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[matthew 22:39]
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Crowley would like to reiterate, HOAs are the work of the devil.
And, he, under oath, will firmly stand behind this belief for only the devil could ruin perfectly good living space with an idea as insidious as an HOA but compel him to want to live there anyway.
Of all the ideas that made its way from America, this is his least favorite. (His favorite is trashy reality television, as we do.)
Signing his mark to the contract, he reminds himself of his promise to his children that the new house would have space for all of them, and this house satisfied all requirements quite nicely. No more boxed topiaries or pots for his beloveds anymore, the poor darlings, just a spacious plot of land. Of course, he’d have to do something about the disheveled apple tree out front as well. Wouldn’t want—pun not intended—one rotten apple to spoil the bunch after all.
He imagines having brunch in the charming nook facing his front yard surrounded by the only company he could tolerate these days as he encourages everyone to do their best (or else). Naps under the sunlight coming in through the large windows. Baths in his new—new to him—clawfooted tub, supposedly made in the nineteenth century and restored for the modern hedonist.
On the official move-in day, Crowley arrives in his Bentley around mid-afternoon to shout at the workers to be careful with his children while unbuckling and subsequently cradling pots of his prized dahlias to his chest. Spring had always been kind to his family.
Since he’s visited the property last, they’ve torn down the white wooden fence (dreadful) to capitalize on the open concept (superior). Drab concrete was replaced with freshly lain soil, ready for his plants. And, when all is settled, he lets the workers go and sits in his window to admire the dahlias below him. In contrast to the verdant garden, his dark hair is aflame in the fading sunlight.
.
The next morning, he lies in bed for a good ten minutes thinking about what to do. He's too accustomed to working and is unsettled to find he doesn't have a schedule prepared for the next few days. He considers going in to work anyway, but if he does, Anathema would just nag him until he goes back home. Finally, he remembers the apple tree is still awaiting his personal touch and decides it’s as good a distraction as any.
Rolling out of bed, he changes into dark jeans and a simple t-shirt. He wants to clear the lower branches of the tree to at least make it less of a hazard until he can bring over a few of his people to take it down and haul it away completely the following week. Coming to stand next to the most offensive branch, he looks up into the lush foliage and again laments the bent leader. No, it wouldn’t do for Crowley’s garden at all, something as distasteful as that. He caresses the trunk of the poor tree with a gloved hand, paying it a moment of respect.
“Excuse me."
Crowley whips around. “What’s that?”
“I said ‘excuse me.’”
“Good for you," he says brusquely. He didn't appreciate being caught in a private moment, not that he’d admit to having a sentimental side in the first place. "What is it already?”
The intruder looks slightly ruffled at the less than polite response as if Crowley had been the one to interrupt him. “Oh, yes, well. Good morning, sir. Might you know where the new owner of the house is?”
Crowley collects himself and leans into the apple tree, arms crossed. He’s been told he can seem very intimidating this way, but his counterpart does not waver under his steady gaze despite his classically cherubic appearance and unassuming beige tones. “I'm the owner, angel.” It was a slip of the tongue, and he isn’t actually trying to, but his words earn a stammer of incomprehensible word beginnings tinged with indignation that thrill him.
Finally, the man lets out a resolute hmph, and Crowley almost expects him to follow it up with a ‘well, I never,’ but he never does. Instead, he adjusts his coat and starts into what sounds like a scripted but poorly rehearsed spiel, “Welcome to the neighborhood…”
“Crowley,” he helpfully supplies with a flourish of his hand.
“Crowley. Thank you.” He begins again, “Welcome, Crowley, to the neighborhood. I am a representative of this community’s HOA. You may call me Aziraphale. The HOA would like to present you with a house-warming gift. Present wine bottle. Oh, sorry, I mean, here. It's wine, obviously. I can set it down on the sidewalk, if you’d like—if you’re busy.”
“That stuff any good?”
“Very good!” he exclaims. “It’s from one of my favorite collections, you see—”
“Right, well, let’s have a glass, then.” He takes off his gloves and bumps shoulders with Aziraphale in invitation.
“Right now?”
“Might as well."
They leave the apple tree rustling behind them.
.
They sit facing his fireplace on opposite ends of the leather sofa. The wine bottle is precariously placed between them. Aziraphale keeps his posture prim with his arm propped to the right armrest while Crowley has his legs spread, slouched in his seat altogether.
With a drink under his belt, Crowley has hit the minimum threshold to make him fit o socialize. He’s actually beginning a second drink to really pull things in his favor when he asks, “So what do you do?”
“Er—I-I own a bookshop in Soho.”
“Not just a lackey for the HOA?”
“I’m not a lackey! I just like to help and keep things nice. Gabriel and the others have done quite a lot of work to improve the neighborhood.”
“Is that right?
“You’re welcome to join us and see.”
He scoffs at the idea, but instead of declining the invitation outright, he changes the subject, “S’far, isn’t it? Your bookshop.”
“About 45 minutes depending. But, I don’t keep open hours very long. Or very often,” he admits, first glass of wine still resting in his left hand. “And you?”
“Landscaper,” he demurs. In actuality, someone lesser in the industry might throw around the word monopoly when describing the company that Crowley founded, especially in the context of the subsidiaries his company has its hands in controlling under his leadership. Some people just can’t be happy for others.
“That explains the apple tree.”
He hums noncomittally and decides to polish off his second glass. He thinks better of a third one but only for a moment.
“I’ve always loved that apple tree,” he adds while Crowley wrestles with his third glass.
“Bit of an eyesore,” he grunts.
“It has character.”
