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Crowley frowned as he left his flat and trudged through the grey street sludge that was still lingering after the light dusting of snow from the night before. He tapped the Bentley’s hood as he walked around to the driver’s side. He had a bit of driving to do that morning. He could have simply clicked his fingers and arrived at his destination, but where was the fun in that?
He clicked the seat belt and squealed out of the car park. A group of tourists wandered into the street, admiring the vast array of holiday decorations throughout the city, causing the demon to swerve, narrowly missing a bus that knew better than to make contact with the Bentley.
The radio started blasting ‘O Holy Night’ with a killer guitar solo. Crowley pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and focused. He had a few hours' drive south, but traffic was light, and Crowley managed to avoid any major traffic jams.
His phone rang just as he left London.
“Talk to me.”
“Er, is this Mr Crowley?” A confused-sounding woman on the other end of the line asked. She sounded scared, nervous at the very least.
“Yeah. Who is this?”
There was a breath released, then an awkward laugh. “This is Freya Raines. I’m the estate agent you’ve been working with? For the property in the South Downs?”
“Right. Yes. I should be there in about an hour,” Crowley said, dodging a lorry with his mobile sandwiched between his shoulder and his cheek. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling?”
“Oh, no worries, Mr Crowley. I just wanted to verify that we’re meeting at the property. I’m so glad you decided to drive down to see it for yourself. It’s a beautiful property. I think you and your partner will love it.”
“It’s just me. I wanted to take a look at it before getting his hopes up.” Crowley pushed down on the accelerator.
“Well, that sounds like it will be a wonderful surprise. I have to go pull the keys and get set up on site. I look forward to meeting you.”
“Yeah, you too,” Crowley said, tapping the ‘Done’ button on the call.
Crowley had been looking for a place outside of London for a few years now—actually, a few decades. When the idea initially struck him, he looked at properties in Scotland. Cottages in the Highlands, bungalows in the Lowlands, and even some detached homes in the Orkneys, but it all seemed a bit too rustic.
It was nearly half a century later when he set about looking for places in Wales. Crowley knew what he liked, and he had thought he knew what Aziraphale liked, but he had managed to convince himself every single time that the angel would hate the Welsh countryside. Crowley wasn’t sure when Aziraphale had last been to the Welsh countryside.
This time, though, after managing to put a stop to the Apocalypse and the world-ending side effects of The Second Coming, Crowley knew it was time to find a place they could retire together.
The South Downs had been Aziraphale’s idea. Crowley wasn’t sure if he had realised it or not, but over a few bottles of a particularly bold and full-bodied Cabernet, the angel had mentioned wanting to live near the sea, be near nature. Crowley figured they’d still be close enough to city life that Aziraphale wouldn’t have a chance to miss the latest restaurant or bistro.
Crowley found he didn’t particularly have a preference. He only needed a large garden, personal space, and the angel.
He arrived at the agreed-upon location. An ancient cottage that overlooked the cliffs and was surrounded by forests that Crowley had first walked through a thousand years ago. There was a car already in the drive—the estate agent, he had no doubt. He stopped on the road and sauntered up to the door, knocking loudly.
A tall woman answered the door, her brown hair pulled into a neat chignon. She was dressed in a pink skirt and jacket with a white blouse, and her smile was almost convincing. She looked nervous to find this tall, skinny man in black and sunglasses standing at the door.
“Are you Ms Raines?” Crowley asked, already knowing that she was.
She looked relieved at the question.
“Yes, hello. You must be Mr Crowley. You got here much sooner than I thought you would. Please, come in.” She stepped aside for him to walk into the house. “Feel free to have a look around. I can take you around and show you the place, but I really think some people would rather explore on their own. You seem like an explorer.”
Crowley nodded.
“Would you like some coffee? Biscuits? Tea?”
“Coffee would be fantastic,” he said with his best—if slightly condescending—smile. “I’m going to start looking around, though.”
“Yes, of course! Take your time!”
