Work Text:
Somewhere, in an ivy-covered cottage down a country lane so miraculously ordinary and unassuming one could easily drive right past it (almost as if by design), a phone rings.
The sound echoes along hallways painted golden yellow, through rooms warmed by the memories of laughter, of joy shared, of tender and passionate embraces.
Of lives entwined.
The phone rings again; a voice sings out.
“Darling!”
“On it, angel!”
Footsteps, ones that used to clack from sleek leather boots but now squeak instead from sensible gardening clogs, approach the noise’s source. A left hand, ring finger adorned with a silver band, picks up the receiver.
The cottage’s other occupant wears a matching ring in gold.
“Hello, Fell-Crowley residence, yes—oh for Satan’s sake!”
The receiver slams back down.
“Another confidence trickster, dearest?”
“Asked if I'd ever been in a car accident.”
“Well, the Bentley did explode that one time.”
Yeah, but that wasn't an accident, as such. Very deliberately drove it through Hellfire. Bloody scam callers...”
“Didn't you invent them, dear boy?”
“Oi, whose side are you on?!”
A laugh, so lyrical, so free; it flows through the very bricks of their home, strengthens them.
“Oh, my love. Ours, of course.”