“Bah.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Success," he says to himself as he gets the wine bottle to cooperate. "More trouble than it’s worth. The damned thing’s bent as all hell.”
“Perhaps. The neighborhood kids are quite fond of it. And, it makes the best honeycrips for baking.”
“You bake?”
“Oh, yes. I love sweets. I can pick some, if you don’t mind, and make you an apple cobbler in the fall. Once the apples come in?”
“Not much for sweets, me,” he lies, rolling the glass stem in his hands. He slips further down in his seat.
“You’ll love it!" he insists. "It has a crumb layer on top. I can make it less sweet for you.”
“Make it however you want.”
“You won’t regret it.”
“I’m sure I will.”
In the silence, Crowley has time to catch Aziraphale openly consider him, and Crowley is almost charmed in turn. Though, that might be the drink getting to him.
“Do you—oh, do you—,” Aziraphale stops himself and presses his lips against the glass.
"Do I what?”
“Perhaps, maybe—oh, oh no. Never mind. Rude of me.”
“Out with it already, angel,” he urges.
“Oh,” he huffs like he already regrets bringing it up, “Do you perhaps do private work?”
That certainly wasn't what he was expecting to hear. He looks at him over his sunglasses, revealing his amber eyes. “Private work. Perhaps, mow your lawn?” He exaggerates mowing the lawn with his hands, and it comes off absolutely obscene, as was his intention.
“No. No. I mean, sort of, yes? Or, perhaps you know someone? I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of a black thumb. The HOA’s given me plenty of notices to improve, but I can’t seem to bring my yard up to scratch.”
“Well okay then.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll do it. Why not?”
“Oh, wonderful. You’re not too busy, are you?”
“What’s the address?”
“I’m actually just next door.”
“With the drying rose bushes or with the wilting chrysanthemums?”
He replies with some embarrassment, “Wilting chrysanthemums, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll do what I can. Spring’s ending. Can’t make any promises for immediate results this go round. Have you considered succulents?”
“They're not for me. I absolutely adore chrysanthemums, and I’ve already waited this long. I’m sure it’ll be amazing with your help. Thank you.”
Crowley grumbles and averts his gaze, wondering if he might have been too impulsive. No, he knows he was too impulsive.
“The flowers outside are quite beautiful.”
Lost in his glass, he eloquently replies, “Hah?”
“The flowers outside? Are they dahlias? Lovely color, too. Burgundy? Must be, I think.”
“You’ve got a good eye for someone with a black thumb.”
“I own a few first editions on flowers extensively. There were pictures. Dahlias… dahlias are dignity, elegance, and… good taste, if I recall correctly.”
“Right on the money, angel. Drink up. You’re thinking far too clearly.” He grabs the wine again and instead of pouring it into Aziraphale’s glass aims it straight for his mouth.
“Oh, no. No, thank you,” he mouths against the lip of the bottle.
After a brief struggle, Crowley gives up and lets Aziraphale take the wine away from him. “Got somewhere to be? Doing more of the HOA’s bidding? Bookshop?” He sounds it out carefully as if the word created an odd feel in his mouth.
“Didn’t want to impose for too long. You’ve hardly had time to move in.”
“It’s all done,” he gestures in no particular direction behind them both.
“Already?”
“That’s what the help was for.”
Aziraphale looks around once and does it again to be sure, “But it’s so… where are your things? Where are your… books?”
“It’s all there. All the necessities.”
“And the unnecessary?”
“They’re unnecessary.”
“Well, if that’s how you prefer,” he acquiesces, clearly wanting to say more but politely choosing not to.
“It is.”
Breaking the not-quite tension, he offers, “Would you like some lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“I owe you after you’ve shared your housewarming gift with me.”
“Not in a state to drive at the moment.”
“We can order in. Or, I can make something!” he exclaims. “How do you feel about pastas?”
“Could go for some pasta.”
“Wait here. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Yep. I’ll be right here,” he agrees, raising the glass to Aziraphale’s back. His eyes freely follow his neighbor’s form without detection as he leaves and stays fixed on the door long after he’s gone. “Yep.”
.
Suffice it to say, the rest of that day was a blur for Crowley. So, when Saturday comes around, he's surprised to be woken up by a persistent knocking at his door. Regrettably, as a man of his word, he keeps his promises, regardless of how fuzzy they may be in his head. At least, he has a vague sense of triumph that he was able to get Aziraphale to start matching him drink for him at some point. One could argue that was worth it.
Eventually, he's brought to stand on the property line between his and Aziraphale’s yards. When Aziraphale shows him how he usually takes care of his plants, he easily attributes Aziraphale’s failings to being too soft with them, too afraid to be firm with them. They lack discipline.
Fortunately, he could fix that.
“I water them regularly,” he explains when he sees a look cross over Crowley's face.
“It’s not your fault," he says. "Well, actually, it is your fault. You’ve been spoiling them." That settled, he turns to the bushes. “Isn’t that right, you lot?! You’re spoiled! And, you don’t realize that you can all be replaced within the day!”
“Oh, Crowley, don’t be mean to them.”
“Don’t undermine me. They know what they’ve done.”
“And what's that exactly?”
“They’ve taken advantage of your kindness, you fool. You want well-behaving flowers? You have to discipline them!”
“I don’t want well-behaving flowers; I want… well… flowery flowers.”
“Same difference. And, it’s my job now to get them in line.” He looms over the bushes. “So, they better shape up or they're out!”
“You really think shouting will help?”
“Well they don't have ears, do they? Need to be loud.” He cocks his head in consideration, eyes never leaving the offending flowers. “Unless you think they need a demonstration instead?”
