Happy Holidays, bravinto!
Dec. 2nd, 2017 06:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeBravinto, your secret author has written this story just for you! They have let the mods divide it into four parts. Part 1 is below!
Summary: When horticulturist A. J. Crowley sees a rare breed of rose in a churchyard, he decides he won't stop until he can get a cutting—even if he has to go through the church's stuffy priest to do so.
Tags: Human!AU, roses, horticulture, churches, fluff, tiny bit of angst, romance
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rated: T
There wasn’t so much as a smudge of black on its lush green leaves.
A. J. Crowley leaned closer, staring between the tops of the metal rods of the fence in front of him and struggling to contain his excitement.
The bush was beautiful, with full, spreading branches and dozens—dozens—of large, perfectly formed rose blossoms. They were just beginning to bloom, petals unfolding into the midsummer air, a delicate peach hue blushed violet. And, perhaps most remarkably, the bush looked healthy and thriving, without even a hint of the black spot that had ravaged so many of England’s roses in the uncommonly warm, wet spring.
Crowley’s chest bumped into the fence and he shook himself slightly, trying to check his excitement. He didn’t really know anything about this plant, he reminded himself sternly; maybe it was one of those modern cultivars, or an infertile triploid.
He continued to stare between the tops of the fence’s bars, though, willing his eyesight to sharpen.
It could be a William Lobb, he thought to himself hopefully. It could be a beautiful, disease-resistant tetraploid old rose…or it could be a Hyde Hall, in which case I might as well just pop down to the local greenhouse with a tenner.
Crowley narrowed his eyes, squinting vainly at the bush in the hopes of eking some further information from it. When none was forthcoming, he sighed and took a step away from the fence.
Only one way to find out, I suppose.
Crowley swept his eyes along the line of the black, wrought iron fence, stopping when his gaze reached a small stone church. He glanced back at the rose bush, tucked away in the fenced-off cemetery, and then returned his attention to the church.
He made his way closer, taking in the large wooden sign welcoming him to St Mildred’s. He noted the service times—only Sunday morning, it looked like—and approached the main door cautiously.
Crowley tried the wrought iron handle and the door swung open under his hand with a faint creak. Inside, the space opened up into the nave of the church, short rows of pews marching towards the altar. It was a rather small church, with whitewashed walls, a straightforward beam ceiling, and a handful of electric lights gleaming from chandeliers where once there would have been candles.
Crowley closed the door behind him and took a few hesitant steps into the space, stopping at the back row of pews and casting his gaze around. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself; he’d always felt a little unwelcome in churches and unsure how he should conduct himself while inside them.
No one was in sight, and it was very still and quiet. To his right, the nave terminated in a wall marking the edge of the building, but to his left it was bordered by a row of Gothic arches with an aisle beyond it. It looked like there were a couple of doors leading to other rooms off the aisle, so Crowley headed that way, his footfalls seeming too loud in the space.
He found a door marked ‘private’ and knocked on it quietly. After a long moment, he put his ear to the wooden surface, but he didn’t hear anything besides his own heartbeat, seeming oddly loud in the quiet.
There was another, slightly larger door also marked ‘private,’ so he moved to that one next and repeated his knock. This time, there was a faint scuffle from somewhere behind the door.
Crowley hastily took a step back and arranged his features into a pleasant expression, nervously adjusting the messenger bag resting on his hip. A moment later, the door swung open to reveal a rather unkempt-looking, slightly overweight middle-aged man wearing the attire of a retired university philosophy professor.
“Hello,” Crowley said brightly, sticking out his hand. “I’m Anthony Crowley. I’m passing through the area; I was just admiring your lovely rose bush outside.”
For a moment the man just blinked at Crowley, and then he cautiously shook his hand, dragging the door mostly closed behind him. “Pleasure.”
Crowley waited for the man to introduce himself in return, but he wasn’t forthcoming.
“I was, er, just looking at your rose bush in the cemetery,” Crowley repeated, gesturing vaguely in the correct direction. “Does it always have so many blossoms?”
“I believe so, yes,” the man said, his accent crisp and intelligent. “Sorry, who did you say you were?”
