Happy Holidays, shoebox_addict!

[goe_mod]

Come live with me and be my love

On the battlefield that signifies the end of the Peasants’ Revolt, Aziraphale searches for Crowley, only knowing that something terrible has befallen his demon opposite number. What happens afterwards changes both of their lives.

A South Downs Cottage origin story.

Rating: Teen and up

For shoebox_addict, Happy Holidays, I hope you like it.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

From The passionate shepherd to his love by Christopher Marlowe

Prologue - Coming home, Part One

They had stopped without needing to talk about it. Crowley had just pulled in to the side of the sleepy ‘B’ road they were on, and they had both got out of the car simultaneously, taking the few steps to the ancient, lichen and moss covered five-barred gate that yielded the best view down to the village below. Aziraphale had reached out, Crowley had grasped the proffered hand, and they had leaned together, arms about each other’s waists, and taken in the vista before them.

The hedges at each side of the road they were standing on were tall, almost leaning over at the top, tilted by their own weight, thick with dog roses and honeysuckle. It was quiet, with hardly a breath of wind to disturb the air, the only sound the gentle hum of insects as they worked their busy bodies about the sweet blooms, plundering them for nectar.

There was a mound in the field beyond the gate, its familiar and distinctive shape telling of its origins as the remains of an old motte and bailie castle. Both of them could recall such structures going up, way back, when this little island they called home was covered in dense woodland, and every journey was a risk as warring tribes struggled for ascendancy. To the left of it there still lay the smoothly grassed flanks of an even older burial mound. Britain had such a history, the landscape moulded and pockmarked with the physical remains of past human fealty and loss. Aziraphale and Crowley had been present for almost all of it.

“Do you remember?” said Aziraphale, softly, squinting at the familiar shape of the church tower below them, hazy in the bright late summer sunshine.

“‘Course I do,” said Crowley, without having to be asked what it was that he could bring to mind so easily. “That old cart, and the horse. What was she called again?”

“Bertha. Nice old thing, and all they could afford at the time. I was lucky the Canons were willing to let me have her for the afternoon.”

Aziraphale squeezed his partner gently, and rested his head on his black clad shoulder. Crowley returned the gesture, tightening his arm about Aziraphale and turning his head to place a brief kiss in the angel’s hair.

“I was the lucky one,” he said. “Don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t bailed me out that time.”

Aziraphale lifted his head and smiled widely at his partner.

“Perhaps we were both fortunate,” he said. “I loved you so much, even then, and I had been frightfully worried about you, darling. I don’t know if I ever told you, but it was wonderful to have those weeks with you, even if I was terrified to start with…”

***

North Walsham, Norfolk, 26th June 1381, after the battle

Aziraphale hurried through the sodden grass, brackish water soaking into his shoes, its cold seeping unpleasantly between his toes. The field was churned up and littered with prone and supine figures, some still moving. The angel could hear the groans of the wounded and smell the tang of blood and other fluids on the air. He was accustomed to this, to some extent, anyway, having attended many sites of human struggle to heal and tend to the dying over the years. There was something particularly wretched, however, about this residue of an unequal struggle.

This particular clash had been nothing short of a bloodbath. Ill equipped men in linen jerkins wielding home made pikes, clubs and pitchforks against the Bishop and his retinue of armoured men on horseback. What chance had any of the rebels stood? But anger and ambition had an unfortunate tendency to lead human minds to folly, and somewhere amongst all this, was Crowley, foolish Crowley, caught-up with hotheads and rebels, like he needed any encouragement to be rasher than was his habitual wont.

Aziraphale had felt the tug under his breastbone a scant few hours previously and found he knew immediately what it meant. He had met with Crowley outside London just two weeks ago, and been told that the demon had been ordered to encourage Wat Tyler and his men, who were intent on rebellion, fighting for a better life in an attempt to free themselves from the exacting and humiliating yoke of feudal servitude.

The two of them had discussed it over their ale, exchanging news of their respective assignments as was usual with them under the terms of their Arrangement. Aziraphale had been given an explicit directive: support the vulnerable power base of the boy King Richard, who was already struggling owing to the machinations of his power-hungry relatives. Crowley, for his part, had been sent to foment discord, to ally himself, not to the King’s opponents amongst the nobility, but to the rebellious working men of Kent and Essex who were agitating for more money, better working conditions and a say in their own lives.

Crowley had been his usual casual self about his mission, telling Aziraphale not to worry when the angel fretted over the high potential of actual fighting breaking out, and that he would be sure to stick to the sidelines and try not to get involved if things turned nasty.

“Got to be there, though, can’t get out of this one,” he had lamented as he stared into his beer. “My instructions are pretty clear. I’ll be fine though, you know me, always get away unscathed. What about you then, angel, dealing with those bishops?”

Aziraphale sighed, unhappily. The current leaders of the church in England were, indeed, an unsavoury lot. Ambitious and not particularly holy, they had proved quite unpleasant for him to have to deal with. He really would rather not, on the whole. But orders were orders. He was no more free from that than Crowley was. The demon nudged him, his smile verging on the insolent.

“What are they like though, those guys? They’re monsters, really, just another set of ambitious feudal lords with more amusing hats.”

“Really Crowley!” Aziraphale huffed, although he barely had the energy, or will, to object to what was being said. Crowley was right, not that he would ever admit it out loud. He couldn’t help but smile, though, even if he did try to hide it with a swallow of his ale. Crowley was always so amusing, and it soothed him a little, despite his turbulent feelings at the prospect of what his demon friend might be facing.

It still concerned him though, seeing Crowley potentially poised to walk so blithely into danger. He knew from experience that standing against an anointed monarch rarely resulted in success. Aziraphale could still recall the fate of Simon de Montfort in the twelve-sixties, and more recently in Flanders only fifty or so years ago, when the peasants had risen up and been slaughtered by the army of the French King Louis.

There would be bloodshed, then betrayals, and afterwards, all the lingering suspicion and bitterness that inevitably persisted through the generations. It was always so distressing to have to bear witness to such things.

Aziraphale feared as well for what potential failure might mean for Crowley in other ways. What punishment his infernal masters would seek to inflict were he to be discorporated and find himself in Hell again. How he would manage to make an account of himself to the unforgiving Dukes and Prince to whom he regularly reported. He put aside his immediate worries and tried to concentrate on what Crowley had just been speaking about.

“I don’t see that fellow John Ball as being any better, to be honest,” he managed, staring into his tankard, gloomily, “stirring up hatreds, inciting ordinary people to get killed. I really wish they wouldn’t, Crowley.”

“I suppose at least he’s honest,” mused Crowley, before taking another gulp of ale, “he’s not doing it out of self interest, well, not very much, at any rate. There’s always some self aggrandisement involved with people who get mixed up in this kind of thing, in my experience, anyway.”

“You have a point,” conceded Aziraphale. “Actually, at the moment I’m not with the Bishop of London’s household any more. I decided to give working with a close associate of the King’s uncle a go as a possible means of influencing the boy to the light. I’m in Arundel Castle when I’m not at court, Richard Fitzallan, you know. I’m hoping that will be easier, I wasn’t getting anywhere previously, to be honest, the nobility rarely listen to the clergy, and, as you mentioned, some of them are rather, um, less than pacific, shall we say.”

“All the best with that then,” said Crowley, finishing up and pushing back his chair. “Better get on. Pity we can’t just sit this one out, isn’t it? Let things take their course.”

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale, ruefully.

They did do that, a lot of the time, but in this case their respective assignments were all too clear. They were on opposite sides again, and there was nothing ether of them could do but get on with what they had been given to accomplish and keep on hoping for the best.

Afterwards, walking back to retrieve his horse, Aziraphale had regretted parting from his friend almost immediately. He had actually considered going back to have another word with Crowley, to stress that the demon should take care and not get himself involved with any skirmishes that might occur. To suggest that it would probably be just as effective to leave Wat Tyler and his cronies to their own devices and head out of London, let them get on with their seditious plans without risking himself. But in the end he hadn’t, he couldn’t have, not really. They did not speak directly to each other in that manner, it simply wasn’t done to show too much concern.

There was fondness there, certainly, friendship, at least, after all the centuries they had known each other. But the other feelings, the ones that obstinately bubbled up within the angel’s breast whenever he saw Crowley, they had to be tamped down.

It wouldn’t ever do to become overly emotional, Crowley wouldn’t want that, he couldn’t feel the same. He wasn’t soft and silly as Aziraphale was, full of inconvenient love for his hereditary enemy, he had more sense than that. So Aziraphale had kept walking, taken his horse from livery and gone back to Arundel, his books and clerical duties about the household.

It was later on that he had heard the news, of the death of Tyler and the killing of some government officials in the violent confrontations that had taken place in the capital. The burning of statute books and despoliation of property as the rebels had run riot across London.

Now, here he was, witnessing the final moments of their insurrection in a swamped field in the fenlands, up to his ankles in water, dispensing chilly blessings to the dying with his stiff fingers, searching amongst the silent corpses, their cold entrails sloughed into the mud, for any sign of his demon adversary.

He didn’t have time to question himself about the propriety of what he was doing. He could see the gold, red and black insignia of Despenser’s men moving across the battlefield, despatching those who still showed any signs of life.

Henry le Despenser, the Bishop of Norwich, was an implacable man. Aziraphale had met him at court and been dismayed by the senior churchman’s cool gaze over him, his steely eye ever on the lookout for the political advantage in this turbulent time as England struggled under the minority of the second Richard.

The Bishop’s men were giving no quarter, and Aziraphale could see those who could still walk being bullied along at sword point, their wrists and ankles shackled. He must find Crowley before he was taken. The connection he had felt with the demon since Eden fluttered in his chest. He moved a slack arm and there, there, was a flash of red.

Crowley lay face down in the mud. Aziraphale felt his corporation’s traitorous heart in his mouth as he crouched down and took his friend by the shoulder, rolling the demon over. There was blood all down the left side of that dear face, the eyes were uncovered but closed.

“Crowley, Crowley it’s me, wake up, dear fellow. Please Crowley.”

Aziraphale was frantic, Crowley was warm and breathing but there was a head wound, and he could not determine in the moment just how bad it was. He crouched, bending his knees, and wedged his arms into the mud, gathering the heavy warmth of the demon’s body against his chest, holding his Crowley at the shoulders and under his thighs. Crowley opened his eyes briefly, looked Aziraphale in the face and sighed a word.

“Angel.”

With this Crowley’s head lolled back on to Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he lost consciousness again.

Aziraphale cradled his friend’s body to him and concentrated on where it would be best to take him. He made a decision: he would bring Crowley to the Priory at Arundel, where he himself was known. The infirmary there was not on consecrated ground, he knew that, and the demon would be safe there while Aziraphale attempted to heal him. No denizen of Hell would ever think of looking for one of their number at the tiny community of Canons in such an out of the way place so far from the battlefield.

He snapped his fingers behind Crowley’s shoulders and they vanished from the melancholy scene of the violent end to human hopes.

***

Were Aziraphale a proper angel, he would have struck Crowley down on the battlefield, sent him straight back to Hell without hesitation. Were he a proper angel, he would not be here at the infirmary of Arundel Priory, cradling a demon’s head against his chest while he struggled with the ties at the bottom of his tunic so that he could remove it to see the extent of any injuries that might lurk beneath the sodden garment. He feared that he was not, by any definition, a proper angel, and had not been one for some time. This was a notion that dogged him constantly, and was never stronger than when he was confronted by the feelings he harboured for the demon that was now a warm and steady weight against his body.

He had never before been so close to Crowley, had never held him in his arms or had the luxury of gazing at the milky whiteness of his skin, the freckles that were scattered there, or the soft fan of the eyelashes that lay against his cheek. Now all of these things were here before him, and it was provoking an odd mixture of agitation and an urgent need to protect born of an unnerving upswell of compassion and that old and inconvenient love.

He had expended a lot of his power to transport them both the two hundred or so miles between the site of the recent hostilities and this tiny sanctuary. He was well known here, or as well known as he allowed himself to be anywhere.

The community of Secular Canons accepted the angel as the Lord Fitzalan’s household priest, who took an interest in the alms house and hospital and visited often to assist them. They regarded him as a harbinger of good fortune, owing to how well the patients seemed to do when he made his visits.

Aziraphale never could resist the urge to help, little touches for the poor and unfortunate souls who were forced to seek succour at the infirmary. Once he had overheard Brother Geoffrey refer to him as ‘the brother with the kind eyes’ in passing to one of his brethren while they washed one of their elderly patients, the one, in fact, who was engaged in the messy business of leaving the mortal world on the pallet to the left of Crowley.

The Brothers knew him as Anselm, but he made sure that they were not ever able to recall his face, as was necessary in most of his work. The Fitzalan Earl of Arundel and his household were aware of his presence as he walked among them, but with those people as with most humans, he was just another clerical figure, working in the background, hands raised in blessing, an indistinct visage behind the communion cup.

He had chosen the household of the Earl some time after he had been given the assignment to support the fragile hold on power of the fourteen year old boy King, Richard. The lad had been crowned when he was no more than a stripling, and was subject to the greedy whims of his closest relatives, as was the usual way during a royal minority. Ambitious men had an unfortunate tendency to rush in to fill a power vacuum, and a boy that young was inevitably treated as a puppet prince, easily influenced to any desired course of action by those who machinated to attain his confidence.

The country was tense, the usual recourse of its citizens to justice no longer stable or reliable. In the aftermath of the repeated blows of famine, plague and war, the populace was unsettled, frightened and, inevitably, angry. The upswell of fury in Kent and Essex at the King’s need for finances as expressed in the poll tax he had attempted to levy on them was one expression of these feelings, the constant plotting of the noble classes around their King, another.