Quick to placate him, Aziraphale says, “No! No. I think they got the message. I’ve never seen them looking so… contrite. Honest.”
“Hmm.” He’s about to get a closer look at the soil as well when he hears the laughter of children carried down toward them by the wind. Ugh. “And who the hell are they?”
Aziraphale follows his line of sight to four children gathering around the apple tree. “Oh, those are the neighborhood kids I was telling you about. Quite nice. I’m particularly fond of young Adam. Imagination like no other. Likes magic.”
“They’re getting their germs on my tree.”
“I have warned them about climbing it. They might fall off and break something.”
“Yeah, like my branches. I spent time pruning those, and there they go, trespassing.”
“Be nice, Crowley.”
He stands up and dusts off his jeans. “I’m just going to have a word or two.”
“Please,” he asks, holding him back. “Look. They can’t even reach the lowest branch.”
“Good.”
Caught up in their discussion, they don't notice the children calling out to Aziraphale.
The boy tries again, “Hey, Aziraphale!”
“Aziraphale?" he repeats, finally hearing them. "No manners.”
“You’re not nearly old enough to act this cranky, really,” he admonishes. He waves back to the boy. “Hello, Adam. Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian. Lovely day.”
“Aziraphale, what’s wrong with the tree?”
“Well, you see—”
“Nothing’s wrong with the tree now, you little brat.” Under his breath, he mutters, “Minus the bend.”
“But we can’t climb it anymore.”
“Good. Wasn’t the point. But, good.”
“Crowley.”
“Aziraphale.”
Adam interrupts again, directing his attention to Crowley this time, “Are you new here?”
“Yes. You got a problem?”
“No,” he squints. “You just look like my friend’s old nanny. She was a bit weird, but she was nice.”
Crowley sputters unintelligibly but has no response.
Looking back at the tree now lost to them and ignoring Crowley’s indignation, Adam decides, “Let’s just grab our bikes and go to the base, you guys—,” he catches Pepper' grimace and amends his speech, “—everyone, there’s tons of trees we can climb there if we want.”
Seemingly settled, the children chorus, “Okay, Adam," and go on their way.
Adam is the last to go and nods his goodbyes to the both of them, “Bye, Aziraphale."
"Goodbye, Adam. Have fun."
"Thanks! Hope you get better, Crowley.”
“I’m not sick.”
“All the same.”
When they’ve disappeared from view, Aziraphale tells Crowley, “Oh, I do hope they’re safe out there.”
“What the fresh hell was that?” He finally asks, admittedly somewhat impressed by the boy’s cheek.
“Sorry. I did tell you the children liked that tree.”
“And you're fond of them?”
“Yes. They’re really sweet when you get to know them. I sometimes watch them for their parents, and then they’d come by to play on that tree a lot. It was nice. Suppose they’ll just play off in the woods now.” He’s wistful for a moment and remembers. “This is for you, by the way, from the HOA.” He hands him a sealed letter.
“What is it?”
Aziraphale is looking anywhere but his face. “A warning.”
“A warning! About what?”
“The apple tree,” he juts out his thumb to indicate that one as if there were any other apple tree they could possibly be referring to. “Seems they didn’t like the state it was in when you bought the house.”
“But I’ve fixed it. I fixed it practically the very next day.”
“Well, that’s why they’ve backdated it.”
He skims the letter. “Incredible.”
Aziraphale looks at him in sympathy as he tosses it and goes back to terrorizing the flowers. It went better than Aziraphale had expected.
.
The next day, before he has to go back into work again, Crowley is under the chrysanthemum bushes, carefully aerating the soil. Aziraphale stands by him for moral support. Unfortunately, it’s slow work under the sun due to their bickering.
By the time the children stop by on their bicycles, they’re arguing over whether The Velvet Underground was considered ‘bebop’ (it wasn’t). Aziraphale returns the greetings properly as he half-listens to Crowley and half-worries over his flowers. Crowley more grunts in acknowledgement than anything but doesn’t stop in his rhetoric. The children shrug and move on.
.
Two weeks later, after yet another round of greetings exchanged between Aziraphale and the children on their way to the woods, Crowley finally breaks.
He throws down his trowel dramatically and glares at Aziraphale. “Would you stop that?’
“Stop what?”
“You keep sighing and pouting any time they go round our way.”
“Well, you can’t help but miss them.”
“Yes, I can.”
Crowley ends up finishing early that day and declines their usual lunch. He claims having other work to attend to and asks Anathema to acquire and drop off a few items for him. He offers her another two days off to make up for disrupting her weekend.
This is how, nearly a month later, a tire swing magically appears under Crowley's apple tree. Aziraphale gushes over it and, by nature of association, over Crowley.
When the children stop by this week, they are quick to notice the difference. It turns out the bent trunk actually did manage to do some good after all.
“May we use it?” Pepper—Aziraphale told him so—asks.
“S’not really any of my business.”
“Oh, Crowley,” he says.
“Shut it,” he responds.
Taking it as tacit agreement, the Them quickly start establishing the order of who gets to go first and who pushes, but Adam stays with them for the moment.
“You’re not very subtle, are you?”
“I haven’t done a thing."
“Right. Well, congratulations on getting better," he says before going over to his friends to logically declare that he should get to go first.
Watching the children play, Aziraphale remarks, “He’s right, you know.”
“Thought I told you to shut it.” He goes back to shouting at the grass in Aziraphale’s yard. Not nearly as green as they could be. Pales in comparison to his own yard. Pathetic, he tells the lawn. Do better, he commands the seedlings. Shut up, he reminds the impossibly smug Aziraphale hovering over him.
.
