s just another hill filled with smug, thin people exercising on their hard-earned holiday. I hate that I can’t open my mouth without some OAP asking if I know their grandson who lives in London and is one of ‘my lot.’ I hate that I can’t get a decent manicure or go see a play with proper actors or try something, anything new. I hate everything about this entire area. I would have left months ago if it didn’t contain the one being in all of creation I’ve ever chosen to love.”
Aziraphale wrapped his arms around himself, continuing to rock. “This place is a shitheap. But I love you, so I stayed. However, that does not mean I want to remain any longer than I have to. I know you love the cottage, but I’m not sure how–”
“I. Don’t. Care. About. The. Cottage,” Crowley said, each word a struggle.
“But you always look so happy.”
“I always look happy because the only time you can see me is when we’re together.” Only Crowley could shout this. And he did.
Aziraphale held a hand to his chest. “There’s no need for yelling.”
At that, Crowley gave a guttural cry to the heavens. Or, at the very least, the ceiling.
“Are you quite done?” Aziraphale asked. “Because I seem to recall you promising to ‘show me yours.’”
Crowley rolled onto his back with a huff. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
Aziraphale grinned. “I think it will be beautiful.”
Crowley scoffed. “The kind of love we have, the only kind of love worth having, isn’t beautiful. It’s not ‘I love all creatures great and small, but especially Mr. Crowley.’ It’s ‘I love you and everything else can turn to ash.’ It’s selfish. It’s–”
“This place is a shitheap, but I love you,” Aziraphale quoted himself.
“Exactly. Honestly, I didn’t think you were capable of that kind of love until now. I mean, I always knew you were a bit of a bastard, but to choose one person over all of creation? That’s not angelic, that’s pure human right there. The lack of perspective alone is nearly–”
“Crowley, if you wouldn’t mind.” He wobbled his lower lip. Just a little. “Please.”
Crowley sighed. “Fine, angel. You may want to grab ahold of something. There’s a lot there.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I carry the Almighty’s grace with me e’er I go, I’m sure I can withstand the love of one minor dem–”
Crowley raised his glasses.
Aziraphale’s knees buckled. His vision blurred. Up became down. Down became lavender. He eyed the sitting room but took refuge on the floor. Better to shelter in place with this one. His back arched. His toes curled in his slippers. He banged on the floor to stop himself from swearing.
Eventually, it ebbed, leaving Aziraphale cautiously aware of its subdued presence. Too exhausted to even roll over, he let his half-erection stand embarrassingly in the open.
“Angel.” Crowley swallowed audibly. “Are you–did I hurt you?”
“Far from it, dear boy.” And because Aziraphale could hardly say, ‘If you fellate me right now, I will give you my immortal soul,’ he instead added, “I was right; it was beautiful.”
From his spot on the floor perpendicular to Aziraphale, Crowley kicked the angel’s slippers. “Smug bastard.”
Aziraphale countered, “Lovely serpent.”
Crowley groaned. “If we turn into one of those couples always dropping pet names, I swear.”
“You’re a few millennia late on that score, dear boy.”
“Angel, I think you might be right on that one.”
Aziraphale sighed, mustering up enough energy to wiggle contentedly (and discreetly cross his legs in the process). They laid there on the buckling wood floor, staring up at the uneven ceiling. They entered into a companionable silence, broken after a few moments by Crowley sputtering.
The demon lolled his head to look at Aziraphale. “Did you really not know?”
“Did I really not know that you were actively hiding your love from me?” Aziraphale asked. “Not at all.”
“‘Actively hiding?’ I bought you a house!”
“Yes, what a fine house it is.” He rapped on the wood floor fighting a losing battle against the seaside air.
“A house with one bedroom!” Crowley clarified.
“I thought you were trying to discourage guests.”
“One bedroom and one bed!”
“I don’t sleep,” Aziraphale protested.
“I’m not talking about sleeping.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale chuckled. “One hardly needs a bed or a bedroom for that.”