“Ah, sorry, I’m a horticulturist,” Crowley supplied, putting on his best smile. It wasn’t unusual for people to be confused by his motives, and he’d found that being honest with them helped put them at their ease. “I run a small nursery and garden in London, and I specialise in roses. I couldn’t get a very good look at that bush you have outside, but it looks like it might be a rare wild breed. With your permission, I’d like to take a closer look and maybe take a small cutting.”
The man’s expression cleared. “Ah, I understand. Well, dear boy, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Crowley felt the excitement in his chest falter. “No?”
“Well, you see, strictly speaking they’re not mine to give away.”
Crowley’s smile faded. “But they’re in the cemetery—doesn’t that belong to this church?”
The man gave Crowley a kind smile. “Yes, but I’m not the person you’d need to talk to.”
“Ah, okay,” Crowley said, brightening a little. “Where can I find the priest?”
The man coloured slightly, the delicate shade of pink suiting him oddly well. “You’ve found the priest, I’m afraid, but I’m only here on a temporary basis. The main vicar is on sabbatical, and I’m filling in for him while he’s gone.”
“Oh,” Crowley said, doing a mental once-over of the new obstacle in his path. He remembered the beautiful, blight-free leaves of the rose bush. “Well, do I need to get his permission, then? Do you have his contact information?”
“He’s on sabbatical,” the man repeated. “I’m not allowed to give you his information.”
Crowley blinked at him. “Really?”
The man looked apologetic. “His decision. One hears the Lord’s voice best in times of solitude.”
Crowley snorted before abruptly remembering where he was and who he was talking to. He tried to pass it off as a cough, but rather poorly. He noticed the priest staring at him and quickly diverted his gaze. “Sorry.”
“No matter,” the man said. “In any case, I don’t think I can be of help to you. Now if you don’t mind, I have important matters to be attending to…”
Crowley felt his chance of acquiring a disease-resistant William Lobb slipping away from him. “I can reimburse you,” he said quickly. “If it is a rare breed, I’ll pay you for your trouble.”
The man, already turning back towards the room he had come from, stopped and glanced back at him in amusement. “I am a priest, you know.”
Crowley tried to follow him, ears beginning to burn, but the man was quicker, pushing the door open and already slipping inside. “I didn’t—I mean—” Crowley began pathetically.
“Good day,” the man said, and the door snapped shut behind him.
Crowley stared at the closed door in a mix of surprise and despair. He took another step forward, intending on knocking again and explaining himself better, but his ears were still burning and he felt like he’d made enough of a fool of himself as it was.
So instead he turned, striding out of the silent church and back into the bright sunlight. He drifted automatically towards the fence, looking out at the rose bush.
Maybe it’s not a William Lobb, he mused. Maybe it’s a Charles de Mills. Internally moaning at the prospect of letting such a rare breed pass through his hands, Crowley wrenched his gaze from the bush and back to the narrow road leading into Canterbury.
After a moment, he glanced back at the church and bit the inside of his mouth. He knew he ought to respect the priest’s refusal, but he also knew that he’d never forgive himself if this turned out to be the horticultural find of his career, and he let it slip through his fingers.
The next morning, Crowley walked from his hastily-booked hotel room back to St Mildred’s Church.
The front door was unlocked again, so he let himself in. As had been the case before, there was no one in the church; not surprising, given that it was a Saturday morning. This time, however, before he reached the door marked ‘private’ he saw that the priest he’d talked to yesterday was standing with his back to him, straightening some leaflets on a table.
Part of Crowley had been hoping it would be someone else—both for the sake of his ego and the fact that someone else might be more flexible—but that didn’t seem to be in the cards.
“Good morning,” Crowley said as he approached, the priest glancing over his shoulder as he neared. The priest was wearing subtly different attire than the previous day; Crowley thought he had switched jumpers but that was about it. His hair was looking a little uncombed as well, a blond-gold mess of swirling curls.
Crowley opened his mouth to start on his prepared speech, but the priest spoke first.
“Oh, it’s you again.”
Slightly put off, Crowley scrambled to collect the mental threads of his speech. “I—er—thought we got off on the wrong foot the other day.”