Despite having returned to his full schedule of work, Crowley finds it easy to continue coming by on weekends to help with the yard work, but both he and Aziraphale end up spending time together during the weekdays anyway. It’s not hard. They are neighbors. It’s convenient if not logical, he convinces himself half-heartedly.
On one particular Tuesday, they find themselves standing shoulder to shoulder in a crowded museum gallery of a nouveau artiste. Both have their heads tilted to one side for new perspective. Finally, they consult the adorning plaque.
“It’s good and evil wrestling,” Aziraphale reads.
Crowley is silent for longer than he thought to give himself credit for before he can’t resist any longer. He moves close to Aziraphale’s ear and whispers, “Are you certain that they’re wrestling?”
“Crowley!” he exclaims, bumping into the next patron as he jolts back in shock at the suggestion.
The patron pushes him back into Crowley and shushes them harshly.
“Sorry, madam.”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but this is the most homoerotic wrestling I’ve seen since those Greek history specials you made me watch.”
"Really now."
Again, they're shushed. Only, Crowley isn't having it. “Oh shush yourselves! Look at that tension!”
Tugging on his arm to leave, Aziraphale drags them both away from the statue. “You are going to get us kicked out.”
“Whatever. Come on," he says as he leans into his hold. "Let’s go get dinner at that place you like.”
Inevitably, they end up discussing art at dinner, and somehow—somehow—they go back, and Crowley ends up with a statue of two winged beings absolutely fucking, and no one can convince him otherwise, in his hallway within two days. Well, he supposes, it’s as close to post-coitus as one can be while still pre-coitus.
“You think good’s at least enjoying himself down there?” Crowley asks, to be a bit of an ass.
“Bold of you to assume evil’s the top, my dear,” Aziraphale replies in kind, sipping his drink.
.
Fall is making its way into his garden, and Crowley is not happy with the state of his plants. It's during this time that he gives his plants an extra 'pep' talk before heading into work. This particular morning, he's stopped by Aziraphale. It's not unusual to see Aziraphale in the mornings, but he has a look about him, and Crowley's suspicions are confirmed when he brings out a familiar letter and gives him another sympathetic half-smile.
“Oh, Crowley,” he says before handing over the letter. He clears his throat, “Morn-morning, neighbor.”
He looks at it and hands it back with a shrug. “What is it this time?”
“A warning for unnecessary morning disturbances before eight o’clock. Sorry, my dear. I got them to let you off with another warning this time at least.” Aziraphale offers another sheepish smile and prepares himself for the backlash.
“I’ll show them unnecessary,” he growls through clenched teeth.
For the next full minute, Aziraphale is treated to an impressive range of swears in both their variety and volume. Luckily, he's brought his ear plugs. “Oh, my dear, really,” he mutters to himself, tucking the letter into his coat to avoid inciting another tantrum. He tried to tell them it wouldn't help.
.
Also around this time, work is picking up worse than usual at Crowley's company. With the changing seasons comes the need for new ideas and new designs.
His clients have learned to make appointments months in advance if they want to be seen by him, but he's learned to turn away those who are difficult to work with. At the moment, Crowley is between meetings and has his feet up on his desk with the door closed (less likely for Anathema to catch him in the act) when Aziraphale phones him asking him to bring lunch if he’s not busy. He claims he forgot today because he didn’t think he’d be opening up the bookstore, and Crowley seizes the opportunity to duck out for an hour. As requested, he picks up goat curry from the Indian place they both like that's situated between his office and the bookshop. Taking his Bentley, he’s able to get to Aziraphale in twenty minutes and parks in a spot right in front.
The bell tinkles lightly as he opens the wooden door, signaling his presence. He slows his pace when, instead of Aziraphale, he’s greeted by a twiggy pair of glasses dressed in an unfashionable polo behind the register.
“You robbing the place?”
The twig manages to drop his own glasses and knock a stack of books down off the shelf behind him.
Aziraphale won’t like that, he thinks. Placing the takeout containers beside an untranslated edition of the poems of Sappho, he continues, “There’s not much in the till. Trust me. Don’t even know how he manages to keep the place open with the way he runs things. Doesn’t even sell a book a week, I bet.”
The man in question emerges from the back having heard everything. “Crowley, really. Stop scaring the boy. And how I run things is none of your business.”
“I’m not scared, Mr. Aziraphale,” he protests as he searches for his glasses. Groping the ground, he finds them wedged under a copy of Shakespeare’s tragedies. Of course, he has to pop the lens back in, too. Really, he’s fortunate enough that the pair hasn’t completely given up on him.
“I keep telling you, ‘Aziraphale’ is just fine.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes fondly as Crowley clears his throat to bring his attention back on him.
“Didn’t think you’d be here so soon," he says. "Slow work day?” He moves beside Crowley to take out the containers and inspect them; the air fills with warm spices.
Immediately, the walking hazard perks up. "Is that lunch?"
“Yes! Feel free to take lunch in the back now, Newton, my boy. I can handle things out here.”
Newton adjusts his glasses and sidesteps Crowley to reach for a container. Or, he wanted to but his hand is slapped away with what sounded like a hiss. Frightened, he maneuvers to stand behind Aziraphale.
Used to this behavior, Aziraphale asks, “Is that really necessary, my dear?”
“What’s he think he’s doing?”
“Getting lunch?”
“Not our lunch, he’s not.”
“Our lunch?”
“Aren’t we having lunch?”
“Why would you think we were having lunch? Don’t you have work?”
“You said to get two portions.”
“Yes, for me and Newton.”
“I thought that was your way of assuming I’d say yes to lunch with you.”
“My dear,” he says indulgently.
“You’re insufferable. Fine. Take it. Take it all. I’ll just starve.”