Aziraphale worked in the background, achieving what little he was able to in an attempt to abide by the mandate issued to him by Gabriel in 1377. This was why, now, he was free to take Crowley to this quiet backwater, a place of safety, a foundation translated to a mere Priory from a Benedictine Monastery just the previous year, and now run for the benefit of the poor by Secular Canons.

The Canons were, for the most part, decent fellows, devout local men who had taken vows but had not forsaken the world outside the cloisters entirely. It was the perfect place to bring Crowley, not so holy as to cause him pain, but off-putting enough, the angel hoped, that his fiendish colleagues would not think to seek him there.

Aziraphale laid the mud and blood spattered demon down on the thin wool mattress that rested on top of the pallet that was furthest from the Infirmary door, bringing into being a screen of light wood with linen stretched across it to shield the sight of the demon’s place from prying eyes.

He had suggested to Geoffrey, when he greeted the gentle Sussex man at the door, that the patient in that bed was settled and comfortable and for Brother Anselm alone to attend. The Infirmary was warm, well, as warm as any stone building of that type was likely to get. There was, at least, a constant fire tended to by the Brothers, and it was blessedly dark, with only a few small windows high in the walls to let in any daylight. All perfect for a light sensitive serpent demon who might have to remain there for a few days to recuperate.

Keen to limit his minor miracles as much as possible after the major outlay of power in transporting them there, Aziraphale hastened to the kitchens, drawing water from the well in the adjacent courtyard and setting it on the stove to heat. He begged for salt from Brother Ulfric in the Fratery and carried a deep earthenware bowl of saline, as hot as he thought the demon’s skin could bear, to Crowley’s bedside to tend to his immediate needs.

First, he bathed Crowley’s poor battered head, using a soft linen cloth to wipe away the flakes of dried blood from his face and neck where the scalp wound had bled freely, masking half the demon’s face in gore. He was forced to soak the cloth repeatedly, swilling out the clots of it from the hair that hung over Crowley’s forehead, then smoothing the cloth into the dips of the fragile clavicles and where the demon’s lovely throat pulsed at the notch between them. The water bloomed with rust, and he quickly found that he had to replace it with fresh, making the trip to well and kitchen twice more.

Once Crowley’s face was clean, he worked on the damage to the demon’s crown, parting the rich red strands of hair, easing away clods of mud until he could make out the curved wound with its fragile, fresh scab. He had wondered what blow might be enough to fell a demon. Here was evidence of what damage the fierce horses the Bishop’s men had ridden into the field could wreak. Such a kick from their great hooves might kill a man. Fortunately, Crowley’s corporation was much tougher than that of any mortal.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and summoned his Grace, tracing across the ruptured skin with a gentle finger, feeling it knit together under his touch. Once that was accomplished, he removed the padded tunic, soaked with fen water and crusted with mud, that Crowley had worn into battle, dropping it on to the floor by the bed. Then he tackled the wet linen shirt beneath. With a little struggle, he eased it over Crowley’s head and off his arms.

Aziraphale found the dark blooming bruise on the pale skin stretched over the curve of Crowley’s back as soon as it was bared to him, placing a warm palm against it, healing the ruptured capillaries and smoothing out the cracked bone in four of the ribs he found beneath the swollen skin. Immediately, Crowley’s laboured breathing grew easier: there had been pain there, despite the lack of consciousness.

He eased Crowley’s lax body back on to the mattress and hurried away to his meagre quarters, divesting himself of the wet weight of his woollen houppelande with its drenched hanging sleeves coated with mud and blood, and replaced it with a fresh tunic and then the sober black robe favoured by the Benedictine Order. The Priory might no longer have fallen under the aegis of that Order, but the thick wool robes were expensive and these were warm, even without the hood.

He then went to his closet and pulled out one of the raw silk nightgowns he favoured. It was soft on the skin and would do well to keep Crowley from feeling the cold. Hastening back, he found the demon silent and insensate still. He dressed him in the pale garment, pulling it over his head and threading his arms through the sleeves, drawing its voluminous folds over the demon’s slim body before he went to remove the soaking long hose and braies, covering Crowley’s haunches to preserve his modesty before he drew down the sodden woollen garments and placed them with the shirt for washing.

Then the blankets, one drawn up to the demon’s waist and tucked under the mattress, another swaddling his shoulders and upper body, wrapped around his form so that no draughts could disturb him.

The actions of cleaning, healing and caring eased the angel’s mind from its incessant fretting. This was mercy, love, and compassion, and all the things he was supposed to personify with his presence on Earth. If he was questioned, he reasoned, he was just bringing a human casualty from the battlefield.

Gabriel did not approve of the expenditure of energy on individuals, but after well over five thousand years of reporting to the Archangel, Aziraphale had become used to the casual belittlement dished out to him on this subject. Similarly, Gabriel was accustomed to tutting and rolling his eyes, insinuating that Aziraphale was soft and stupid but that such things might be overlooked as long as the main parts of his assignments were completed.

They rarely undertook detailed audits on his work. No-one seemed to care overly much for the minutiae of what he did. So Aziraphale continued to bless crops in famine, heal the sick where he could, and put up with being regarded as eccentric, at best, by the condescending angels to whom he reported.

Crowley was breathing easily now and seemed settled into sleep rather than the dead unresponsive nature of a coma. Aziraphale raised his hands above his head, enjoying the stretch in his spine after being bent over Crowley’s head and body for so long.

This was all he dared to do. He was aware that there might be more damage to Crowley’s brain, but apart from placing his hand on the demon’s head, projecting a general healing touch to prevent swelling, he was not skilled enough in healing to investigate what damage there might be to delicate brain tissue. That would take the expertise of a Raphael, and there was no way he could summon one of the higher choirs to this situation. He smiled nervously to himself at the mere thought of it: that would be one certain way to annihilation. No, all he could do was wait.

The angel had a fleeting thought of warm mead and perhaps some of Brother Ulfric’s lovely honey cakes, he had smelled them baking while he was in the kitchen. Although he continued to fret, it would serve no purpose to fuss further over Crowley, sleep would prove just as good a healer as he.

He brushed Crowley’s heavy fringe gently back off his forehead and looked down at him fondly. Although Aziraphale remained acutely anxious at what he had dared to do, it would not have been possible for him to act in any other way. Crowley was important to him, saving him from discorporation and seeing him grow well again was second nature to him now.

Besides, such actions were implied as part of their Arrangement. Resisting the urge to place a kiss upon the sleeping demon’s brow, Aziraphale rose and left the Infirmary to seek some refreshment for himself and fetch a beaker of small beer for Crowley when he woke.

***

Aziraphale smiled and nodded a brief greeting to Brother Geoffrey and another man he didn’t immediately recognise, who were sitting by Old Brom from the village, lying on a pallet just before where he had left Crowley. The low muttering he could just catch told him the two priests were busy giving the dying man the Last Rites.

The angel felt a flash of melancholy sweep over him. The old man had been gracious in his last days, thanking the brothers as they tended to him, and smiling as he talked between rasping breaths of how happy he was to be going to meet his Lord and Saviour at the end of a long and eventful life.

Aziraphale had blessed the elderly Sussex man, lessening his pain, and been rewarded with a gap-toothed grin and the shine of his ancient, rheumy eyes as he whispered out his gratitude. How fragile they were, he found himself thinking, as he hurried past, cup of beer in hand, and rounded the screen to see how his ailing friend was doing.

Crowley was conscious, a little, anyway. His eyes were open a slit, and Aziraphale could see the glimmer of their amber in the diffuse light of the candle that flickered by the bed.

“Crowley?” he said, setting the cup of beer on the floor and bending to look at his patient, “can you hear me?” “

Nnnngh,” said Crowley, opening his eyes fully and turning his head. “Ouch,” he pulled a hand slowly from the blanket that covered him and raised it shakily to his forehead, “that hurts.”

“Well, if you will go around getting yourself involved in insurrections, what can you expect?” said Aziraphale, taking refuge in a brusque tone to hide the rush of relief that was running through him.

Crowley was awake. Everything was going to be alright.

The demon turned his head, licked his lips and then swallowed, wincing as if doing so was painful.

“Where am I?” he said, and his voice held only a fraction of its usual vigour. His eyes rested on Aziraphale, where the angel was standing close to the end of his bed, one hand clasped in the other.

“Who’re you, anyway?” said Crowley, frowning as he continued to scrutinise Aziraphale’s face.

“Good gracious,” spluttered Aziraphale at this unexpected question.

Everything was not alright, after all, very much not so, in fact.

“I’m… I’m a friend,” he managed, at last, speaking gently as Crowley continued to frown at him with the expression, he realised now, of a person who genuinely had no idea to whom he was speaking.

This was not one of Crowley’s jokes, that was very obvious to the angel: Aziraphale knew his friend, was accustomed to his teasing ways, but this was definitely not an example of Crowley’s often capricious sense of humour.

“Friend,” said Crowley, vaguely, looking past Aziraphale to the rest of the room with its heavy beamed ceiling and high windows that were letting in only the most meagre hint of daylight.

“That’s, mmmmnnn, good then,” he slurred. Crowley let his head fall back again and closed his eyes, only to open them a second later to take another look at Aziraphale, who was beginning to fret in earnest.

“You look alright for a… A bloody monk…” Crowley went on his lips quirking a little as if in amusement, “… such pretty eyes…”

If Crowley had meant to elaborate on the astonishing statement he had just made, he was prevented by a sudden bout of coughing that made his face twist with pain. Aziraphale started forward, blushing furiously at the compliment he had just been given so casually and began to babble to cover his confusion.

“Oh you poor thing. Here, let me…”

He bent and picked up the stoneware cup of small beer he had brought from the kitchen, and turning, reached with his free hand for the three-legged stool that stood nearby, and dragged it nearer to the head of the pallet.

“You must be thirsty… if you could just take a little of this, my dear, it will be of benefit, I believe.”

Realising that the demon was unlikely to be able to sit up by himself, he placed the cup by his feet and shifted across until his thigh was perched on the edge of the bed.

“Up you come, there’s a good fellow.”

He took Crowley gently by the shoulders and encouraged him up whilst shifting across the bed until the demon was partly supported by the arm he looped around his back. Crowley leaned into his touch, pulling his legs up the bed as he tried to sit up. Bending down, Aziraphale retrieved the cup, steadied Crowley against his chest and brought the drink to his lips.

“Take a little… not too fast now… that’s it… Splendid, well done.”

Crowley drank, taking a few mouthfuls of the beer and swallowing, breathing heavily between each gulp. He sighed and shook his head slightly when Aziraphale pressed the cup to his lips again, so the angel placed it carefully on the floor once more, then turned back to tend to Crowley, easing his body down so that he was lying flat on the mattress.

Aziraphale was consumed with the desire to fuss over his patient, thinking rapidly what additional items he might be able to procure to make the demon more comfortable. A pillow or two would be a good start, if he was able to find any. Being elevated would be much better for Crowley’s corporation and reduce the need for all this inconveniently flustering bodily contact between the two of them should the demon wish to eat or drink.

The way holding Crowley made him feel was causing Aziraphale significant disquiet. People didn’t touch him much in the normal run of things, and he went out of his way not to impose his touch on others unless it was required as part of his work.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being so close to Crowley, very much the opposite, in fact. To be able to give aid to his friend, to touch and hold him was giving rise to strong sensations and emotions that Aziraphale had never really experienced before.

It felt good to be needed by his oldest companion, yes, but this was something else, something new, and it frightened him a little, the urgent physicality of it, the understanding that he would, if given the opportunity, like to touch Crowley for much longer—and all over—and have demon touch him in return.

That this new impulse was hopelessly inappropriate in their current situation was not lost on the angel. Crowley was unwell, it wasn’t proper to be thinking of anything other than how he might be brought to better health again.

In addition, and most importantly, Crowley did not know him, as things stood, and this knowledge was making Aziraphale distinctly uneasy. The idea that he might, potentially, be imposing his touch where it was not welcome were Crowley in his right mind, was an abhorrent one to the angel’s delicate sensibilities. Nursing and giving assistance was one thing, anything more intimate could not be contemplated, not while he continued to feel so strongly attracted to Crowley.

Aziraphale packed away his disquiet; this was no time for examining his scruples. He tucked the blanket around Crowley’s shoulders again, noting his colour was better and that he seemed in less discomfort.

“Mnnnh, thanks,” the demon muttered, and then was quiet.

Crowley lay with his eyes closed, breathing evenly. Aziraphale sat by him, quietly contemplating his friend’s face, so well known to him after centuries of regular meetings and so beautiful, even in his current state of amnesia and distress. It was unusual for Aziraphale to see Crowley’s visage as calm as this, his customary state of animation stilled, his features relaxed and the familiar lines softened.

Crowley, who habitually claimed to be a taciturn kind of person was, in fact, Aziraphale knew, a lively and entertaining companion. Once he was sufficiently deep in conversation to drop the faint air of detachment he liked to assume and become fully engaged in debate, that was. Or as was more often the case between the two of them, heated argument.

The mercurial demon was fascinated by so much he saw in the world around him, and Aziraphale never failed to be both charmed and entertained by his friend’s eclectic enthusiasms that in so many cases reflected his own. Crowley was so important to him, vital, really, and it disturbed him greatly to see him hurt and without his memories, more so because Crowley no longer recognised Aziraphale, his oldest friend.

Aziraphale realised he had been drifting, deep in thought, when he noticed that Crowley was snoring. The regular noises verged on the comical: each soft inhale was followed by a squeaky kind of hiss. This only served to soften his unfortunately sentimental heart still further, moved at the plight of the poor demon in front of him.