A wry smile tugged at the corner of the priest’s mouth, which Crowley took as a good sign.
“I apologise for my behaviour, but I really am interested in your rose. Some of the old, wild breeds are very rare, and could die out if undiscovered. They’re also invaluable for crossing, which helps produce superior breeds for the market. As I said before, I can pay you—”
The priest waved away his words, looking mildly amused as he noisily shuffled some fliers together. “Dear boy, it’s not me you need to convince.”
Crowley began to grow a little exasperated, eyes flicking between the pamphlets advertising an organ recital and the priest’s face. “But you’re the one in charge, aren’t you? And it’s just a bush. I’ll take a very small sample, so there won’t be a significant aesthetic impact—”
“My dear, it’s simply not my decision to make.”
“You said the regular priest was on sabbatical,” Crowley ploughed on, mentally pausing to double-check that the priest had just called him my dear. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
The priest thought for a moment, hands pausing in their task. “Two, maybe two and a half weeks? Yes, that’s about right.”
Crowley’s hopes flagged. He wasn’t running a very tight schedule himself, but the RHS London Rose Show was in a little over a week, and he had business lined up in London after that.
“Are you sure there’s nothing we can do in the meantime?” Crowley asked hopefully, turning his gaze back to the priest as he glanced over at him. The man’s eyes were blue, a very bright, lively blue that complimented his hair. Currently, they were softening in sympathy.
“I’m afraid not.”
“But,” Crowley protested, feeling his opportunity slipping away again, “can’t we work something out? I’m sure the church can use some funds; I’ll make a generous donation. Or maybe we can work something out just between the two of us.”
The man finished with the pamphlets and turned back to Crowley, looking amused. “It was Anthony, right?”
“I—yes,” Crowley said, surprised the priest had remembered his name. “You can call me Crowley, though. I don’t think I caught your name?”
“Aziraphale Adolphus,” the priest supplied. “Frankly, there’s no good shortening for any of it, so you can call me whatever you like.”
“I—er—okay.” Adolphus sounded a little too close to Adolf for Crowley’s liking, so he mentally shifted his attention to Aziraphale. “It’s an unusual name,” he said lamely. The priest probably heard that a lot.
“I’m named after an angel,” Aziraphale said by way of explanation. “But, now, Crowley…”Aziraphale turned and put a friendly hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’re completely well-intentioned, but I really must insist that no amount of bribery is going to win me to your cause.”
“It’s not—not bribery,” Crowley protested, hastily trying to think of some other way to frame it. “Think of it as payment for goods provided.”
“But they are not my goods to provide,” Aziraphale insisted, walking towards the front door of the church and drawing Crowley after him, arm now light around his shoulders.
“Then at least let me look at the bush,” Crowley tried. “Maybe I’m mistaken, and it’s just a common cultivar. Then I’ll be on my merry way and we can both sleep at night.”
“Dear boy, I don’t think the non-possession of a rose is going to keep you up at night.”
They were almost at the church doors now, and it was painfully obvious that Aziraphale intended on steering Crowley outside and leaving him there.
“Rose cultivation is my life,” Crowley tried, exaggerating not as much as he would have liked; his London flat played host to far more plants than people. “I’ve been studying them for over a decade. It would really mean a lot to me if you’d help me out.”
“Would if I could,” Aziraphale said as they reached the door. The priest pulled the door open and all but propelled Crowley outside. “It’s a matter of principle, you understand.”
“Please—” Crowley began, turning back to Aziraphale.
“Sorry,” the priest said apologetically, and closed the door in his face.
For the second time, Crowley found himself gaping at the closed surface of a door while being not quite certain how it had happened.
After a moment, he turned away, eyes falling on the lone gate to the fenced cemetery. It was tucked up right next to the church, but appeared to be out of sight of any of the windows.
Crowley crossed to it, discreetly glanced around the deserted lane, and pulled on the gate. It shifted a fraction of an inch and then caught. Crowley frowned and looked down at it, tugging on the gate as he identified the lock keeping it from swinging open. To his surprise, it was a combination padlock.
He dropped his hand to it, tugging pathetically on the band of iron keeping him from the rose bush. “Who even locks a cemetery anyway?” he muttered to himself.