“Oh, you fussy thing. We can share. I can’t finish it myself anyway.”
He throws his hands up. “Why lie now, angel?”
“We can have dinner then.”
“Hmm.”
“We can have wine, too.”
He softens imperceptibly, somewhat mollified. “You won’t have work tomorrow?”
“No, even though I know you do. Newton can handle it himself tomorrow. We'll make it a half-day.”
Newton, who had been watching the back and forth with interest, finally notices both sets of expectant eyes on him and nods emphatically. Anything to be done with this.
“Fine,” Crowley says, mercifully dismissing him with finality. When he retreats back to his own offices, he considers bullying Anathema into having lunch with him. Or, he would, except she might make him take a working lunch. He’ll have to skip lunch for the day and make Aziraphale take responsibility for it later, and somehow, that thought is more satisfying than the curry would have been.
.
After months of Crowley coming by, it takes serious consideration for Aziraphale to finally pop the question.
“How much are you charging for your services, by the way?”
They were discussing the ducks at St. James Pond, and Crowley has to look up from where he’s been watering Aziraphale’s lawn with a hose. He drags his hands down and then up his chest dramatically and responds, “You can’t afford me.”
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
“Really, angel, it’s been how long, and now you ask?”
“Was never the right time. Didn’t think it polite to mix business with-with—.”
“Pleasure?” He gives him another look before continuing to water the plants. “Just think of it as a bit of neighborly help. A cup of sugar, if you will.” The side of a smirk Aziraphale manages to see implies something less than innocent undertones.
“Let me pay you something. I feel like I’m taking advantage.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Please.
“I don’t need it.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No. Just don’t tell the damn HOA about those flowers that were definitely not rare tulips in my backyard, and we’ll call it even. Fair?”
“Not really, and I will keep it a secret. But, just consider it at least, my dear.”
“I’ll consider it,” he lies and goes back to wondering how casually he can turn the hose onto Aziraphale without getting caught.
.
It's mid-fall before they know it, and Crowley’s out in his yard, mostly just pretending to work while watching Aziraphale watch him. This time, he's trimming at imaginary branches in his apple tree when he figures it’s about the right time. He grabs at an apple from a branch and picks it, wipes it on his pants for polish. He comes down the ladder with the apple in hand and calls over to Aziraphale as he takes a bite. There’s a satisfying crunch as juice spills into his mouth; he catches it on his tongue.
“Yes, Crowley?”
“Think the apples are ready, angel.”
“Oh, brilliant.” He strolls over and climbs Crowley’s ladder readily as Crowley steadies him from below. He uses his own sweater to hold however many apples as he needs and comes down without another word.
A few hours later, Aziraphale returns with a long promised apple cobbler with crumb crust.
It’s delicious.
.
The next few times Crowley is over to help with Aziraphale's yard, he has an apple cobbler ready for him.
.
Winter is more brutal than fall. In the winter, there’s less to do in both their yards. Often times, they would end up in Crowley’s nook knee to knee, a spread of tea and the last of the apple cobbler for the year between them, oven-warmed to a syrupy perfection.
They’re even in his nook having tea when he’s handed another letter from the HOA. “I think you’re enjoying this,” he accuses.
“Not really, no. But it is rather convenient.”
“Right,” he says as he drops the letter onto the floor uncaringly. “What’s this one for?”
“Leaving out your trash bins overnight.”
“Of course.”
“Think there was a picture attached to that one.”
“Of course.”
.
Not a week later, they’re watching the kids play on the tire swing in their winter clothes when he hands him the next letter.
“A fine for that damn tireswing? What’s this about a permit? Why didn’t you tell me before?” Clearly, Aziraphale has a twisted sense of irony.
“It slipped my mind? I’m surprised it took them this long. Honestly, I thought they’d let it go by this point,” he shrugs.
“It slipped your mind. Unbelievable.”
“I don’t remember every little detail. I was there when they were making the handbook. Isn’t that enough?”
“Clearly not. Whose idea was it, a permit. For a tire swing in my own yard. A little warning might have been nice.”
“There’ll be paperwork,” he informs.
“You can fill it out yourself. It’s your fault anyway.”
“How’s it my fault?”
“I only put the damn thing up because you—,” he shuts his mouth.
“Mhmm. I thought you had nothing to do with it.”
“You’re the absolute worse; you know that?”
.
The week before Christmas brings soft flurries to the door of Aziraphale's bookshop. Today, he's decided to open his shop, but it doesn't make much of a difference. Crowley is here, too, for company, fielding calls and telling Anathema that he's positively snowed in and can't leave where he is to make the next meeting.
They're both in the back room as Aziraphale carefully thumbs through his supposed merchandise. “I thought we could have sushi on Christmas day. I checked, and there are a few places that are still open that I’d like to try. What do you think?”
“Christmas? Is that still the 25th?”
He pushes Crowley’s feet off his display table full of books and says, “Last I checked.”
“I thought you knew I’d be out of town next week?”
“But surely you’d be back home for Christmas?”
“No rest for the wicked, angel.”
“It’s Christmas! Surely the wicked can be spared even a day.”
“Can't. It’s this whole thing they want me to do for Christmas for some American ambassador’s estate. I have to be on hand to oversee things. Make sure things go according to their great plan. It’s been in progress for over a month.”
“It’s an affront to baby Jesus.”
“Really, angel. I’ll be back in time for the New Year. We can get sushi then. Or, we can go today if you want. Anytime. Whatever you want.”
Aziraphale’s lips remain in a line as he holds his gaze. “I’m being silly,” he says finally, breaking eye contact. “I just assumed, I suppose.”