Crowley had memorised the floor plan from the information he had found online. They were standing in the lounge, a large room that somehow felt small at the same time. There were timbers on the walls and ceiling. It very much reminded Crowley of a few inns he’d stayed in back when this cottage would have been newly built. There was a stone fireplace that Crowley didn’t love, but customisations were inevitable. It wasn’t like it would take much. The floors were a lovely oak. Crowley knew they weren’t original, but they were old. There likely would have been a stone floor originally.
He let his fingers brush along the walls as he entered the renovated kitchen. It smelled of the coffee the estate agent had made. For Crowley, the kitchen was just the room with the coffee in it, so the rich aroma was perfect. He was sure Aziraphale would like it, given his penchant for baking when he got bored. Whoever updated it tried a theme in keeping with the rest of the cottage: new appliances, beautiful worktops, and ample space for a kitchen table. Crowley could just imagine the breakfasts Aziraphale would force on him. He hid his smile, not wanting the estate agent to see him enjoying the place.
There was a bath on the ground floor, and a large cast-iron clawfoot tub took up most of the room. That was next to the only bedroom on that level. The room was nothing special, but Crowley could imagine rows and rows of stacks for Aziraphale’s books. It could be easily accommodated with a little miracle here or there.
Crowley had only seen half of the place, and he already hated how much he liked it. It looked fine in pictures, but walking in the space was altogether different. He knew the upstairs had a couple more bedrooms, another bath, and a small terrace, perfect for his hardier plants, which would thrive outside in the sunlight rather than keep themselves alive out of fear of Crowley.
“What do you think?” Ms Raines asked with a huge smile on her face as she handed Crowley a paper cup of coffee.
“I would have to take a look upstairs and around the garden before I could say,” he said, sipping the scalding hot liquid. “I’d like to take a look at the cellar too.”
“Of course. Would you like me to take you around the property?”
“Nah, I’ll come find you if I have questions.”
“Freya, what are you doing here?” A woman’s voice called from the front door. “I have a client coming to look at the property in half an hour.”
“Excuse me,” Ms Raines said to Crowley before rushing to the door. “Priya! What are you doing here?”
“I just told you!” Priya replied. Her black hair was pulled back into a long braid. She wore an outfit almost identical to Ms Raines, just in royal blue. She was wearing wire-framed glasses and stared at Crowley. “Who is he?”
“This is Mr Crowley. He’s my client, and he asked to see the property. Since the keys weren’t signed out, I’m showing him around. Your client will just have to wait.”
“My client is coming down from London!”
“Let’s take this outside,” Ms Raines said, pulling Priya out the door and into the front garden.
Crowley shrugged and climbed the rickety stairs to the first floor. There was a larger bath that looked as if it might be jetted, which would be nice. The first bedroom was on the building's corner, with large windows and French doors opening onto a terrace. It would be perfect for his plants. The other bedroom was the same thing, just on the other side of the cottage, which was perfect.
As Crowley slowly walked through the cottage to the sound of the two estate agents bickering outside, he became more and more certain that this was the place. He could see a place for himself and Aziraphale. He still wanted to see the garden and the cellar, though. The cottage was old. Who knew what was going on down there?
When he came downstairs, the two estate agents were talking quietly, seemingly waiting for him.
“Everything to your liking?” Ms Raines asked with an overly enthusiastic grin.
“Yep. I’m going to go outside to check the garden. Am I able to get into the cellar?”
“Oh, yes, it’ll be accessible. As you might have heard, Ms Kambli is expecting her client soon. She’ll be showing them around if you and I haven’t finished by then. I’m so sorry for the mix-up.”
Crowley shrugged. “S’fine with me. I might have a decision made before they even get here.”
Ms Raines grinned at him again. “You do like it then?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley said, stopping in front of Ms Kambli. “You said your client is coming down from London?”
“Yes…” she said warily.
“What’s their name?” Crowley asked, eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. “Was it Fell?”
“I can’t just give you their name, but no. Their name isn’t Fell.”
“Male or female?”
“I don’t ask my clients their gender, Mr Crowley.”
“So you haven’t met them in person?”
“I did. They’re quite particular, and I don’t know how they’ll react to competition.”
Crowley smiled wickedly and finished his coffee. “I look forward to making their acquaintance.”