He shook himself mentally, getting up from his stool and smoothing down the rumpled front of his habit. He must not entertain such distracting thoughts now, nor should he be dwelling on Crowley’s mouth, or the way he could see the demon’s pulse softly throbbing in the tender skin of his throat. There were practical matters to attend to, and he should be considering them, rather than daydreaming.

Aziraphale placed the stool tidily against the wall and cleared his throat, focussing on what he might do to ease Crowley’s immediate condition. He would go the room of linens, see if he could find a couple of pillows for his friend and perhaps another blanket or a quilt. Crowley did feel the cold so, and although there was a good fire in the hearth, the old infirmary did tend to remain somewhat chilly, especially this far away from the only source of heat, throughout the year. Once Aziraphale had decided on this course of action, he felt easier and allowed his mind to consider the next most pressing problem.

It would appear that Crowley remembered nothing of his life or condition, some quirk of his head injury having deprived him of the sense of who he was. This was potentially a huge issue for them. Aziraphale’s intention had been to begin healing Crowley, as best he could, to allow him to rest a little until he would be able to complete the task for himself, and then send him on his merry, demonic way. A longer period of convalescence represented an enormous risk for both beings.

Aziraphale was almost never visited by other members of the Heavenly Host, his assignments being sent to him in written form from Gabriel’s secretariat, appearing miraculously at whatever lodgings he happened to find himself in. His superiors were, however, aware of exactly where he was staying at Arundel Castle, and it was possible that he might be contacted there, even if the potential of that happening was slim.

Of more pressing concern was the prospect of Hell finding Crowley in this weakened and vulnerable state. The demon had failed his most recent assignment, there could be demons out there looking for him at that very moment.

Crowley was good at confounding his superiors, Aziraphale knew that. He didn’t speak often of his infernal employers, the subject of the opposing forces they worked for being avoided by both of them when they met out of something that might be described as professional courtesy. Aziraphale was aware, however, that Crowley had been forced to talk his way out of difficulties on more than one occasion, and that he took a certain pride in his quick-wittedness in contrast to the slower mental facilities of some of those he routinely dealt with Down Below.

In his current condition, Crowley was a sitting duck. They were, it was true, a good few miles away from the site of the last battle of the failed rebellion, but if Crowley remained in an unwarded place, the denizens of Hell could find him at any time, and take him back down with them. Once there, and without his memory, Aziraphale did not like to think about what might be done to him. The angel found himself determined not to let that happen. He would find a way to protect Crowley until he healed and regained his memory.

Aziraphale tried very hard to hope for the best. Maybe things were not as bad as they might at first appear. Crowley had not reacted badly to his presence, perhaps all it would take was a little more rest to bring back the demon’s recall of his life and circumstances.

Crowley turned his head away, shifting his limbs so that he was lying on his side. His body went slack as he settled and slipped into deeper sleep once more. Filled with a sudden sense of overwhelming compassion for his friend, Aziraphale straightened up and looked over the slumbering form before him, wringing his hands at his middle, feeling the knot of his robe’s rope belt scratching at his knuckles. It was imperative that he sort this out, he had to find a way to keep them both safe. But first things first; pillows, and another cover for his patient. He hurried off in the direction of the linen store.

***

Although Aziraphale felt weary after his exertions and time spent fretting over Crowley, he was not tempted to try to rest himself as he sat into the small hours of the morning. The angel found himself experiencing an overwhelming urge to keep vigil, to remain alert in order to protect Crowley from anyone who might seek to disturb him.

Brother Geoffrey had built up the fire in the Infirmary at his request, and the soft orange light from the leaping flames gave a flickering illumination to the room. He and another Canon had taken the mortal remains of poor Brom to the mortuary so that he might be laid-out, and no other of the staff was about this late. The other patients too, were mostly still, save for the odd cough or muttering in their sleep. All was quiet.

The candle by Crowley’s bedside had all but burnt out, but still by the firelight Aziraphale could see the regular rise and fall of the bedclothes as the demon slept. He sat back on his stool by his bedside and kept watch as he had intended to, mulling over what he should do next.

Crowley could be safe here for a few days more, but Aziraphale would have to return to the Fitzalan household at some point soon in case he was missed, and he was worried what might become of Crowley in his absence. He could not afford to leave him in the care of the Canons, there was no telling when he might wake and open his eyes and then there would be a whole world of trouble in store for both of them. Additionally, Aziraphale could not bear the thought of Crowley waking and finding himself alone, and potentially confused about all manner of things.

He was determined he would not let that happen.

***

It was dawn when Crowley woke again. Aziraphale noticed the movement immediately. Crowley rolled on to his back, yawned hugely, then opened his eyes, wincing as he did so.

“Ow, my head,” he groaned, “must’ve had a bloody skinful last night.”

He turned his head as Aziraphale leaned over him from where he sat close by on his stool, eyes searching Crowley’s face to see if sleep had wrought any change in him. The demon smiled, faintly.

“Hello, angel.”

Crowley’s voice was rough, a dry rasp of a thing, but he sounded much more like himself than he had the previous evening. Aziraphale felt his spirits lift immediately.

“Crowley!” He could not prevent the timbre of his voice from giving away the utter relief he was feeling at this improvement. “You remember me now, then?”

“Not likely to forget you, am I, angel?”

Aziraphale smiled, his eyes prickling with tears. Crowley knew him, he was back. Everything was going to be alright.

Crowley attempted to sit up, but grimaced with obvious pain, and subsided back against his pillows. He looked about him, then turned his gaze to meet Aziraphale’s once more.

“What happened? Where are we? And why am I so bloody sore?”

“I… You… You were injured,” said Aziraphale, not quite knowing where to start in the face of all of Crowley’s questions. “On the battlefield. I have no idea why you got mixed up in all the fighting, that happened before I got there.”

“Can’t remember, “said Crowley, vaguely. “Why am I… Did you…?”

“I found you, yes,” said Aziraphale in an attempt to soothe the demon’s obvious confusion.

“I was—well—I was worried, so I went to see if you were… And you’d been kicked by one of those big Destrier creatures that the Bishop’s soldiers seem to be so keen on. I, I brought you here, healed the more obvious wounds on your back and head but you were unconscious and…”

He leaned over and placed a hand gently on Crowley’s forehead.

“… you were, and still are, awfully hot. I thought it best to keep you somewhere quiet. We’re at the infirmary at Arundel Priory…”

Crowley tensed, his eyes wide and fully yellow.

“You brought me to a monastery?”

“Oh! No, no! Don’t worry, dear boy, this place is not on consecrated ground. They know me here so it was the best I could think of at short notice. How are you feeling?”

“Give a bloke a chance to wake up and digest all that, would you?” said Crowley, grumpily.

Aziraphale sat back on his stool. Crowley would, he knew, dislike intensely being in such a vulnerable position. The angel folded his hands together and tried to resist the urge to fret over his patient. Crowley stared at the ceiling for a minute or two, then frowned, fiercely, as if he was concentrating on something.

“Feel weird,” he said, at last.

“Weird?” said Aziraphale, concern surging up once more. “In what way do you feel weird?”

“Tried to heal myself just then. Couldn’t,” said Crowley, shortly. He paused for a long moment. “It’s like I can’t quite…”

He raised a hand from inside his blanket and clicked his fingers softly.

“Uh, thought so. Nothing… Like, I can’t quite reach my powers. They’re too far away, sort of thing. And my head really hurts. A lot. And I’m bloody boiling.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, at a loss, “oh, my dear.”

“Reminds me,” said Crowley, after another long pause, “of that time. One of the crusades. Was there, s’posed to be fomenting… stuff, y’know? Got hit by a, nnngh, blessed sword. Lucky it was the flat of the blade, not a proper stabby job. Buggered up my miracles for ages.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, thinking suddenly of Despenser, the notorious ‘Fighting Bishop’, his fish-eyed stare and cold, monotonous voice.

“I, I think I have an idea of why you’re feeling like this. The King’s men at the battle, they were led by Henry le Despenser. He’s a Bishop, you know, and I believe he’s in the habit of blessing his entire army when he is required to take the field.”

“Right,” said Crowley, warily.

“If you were kicked by a horse, the blessed iron in the shoe could be affecting you.”

“Oh bollocks,” said Crowley, screwing up his eyes and grimacing. “Isn’t that just marvellous. Spend weeks with a load of people who barely need any influencing from me, then get kicked in the head by a blessed horse. Bloody typical.”

Crowley opened his eyes again, and glanced across at Aziraphale, who was fidgeting still beside the bed. His voice softened.

“It does make sense, though. Clever of you to think of it.”

“Obvious really,” said Aziraphale, feeling pleased to have come up with the solution, despite his worry. “How long did it take the last time you were like this? To get better, I mean.”

“Couple of days, but this feels worse. It’s like,” Crowley brought a hand to his head again, “like a fever.”

“Yes, I believe you are experiencing something similar to a heightened temperature in humans,” said Aziraphale. “Would you like a little more to drink?”

“Nah, gonna sleep again, I think,” said Crowley, sliding down the bed once more, then drawing the blanket close around his shoulders. He turned his head and Aziraphale found himself looking directly into the honeyed amber of those lovely eyes he knew so well. Crowley, in his fever, was unusually calm, his gaze frank, devoid, for once of any snark or sneering.

“Thanks angel,” he said, closing his eyes once more, “for, y’know, getting me out of there.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear,” replied Aziraphale, leaning in to place a hesitant pat on the demon’s bony shoulder. “Rest now. I’ll be here when you wake again.”

The worry that the angel had been feeling overnight when fretting over Crowley’s amnesia asserted itself once more. Crowley had come back to himself, to an extent, anyway. But he remained without his powers, weakened by the blessing and vulnerable to any demon who might be tempted to take advantage of him.

Aziraphale felt a renewed determination that such an awful fate should not befall his friend. What Crowley really needed was time. Time to recover properly, to regain his strength and his powers. And Aziraphale was determined to give it to him. He would look after Crowley, see him right, however long it took.

Lend a hand when needed, that was what they had agreed, as part of their Arrangement. And Crowley did need Aziraphale, for a little while, at least. The angel would not let him down, even if it might be hard on him, being so very close to Crowley for an extended period. Oh, it would be lovely, undoubtedly, but Aziraphale would have to keep his inconvenient feelings in check, and concentrate on getting the demon back on his feet once more.

He could do that. It would be an honour.

When Crowley woke, Aziraphale started in immediately on what he wanted to say.

“Crowley,” he began, “I think, quite honestly the best and safest course of action for us both would be if you would let me look after you for a while.”

He held his hand up as Crowley rolled over, opened his eyes and began making his characteristic noises of protest.

“Just until you are better. And not here, where it’s so public. The brothers are perfectly lovely fellows, but I feel we would both be better off and safer, somewhere more secluded. And I know just the place…”

***

As part of his remuneration for his services to the Fitzalan family, Aziraphale had been granted a tract of land in the South Downs not that far from Arundel, near the tiny settlement of Fulking. It was poor country, fit only for the most basic of subsistence farming and the pasturing of sheep, but it was enough to provide him with a small living.

There were a few properties on the land, tofts and crofts, various buildings of wattle and daub, for the most part, with some small cottages too, built of the narrow red bricks that were characteristic of the local architecture. All the dwellings also had adjoining stables and barns for livestock.

Aziraphale made sure that his tenants’ properties were kept wind and watertight, and did his very best to be a good landlord. A few days previously, he had moved one small family into a larger house that had been vacant since the time of plague, freeing up a modest brick and beam built cottage for his own use.

As soon as he had finished speaking with Crowley, and the demon had reluctantly accepted his offer of a place to rest and recuperate, Aziraphale had left the Priory and made his way to this small dwelling in order to arrange things for his friend.

The angel inspected the place for its suitability for the invalid demon and used a few hasty miracles to improve the furnishings in the various rooms he thought most suitable for this purpose, including the provision of a large and comfortable bed. Then Aziraphale spent some time warding the place to the maximum against occult and ethereal forces, saving only himself and Crowley, who would be free to come and go as they chose

It was a pretty cottage with a thatched roof and mullioned windows, and there were roses and a cherry tree by the door. He hoped Crowley would be happy there for the few days he would need to recover fully, once he was settled in.

Aziraphale then travelled back to the Infirmary and spoke with Brother Geoffrey there, arranging to have the use of the ancient Priory cart and the old mare that pulled it, in order to convey Crowley to his cottage in relative comfort. Once that was done, the angel went back to Crowley’s bedside to collect his friend, helping him to dress in a spare robe, that hung loose upon his slender frame, then guiding the grumbling demon across the room and through the rest of the building.

“Careful, dear, lean on me now, and we’ll get on our way.”

Crowley was still unsteady on his feet, so Aziraphale took the demon’s arm and steered him towards the front door of the building, trying desperately to keep his urge to verbally reassure his friend to a minimum lest he annoy his prickly companion even further. This was the most risky part of the operation. Once they were moving he would feel happier.

Crowley gave in at last leaning heavily against his friend as they passed through the stout front door of the infirmary. The demon heaved a huge sigh once they were out in the open air, looking up to the sky and squinting at the brightness of the summer sun, despite the presence of the smoky quartz spectacles that Aziraphale had summoned-up for him from a dealer that he knew in London.

“Gosh, it’s good to get outside again,” he said, then he hesitated, turning to face Aziraphale, his voice softer now, “Uh, thanks, angel, for all this it’s…”

“Think nothing of it, dear,” said Aziraphale, fussing with the heavy blanket he had brought for Crowley’s comfort while travelling. He took the demon’s arm once more, and supported Crowley as he attempted to climb up to the seat at the front of the ancient vehicle.

“Hold on, and I’ll help you up… upsie-daisy… there we go… Just get you settled… wrap this round you. Now, are you comfy? Yes? We can get going, then.”