“Angel, I’m sorry.”
“Stop, Crowley. You don’t owe me anything. It’s my fault.”
“Well, you’re upset with me.”
“It’s not you. I get upset over lots of things. Didn’t you see me yesterday when Newton sent me that video of the baby kittens?”
“Yes,” he agrees hesitantly. “Doesn’t mean I like to see it. We can go to the Ritz before I leave. You like it there. My treat.”
“We can’t get reservations now,” he replies as a non-answer, and Crowley knows he'll be forgiven. “I’m sure they’re all booked up. It’d take a miracle.”
“I’ll make it happen. Whatever it takes.”
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It so happens, a table for two does miraculously become available the night before Crowley is to leave, and Aziraphale gets to dine at the Ritz in front of the piano the week of Christmas. They have oysters and filet instead of sushi, but Aziraphale is fully satfisfied with the experience (so long as no one tells him how Crowley’s gotten the table).
Crowley brings back them back to his house, bare of most Christmas decorations, save for one rather frightened looking pot of poinsettias on his kitchen counter (the tag reveals it’s from Aziraphale, of course), because he’s got the larger wine selection and he still needs to pack. However, there's little packing done as Crowley’s doing his best to catch up to Aziraphale. For that reason, it is fortunate they’ve made their way onto the floor rather than the sofa because he isn’t sure how safe it would be for Aziraphale to be any higher than strictly ground level.
“Do you under-underst-get why dolphins?” He spills a bit of wine on his fingers and messily licks it away before Crowley can even offer a napkin much less stop staring.
“Why dolphins what?”
“Th-the dolphins, you know. Why the dolphins?”
"Haven't given it—never really gave it much thought."
“D-do you—do you want me to check in on your house while you’re-you're gone? Water-water your plants and all that?”
“Don’t-don't you dare touch my plantsss. I can’t have you softening them up with how you are.”
Aziraphale leans forward onto his hands and utterly drops his drink—there goes the rug, Crowley thinks as he removes his glass. His face comes inexplicably close to his own. “How am I?”
“You-you’re too nice to them. Coo-cooing over them, and then I have to fix every-everything by doing it all over again but-but double. Sends them mixed messages. They’re going to grow up confused," he slurs.
Suddenly, his lap is full of Aziraphale, and Crowley has to gulp down the rest of his drink before going to prop up his neighbor in a more comfortable upright position, who fights to cling to his side.
“But they’re such lovely plants.”
“They-they most def-def—they are not. I’ll have someone else come by to take care of them.”
“Colleague?”
“Something like that.”
“I can-I can still take in the post for you.”
“If you prefer,” he fishes around his pockets before placing his keys into Aziraphale’s palm.
Almost cross-eyed as he examines it, he asks, “Don’t you-don't you need these?”
“Not when I’m gone.”
“Err-Right. I'll give them back to you when you’re home.”
“Exactly.”
The word no sooner leaves his mouth when Aziraphale goes slack against him, passed out. “Okay,” he mumbles, incredibly out of it.
Crowley confirms he's okay before carrying him to his own bed and tucking him in. He, himself, cleans up after them, finishes packing, and takes the sofa. He doesn't get much sleep.
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The morning after, Aziraphale wakes up to an empty house. There is a glass of water and a set of keys on the nightstand. He drinks the water and doesn't leave the bed until he's ready.
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While Crowley is gone, Aziraphale diligently keeps an eye on his house and checks in every day. Whenever he drops off mail, he lingers in the hallway once or twice, looking but not looking. He may or may not have also take another nap in Crowley’s bedroom as well, but that's neither here nor there.
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On the third day Crowley is gone—the day before the day before Christmas—, Aziraphale is greeted by a young woman looking for him.
She stands a respectable distance from his door when he opens it. She’s intelligent looking and fashionably dressed in earthy tones.
“Hello,” she greets, “Are you Mr. Aziraphale Fell?”
“Good morning. I am.”
“Great! I’m Anathema Device. I am Mr. Anthony J. Crowley’s assistant,” she says as she hands him her card.
Glancing at the business card, he wonders, “What does the 'J' stand for?”
She considers it for a moment and remarks, “You know, it’s never come up.”
“And you’re his assistant?”
“That’s what it says, yes.”
“He told me someone would be by to take care of the gardening. Didn’t realize he had an assistant.”
“You don’t think someone like Mr. Crowley has an assistant?”
“I didn't think he'd need one?”
Anathema snorts a little. “Mr. Crowley is the chief executive officer of a popular and highly profitable landscaping company. Mr. Crowley mostly runs the business side of things but occasionally will take on private projects as well as a sign of good faith to our more high-profile clientele. Personally, I think he just enjoys showing off.” Getting a blank stare in return, she asks, “He didn’t tell you anything?”
“It’s… never come up.”
“Ah. Well, no matter now. If it’s possible, I was wondering if I could borrow his keys. He asked me to check in on his plants and make sure his neighbor hasn’t been coddling them.”
“I have not been coddling anything!”
Anathema grinned, “He didn’t say which neighbor.”
“Well I haven’t.”
“Of course not. The keys?”
“Be just a moment.” When he returns with the keys, he’s hesitant to hand it over to a stranger.
“I’ll give it back,” she assures him, palm open in a nonthreatening manner. When that doesn’t work, she concedes, “Or you can let me in and watch me if you’d like. It’ll likely take an hour or so, but if you’ve got nothing else to do.”
“Oh, yes, can I?” he asks, relieved. “That would be wonderful.”