+++
Aziraphale gave the cabbie a sufficiently large tip when he was dropped off in front of a quaint cottage on the edges of the South Downs. He had found a listing for it in a speciality publication that was mainly aimed at pensioners who might be looking for a nice place to retire, but couldn’t navigate the interwebs for anything more than email. It wasn’t that Aziraphale was inept with modern technology, quite the opposite, but it just never occurred to him to check a website for a place to live.
The cottage was a nice size, made of stone and brick; the lower half was a blend of the two. The brick upstairs looked newer, and as the cottage was nearly five hundred years old, he had little doubt that it had been rebuilt at some point in its history. He smiled at the thatched roof, which added to the building's charm.
He walked up the drive to the front door. There was a car in the drive, so the estate agent must have already arrived. He took one long look at the front garden before knocking on the door. A short woman in blue, her long black hair pulled into a braid, answered.
“Hello,” she said with a smile that didn’t look quite right on her face. “Are you Mr Hall?”
Aziraphale frowned and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. Are you Ms Kambli?”
“I am,” she said suspiciously.
Aside from the perfect location of his bookshop in SoHo, this was precisely why he didn’t own more property—estate agents.
“I am Mr Fell. We met two days ago, remember?”
“Oh, my goodness, of course. Fell, you said? Where on Earth did I get Hall? I’m so sorry. Come in, Mr Fell.”
Ms Kambli stepped aside to let him into the cottage. It was exactly as he thought it would be. He grinned at her as he waited for her to follow him.
“It’s wonderful!” he said, running his finger along one of the timbres that framed the room. It was rustic and cosy.
“How about I show you around?” Ms Kambli asked. “I do have to let you know we have someone else who is interested. You just missed them, actually.”
“Oh, well then, yes. Please show me around, Ms Kambli. Hopefully, nobody makes up their mind before I’ve had the opportunity to take a look.”
Ms Kambli, however, very much hoped that the previous weirdo would go ahead and make a bid. Mr Hall or Fell or whatever his name was looked posh, and who didn’t like a nice, fat commission?
Aziraphale followed the estate agent on her tour through the property. Already acquainted with the charming lounge, the angel fawned over the kitchen. Though there was already an island, he could imagine how he’d fix it up, how the kitchen would smell of bread and probably Crowley’s coffee. The downstairs room would be perfect for Crowley’s plants that he liked to pretend Aziraphale didn’t know about.
The bath was lovely. The large bathtub looked like an antique, but Aziraphale knew better. Still, it would fit two easily enough… If that were a necessity, of course. He loved the cottage; he knew that before he set foot into it, but seeing what it had to offer actually made him a little excited about moving there.
“The cottage was built sometime in the 1500s,” Ms Kambli was explaining. “The floors are newer, laid in the 1700s. Practically brand new,” she laughed.
“They’re lovely,” Aziraphale smiled brightly. “What’s upstairs?”
“That’s the other two bedrooms. They’re the same, so either could be used as the main bedroom. There’s another bath. Downstairs is the old cellar. It’s still in pretty good shape, so it would be great for storage.”
“Wonderful!”
They ascended the stairs and looked around the first floor. Aziraphale pictured one of the corner rooms as their bedroom, because, of course, they would be sharing once they were officially together, and the other would hold his books. He’d just need to miracle some more space. That would be easy enough. The terrace could hold more of Crowley’s plants.
“What is the garden like?”
“The garden is immaculate. There’s plenty of room for a vegetable garden, and some trees if you’d like that. Follow me, and I’ll show you.”
There was a large terrace in the back, surrounded by tall hedges and various flowering plants. Aziraphale didn’t know too much about greenery, not like Crowley did, but it was very aesthetically pleasing. The garden extended far beyond the patio and included a small duck pond toward the back of the property.
“I’ll take it,” Aziraphale said excitedly.
Ms Kambli smiled. “That’s wonderful. I’ll have to speak with my colleague and see what the gentleman who visited before you has decided.”
“Hmm, that’s right. I forgot about that.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr Fell. He didn’t really look like the sort who would settle in the country, let alone the coast. And he drove one of those impractical vintage cars that probably doesn’t have seat belts. He drove like a maniac, too.”
