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It was a crisp, late September afternoon, with a light sea breeze that ruffled Aziraphale’s hair as he meandered down the garden path.
“Crowley?”
“Over here, angel.”
Aziraphale rounded the rhododendron bushes. This was one of the far corners of the garden, and Crowley had not yet decided what to grow there – but he had noticed some brambles flourishing against the dry stone wall, so he had volunteered to gather some for the apple and blackberry pie that Aziraphale had felt inspired to make that morning.
Crowley was squatting beside the bramble bush, the empty basket beside him.
“Couldn’t you find any blackberries?” Aziraphale asked.
“What? Yeah – two hundred and forty seven…. I mean, loads.”
“You haven’t started picking any yet,” Aziraphale observed. “It’s been three hours,” he added mildly.
“Oh, no – got distracted….”
“So I see.” He leaned across, picked a handful of fruit, and dropped the berries in the basket.
“Two hundred and thirty nine,” Crowley muttered, mournfully
“Are you counting the berries, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.
“What? No! Course not. Silly superstition….”
“You are, aren’t you?”
Crowley looked embarrassed. “Might be.”
“My pie is almost ready to go in the oven,” Aziraphale said. “In fact, it’s been ready to go into the oven for nearly three hours. All it needs is a handful or so of blackberries -” he picked another handful of juicy berries – “and the pastry laid over the top. Oh, and a dash of egg glaze – and I’ve cut out some pastry leaves to decorate it….” He kept picking as he spoke.
“Two hundred and fifteen,” Crowley muttered.
Aziraphale picked up the basket. “Come along, Crowley,” he said firmly, holding his other hand out to the demon. “What you need is a nice cup of strong coffee from that infernal machine you insisted on installing in the kitchen.”
Crowley accepted the help to stand up, and kept holding Aziraphale’s hand as they ambled back along the garden path to the cottage.
“Don’t know what came over me, angel,” he said ruefully, as they stepped into the kitchen together. He shook his head as if to clear it.
“Yes, well, I think I have an idea for that corner of the garden now,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll go out later with a stout spade and dig up those blackberries – after picking the rest of the fruit of course. I’m sure I can think of something to do with two hundred and fifteen blackberries. What do you say to one of those modern hybrids? Do you think tayberry will have the same effect on you?”
“Think it’s just blackberries,” Crowley said. “Embarrassing, is what it is. We could try tayberries, I suppose.” He set the coffee machine working and picked out a large black mug with a snake handle.
“Mm,” Aziraphale said, his eyes lighting up. He was sprinkling the blackberries over the top of the apples in the pie. “Tayberry ice cream! Wouldn’t that go well with apple pie?”
Crowley grinned. “Sure, angel. We can get some ice cream making equipment next time we go to that baking shop that you like.” He watched as Aziraphale slid the pie dish into the oven. “How long is that going to take to bake?” he asked.
“About twenty minutes for the pastry, and then another twenty minutes or so on a lower heat for the filling to go all scrumptious and bubbly,” Aziraphale said, beaming in anticipation.
“Not quite enough time to get to town for some ice cream, even the way I drive,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale opened the fridge and delved into the back of it. “But what’s this?” he asked, in the same voice that he used to reveal Harry the rabbit from his top hat. “Can it be? Our old friend, double Jersey cream!”
Crowley laughed. “You’re ridiculous, angel.”
“And so are you, my dear. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” With that, the angel reached out to take the demon’s hands, and drew him closer for a tender, loving kiss.