Anathema has already completed a walk-through of the front yard but needs to check the backyard and the indoor plant to make sure everything is in order. She takes the plant mister on the countertop left for her and briefly sprays the lone houseplant. Aziraphale avoids her eyes when she reads the tag at the base of the poinsettias.
In the backyard, the plants remain impeccable without a leaf out of order. She can only wonder what her boss has said to them before he left to ensure this good behavior. Nevertheless, she grabs the hose and waters them efficiently as she assures them that her boss really does want the best for them.
All in all, the visit is a little more than half an hour. She's almost gone when, on her way out, her eye catches on something in the hallway; Aziraphale bumps into her with how close he's following.
“Excuse me,” he says.
“That’s new," she replies.
“What?”
“That statue. He didn’t have it before the move.”
Though he doesn’t look up, he doesn't need to. He knows exactly what she’s referring to. Suddenly, he feels as if it were damning evidence to some crime he has unknowingly committed. “Yes, well, it’s not terribly new. There was an art exhibit we went to, and he bought it.”
“It’s very unique,” she comments.
“It’s supposed to be good and evil wrestling.”
She spares him a glance before remarking, “Are you certain they’re wrestling?”
“Why does everyone keep asking that?”
She laughs in response, thanks him for his time, and leaves him to ponder.
.
On Christmas day, Aziraphale is lonely. It's the longest they've gone without talking. He didn’t want to bother him at work, really, but he can't help it.
Happy Holidays, he sends before he can talk himself out of it. What does the J stand for? (:
Moments later, he gets a call.
“Happy Holidays. It’s just a ‘J’ really. Who told you?”
“Certainly not you, Mr. CEO.”
“I see you’ve met Anathema.”
“She’s quite capable, your assistant.”
“Hmm.”
“Crowley.”
“Hmm?”
“Crowley.”
“Oh, stop it. I wasn’t hiding anything.”
“It would’ve been nice to know is all.”
“What difference would it have made?”
“I might not have asked you to help me with my yard work, for one.”
“Where’s the fun in that? None at all.”
Aziraphale sighs. “Tell me about your work when you get home? But truly this time.”
“If it means that much to you, I—” he stops short to respond to a muffled query on his side. “I’ve got to go now, angel. Happy Holidays.”
“I’ll be waiting to know what the ‘J’ stands for. Happy Holidays,” he hangs up. He’s still lonely but less so. So, there’s that.
He decides to open the bookshop late on Christmas Day.
.
You’re fired, Crowley sends to Anathema as soon as he settles the issues with the lighting.
Happy Holidays, good luck filling out the paperwork by yourself, she sends back.
Happy Holidays, you ingrate
You should bring Aziraphale with you next time. He looked awfully lonely.
We’re neighbors
Oh my God they were neighbors
I didn’t say you weren’t
I know what you’re implying
I have no idea what you’re inferring
Absolute worst.
He’s cute
Cuddly
I assume
Fired fired fired
Don’t you have work to do?
Paperwork, yeah
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Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a few scant messages and two phone calls for the remaining time he's away, but Crowley can admit he misses home like nothing else. And, it's a restless feeling. With his expert navigation through the M-25 traffic, he is able to pull into his driveway at twilight, a full hour ahead of when he had told Aziraphale to expect him.
Fully prepared to go next door to surprise him, he stops when he sees Aziraphale in his own doorway.
“Welcome home,” he calls out.
He takes the time to appreciate the moment and saunters down the walkway. “Thanks,” he says when he reaches his door. He hands Aziraphale a basket, “Some pears.”
“Splendid. I can use that to complement the duck for tonight. I invited Newton. Be nice?”
“Hmm. Is there room for Anathema?”
“Of course.”
“Family’s overseas,” he explains without prompting. “Couldn’t give her the time off to go home for the holidays while I was gone, too. No one else to hold down the fort.”
“I’ll set a place for her as well, my dear.”
And, really, he can't be blamed for what happens next. He's home, and Aziraphale is here smiling at him, looking like he's made his home his, and he feels a little overwhelmed like this with how much he’s been working and how long he's been away that he says, “Thanks, angel,” and drops his luggage and leans in for a kiss. There's a perfect moment before he realizes what he's done and registers the shock on Aziraphale’s face. He straightens his coat feebly and remarks, “Well, that was a thing," as if he wasn't planning to vacate his own home.
“It was absolutely tickety-boo,” he responds breathily, visibly trying to regain composure.
“Tickety-boo?”
“Well, don’t tease me. I’m nervous.”
“You’re nervous? What do you have to be nervous about?”
He pokes at Crowley’s chest matter-of-factly. “I wasn’t expecting it. There’s decorum for these things! You’re supposed to take me on a date for starters. I had plans.”
“Right, that’s what you’re taking offense with? If so, then hate to inform you, but I’ve taken you on plenty of dates! This was a long time coming if anything. Practically saintly with all the waiting I’ve done if you want to get technical. And, what do you mean you had plans?”
“Nothing! You misheard,” he gasps, covering his mouth.
“You’re better off confessing, angel. It’s good for the soul.”
“I said not to tease me.”
“Angel,” he says firmly, stepping into his home fully and crowding Aziraphale—unfairly so if the other were to be asked. “Don’t leave me hanging. I think you know how I feel. So, how do you feel?”
“Feel?”
“About me.” Truly, he was in for a penny and in for a pound.
“We’re not friends,” he claims as he covers his face in his hands. “I don’t even like you.”
“You do.”
“Maybe.”
“You’d care if I buggered off somewhere.”
“Of course I would. What if you—what if you died? Or worse?!”
“What’s worse than dying?”
“I don’t know.”
“You silly old fool," he says with utmost affection. "Kiss you again?”