The horse wickered softly, She was a lovely old girl, was Bertha, and Aziraphale knew she would give them a steady ride without any trouble. He walked around to the far side of the vehicle and hauled himself aboard, settling himself against Crowley’s side then taking up the reins. Aziraphale slapped the leather gently against the horse’s rump, swaying backwards as Bertha obediently took the hint and the cart began to move, jolting as the wheels hit the well worn ruts in the roadway.

For better or worse, they were on their way to live together, for however long it took Crowley to be well.

***

The whole concept of being a patient, well, patient was something that clearly did not come naturally to Crowley. Aziraphale had anticipated this, instinctively. Crowley was a fiercely independent person who, Aziraphale was aware, had carved out an enjoyable life for himself despite his supposed alliances, from the very beginning. The occasionally irascible demon did not take kindly to being ministered to, largely, Aziraphale suspected, because he disliked being beholden to anyone.

None of this knowledge, however, made it any easier to deal with the old devil.

“Crowley, you really should eat.”

The demon looked mutinously up at Aziraphale where he stood next to the bed with a steaming bowl in hand. Aziraphale sighed the sigh of the grievously put-upon and rolled his eyes.

Initially, there had been the fuss over Crowley going to bed so that he could rest. He had insisted that he didn’t need to be in bed to be fussed over like a child, as he had put it, but once he had been persuaded between the fine linen sheets and under the goosedown quilt, Crowley had relaxed, stretched out, and informed the irritated angel that actually, this was fine, and that bed was, in fact, his natural habitat.

It was most vexing. Now he was being difficult about the food issue.

Caring for the demon in his vulnerable state had, rather surprisingly, met a need in Aziraphale that was almost primal, to guard, protect and nurture. But overlying this was the real gnawing fear of how very rash indeed the whole enterprise was, death to them both if they were caught.

This mixture of fear and protectiveness had the effect of making Aziraphale rather tetchy and on-edge. It was vital that he find a balance between the two feelings in order to have any modicum of peace with himself. When he looked at Crowley sleeping, so exposed and soft, he knew that this was right, was good, to act upon his instinct, for surely that was the way God fashioned him to be.

This was not an argument that would stand up to external scrutiny, however, he knew that with a cold certainty. He struggled with this in his quiet way as he tended to his friend, then put it away again when it exhausted him, or when Crowley made small noises in his sleep, and carried on regardless.

When he had first arrived at the cottage with Crowley in his convalescent state, he had been almost paralysed with dismay at what he was undertaking. Sorting out the immediate arrangements had calmed him somewhat, and now, having been here a little while, he was able to take a longer view.

It was a measured management of risk, he told himself, and he was coping with that, moment to moment, or so it seemed, with some measure of success. Crowley being his usual provoking self was vexing, yes, but Aziraphale ultimately reasoned that dealing with that, rather than the spiral of more worrying concerns was, in fact, keeping him from panicking outright.

“We have established that you are without your powers,” he said, exasperated at Crowley’s obdurate expression, “your corporation will need some nourishment in that state, even if you don’t normally eat very much.”

“Is it edible, though, that’s the question? I mean, you made it, angel.”

Aziraphale had made, it had to be admitted, some culinary failures thus far. The first loaf of bread he had attempted was currently acting as a makeshift paperweight, holding down a small pile of parchments. He had borne the teasing about it with as much grace as he could muster, laughing along with Crowley when he had failed to make a dent in it with his serrated edged knife once it had cooled from the oven.

The flatbreads had been better and his soup was really rather nice, after he had asked hesitantly if Brother Ulfric would show him how he turned the flanks of elderly sheep into something worth looking forward to. The septuagenarian monastic cook had sighed and snapped at him throughout the lesson he gave grudgingly, but he had a way with herbs and the reward for Aziraphale’s patience was the wonderful smell of mutton and barley that was currently wafting up to him from the bowl in his hand.

“It’s perfectly edible, you terrible old fiend. Now, shall you be eating it yourself, or do I have to feed you?”

Crowley blanched a little at that.

“Nah, that’s not happening. I’ll eat it, a bit of it anyway,” he said, giving Aziraphale a reproachful look. He struggled to sit up. For all his bravado, Crowley was still quite physically weak.

“Can you, uh…?” He gestured with his arm towards the angel.

Aziraphale set the bowl down on the table by the bed.

“Of course,” he said, in a softer voice, perching on the edge of the bed, and assisting his friend up into a sitting position. Crowley leaned against his chest and shoulder as Aziraphale settled behind him, then the angel reached for the bowl and placed it in his friend’s lap. “There you go.”

This was the most testing time. Aziraphale had become used to it, to some extent, at any rate. The warmth of Crowley’s body, the redolence of his personal scent, one that the angel had become accustomed to over the years, and found he rather liked. Crowley’s hair against the side of his face. All of it was wonderful, and a little frightening.

Aziraphale found himself filled with the most loving of impulses, to hold Crowley close, run his fingers through that hair, perhaps even to kiss his friend, the way he saw the humans do. He quashed them all, sitting quietly whenever Crowley ate or drank, just revelling in what he could have, and steadfastly refusing to think about all the love and affection that he longed to give and receive, but that he wasn’t sure was wanted. And was dangerous for both of them, besides.

***

The cottage was a vast improvement from the priory, as far as Aziraphale was concerned. It felt safe, even if it was small and quite basic compared to the kind of accommodation they had both become used to, over the years.

Earlier in their lives, they had both lived more simply, but as time had gone on, they had accustomed themselves to living in what, in earlier times, would have been considered luxury. On the whole, though, it was comfortable enough, and Aziraphale was able to relax and allow himself to be a little more at ease.

The angel sat for hours in a carved wooden armchair of great antiquity at the demon’s bedside, and although he allowed himself to close his eyes from time to time, he was always quick to rouse himself, each and every time his patient stirred.

After a few more days rest, most of which he spent sleeping, Aziraphale was pleased to see that Crowley was looking much better. His colour was improved and he was able to take a little more soup with bread, along with ewes’ milk to drink, or small beer on occasion, to keep him well hydrated.

All of the angel’s ministrations were accepted with a show of grudging reluctance, but Crowley still needed support to sit up, and Aziraphale was happy to oblige. They got into a rhythm and occasionally, when Crowley did not see him looking, Aziraphale was pleased beyond all measure to catch him smiling, or with a look of calm contentment on his face, and cherished an inward feeling of deep satisfaction at being able to assist his friend as he recovered. They talked often, and congenially, and although Crowley tired easily, Aziraphale could see how he was improving, day on day.

***

It happened one night, about a week after they had arrived at the cottage. Crowley had been growing stronger, and his bouts of excessive warmth appeared to be becoming less frequent, with longer periods of relative normality falling between them. Aziraphale had allowed himself a small, tentative spark of optimism that Crowley might be genuinely on his way to a full recovery.

He was seated in his usual chair near Crowley’s bed. The demon had settled down for the night as was customary with him after Aziraphale had finished reading to him from a new volume of rather bawdy stories (as it turned out) by an Italian fellow called Giovanni Boccaccio.

Crowley had been dismissive at first about being read to, but became increasingly enthusiastic once he realised just how scurrilous the subject matter was. As well as relishing the reading, Aziraphale was enjoying his time with Crowley immensely.

They had such a good time simply chatting with each other. The realisation had come to Aziraphale one night as Crowley slept that they had never previously had the chance of such an extended period in each other’s company. The closeness they had shared over the preceding few days had allowed them to talk, really talk. They had taken full advantage of it: reminisced and argued and, at times, smiling tolerantly at one another, agreed to disagree.

Crowley’s period of recuperation had also given them the space to discuss at length much that each of them had experienced when not together.

Most of all, they laughed, growing easy and relaxed as they whiled away the hours in the peaceful surroundings of rural Sussex.

Aziraphale came to understand more clearly how very much he valued Crowley’s perspective and good sense on many issues, and it was evident to him by his friend’s responses that Crowley felt the same way in his turn.

And Crowley was funny—really funny—which was so refreshing.

Very few humans were capable of making Aziraphale laugh until his sides were sore and tears ran down his cheeks the way that Crowley did. The angel’s job tended to involve him with a lot of very serious, not to say sanctimonious, people. Crowley was mischievous and irreverent and Aziraphale was reminded of how very deeply he appreciated that. They were proper best friends, and this time together demonstrated just how strong that bond was.

More dangerously for Aziraphale, he came to see that in addition to that love, the love that came through friendship, there really was the other kind, begging for his attention, the kind that had Aziraphale mesmerised when he looked into Crowley’s eyes, breathed in his special smell, felt the lean, wiry length of his back pressed against his chest and belly as the demon ate and drank. Not more important, or even stronger, than the love that signified friendship, but more transgressive, surely, and potentially less welcome to the subject of it.

And it was pointless to consider it in any case. Even if Crowley did think of him in that way, friendship, love, any kind of connection between the two of them—supposed enemies—remained deeply risky, for them both.

Aziraphale dwelled upon this, often. He worried about it as he watched Crowley where he lay, bright eyed now, and attending closely to the angel’s reading, laughing gleefully at the antics of the characters in the Decameron as they made unwise decisions and caused the confusion so typical of humans, with their propensities and peccadilloes, in each other’s lives. The angel wondered if the two of them were any better, when it came right down to it, than the foolish characters in this or any other book. Yet still, he knew he would never find within him the resolve to do the sensible thing, and suggest that they should part and never seek each other out again.

Aziraphale had been reading ahead while Crowley slept, and feeling rather guilty about doing so, when a groan of what sounded like distress brought him out of the compelling world of the book. Crowley was fretting in his sleep, making low noises and shifting restlessly, his long fingers clutching at the edge of the blanket until their knuckles showed white.

Aziraphale stood up from his bedside chair, and hovered uncertainly over Crowley’s sleeping form, unsure as to what he might do to help ease the suffering demon out of what looked very much like a nightmare. Crowley was muttering now, the words urgent in cadence, even if Aziraphale could not work out exactly what it was that he was saying.

The angel raised his hand hesitantly, and laid the back of it gently against Crowley’s forehead for a moment. His friend was clammy and distinctly cold, colder than he should have been under his blankets and eiderdown. There was a fire in the room as well, and Aziraphale himself felt perfectly comfortable. But Crowley¬¬—Crowley was actually shivering, his teeth chattering audibly in between the increasingly agitated vocalisations.

“Got to…”

The demon bared his teeth in a grimace.

“Nnnnngh, no… Oh no. No no no! Shitshitshit – NO!” Crowley shouted out abruptly, then curled in on himself and continued to shake visibly, trembling under the covers.

Aziraphale felt wretched, hardly able to stand the sight of Crowley in such distress. Crowley, his friend, who had always been so strong and in control. He dithered, at a loss as to what best to do to remedy the situation.

Any kind of miracle was out of the question: Crowley had been dealing with the residual effects of the blessing for some time, and this was probably another manifestation of that very thing. Adding any additional celestial power was very likely to only exacerbate the situation.

Crowley’s teeth rattled as his shivering intensified.

Aziraphale frantically tried to recall anything he knew of that might be of use in Crowley’s current situation. There was a solution, one that he had read about, a human method, that might work, given that Crowley was not currently in possession of his powers. Aziraphale could share his own body heat with Crowley. Naked was best, as he understood it, but even in this state of extremis, Aziraphale did not dare contemplate the imposition of his unclothed body on Crowley without his friend’s express permission. Besides, the demon himself was wearing one of Aziraphale’s voluminous nightshirts.

Certainly, the bulky habit he was wearing would have to go, though; the wool was thick and scratchy, not comforting at all. Aziraphale fumbled with the belt, untying it with shaking fingers. Quickly, before he lost his nerve, he pulled the garment over his head and laid it on his chair, leaving him in his silk shift and linen drawers. That would have to do.

He drew aside the covers and slid into the bed next to the trembling demon, curving the fullness of his body around Crowley’s chilly form. He lay with his outmost arm raised for a little while, not sure what to do with it, feeling exhilarated and not a little scared by his audacity.

Finally, when his sleeping friend shifted, pushing his back and arse into the cradle of the angel’s body, seeking his heat instinctively, or so it seemed, Aziraphale gave in to the strongest desire he had in that almost overwhelming moment and, taking a deep breath, wrapped that uselessly waving arm about his friend, holding him close and resting his forehead lightly against the bony knobs of vertebrae at Crowley’s nape.

Aziraphale willed his body to behave, slowing his breathing as he experienced the effects of close bodily proximity for the first time in his existence. The situation was not helped by the throaty moan that Crowley let out as he snuggled in, then settled. The demon’s body was so cold, the length of his back icy through the silk that clad Aziraphale’s chest, his belly chilly through his own nightshirt against the breadth of the angel’s inner arm.

Crowley’s muttering became more sporadic and gradually quietened down, and his restlessness ceased as soon as he was being held within the angel’s embrace. He slept, mostly quiet now, while Aziraphale tried to relax and concentrate on giving off as much warmth as he could without using any of his magic.

It was a strange sort of bliss this, holding Crowley, helping him. Tending to his friend over the previous few days had been a distinct pleasure for Aziraphale, who had found great satisfaction at being needed. More satisfaction, certainly, that he usually found in his working life.

Helping individual people was wonderful when he was permitted to do it, which was, sadly for the angel, very seldom. Most of his time was spent in influencing groups and their leaders—popes and princes and the like—who largely had an unfortunate tendency to be rather disagreeable in Aziraphale’s experience.

Being able to be of benefit to Crowley, was, however, an entirely different proposition, and one that caused a warm ball of tenderness to form within the pit of the angel’s stomach as he lay there holding his beloved. Caring intimately for the one he loved most in all of Heaven and Earth, was personal, a kind of direct loving that he had never been allowed to give before. The novelty of all this brought Aziraphale an immense and secret joy that he held as closely to him as he was holding Crowley. All at once, the angel knew that he would never forget this singular emotion.