By saying that, he’d hoped to win the argument in a manner of, “You see, Crowley? Sex is associated with many types of furniture and rooms, so I am not a silly fool for failing to recognise the significance of you furnishing the cottage with a single showy four poster bed. Ha ha, the lot goes to the gentleman in white.”
Instead Aziraphale had rained out the argument through a few unspoken leaps of logic easily made by demon and angel alike: “Sex does not require either a bed or a bedroom. We are not in a bed or a bedroom. Therefore we could be having sex right now. Why aren’t we?”
The answer, for both, was unremitting terror.
Aziraphale shifted, uncrossed his legs, finding he suddenly had nothing which needed hiding.
“Soooo…” Crowley drawled.
“Quite,” Aziraphale said.
“We should probably get off the floor.”
“I suppose we should.”
They did not.
But Crowley did reach out with one hand to hold Aziraphale’s ankle, the most central part of him he could touch in their current position. So, some measure of progress.
“Angel.” He rubbed light circles over the cuff of Aziraphale’s trousers. “Do you want to…”
“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale prodded, prepared at that point to agree to whatever Crowley had in mind–up to and including going to a reputable animal rescue and wearing a small creature on his head, if that was what would help nudge this along.
“Do you want to…” The next part came out not so much in a rush but in an ooze, the letters seeming to fall over each other. “...be-my-boyfriend?”
For all the world, Aziraphale wanted to insist that he would be no one’s boyfriend, not even Crowley’s. His gentleman friend, yes. His sweetheart, maybe. Even his partner if the situation were sufficiently dire. But never something so modern and youth culture as his boyfriend.
In recognition of the effort Crowley had undertaken, Aziraphale managed to quash that impulse. “I’d be delighted.”
“Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” Crowley breathed. “Well done, Plan B.”
“Plan B?” Aziraphale smiled. “What was Plan A?”
Crowley rolled over and crawled on his belly next to Aziraphale, looking very much the serpent who tempted Eve.
“Plan A,” he said, setting aside his sunglasses, “was to never ask you, never tell you, and just act like we were together–minus a few things–and hope that eventually…. Well, you’d either: one, forget that we weren’t actually together; two, realise what I was up to but be too embarrassed to admit you hadn’t known all along; or, three, learn to love me.”
Aziraphale rolled onto his side to face him. “Plan A sounds very elaborate.”
“Yeah, lots of moving pieces, Plan A.”
“Was one of them yelling at me for ending a relationship I didn’t know I was in?”
“I never said it was a good plan.”
“Well, I suppose it’s not the worst plan we’ve come up with.”
“Ooooh,” Crowley winced. “That’s not saying much.”
Feeling bold but not too forward, Aziraphale lightly grasped Crowley’s collar, letting his fingertips play against the weave of the fabric. “Still,” he conceded, “it's better than my plan.”
Crowley laid his hand over Aziraphale’s–not to still his fidgeting, but to move along with him, feeling his manicured nails as his fingers appreciated the shirt fabric. “What was yours?”
“Be a worthy best friend to someone I was certain would never love me back. And have emotionally-purgative sex with every skinny little ginger found willing.”
Crowley’s hand curled into a fist around Aziraphale’s. “You’re right, that’s a shit plan, angel.”
And then suddenly they were kissing. And just as suddenly they were not, Crowley’s lips abandoning Aziraphale’s to press against the angel’s nose, cheek, ear, eyebrow, forehead, chin. Each little kiss followed by a deep sniff which made Aziraphale feel rather like the cache of cocaine he’d been circulating through his body since the 19th century.
“Darling, erm…” Aziraphale giggled. Crowley’s nose tickled. “Darling, erm, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but when humans do this, there generally tends to be a good deal more mouth on mouth and a good less nose on… anywhere.”
“This is for me,” Crowley rumbled from deep in his chest, and, really, who was Aziraphale to deny him?