Mumbling, he lowers his hands minutely and adjusts his posture. “Well when you put it like that... I suppose.”
“I suppose,” he repeats before fitting their hands together and kissing Aziraphale properly on his lips, pears kicked every which way as they spill from the basket, dropped at some point and not very much paid attention to until all too soon, Aziraphale pulls back in consternation.
“Something wrong?”
“No. It’s-it's just—I have to prepare the duck now if I want it ready in time for dinner,” he looks up into his eyes apologetically. He implores him, “We have guests coming.”
“Angel,” Crowley says, pressing his nose into the crook of his neck and breathing in. “If we’ve waited this long, we can wait until after dinner.”
He helps Aziraphale gather the pears and set the table and even keeps his hands to himself.
Later, when Newton and Anathema have gone home and they’re preparing for bed, Crowley remarks, “Have you been sleeping in my bed?”
In response, Aziraphale pulls the sheets over his head. Under it, he says, “Absolutely not! How dare you defame my character like this? I will not stand for it.”
“Oh shut it, angel," he says, pulling the sheets down. "I know you’ve been talking to my plants, too. Come here.”
There’s less words exchanged when he meets him halfway, and Aziraphale discovers that Crowley likes to cuddle, and that delights him to no end. In his benevolence, he supposes he can give Crowley the latest letter from the HOA another day as well.
.
.
Some notices Aziraphale failed to deliver to Crowley for one reason or another:
Dear Mr. Crowley,
re: Incident of lewd acts of gardening while without shirt documented on July 7th and reported on July 7th.
We regret to inform you the committee members of the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA have decided to issue a warning regarding the incident as noted above. Please do not hesitate to contact the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA if you have any questions or feel this warning was issued to you by mistake.
Regards,
Gabriel
Head of Tadfield Neighborhood HOA
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Dear Mr. Crowley,
re: Incident of unreasonable plant abuse documented on July 10th and reported on July 10th.
We regret to inform you the committee members of the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA have decided to issue a warning regarding the incident as noted above. Please do not hesitate to contact the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA if you have any questions or feel this warning was issued to you by mistake.
Regards,
Gabriel
Head of Tadfield Neighborhood HOA
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Dear Mr. Crowley,
re: Incident of lewd acts of gardening while without shirt documented on July 14th and reported on July 14th.
We regret to inform you the committee members of the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA have decided to issue a SECOND warning regarding the incident as noted above. Please do not hesitate to contact the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA if you have any questions or feel this warning was issued to you by mistake.
Regards,
Gabriel
Head of Tadfield Neighborhood HOA
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Dear Mr. Crowley,
re: Incident of lewd acts of gardening while without shirt documented on July 21st and reported on July 21st.
We regret to inform you the committee members of the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA have decided to issue a FINAL warning regarding the incident as noted above. Please do not hesitate to contact the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA if you have any questions or feel this warning was issued to you by mistake.
Regards,
Gabriel
Head of Tadfield Neighborhood HOA
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Dear Mr. Crowley,
re: Incident of lewd acts of gardening while without shirt documented on July 23rd and reported on July 23rd.
We regret to inform you the committee members of the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA have decided to issue a fine regarding the incident as noted above. Please do not hesitate to contact the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA if you have any questions or feel this fine was issued to you by mistake.
Regards,
Gabriel
Head of Tadfield Neighborhood HOASTOP THIS IMMEDIATELY, CROWLEY. I’VE SEEN ENOUGH.
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Dear Mr. Crowley,
re: Incident of display of obscene artwork documented on August 27th and reported on November 27th.
We regret to inform you the committee members of the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA have decided to issue a warning regarding the incident as noted above. Please do not hesitate to contact the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA if you have any questions or feel this warning was issued to you by mistake.
Regards,
Gabriel
Head of Tadfield Neighborhood HOAARE THOSE ANGELS FUCKING??
.
Dear Mr. Crowley,
re: Incident of wearing sunglasses both indoors and at night documented on upon arrival through present time (pictures from August 29th) and reported on August 30th.
We regret to inform you the committee members of the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA have decided to issue a warning regarding the incident as noted above. Please do not hesitate to contact the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA if you have any questions or feel this warning was issued to you by mistake.
Regards,
Gabriel
Head of Tadfield Neighborhood HOA
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Dear Mr. Crowley,
re: Incident of pointing at neighbors from house and cackling for no reason documented on September 2nd, 4th, 8th, and 11th and reported on September 12th.
We regret to inform you the committee members of the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA have decided to issue a warning regarding the incident as noted above. Please do not hesitate to contact the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA if you have any questions or feel this warning was issued to you by mistake.
Regards,
Gabriel
Head of Tadfield Neighborhood HOAMEAN
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Dear Mr. Crowley,
re: Incident of being a selfish neighbor and not sharing baked apple goods documented on September 2nd through present day and reported on December 3rd.
We regret to inform you the committee members of the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA have decided to issue a warning regarding the incident as noted above. Please do not hesitate to contact the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA if you have any questions or feel this warning was issued to you by mistake.
Regards,
Gabriel
Head of Tadfield Neighborhood HOA
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Dear Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell,
re: Incident of prohibited semi-public displays of affection documented on December 26th through present day and reported on January 3rd.
We regret to inform you the committee members of the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA have decided to issue a warning regarding the incident as noted above. Please do not hesitate to contact the Tadfield Neighborhood HOA if you have any questions or feel this warning was issued to you by mistake.
Regards,
Gabriel
Head of Tadfield Neighborhood HOAGUYS, CONGRATULATIONS. BUT PLEASE CONSIDER PRIVACY HEDGES. OR WEARING UNDERWEAR.
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