“Oh, goodness. Do you remember the gentleman’s name?” Aziraphale asked, his smile fading.
“I can’t just tell you his name, Mr Fell. That would be so unprofessional.”
“Right, yes. Of course,” Aziraphale said. “Was he a tall man, though? Lean? Prowls around like a nervous cat, with red hair glued into an exponential curve? Probably wearing sunglasses?”
Ms Kambli looked confused. “You know him? Actually, now that I think about it, he did ask about a Mr Fell. I had your name wrong.”
Aziraphale nodded. “I see.”
“Are… are you still interested?”
“I’m afraid not, dear. I did enjoy the tour, however. Thank you for your time!” Aziraphale flagged down a cab in the middle of the countryside and immediately set off back to London.
+++
It took some subterfuge and misdirection to get Aziraphale into the Bentley a month later without raising suspicions. As it turned out, whoever saw the cottage after him that day in the South Downs experienced a rapid change of heart, and as he was the only one interested, the cottage was his. Crowley had his suspicions about that.
“Where are we going again?” Aziraphale asked, watching the countryside flash by his window.
“I just want to show you something. A bit of a surprise,” Crowley said, adjusting his sunglasses. He was determined to make the two-hour drive as short as possible, and that required more than his usual amount of concentration as he weaved in and out of traffic. It was a quiet ride, only a CD of Rachmaninoff, recently turned to yet another copy of Queen’s Greatest Hits.
“I’ve always loved the South Downs,” Aziraphale said wistfully with a dramatic sigh. “It feels like we don’t get out of London much these days. Remember when we used to travel for this job?”
“Well, there were fewer people back then. We were the only ones keeping track of it all, remember?”
“Very true,” Aziraphale agreed.
The ride lapsed into silence until, approximately 45 minutes before it should have, the cottage rolled into view. Aziraphale smiled to himself, wiggled in his seat, and sat up straighter.
“What’s out here to see?” he asked innocently.
Crowley pulled up in front of the cottage for a moment before pulling into the drive. “Listen, Aziraphale,” he started, tapping nervously on the steering wheel. The music’s volume was lowered, likely the Bentleys’ doing, to hear what was about to be said.
“Yes?” Aziraphale asked, trying not to look too expectant about where this might be heading.
“We’ve been spending a lot of time together, you know, again—ever since we undid that Second Coming nonsense. I thought it might be nice to get a place for ourselves. The bookshop is, well, a shop. We could have a home together. Whadd’ya think?”
“This would be our home?” Aziraphale asked, looking at the cottage.
“Ngk, yeah. Just us, retired. I know you’ll probably want to look it over before agreeing, since it would be your place, too, and I didn’t really consult you about it. Plus your bookshop, I don’t know if you’d want to leave it.”
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale smiled and took his hand. “It’s beautiful.”
“But you—you were the second client. The one after me!”
Aziraphale nodded.
“I even asked that estate agent, and she said it wasn’t you.”
“She had my name wrong. She thought I was a Mr Hall, but she described you rather well, and when I figured out it was you, I withdrew my interest,” Aziraphale explained.
“What for? If you like it…”
“I didn’t want to be presumptuous, but I thought perhaps you had the same idea as me and were looking for a place for us to share our time. I didn’t want to take it from you.”
Crowley brought Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, pressing them to the back of his hand just once before snaking his other hand to tangle in the curls at the nape of his neck. In one motion, Crowley pulled Aziraphale close as Aziraphale leaned forward and their lips met, pressed firmly at first. For a brief instant, Aziraphale was reminded of that kiss in the bookshop, his stomach twisted, and he pulled away, but stayed close, breathing heavily.
They came together again, the press of their lips, the slide of their tongues, as they tugged on one another’s clothing. They carried on like this until the Bentley lost its patience and sounded its horn.
“We'd better go inside,” Aziraphale said, wiping some of the condensation from the windows before opening the passenger door and climbing out of the car.
Crowley did the same, taking the angel’s hand while standing on the drive of their new home.