After another ineffective tug on the gate, Crowley gave up and started back down the lane. Halfway to where the path vanished around a line of trees, he paused and looked over at the cemetery. The fence around it was unusually high, but it wasn’t much higher than his shoulder. Crowley’s gaze shifted from the wrought iron bars to the shape of the rose bush behind it, blooms broad and bright, and a plan began to form in his mind.
Crowley had never by any stretch of the imagination considered himself graceful, and he was beginning to remember why.
He’d managed to get his hands on two wooden crates from a street vendor selling apples, and was currently balanced on one, holding the other above his head with one hand while his other rested paranoidly on the messenger bag at his side holding his equipment.
It was a little past midnight, the air cold and promising rain, the stars blotted out with curtains of undulating clouds. He had placed the first crate right beside the fence around the cemetery at St Mildred’s, aiming to toss the other crate over the fence so he could use it as a step up during his exit from the cemetery.
Now with the top of the fence around his navel area, Crowley carefully leaned over the fence and dropped the second crate as soundlessly into the grass on the other side as he could. It made a faint plopping noise as it contacted with the ground, and somewhere a bird called, but otherwise it was quiet.
Crowley trained his eyes on the dark shape of the church not far away, but there was no sign of movement. Crowley returned his attention to the patch of ground beneath him on the other side of the fence and carefully started pulling himself over the top.
Crowley had never climbed a fence before, and it showed. The vertical rails extended past the top horizontal, forming a row of pointed metal stakes that caught on Crowley’s trousers and stabbed into his legs as he struggled to find a safe place to put his weight.
When he was halfway over the fence, sweating and twisted into a position a contortionist would have been proud of, Crowley began to have serious second thoughts about this brilliant plan of his.
Shortly thereafter, he shifted his weight a little too far forward and pitched off the edge. He didn’t have far to fall but still hit the ground hard, his hip and shoulder taking the brunt of the impact as he dropped into the grass.
At the same moment, there was a loud rustling noise and something small and dark flashed past him.
“Bless it,” Crowley hissed as he regained his breath, head spinning a little as he started to pick himself up off the ground, side smarting. He raised his head and saw a dark streak shoot between the crooked tombstones, through what must have been a small gap in the fence, and past a low stone building near the back of the cemetery, adjacent to the church. An automatic light came to life as the shape—probably a cat—darted out of sight.
“Stupid animal,” Crowley muttered under his breath as he made his way to his feet, wincing. Stupid me, he added to himself.
Once Crowley had gained his feet, he rubbed some grass off his cheek as his gaze found the rose bush. He moved towards it immediately, eyes struggling to pick out any details in the low light. William Lobb and Charles de Mills were still definitely on the table, though he thought the blooms had been a little more orange than either of those old rose species.
Crowley had only taken two steps towards the bush, his excitement beginning to overcome his misgivings about this adventure, when the door of the building with the automatic light swung open, spilling more light across the cemetery.
Crowley ducked instinctively, swearing under his breath and diving behind the nearest object large enough to hide him—a scraggly, rather misshapen bramble. Crowley tucked himself into a sitting position behind it, casting a worried glance in the direction of the crate he’d tossed over the fence, lying half in the shadow of a tombstone but still very much in sight.
Crowley held his breath, listening to the quiet whisper of the wind and straining to hear the rustle of footsteps through the grass. After a long few minutes, he risked a glance around the edge of the bramble. The stone building at the rear of the cemetery was dark, door closed but automatic light still on.
There was a distant clank of metal and an eerie creaking noise, and Crowley’s head snapped around. He realised belatedly that whoever it was must have walked around and now let themselves in through the cemetery gate. Fuck.
Crowley glanced behind himself, searching desperately for a better place to hide, the bramble providing scant protection at best.
But then he could hear footsteps approaching, and it was too late anyway. Heart hammering, Crowley tucked his knees up to his chest and hoped weakly that whoever it was would just do a quick circuit, decide the disturbance had only been an animal, and leave again.
The grass in front of Crowley brightened as the beam of a torch swept along it, followed a moment later by a pair of legs. The light shifted into Crowley’s eyes as its owner came to a stop.