Aziraphale had often wondered wistfully what being held himself would feel like, had dreamed of it on the long and lonely nights when he had endured his customary solitary state for years, or even decades.

It was always Crowley that he pictured when he weakened and gave himself over to the romantic fantasies his nature seemed most inclined to. Crowley’s arms around him, strong and sure. How often had he longed to be taken into the demon’s warm embrace (he felt sure it would be warm, that Crowley would give marvellous hugs if he put his mind to it), and be allowed to stay there, safe for… oh, an eternity or two would do.

Now Aziraphale was finding that the reality of holding Crowley was just as good as any of his imaginings. His friend was lovely—warm, muscular and solid—the perfect armful, in fact.

Aziraphale relaxed, and for a few, precious moments allowed himself to feel simply happy to be of service. He was not sure Crowley would accept such close proximity under other circumstances, and this thought did give him pause. But as Crowley’s body warmed, he soothed himself with the thought that he was doing something necessary, something good, in heating up his friend and by doing so, ameliorating his distress. And it was working, Crowley slept on, his trembling entirely vanished and his fretful mumbling having ceased completely.

Aziraphale decided that the best thing was to limit this close contact to that which was expedient. He would stay in the bed with Crowley until the demon’s body temperature matched his own, then slip away, build up the fire again, and start preparing something to break their fast once Crowley was awake again.

***

Crowley seemed much improved when Aziraphale suggested breakfast, a very delayed one, since it was late morning by the time the demon woke again. It seemed as if whatever had ailed him in the night had been a turning point of sorts, something akin to a fever breaking. Crowley was keen to get up, and came to the table to eat the eggs that Aziraphale had scrambled. They chatted lightly, and Aziraphale was pleased to note Crowley’s improving mood as he spoke with a new enthusiasm about going outside after the days he had spent too weak to leave his bed.

They had a pleasant day together, Crowley slowly prowling around the immediate environs of the cottage and then, after a meal of roasted woodcock, insisting that he was well enough to have some wine. Aziraphale, pleased with his patient’s progress and good spirits, was happy to summon some fine old Burgundy from his London lodgings and raise a glass to his companion.

“To your very good health, Crowley,” he said, smiling fulsomely at the demon sprawled in the chair opposite his own in front of the fireplace.

“I’ll drink to that,” returned Crowley, raising his glass with a nod towards the angel, which, Aziraphale knew, was a form of recognition of his own efforts to help Crowley achieve that happy state.

“Think I’ll try some miracles tomorrow,” the demon added, flexing the fingers of the hand not holding his glass, “see what I can manage.”

“Be careful not to overdo it,” warned Aziraphale, “you don’t want to set yourself back, now you’re so much improved. How do you feel in that regard, by the way?” he added.

“Nnnn, yeah, better, I think.”

Crowley studied his hand, thoughtfully.

“More like I usually do. It feels…” He wrinkled his brow, “…like I can reach my powers again. I’ll sleep on it, see how I am tomorrow. Don’t fuss, Aziraphale, I’m getting there, and I won’t push it too hard. I want to get better just as much as you want me to,” he said, glaring across at his companion as if offended, somehow.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, feeling heat rushing to his cheeks, “it’s not that I am pushing for you to leave, I wouldn’t want you to think that. It’s just… I don’t want you getting in to any trouble, that’s all.”

Crowley’s expression softened. He took a gulp of wine and rested the glass in his lap.

“Don’t worry, angel, if they wanted me for anything, I would know by now. They would have sent a message and it would get here, believe you me, even with the wards you’ve put up. I’m okay for the moment.”

Aziraphale smiled, feeling himself relax. Crowley was safe, and not leaving for the time being. Everything was good. If only he could learn to live in the present without worrying, how happy he would be.

***

The following day, Crowley seemed even more like his old self. He announced that he was going to try some minor miracles, then spent a happy hour or so moving items around the kitchen while Aziraphale attempted to make another batch of bread. The angel was half amused, half exasperated, as Crowley made the salt cellar dance around his head, evading his reaching hand as he tried to catch it by sending it swooping and diving every time he got anywhere near it.

Eventually Crowley relented and gave Aziraphale a little assistance by moving the various tins and spoons he needed to skid over then sit on the table exactly where the angel needed them as he worked. Crowley was in high spirits, clearly enjoying the Aziraphale’s flustered expostulations, his face wreathed in a very familiar mischievous grin.

The good mood continued as the bread rose, was proved and then placed in the oven to bake. Crowley teased and chatted quite lightheartedly, buoyed up by reclaiming his abilities, even if he was tired after a couple of hours.

The demon was prevailed upon to eat a little of the warm bread (so much better now that Aziraphale had gained more proficiency with baking) with some fresh butter from a local farm with a cup of small beer once it was done and cooled sufficiently. Aziraphale was pleased to be lightly mocked and drawn in to some of his companion’s typically eccentric conversations (which he had always previously enjoyed), glad to see that Crowley was definitely on the mend. His pleasure was tempered with melancholy at times: every day that saw such improvement in Crowley’s health was one nearer to the day when they must inevitably part.

At the end of their second week together, after Crowley had managed to modify the old black habit that Aziraphale had given him to wear (Crowley had grumbled excessively about how terribly unfashionable it was and had to be reminded that being stylish was very much not on any monastic agenda, however materialistic the order might have grown over the last two hundred years or so), into an outfit he felt suited him better, he asked Aziraphale if they might go further afield the following day.

“I feel so much more like myself,” he said, twirling on the spot in his tight doublet and woollen trunk hose, “fancy a walk, angel? The weather’s great, and I’m hankering after some fresh air and a view.”

The weather had indeed been beautiful. There had been a few days of perfect, cloudless sky, bright sunshine with just enough of a fresh breeze to make it comfortable for a late summer walk. Aziraphale smiled widely, as a wonderful idea popped into his mind.

“What about if we pack-up our midday meal and take it with us?” he said, bouncing on his toes enthusiastically. “We can find a lovely spot and eat outside.”

“And get bitten to death by ants, no doubt,” said Crowley, but he too was smiling, and Aziraphale understood that this opposition to his idea was not to be taken seriously. Crowley always had to grouse, just for the look of the thing.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” returned Aziraphale, gently teasing back, “it will be perfectly lovely. I’ll keep the wasps and ants away, don’t worry. We could even walk to the cliffs and see the sea, if it’s not too far for you.”

Crowley grinned, looking almost boyish all of a sudden.

“Won’t be too far for me, I don’t think. All right, angel, you’re on!”

“Ah, splendid! Let me see now…” Aziraphale went over their provisions, enumerating them mentally, “…we have bread, that good hard cheese from Mistress Seward, those spiced honey cakes I bought at the market yesterday… And there’s some cider too, I can fill a flagon. It will be such fun!”

***

They took it in turns to carry the basket. Crowley had ignored the angel’s fussing, telling him he was perfectly well enough to carry a simple basket of food. Aziraphale wore his straw hat to shade his face and the vulnerable back of his neck from the climbing sun. Although he had lived in hotter climes, his pale skin still suffered if he left it uncovered too long, and summer sunlight, even in England, would burn him after only a few minutes exposure.

Crowley, on the other hand, was bareheaded, turning his face into the sun, eyes closed blissfully now and again as he walked, clearly revelling in its warmth. He had always loved the summer months, relaxing the habitual hunched posture he assumed in the colder seasons and blossoming under the heat.

They had passed the area of cultivated land surrounding the village and were now deep in the countryside, walking in a vaguely southerly direction, heading haphazardly towards the coast. Aziraphale, no stranger to compartmentalising his feelings, had managed to put his anxieties aside for a little while, and they ambled contentedly alongside each other, stopping occasionally to admire plants and flowers.

Crowley would exclaim as he came upon something particularly striking, and Aziraphale would draw near to him, stooping to admire the intricate traceries of leaves and petals, then bowing his head to take in the delicate fragrances. Crowley scrutinised leaves and rubbed them between his fingers to bring out their scent, lifting his pinched finger and thumb to Aziraphale’s face so that he could smell the aroma of mint or camphor.

The sky was a delicate azure, fretted in places with bands of serrated clouds near the horizon. A mackerel sky, a sign that it was likely there would be rain before too long. They had chosen well for their outing, the day was warm yet fresh with the occasional breath of a lively breeze, perfect for al fresco dining.

At one point, Aziraphale stopped suddenly, inclining his head, laying his hand on Crowley’s arm lightly for a moment to arrest his progress.

“Listen… a skylark…”

He tipped his head back and searched the seemingly empty air above them. Amidst the sporadic chatter of other birdsong, a string of silvery sound could be heard, its insistent small treble a counterpoint to the other subtle noises of summer around them.

“There!” he said, as he spotted it, and pointed upwards, angling his arm so that Crowley could sight along it. Crowley came to stand next to the angel and leaned in to follow the line he was indicating. Aziraphale felt the demon’s warm breath on his cheek and had to stop himself from turning his head for fear of the closeness of the other’s face.

“Oh yes, I see it now. Brave little bugger, protecting the nest,” said Crowley, admiringly.

Crowley lingered for a moment next to the angel as they both enjoyed this aerial display, and then moved away to continue his strolling.

Above them the tiny shape wavered against the blue-white of the heavens, its little wings fluttering as it sang, and sang, and sang. Aziraphale stayed a moment longer to watch it. How he longed to be as brave, to watch over the one he loved most dearly, and remain steadfast in the protection of that remarkable individual. He vowed in that moment that he would always do his best to look after Crowley, whatever befell them after this bucolic interlude, and at whatever cost to himself.

The angel lowered his gaze to Crowley, strolling, ankle deep in the long grass, looking gloriously carefree, then trotted on to catch up with him again.

Before long they were in shady woodland, the cool green of it a relief for Aziraphale, although Crowley shivered a little as they walked deeper in. There was soft moss dotted with small flowers beneath their feet, and sun dappled spaces that sat serenely silent apart from the noises of their passing. Aziraphale could not help but give a small sigh of pleasure at the beauty that lay around them. Crowley, noticing, glanced across and smiled at the angel, then carried on walking at a leisurely pace, looking about him at the tiny flowers and shifting golden shapes interspersed with shadows as the soft wind made the leaves above them dance and rustle.

Once they were out of the woods, they crossed a stream and walked upwards into the down-lands proper. The grass they walked on was shorter now and less springy, a tough weaving of fibres that just covered the chalk beneath. In places, where rabbits or sheep had their thoroughfares, the stems and roots were worn away, exposing the rock beneath in ribbons of white, crisscrossing the scarp where they placed their feet.

Apart from the occasional musical ripple of a curlew’s cry, there was a steady silence about them, the scrape and crunch of their footsteps the only sound that broke it. It bore the appearance of an ancient landscape, formed many years ago when the world was young from the pressure of seas long fallen away and the tiny creatures that had once lived and fed there. Another of God’s little jokes, it would seem. Still, it felt timeless, magical, a place where anything could happen.

“I’m feeling a little…” began the angel, looking across at his companion.

“Peckish?” said Crowley, grinning back at Aziraphale.

“Yes, indeed, my dear. Shall we find a place to stop?”

“Should we walk on, see the sea?”

Aziraphale looked out to the horizon where clear blue became the darker textured movement of the waves.

“Yes, but we should be careful. Those cliffs,” he murmured, “they’re quite unstable, dangerous. I’d rather—rather stay safe.”

“Fine by me, angel - here, give me the basket, I’ll…”

His voice died away as he spotted something in the grass. He knelt to study it more closely.

“Hey, look, it’s—at least I think—yeah, it is. An orchid!”

“Where?”

“You’ll have to come closer, they’re not so easy to spot.”

Aziraphale hunkered down next to where Crowley was kneeling in the long grass around a rocky outcrop.

“See it? Isn’t it beautiful!”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, his face alight with the joy of his discovery, and then at the small blue-purple plant he was cupping with his fingers. It was but a little thing, a fleshy stem with a cluster of delicate flowers at the head of it pressed closely together, each one a tiny open mouth, throat speckled with dark purple spots, the petals shining like silk. He looked back at the demon’s face, a sliver of golden eye visible at the top of his dark glasses and breathed out, speaking in the hushed tones he felt befitted the occasion.

“Oh yes! Yes, it is. Very beautiful.”

“You don’t see them often, they need special, erm… thing, soil conditions, you know.”

“Have you have always had an interest in plants, my dear?

“Yeah, I dabbled, back in the old days. Once we’d done the stars I volunteered for the Flora Division.”

“Did you? How lovely, I do like flowers,” said Aziraphale, wistfully. “I was in the Avian Section, until the cassowary business blew up, of course…”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale ploughed on, ignoring Crowley as the eyebrow in question rose higher.

“Birds should be allowed to protect themselves,” said Aziraphale. It came out a touch defensively, but he carried on despite Crowley’s growing grin. “Then I was moved to Mammals, but Ariel wasn’t terribly happy after the whole platypus affair…”

Crowley snorted this time. Before he could get any words out, Aziraphale spoke again.

“… In my defence, nobody told me that mammals weren’t supposed to lay eggs, and the venom thing was purely incidental, and how was I supposed to know about nipples? Anyway, after that, it was reptiles. I did some of my best work there, you know. Lizards, toads, some very lovely snakes—all those wonderful colours—I always have been fond of snakes.”

He glanced at Crowley, who was gazing at him open mouthed. Feeling his face heat, Aziraphale took the basket from the astonished demon and marched on ahead.

“Come on, let’s find a nice place to sit and have our lunch.”

***

It was an oak tree, in the end, that provided the perfect spot for their al fresco dining. Aziraphale had spied it on the horizon, noted its perfect shape, the stately spread of its boughs, and they made their way over to it once he had called it to Crowley’s attention.

In the benevolent shade of this venerable tree Aziraphale spread their blanket, the softest one that there was in the cottage, and laid out the provender. It was comfortable there in the shifting shade, the moss beneath the tree making a soft place to sit or lie upon. Being on a slight rise in the ground, it also afforded a stupendous view over the Downs to the hazy expanse of the English Channel in the distance. All was quiet apart from the occasional notes of birdsong and the sigh of the canopy of leaves overhead as the breeze played through it from time to time.

Aziraphale made sure that the ants stayed away, and the wasps, so they were not bothered by any local wildlife as they enjoyed their food.

Replete and slightly cider tipsy, Aziraphale, sitting in his usual upright posture, his back against the tree, slowly came to the realisation that he had never before been so entirely happy. Here was uncomplicated contentment, sitting peacefully with his dearest companion amidst the beauty of the planet that he had grown to love so much.

Aziraphale sighed happily, and turned his head to smile at Crowley, who was sprawled out on the blanket near him, the remains of their meal having been pushed aside so that he could lie down half way in the sun. The demon had cast his dark glasses aside and patches of golden light and dappled shade fluttered over his skin, picking out the dark lashes, fine lines and lovely mouth in light and shadow. Aziraphale was reminded all over again of how very lovely Crowley was, especially when he was relaxed and open in demeanour, as he most certainly was now.

They had been chatting desultorily as they ate, but now, an amicable silence had settled between them. It was a comfortable kind of quiet, an absence of the need to talk borne of long acquaintance and mutual understanding. Aziraphale felt himself relaxing into an almost meditative state as he let his eyes drift across the gold and green of the countryside before them.

After a while spent quietly with his eyes shut, seemingly basking in the sunshine, Crowley raised his head, then propped himself up on one elbow. He plucked a long stem of grass with a flossy seed head and began chewing on the other end of it, pensively. He narrowed his eyes as he stared at the distant haze that hung over the sea.

“Angel,” he said, at last, “I’m… I think I’m going to have to leave.”

Aziraphale roused himself from his stupor.

“Leave? What—now? Where are you going?”

He couldn’t think straight, all he knew in the moment was that he did not want Crowley to go, not now, not ever. Aziraphale tried to school his features into a reasonable expression, shutting his open mouth with a snap lest he come out with some awful sound of distress.

Crowley gestured with a hand.

“Back,” he said, simply. “Back to work, I mean. I’m better now, pretty much, anyway, and I’ve been away for a couple of weeks. I just don’t want anyone turning up here to check-up on me.”

“Oh. Oh, I see,” said Aziraphale, looking at his hands.

Their lovely summer day together had been perfect, he must not spoil it by being childishly needy. It was selfish of him to want Crowley to risk staying longer, he knew that. Of course Crowley would have to go back to his duties. He would too, come to that. They couldn’t live together at the cottage forever, that was just impossible, a fantasy. Each of them still remained tied to the two opposing factions that hated and despised each other. They had been risking a great deal, both of them, over the time they had spent together as it was. It still hurt, though, finding out it was all to end so abruptly.

Oh how Aziraphale wished their situation could be otherwise, that they could consort with each other openly and enjoy their friendship as the humans did. But he could not let Crowley guess at any of these tumultuous feelings that were roiling in his breast. Aziraphale summoned up his best stoical smile lifting his chin and straightening his spine further as he looked across at Crowley.

“Of course, my dear boy, I fully understand. Duty calls, and all that.”

“It’s not as if I want…” began Crowley, frowning.

Aziraphale subsided from his stoic pose. “I know,” he said, softly, attempting a genuine smile this time. “I don’t either. But you’re right, we must.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley meeting Aziraphale’s eye, and his smile was tinged with melancholy too. “better had. I’ll, uh, get going soon as we get back, I think that’s best.”

“Whatever you wish,” said Aziraphale, smoothing his hands down his tunic. “I shall return to Arundel, take up my post again. Perhaps I’ll catch you in London? In a few years, maybe?”

He felt pathetic asking, but the need for reassurance that they could pick up the old Arrangement where that had left it was too strong for him. He twisted his hands at his waist, anxiously, waiting for Crowley to reply.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, with a hint of his old snark, “you’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

He smiled, but it was a facsimile of his usual insouciant grin. Aziraphale returned the gesture as best he could, relief warring with sadness within his heart. He was not going to actually lose Crowley from his life, even if they never managed to be as close and carefree as this again.

“I’ll drop you a line when I can,” said Crowley, more seriously now.

“Jolly good,” said Aziraphale, and tried to tell himself that he must be content with that.

He must.

The walk back to Fulking was conducted in a subdued kind of silence. The sun felt less warm to Aziraphale, the breeze just that bit colder, and they seemed to get back to the cottage in no time at all.

***

Once Crowley had left, after snapping himself into a very up to date (and very tight) outfit—he did retain the quartz spectacles that Aziraphale had got for him—the cottage felt strangely empty. Aziraphale wandered through the rooms, unable to settle to his half finished book now there was no longer anyone with him that he could read it to.

Eventually, he did sit down, at the table in the kitchen, to eat a simple meal of bread and cheese with a little beer. He didn’t bother with a fire, it was warm enough and there was no snake-like person there to complain about the chill as night proper brought shadows to the corners of the room.

Aziraphale looked about him, wondering how the time with Crowley had flown by so fast. Every element of this modest dwelling place now reminded him of his dearest friend and something they had done together. The conspicuously empty chair that sat opposite his own on the other side of the hearth. The heavy oak door that tended to stick on the floor that Crowley had barked his shin on and then sworn at. The second cup, plate, knife and spoon. The comfortable bed where Crowley had recuperated, and, more importantly, where the two of them had lain together for that precious, sacred hour.

All of these ordinary household things had undergone a transformation in Aziraphale’s mind, becoming dear to him beyond all measure because of their association with the object of his love. The angel would, he knew, never be able to forget even a minute of the time he had spent in this house with Crowley.

Aziraphale had intended to let go of the cottage as he had all of his dwelling places over the years, allowing them to be taken over by humans, and seeing to it that any memories of his transient presence would drift out of the minds of those who had known him during his stay. Looking around him once again, the angel knew for certain that after all that had transpired here, he could never bring himself to let this house go. It was his in a way no other living space had ever been before.

He vowed to maintain it properly, the human way, show it as much love as he could, keep it as a memento of the fleeting happiness he had known within its walls. It would be a place of refuge for him, he decided, somewhere to repair to when city life became too taxing, or he was worn-out after a particularly onerous assignment. It would remain for him a place graced with only the best of unsullied memories—of a love and friendship that meant more to him than anything in life.

Aziraphale thought he might be minded to make some improvements straightaway, now he knew that he was keeping the cottage. The door, he could get that repaired, he knew a local man who was a wonderful carpenter who would be happy to rehang it for him. The windows too. Crowley had complained about the draughts so many times; Aziraphale telling him that fresh air was good for him had elicited the most adorable grumpy responses. Even if Crowley never felt the benefit of it, he could get the frames seen to while the carpenter was here, make it more worth his while to come.

Aziraphale, seated in his chair by the empty hearth sighed heavily for all the things he wanted but would never be able to have. Humans who knew and liked each other well enough to live together as Crowley and he had done—for a little while, anyway— were usually married. The angel had been present at many wedding ceremonies, seen hand-fasting and the exchange of vows of all kinds. He had always thought the rituals particularly beautiful: a celebration of love and the optimism it took to plan a whole life with the one person you loved above all others.

It was a romantic notion, to be sure, a little idealistic, even. But Aziraphale was a deeply romantic person. In his heart of hearts he longed for a partner, a husband, a person who was special to him and to whom he might be special in his turn. There had only ever been one candidate for Aziraphale’s heart, one who had, perhaps unwittingly, claimed that heart a very long time ago. Now that he had lived with Crowley, Aziraphale’s regret that such a beautiful union would always be denied him was all the more poignant.

He eyed the heavy stone slab that acted as the lintel for the wide fireplace that graced the kitchen of the cottage. It was a lovely thing, a fine grained honey coloured sandstone that must have been brought a long way when the building was constructed, as it was not a stone found locally.

There was something Aziraphale had seen in human dwelling places where there were couples and their families. At the time of the marriage, they would arrange to have their initials and the year of their marriage carved into the stone, above the door, sometimes, or on the lintel of the fireplace. This was something he could do, just for himself. Crowley would never see it, and as he intended this to be a private place just for himself, neither would any other person. It would be a reminder, just for him, a mark of his commitment to a love that, although forbidden, would never waver or be extinguished.

Aziraphale, when on a visit to Canterbury the previous autumn, had visited the famous cathedral there as part of his duties. Artisans were busy on the reconstruction of the choir after the unfortunate collapse of that part of the building a few years previously. Aziraphale had been admiring the new, modern design of the tall arches that would let in so much light and had fallen into conversation with Simon, one of the stonemasons. He was a talented man, and had an open, cheerful disposition. Aziraphale thought it was possible that he might be prevailed upon to make a visit and undertake a little private commission, if he made it worth the man’s while.

He would enquire as soon as he could reasonably get away.

***London, September 1572

Crowley was lounging in his expensive lodgings, toying with the idea of either going to sleep for a while, or taking himself to the nearest decent tavern and getting fall-down drunk. He hadn’t had any serious assignments for ages. Most of Europe was eaten up with religious wars and England was precious little better as the fallout from the Ridolfi Plot rumbled on at Court and in the Parliament.

All Crowley had been doing lately was taking the credit for the various machinations of the humans around him. Which was fine, in its way—he didn’t have to put himself to any trouble when the humans were busy doing his work for him. But it also meant he was bored, transcendentally bored. Central to the ongoing problem of ennui was the fact that he hadn’t seen Aziraphale for ages.

Crowley knew that the angel had been away in Europe himself—as he so often had been, lately—dealing with Popes and Holy Roman Emperors and the like. All the kind of thing that Crowley knew he hated. The last extended time the two of them had spent together had been around the occasion of the coronation of the old King—Henry—when that rather odious man had still been in his pomp.

A striking young man he had been at the time, who had later gone on to cause a prodigious amount of trouble, Crowley knew. Good for this particular demon, as Crowley had gone on to take the credit for much of what had gone down. Not so much for anybody else, especially his wives.

Crowley had turned up in the capital for the coronation festivities and met up with Aziraphale as he had hoped to. The sheer number of people in London had given them the required cover, and an excellent excuse, to spend some quality time together. They had shared indulgent meals in various hostelries, then gone on for long conversations over wine in both Aziraphale’s lodgings and his own.

Since that time there had only been the odd communication between them, short messages to convey important information and a few brief meetings to exchange news and, occasionally, assignments, as per the Arrangement.

Crowley had missed the angel, deeply, even if he would have been reluctant to admit it. Missed his acerbic wit, his interludes of joyful silliness when they occurred, his intelligent responses in debate and the shrewdness that he glimpsed from time to time beneath the façade of benign amiability. He also felt the lack of his friend’s kindness, his understanding, the unspoken bond they shared that made the demon feel truly seen in a world where, for the majority of the time, he walked alone.

The two of them couldn’t afford to spend a lot of time together, it was true. But it had been simply ages—too long—and Crowley found himself casting about in the metaphysical realm, searching for that warmth, that vital spark that would tell him that the angel was nearby.

But there was nothing, a conspicuous absence, in Aziraphale’s usual haunts. Aziraphale wasn’t away in Heaven, Crowley could sense that. The times when that was the case engendered a very specific feeling in the demon; one of dislocation, of loss. This was nothing like that.

Crowley cast his mental net more widely and there, there, was a flicker of that brightness that characterised this one particular angel within the psychic sphere. At the moment when he located it, Crowley became fully aware how very much he had missed that special energy within his immediate environs. London wasn’t really London without Aziraphale.

Crowley’s senses told him that Aziraphale was further south than the metropolis, much further south. Telling himself that he was merely going for a ride to get some much needed fresh air outside London (which was ridiculous, Crowley hated riding—and fresh air, for that matter), Crowley went and hired a horse. It was a decent horse, all told, nothing like the flighty things he was assigned by Hell for his official manifestations, but just an ordinary, rather docile, gelding. Black, of course, because Crowley did have standards.

The beast did more or less what it was told to, after an initial period of obvious reluctance (horses and Crowley rarely got along), and soon the demon was riding at a steady pace out of the city and into open country along the old Roman road.

As he travelled, Crowley tuned-in to that familiar vibration that represented Aziraphale’s continuing presence on the planet, using it to orientate himself. He pointed his nose, and that of his mount, in the direction of the undeniable tug he had always felt beneath his breastbone.

Crowley had tried to deny the strength of this connection, back in the early days when both angel and demon had been wary of anything approaching a friendship with the very being they were supposed to regard as a deadly enemy. He had become used to it, through the advancing years, and realised after a time that its presence had become something of a comfort, especially on difficult days, and there had been quite a few of those, all told.

The notion of having a kind of ally, another person on Earth who was invariably pleased to see him, and understood exactly how it was to be different, eternally separate from everyone around them, acted as a balm to his often irritable, and anxious, senses.

Whenever the two of them met, it always brought Crowley an undeniable feeling of a breath long held released, a relaxation into congenial company. A friendship, in fact, that was comfortable, easy, worn at the edges with habit, indisputably satisfying. He knew Aziraphale in ways that he knew nobody else, and a part of him was well aware that it was the same for the angel. Over the years, this had become one of the most precious things in Crowley’s life, even if he habitually disguised the fact of it with heavy snark and sarcasm, much of the time.