“Hi,” Crowley said lamely.
There was a sigh. “Really, dear boy?”
Crowley felt a faint surge of relief at learning the identity of his discoverer—the priest seemed likely to let him off easy—mixed with a surge of embarrassment.
“Sorry,” he offered.
Aziraphale sighed but the torch shifted out of Crowley’s eyes and was replaced by a hand. Crowley took it gratefully and the priest helped him to his feet.
“Are you hurt? I know the fence is rather high.”
“I’m fine,” Crowley mumbled, brushing half-decayed leaves and bits of soil off his arm. “Who even builds such a tall fence around a cemetery?”
“There was a problem with graffiti a few years ago,” Aziraphale supplied.
Crowley grunted.
“You have a hotel, I presume?” the priest asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, let’s get you back there, then.” Aziraphale directed his torch in the direction of the gate, the light reflecting eerily off the tombstones. Crowley, eyes still adjusting after being momentarily blinded, noticed that his discoverer was fully dressed.
“Do you live over there, then?” he asked, trudging after Aziraphale as he started off through the grass. “What were you even doing up?”
“It’s the vicarage, so I’m staying there while I’m here,” Aziraphale explained. “And I was working on a sermon.”
Crowley frowned. “For the service? Isn’t that tomorrow morning?”
“I was a little late getting a start.”
Crowley, remembering the priest’s claims of busy-ness earlier, smirked. “Understandable.”
Aziraphale huffed but didn’t say anything else as they reached the gate. He unlocked it and waved Crowley through.
Crowley ducked his head but walked through meekly. He came to a stop on the other side, rubbing at his arm again, this time because of the cold. Aziraphale started locking the gate behind them.
“You’re not going to—er—press charges, are you?” Crowley asked nervously.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Aziraphale said calmly, the combination lock snapping closed in his hand.
“Thanks,” Crowley said, feeling the embarrassment of being caught beginning to really set in. “It—er—it won’t happen again.”
“I should hope not,” Aziraphale said mildly, turning away from the gate. “I won’t have people injuring themselves on my property.”
“I—er,” Crowley started in surprise.
“Property under my care,” Aziraphale clarified a moment later. “Strictly speaking it’s not mine at all, given that that was what caused this kerfuffle in the first place.”
Crowley restrained himself to a nod, shifting kerfuffle out of the list of words he thought he’d never hear pronounced outside of Uni.
“In any case,” Aziraphale continued briskly, sounding a little flustered himself, “do you need any help getting back to your hotel?”
“Hm—oh, no, I’ll be fine,” Crowley said, already mentally cringing at the idea of being chaperoned back into the city.
“Get some rest,” Aziraphale said kindly. “You’re welcome to come to the service tomorrow if I manage to cobble together any sort of sermon.”
“I’m not really one for religion,” Crowley evaded. “Bit of a touchy subject in my family.”
“Well, you’re still welcome to come nonetheless.”
Crowley nodded, fixing his eyes on the wall of the church behind Aziraphale and wondering dismally when this embarrassing night would be over.
“Take care,” Aziraphale said, raising a hand to wave him off.
“Thanks. Er. You too.” Ears burning again, Crowley hastily turned and made his escape, starting down the lane at his fastest pace and trying not to limp while he did so, leg still smarting.
By the time he reached his hotel, he was stiff all over but luckily his ego seemed to have taken the brunt of the bruising. As he climbed the stairs to his room, a small part of him wondered idly why he cared so much what Aziraphale thought of him anyway.
Next: Part 2!
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-02 11:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-02 01:23 pm (UTC)Normally, I am a really slow reader and it would take me hours to get through a piece of fic this long.
But this was so lovely written, so funny and cute and clever, that I read it in only two goes (which for me is speed-reading, really).
I can't wait to read the other parts, and I'm REALLY thrilled to find out how and if Crowley will get a sample of this bush!
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-02 10:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-04 03:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-05 11:12 am (UTC)Thanks for reading and commenting!
–Secret Author
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-04 06:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-04 10:58 pm (UTC)Being worries the intruder might have hurt himself is very in character for aziraphale, too!
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-20 06:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-24 07:18 am (UTC)–Secret Author