For it was dangerous, for both of them. It hadn’t seemed so at first, keep your enemies closer, and all that. But after a while, what connected them had become so much more than simply being the only two beings of their kind on the planet. Crowley had always told himself that he was impervious to friendship, and incapable of love. Aziraphale had shown him otherwise.

The experience of being nursed, and doted on, and held in that small cottage near the end of the worst century of Crowley’s long existence, had woken a sleeping tiger in him. Unexpectedly, Crowley found himself harbouring romantic notions, as well as those of a more explicitly physical nature. He had passed it off as an unfortunate side effect of his sickness at first. Undue holiness was apt to do strange things to a demon’s mind and corporation. But from then on, the complex, often vexing, series of symptoms had only worsened. After a time, he had been forced to accept it: Crowley loved, and, more than that, he loved fiercely, the bright flame of it leaping up with urgent joy whenever he saw his only friend.

It was embarrassing, was what it was. What kind of demon loved an angel? His kind, it turned out. It did make sense, he supposed, when he paused to think about it. He’d never been the best of demons in the first place. This new aspect of his character merely served to emphasise how very different he was to his infernal peers, whose company he mostly disliked anyway.

What affected Crowley as he rode, along with his usual exasperated acceptance of his heightened emotional state around anything that concerned Aziraphale, was a distinctly off note to the familiar sensation that represented the angel’s presence in his life. There was a definite sense of disquiet, distress, even, pulsing through the ether. It tugged at Crowley’s heart, set his nerve endings singing. He did not believe that Aziraphale was in danger, this wasn’t that alarming sense perception, but there was definitely something amiss. He found himself hoping that he might be able to help with it, whatever it was.

It wasn’t until Crowley was well past the little market town of Crawley (Aziraphale had teased him about that, on more than one occasion) on the road to Brighthelmstone that he started to feel a certain familiarity with the countryside. There, not far from the road, was an oddly shaped hill that he seemed to remember, there, not far from it, the grassy flanks of an ancient burial mound. Urging his horse into a proper canter, Crowley turned off the main thoroughfare and down an overgrown lane, its hedges thick with fragrant flowers.

All at once, he knew exactly where he was going to find Aziraphale.

***

The cottage had changed, at least, Crowley seemed to remember it as being smaller. As he looked, he realised that it had been extended. There were extra wings attached at each side of the central building, topped with thatch that looked much newer than that which crowned the original section. It was still as beautiful as he remembered, with its climbing roses on a trellis around the door, and its mullioned windows, no two the same. This particular dwelling place was special, it lay at the heart of some of Crowley’s fondest memories, ones that he kept as precious and took out to look at during the bad times when he was alone and in need of cheering.

The truth was, that when Crowley had last been here, he had been, for a short while, anyway, indulging himself in a little light deception.

He had been gravely injured, that was true. The delirium while he was at Arundel priory had been very real and extremely frightening. For a while, Crowley had no idea where or even who he was. The ensuing weakness over his first few days at Aziraphale’s cottage had been similarly unnerving. Crowley, although he had retrieved his memories, really had been unable to sit up without assistance. He had needed Aziraphale to help him, and the angel’s steady support at his back, to be able to drink and eat, however much the prospect of it had vexed him initially.

What was shocking to him, at the time, was how very much he liked it, all of it, once he was in his wits. Crowley wasn’t accustomed to touch, and what little he had received, from his peers in Hell, was very much to be avoided. There was no kindness, no gentleness, to be found there. Only shoving, aggression and the propensity for actual fighting. Crowley learned to keep out of the way of his fellow demons very rapidly. Aziraphale, though, was different, of course he was.

The two of them hadn’t touched much before that time, the odd handshake or bumping of shoulders when they spent time together, nothing more. Once the angel was fussing over him, nursing him, helping him up, laying a gentle hand on his forehead to assess his temperature, then placing a cool cloth there, holding him while he ate, Crowley found a savage new emotion boiling up in his breast.

He loved it, the angel’s touch, the nearness of the soft strength of his body, the precise way he handled Crowley when it was necessary to do so, his fingers unfailingly delicate but sure. Crowley adored all of it. So much so, that once he was feeling better he neglected to tell Aziraphale, continuing to accept his help long past the time when he genuinely had want of it.

Crowley had felt a fleeting guilt about it, but sought consolation by reminding himself that he was a demon; fooling one of the opposition in any way was entirely in his remit. Besides, it was so obvious that the old angel was happy to help. It was touching how much Aziraphale clearly enjoyed being needed. Crowley had appreciated his help before, over the years, and had enjoyed helping Aziraphale in his turn. Now he realised that they were more alike than he had realised, both gaining a certain satisfaction from being of service to one another.

In addition to this, there had woken in Crowley a particular kind of hunger. He had never been one for temptation to lust, that wasn’t his department. Crowley was much more an envy, greed and wrath kind of person, that was his line, and he excelled at it. He had never seen the point of carnal desire, before that was.

During the time spent with Aziraphale, he realised that he was harbouring certain feelings for his associate, feelings that were both sentimental and occasioned a specific kind of heat in his belly, and a little further down. He came to the mortifying realisation that he would be more than happy for Aziraphale to go on touching him, all over, if it could be managed. After experiencing the warmth and gentleness of the angel’s touch, he found he rather craved it.

All of this was worsened after the night of the awful nightmare. Crowley had gone to sleep as usual after a congenial evening of chat with the angel. Once he was deep in slumber, he had found himself back on that battlefield. He had been knocked down once by a great brute of a man in chain mail and lost his sword in the mud. Getting up again, his back blazing with pain, he had immediately been confronted with an extremely irate horse. Its flaring nostrils and foam flacked neck had given Crowley every clue as to the volatility of its current mood, and he had tried to turn and run. It was just as it was rearing over him, hooves flailing, that he had woken and found himself being gently cradled in Aziraphale’s arms.

Somehow, Crowley had kept possession of himself sufficiently to give no sign that he was awake. The feeling of being held was blissful and he had no intention of doing anything that might jeopardise its continuation. He could feel the angel’s breath against the nape of his neck, and hear the soothing murmuring, words of assurance, repeated over and over again in Aziraphale’s soft voice.

Crowley hadn’t been able to help moving closer, backing into the embrace with a tiny, embarrassing moan that he cut off immediately. He had then been exhilarated beyond what he thought was possible once the angel’s arm had been placed about his body. Then there had been the bliss of being held, properly held, warm and secure for what felt like the first time in his life.

Crowley had hardly dared to breathe, feeling his body heat up, held in comfort. He had wanted to stay awake, not to miss a minute of this most extraordinary feeling, but such was the soft solace of Aziraphale around him, he had drifted into sleep without seeming to notice. When he had woken again, refreshed and restored to almost his usual self, Aziraphale had no longer been in the bed with him, but back on his usual chair, bright eyed and smiling as he suggested they have breakfast.

Crowley had never forgotten that feeling. Since that time his feelings for Aziraphale had only continued to grow, once he had fully understood every facet of their nature. Now his friend, and the one that he cared for with every fibre of his being, was in deep distress behind that familiar and much loved door (he wondered if it still stuck like it used to).

And Crowley was determined to help.

***

Aziraphale was slumped in his chair by the hearth, with his head in his hands. Crowley hadn’t bothered to knock, knowing that if he did, the angel would just put on a pleasant face, whatever his true state of mind, and would bustle about, fussing over not having the requisite provender to hand that would allow him to be properly hospitable.

Crowley did not want to see him assume that grim, polite little smile that never reached the angel’s eyes, nor did he wish to watch Aziraphale packing away his distress, as he had clearly been accustomed to doing since time out of mind. So, he barged in, like the demon he was, and caught his friend in the attitude that betrayed his actual emotional state.

Crowley was across the kitchen in a couple of his long, loping strides. He crouched down in front of where his friend was sitting just as Aziraphale raised his head. His eyes were red rimmed set in a crumpled face that looked unspeakably old and tired. “Oh,” was all he managed, before Crowley cut across whatever it was he had been going to say.

“What’s up, angel? You’re obviously bothered about something. Don’t try to tell me that everything is fine, because I can see that it really isn’t.”

“Oh, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, and started to weep, fat tears coursing down the ruddy apples of his cheeks, “It’s just been so awful.”

Crowley took hold of both of Aziraphale’s hands, gripping at their softness and then running his thumbs over the plump knuckles.

“Has somebody hurt you? Tell me who they are and I’ll go and sort them out.”

Crowley was furious all of a sudden. How dare anyone hurt this gentle angel, who always tried his best to be kind. He would, he would…

Aziraphale’s soft voice, heartbreakingly fractured with his hitching breaths, broke-in to his savage thoughts of potential revenge.

“No… No, no-one has done anything to me. It’s the people, kill… killing each other in the streets… senseless violence… Oh Crowley, it was horrible and all… all in the name… the name of faith.”

“What?” said Crowley, not understanding. There hadn't been any massacres in Sussex lately, as far as he was aware. ‘Who’s been killing who?”

Aziraphale sniffed, loudly, and turned his downcast face up to look at Crowley properly.

“In… In France—Paris. I…I was sent there, on, on assignment.”

He gulped, loudly, then visibly pulled himself together, sitting up straighter still holding on to Crowley’s hands, squeezing them gently from time to time as he spoke.

“I was supposed to be healing divisions between the nobility. There is a new doctrine that has been popular over there. Huguenots they call themselves, the people that believe in it. I’m not clear on the ins and outs, I need to read more of what they have written on the subject. Nothing I tried worked, you see, and then… then, there was an incident—on a particular feast day—and they just started slaughtering each other in the streets, pulling people out of buildings and running them through. Nobody was spared, Crowley… Women, children…”

Aziraphale started weeping afresh.

“It went on and on, spread out from Paris to the countryside. I, I contacted my, my superiors for advice, and they, they just told me that it didn’t matter, and not to interfere. They didn’t care, Crowley. Told me to get back down there and bear witness.”

Aziraphale, sniffed, pitifully, and continued speaking after taking another long, hitching breath.

“Gabriel… Gabriel said I must not, under any circumstances try to save anyone. So I… I had to, to go back. I came here once it was done, had to get away from the city. I… I’m just so tired. All the killing done in Her name and nobody gave a, a fig…”

Crowley would not have described himself as a sentimental sort of person, but he could not stand to see Aziraphale in such a reduced state. The angel had been there for him when he was at an all-time low, within these very walls, in fact. Aziraphale had held him and murmured reassurances and fussed and scolded and been resolutely kind, despite Crowley’s constant grumbling.

Impulsively, Crowley dropped the angel’s hands, went up on to his knees and put his arms around Aziraphale, drawing him into an embrace. Aziraphale made a small noise that pierced Crowley’s soul, then melted into his arms, burying his face in the demon’s neck.

Crowley had never held anyone before. Aziraphale, in his spotless cream silk doublet, was very soft, despite the numerous buttons, and warm, just as warm as he remembered. He felt the angel shudder with fresh sobs and held him tightly, muttering broken sentences of reassuring nonsense almost without thinking about it, in response to his friend’s distress.

Crowley felt such a mixture of emotions. Aziraphale’s hair was soft against his cheek, he smelled delicious, a mixture of some light, floral scent and his own particular aroma, that Crowley had caught on numerous occasions and found mildly intoxicating. It was lovely to finally be holding his angel, but at the same time, terrible to bear witness to his unhappiness.

Crowley preferred to act when things went wrong, but in this case, there was simply nothing he could do. This, giving awkward comfort, was all that he could offer, the rest was Aziraphale’s alone to bear, just as he himself had experienced his share of work related pain on many occasions, and mostly dealt with it alone as best he could.

Gradually, Aziraphale’s sobs subsided. Crowley rubbed his back until the angel ceased his trembling, then gradually let him go. They moved apart slightly. Aziraphale lifted his tearstained face and looked at Crowley. His eyes were impossibly soft, filled with some emotion Crowley hardly dared name. Their faces were, he realised, terribly close. He could feel the heat of Aziraphale’s breath on his cheek. The angel’s parted lips, pink and lovely, were very near his own. He looked at Crowley’s lips and licked his own, meeting Crowley’s gaze again. There was a moment of tension between them, as if time itself was suspended. Crowley drew closer, not sure exactly what it was that he was doing, but drawn to the angel irresistibly. Aziraphale tilted his face slightly and half closed his eyes. Crowley swallowed…

There was a sharp crack, and they sprung apart as if scalded. A spark had jumped from the burning logs in the fireplace and was smouldering on the flagstones. Red faced, Crowley leapt to his feet and stamped it out, twisting his foot to make sure the ember was thoroughly extinguished

Aziraphale had a hectic flush on his cheeks when Crowley plucked up enough courage to look at him again. The angel avoided his eyes, his hands twisting together at his belly.

“I,” began Aziraphale, hesitantly, “I think it might be best if we, um, forgot this ever happened,” he said, finally, looking up anxiously at Crowley, his face a plea for understanding.

Crowley was at a loss. There was no doubt that they had just been about to kiss each other. Which, given their respective positions, was probably a very bad idea indeed. Perhaps it would be better to pretend it had never happened.

Neither of them was good at talking about their feelings, and although Crowley was, underneath his chagrin, pleased he had been able to offer comfort to the angel, in a small way, at least. He realised, with a pang of almost anger at what a hand fate had dealt them both, that it was probably for the best if they did not open up the enormous can of worms this new direction in their relationship with each other seemed to suggest. Maybe there would be a time for it, in the future, but now was definitely not it.

Crowley suppressed his disappointment, and slapped on what he hoped was a nonchalant smile.

“Yep,” he said, “Yep, I can do that. Tell you what. Why don’t I just…”

He took a step away from the hearth where Aziraphale was sitting.

“… go out and come in again and we can start afresh. Pretend I’ve just arrived to catch up. How does that sound?”

Aziraphale’s face broke out into a tentative smile. The tear tracks were still visible on his cheeks, and his chin was wobbling a little, and Crowley could see he was trying his very best not to continue crying.

“You still want to… to spend some time—with me? After… after… my, my disgraceful outburst…” he began.

“Course I do,” interrupted Crowley, in what he hoped was a hearty voice, desperate to stop Aziraphale from launching into a litany of self deprecating nonsense.

“Can’t come all this way and not stop you from doing all those good deeds of yours for a while, can I?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, his voice shaky. His smile widened, becoming more genuine and filled with what looked like a kind of wonder at Crowley’s attitude. “I suppose you can’t.”

“Right, off I go then,” said Crowley, making for the door.

As Crowley turned to leave, his eye was caught by some carved letters on the sandstone lintel of the fireplace. Crowley had spent a good deal of time by that fire when he had been ill, talking with Aziraphale and listening to him read. He had admired the patterns in the stone, the craftsmanship of whoever had rendered it so smooth and regular. There had definitely been no letters on it at that time.

Crowley ran his eye across the lintel as he reached for the door handle. There was a monogram, the letters ‘A’ and “C’ slotted elegantly together, after that, the date in Roman numerals—1381. The year in which they had been together here before.

Crowley had seen such things in other houses when on assignment, and knew full well exactly what it meant. Aziraphale caught him looking, and his face coloured rapidly. Crowley turned his head, smiling to himself as he filed away this new knowledge about the angel’s potential feelings for him for proper examination later. He pulled the ancient door open and stepped outside, closing it behind him. It no longer stuck, which made him smile all the more.

Aziraphale was still blushing when he opened the door to Crowley’s knock.

“Hello Aziraphale,” he said, in a formal kind of way, essaying a little bow as he made this declaration, “I’ve come to see you.”

“So you have. How very kind of you,” enunciated Aziraphale, in a precise and artificial sounding voice, bowing in his turn.

“Do come in, dear fellow.”

The angel indicated the interior with a graceful movement of his arm.

“You must be thirsty after your journey. I’ll go and fetch some wine.”

“Yes,” said Crowley, entering into the spirit of the thing, “wine would be terrific, angel.”

He scurried off. Crowley looked after him, affectionately. They would get through this, it would be alright.

Unfortunately, given their respective positions, there really wasn’t any alternative for them.

***

Epilogue - Coming Home Part Two

“You were awake, all that time, then?”

Aziraphale turned from where he had been standing, leaning against the gate, while he listened to Crowley speaking, and faced his partner. The angel was clearly making an attempt to inject a suitable amount of outrage into his voice, but the fondness of his expression belied any attempt he might have been making to sound truly angry.

“‘Course I was,” said Crowley, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes and smiling in his turn. Aziraphale swatted him lightly on the arm, but the love in his eyes didn’t alter. In fact, if anything, he looked even more pleased.

“Well, once you got into bed I was. Couldn’t miss that, could I? Being held by the sexiest angel alive?”

Aziraphale’s smile grew broader, his eyes twinkling.

“I wasn’t as helpless as I made out either, not after the first couple of days, anyway.”

Aziraphale gasped, theatrically. Crowley nudged him slyly in the ribs.

“Admit it, angel, you loved looking after me.”

“And you loved being mollycoddled as you put it, despite all the complaints to the contrary,” said Aziraphale. But his cheeks were colouring, and he lowered his eyes.

He sighed, obviously giving in to the truth. “I suppose I did, really,” he said, in a smaller, almost guilty voice. Crowley nudged him again.

“Just wanted you to keep on holding me, that night, I mean,” he said, pulling Aziraphale to him so that they stood face to face, their arms around each other.

“Oh, you fiend,” said Aziraphale, drawing Crowley closer, “If you only knew how conflicted I was feeling, touching you without permission.”

“I loved it, angel. And it’s not as if you would ever have plucked up the courage to ask,” said Crowley, taunting gently.

“You would have probably exploded had I done so,” returned Aziraphale. “Besides, I had to cuddle you; you were so cold, darling.”

Aziraphale made an exaggerated pout after saying this and then suddenly they were both laughing, clinging to each other helplessly as they did so.

“I think I probably did know, at some level,” said Aziraphale, once he and Crowley had recovered from their merriment, and he had wiped his eyes.

“I mean about your level of recovery, and need for assistance with sitting up. I suppose, if I am to be honest, I was enjoying being close to you far too much to actively question it.”

Crowley gave a knowing smile and hugged Aziraphale to him, then spoke right by the angel’s ear in the low, gravelly tone that he knew his partner never could resist.

“Can’t get enough of you either, sweetheart, now that we can do this. That’s why I left, by the way, or mostly, anyway. Thought if I spent much more time so close to you I wouldn’t have been responsible for my actions.”

“Oh Crowley, my dearest love, I felt very much the same way.”

Crowley drew away, scrutinising Aziraphale’s face for a moment, taking in the angel’s adoring smile and the wet look of his eyes, then dipped his head to draw his love into a heated kiss. Aziraphale, as was customary for him, melted into Crowley’s arms, returning the kiss with fervour.

“You are quite irresistible you know,” the angel murmured between kisses, “always have been, my sweet. I mean…”

Crowley kissed him again, cupping his cheek with one hand, the other snaked around his waist, holding him firmly.

“… look at this disgraceful display, out in the open where anyone could see us…

“…Oh, darling—don’t stop…”

***

“We are terrible,” the angel said, later, whilst adjusting his tie, “kissing in public like this.”

But he was beaming again, and looked rather proud, as if being terrible was something he was actually deeply pleased about.

“Aren’t we just,” said Crowley, with a feral grin, “good, isn’t it?” he continued, smugly.

“Come on then, angel. Let’s go home.”

Aziraphale flashed him another brilliant smile then reached for his hand. They walked the few steps to the waiting Bentley hand in hand, only separating, and that reluctantly, when they were forced to in order to reach the requisite sides of the vehicle so that they might actually get into it and continue on their way.

The remainder of the journey was mostly downhill, then a left turn into the private lane that led to their cottage home. The entrance to the little road was almost hidden, such was the thickness of the hedges on each side of it. Crowley felt as if he was entering another world, of sorts, a place of refuge where they might be safe and happy after all the time that they had endured away from each other.

Aziraphale looked proud and happy, sitting to the left of Crowley. He had improved the cottage considerably since the sixteenth century. Most of the land he had once had custodianship of had been given away discreetly over the years, the initial peppercorn rents that had been levied being allowed to fall into arrears and then forgotten after a generation.

The building itself now had an upper floor at one side and a large Victorian conservatory appended to the other. This graceful structure opened on to the acre or so of garden that Aziraphale had reserved for the dwelling.

In this verdant space, a new greenhouse glinted in the sun, and there was a beautifully detailed wooden summerhouse set close to a fragrant hedge just before it opened into the small orchard of apple, pear and plum trees. A quiet place, the angel had explained, for him to read on sunny days when Crowley was occupied in the garden.

Crowley, of course, had elaborate plans for that garden. Aziraphale had hired a local man to cut the grass and keep the hedges neat, but apart from seeing to it that the orchard was planted in the late ‘nineties, he had undertaken no serious cultivation. The demon had spoken, frequently and with some excitement, about planting schedules, raised beds for vegetables, a fruit cage for the berries Aziraphale loved so much, a separate herb garden and all manner of flower varieties that he was keen to grow.

The removal men were to arrive in the early afternoon, bringing the furniture they had decided to keep in their new life. In addition there was the many, many boxes of books, manuscripts, ornaments and general paraphernalia that Aziraphale had packed away so carefully by hand from the bookshop. All of which were destined for the spacious Library in the newest extension to the house.

Until the lorry arrived, the two of them had the place to themselves.

They walked side by side through the venerable oak front door that still, despite the renovations, opened on to the kitchen. Aziraphale had told Crowley, with a sentimental look in his eye, that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to even contemplate changing this part of the building, such were the memories that abided for him there.

Crowley had teased him a little about it, but stepping into the room and seeing some of the furniture that he remembered, he too could feel the power of those recollections. This was, after all, the place where he had come to understand fully the strength of his own feelings for Aziraphale, and where they had held each other, and almost kissed, for the first time.

Now they were moving in to dwell together in this most special of houses. Crowley stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the ancient hearth in the far wall of the room.

“You know,” he began, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand once more. The angel grasped it when it was offered and drew near to stand next to him, “I hated the fourteenth century—it was horrible—famine, plague, and war. So many wars. Everything was hopeless.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand, seemingly to indicate his sympathy for this sentiment.

“All apart from one little interlude,” Crowley went on, looking sideways at Aziraphale, who was smiling sentimentally as he returned Crowley’s gaze. “Two very short weeks, I seem to remember.”

He turned to face Aziraphale. It was important that the angel understood how very much that time had meant to him. He felt his intonation lower, heavy with the significance of what he had to say.

“Being with you for that time was the best part of the whole century. It… It gave me hope, angel, after a lot of really, uh, unpleasant things I had to see and do.”

“Oh really?” said Aziraphale, his face lighting up with one of his softest expressions. “I felt the same. I hated it, all of the terrible events that I had to witness and then, when we came here the fact that you were so awfully unwell. But after that, once you were better, it was really rather lovely, having proper time with you. I missed you darling, so much, once you’d gone.”

Crowley gestured at the fireplace.

“When did you get that done, then?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale glanced at the lintel, then back at Crowley, blushing furiously. He lowered his head as if to look at his shoes, shuffling his feet a little, awkwardly. “You will think me very foolish,” he said, sheepishly.

“Well—yeah—but that’s normal,” Crowley teased.

“Oh, you!”

“Explain about the carving,” Crowley insisted, “are those our initials?”

“You know they are. Don’t mock me, Crowley. I never dreamed you’d see this place again. I…”

“Hey, hey,” said Crowley, putting his free arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, “I’m not mocking you, angel. It’s, uh, it’s beautiful, actually. Just wanted to hear about it.”

Aziraphale was twisting his hands together now, red faced and evasive.

“It’s such a lovely human custom,” he said, wistfully, “and I… As I said, I missed you terribly. And…” he tailed off, miserably.

“Go on, angel, I want to hear.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, set his face in the determined expression that Crowley knew so well and spoke whilst directing pleading eyes to Crowley’s own in a clear request for understanding.

“I just wanted a reminder, darling. When you were here, as I said—once you were a little better—it was just so lovely, so congenial. Afterwards, I spent some time thinking—dreaming really—about how much I wanted to be your… Your significant other. To be, be able to live with you like that, but openly, proudly. To be… Be married, I suppose, to put it in human terms.”

Crowley gaped, then realised and shut his mouth with a snap. He nodded. “Go on.”

“I had that,” Aziraphale indicated the fireplace with a sideways motion of his head, “done as a sort of commemoration of our time here, of the joy I felt living with you. Honestly, Crowley, I believed at the time that one day we would inevitably be separated. That the Apocalypse would come to pass and that I would… would never see you again. I didn’t think you’d ever see it…”

“Oh, I saw it, angel.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, that time after the mess on St Bartholomew’s Day. It… It made me think about the same thing. And… It made me happy. Really happy, knowing you could see us in that way—together, properly together—it meant a lot.”

“Oh, Crowley, dearest…”

They smiled at each other, both close to tears. Aziraphale cleared his throat, and with a watery smile, continued.

“I had a Master Mason—from Canterbury—he was working on the cathedral there. Such a lovely fellow, he agreed come here for the day to do the work. He did such a lovely job, I thought. Beautiful, clear letters.”

Crowley regarded his soft angel, his eyes were moist with unshed tears, his cheeks pink. His expression was a remarkable mixture of embarrassment and pride. Aziraphale never had been very adept at hiding what he was feeling, not from Crowley, at any rate.

The erstwhile demon could not help but give his most sincere smile to his beautiful partner. Aziraphale, that fussy, clever, adorable angel who had become such a part of his soul. Every day with Aziraphale since the failure of the world to end had been a revelation. Now, as they were moving in to their new home together, Crowley had found out something new. Aziraphale had liked to think of them being married. Although it wasn’t in the remotest bit demonic of him, Crowley couldn’t have been more happy to become apprised of that fact.

And of course, up to this point, Crowley had made it his life’s mission, and intended that this should continue being the case, that whatever the angel wanted, the angel got. Especially in cases where Aziraphale’s desires so closely matched his own.

“How about it, then, angel?” he said, fulsomely.

“How about what?” said Aziraphale, his face morphing from conflicted to confused.

“You and me,” said Crowley, gesturing between them. “Rings, vows, cake—the whole shebang. What do you say?”

“You…” stuttered Aziraphale, “You want to…?”

“Yeah. Yeah I do. Have done for ages.”

Crowley noted Aziraphale’s growing expression of amazement.

“Come on, angel. ‘Course I do. Wouldn’t have asked you to run away with me so many times otherwise. Love you, Aziraphale. Want to make an honest man of you,” he finished up, embarrassed now after this unfamiliar outburst of honest feeling.

“You’re… You’re proposing?”

“Yup, suppose I am,” said Crowley.

He lowered himself down on one knee.

“Might as well make a proper tit of myself while I’m here,” he said awkwardly. Then, as he looked up into Aziraphale’s astonished face, he realised that he had never meant anything more in his life. He was feeling this, and feeling it hard. Nothing had ever been so important.

“Marry me, angel,” he said gravely into the blindingly bright smile of the face above him. “Let’s put another date above that fireplace.”

“Oh, yes, my darling! Yes! I love you so much… I, I would like that. More than anything in the world,” said Aziraphale.

“Yes, let’s!”

If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

The End