Chapter Text
The move to the countryside was inevitable, really. After all, when two immortal beings who are a) hopelessly in love and b) suddenly in possession of an infinite amount of time and freedom, they are bound to, at some point, move somewhere quiet and comfortable to live peacefully together.
The two immortal beings in question were Aziraphale, an angel of considerable softness and strength, and Crowley, a demon of unusual mischief and curiosity. An odd pairing, as many observers throughout history had remarked upon, but they seemed destined to return to each other’s orbits, circling one another like yin and yang, like a twin star system dancing in the void of space.
Aziraphale seemed particularly determined to prove this observation false — many times over the years he had broken off from Crowley’s orbit and attempted to move through the world on his own. Always, however, he had been pulled back into Crowley’s gravity.
His most recent departure had been particularly devastating to both of them — Crowley, desperate to hold on, to receive the love they knew was there, bruising Aziraphale’s mouth with a kiss; and Aziraphale, desperate to fix things in Heaven — to make the world safe for Crowley, even at the cost of their friendship. A sacrifice he had to make. To at least try.
(If only Crowley could understand.)
“You must understand,” Aziraphale had whispered. He was on the doorstep of the bookshop, months after his departure, looking in at Crowley — disheveled, both of them. Broken, both of them. Afraid, both of them.
Hopeful, both of them.
“I understand, Aziraphale,” Crowley had said back. They had stretched out a hand to Aziraphale. “Come on. Let’s think of a plan together.”
And they had. Somehow, miraculously, ineffably, a second apocalypse had been averted. Heaven and Hell were cut off. They were free — truly free. And they had all the time in the universe.
So, naturally, they left London.
Not right away, of course. It took several months — nearly half a year — before Aziraphale had looked at Crowley, sprawled on Aziraphale’s overstuffed sofa, and said, “I think I would like to move to the country.” (These things never happen all at once, after all.)
First, Aziraphale had to convince himself that he didn’t need a bookshop in order to collect books. This was the most difficult thing for him to come to terms with. After all, angels do not typically possess material objects, let alone collect them as a hobby. So he had disguised his collection as a shop, a clever ruse for his own shameful wants.
Aziraphale was well-practiced in the discipline of restraint. But slowly, in the months after the Second Coming had not, in fact, Come, he had started to loosen his grip.
Over the millennia Aziraphale had always allowed himself little indulgences here and there. When Crowley introduced him to eating, he had let himself give in to the pleasure of it, the sensuality, the way it lingered in him. When he first tried wine — the warm, tangy, bitter, buzzing delight of it all — he drank until he lost consciousness and, when he awoke, he suffered the beautifully human agony of a hangover. When he discovered the softness of Egyptian cotton, the sinful smoothness of silk, the comforting warmth of cashmere, the soothing texture of velvet, he ordered himself the highest quality garments of each.
Of course, once he discovered luxury, he held himself back from losing himself to it, from acting unangelic. When he ordered new garments, they were always in unflattering cuts so as to not be vain, and he always wore them until they disintegrated so he did not own too many fine things at once. When he ate good food and drank good wine, he allowed himself to enjoy the sensations but he never lost himself to the pleasure of it all, so as to not hunger for more.
So, naturally, when he started to collect books, he put them in a shop, so as to not be materialistic.
All of these rules he had imposed on himself after he left Heaven behind for Earth started to fall apart once he realized that he no longer had anyone to judge him, to punish him, to cast him out, for being unangelic. Instead, he could allow himself to be vain, gluttonous, selfish, materialistic, luxurious, sensual.
The clothing was easiest for him. Once he realized he was no longer under the critical eye of Heaven, he immediately began to collect well-tailored, brightly-colored, high-quality garments. His favorite was a rich brown cashmere cardigan, nothing like the muted beiges he had typically worn while working for Heaven.
Next was the bookshop. One day, a customer came in and began to peruse Aziraphale’s precious Austen collection. Aziraphale had stood there fretting, wringing his hands and trying to think of the best way to dissuade the young woman from trying to purchase one, when he glanced over at Crowley, who was smirking at him from their chair in the corner. They raised a brow at him.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” he scolded.
“Why do you even have a bookshop if you don’t want to sell any books?” Crowley asked, although they knew full well what the answer was.
“Well,” Aziraphale said, “Heaven —”
Crowley’s eyebrow went even higher.
“Oh,” Aziraphale said. Then, turning to the customer, he called, “Madam? Very sorry, this is a private collection. I’m afraid I can’t sell you any of these books.”
“I thought this was a bookshop?” she said, frowning.
“As of today,” Aziraphale declared, “it is under new management.”
The faint look of pride on Crowley’s face made something deep in Aziraphale’s heart swell.
Once he was no longer under the impression that he had to pretend to sell his books, he was more than ready to pick up and leave London, and he could tell that Crowley was, as well. After all, while London may have held plenty of pleasant and even happy memories, it was weighed down with many, many unpleasant ones as well.
(Crowley still woke up screaming from dreams filled with smoke and ash and an all-encompassing grief. It tore at Aziraphale’s heart and he never wanted to see such terror on Crowley’s face again.)
(He never told Crowley this was the true reason he wanted to leave London.)
In the end, they had huddled around Crowley’s sleek laptop and scrolled through realty listings in the quaint, remote villages in the countryside around London. “Why did I ever invent realtors,” Crowley grumbled, scrolling moodily through another site full of endless tragic victims of house flippers.
“Oh!” Aziraphale cried, and Crowley paused. “That one, just up — a bit further — there! This one is lovely, don’t you think?”
Crowley clicked on the listing Aziraphale had jumped at and looked through the images provided. “Yeah, ‘snice,” they said, which in Crowley-speak meant, “I really like this one but I’m unsure how to say it while keeping up my cool facade.”
“It’s in the South Downs,” Aziraphale pointed out. “And look, it’s right near Devil’s Dyke — isn’t that one of yours?”
“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Stargazing’s pretty good ‘round there, too. Want me to research restaurants in the area?”
“Oh, please,” Aziraphale said, beaming at Crowley.
“Don’t have to get all shiny at me,” they groused, but they did the web search anyway.
They toured the property two days later, Aziraphale excitedly observing all of the potential wall space for his books, Crowley critically examining the garden out back, and both of them appreciatively remarking on the included wine cellar. They wandered into town after, Aziraphale pointing out all the restaurants he would like to try and Crowley mentally making a note of each one he mentioned. Crowley paid for the property in cash the next day.
It took them a few weeks to move in — not because of the amount of books Aziraphale had, but instead because Aziraphale insisted upon saying goodbye to everybody he knew. Crowley had always been appalled at how easily Aziraphale made and kept friends, considering how much Aziraphale did not seem to actually like people.
Once Aziraphale was content with his farewells, he rolled up his sleeves, snapped decisively, and miracled all of his books to the cottage, shelves and all, followed quickly by his furniture. “Aziraphale,” Crowley said (they had not called Aziraphale “angel” since The Kiss), “where the hell did you find space for all of that?”
“What matters,” Aziraphale responded prissily, “is that I found it.”
He then closed up the bookshop for the final time, and miracled the storefront into the realty listings, a big For Sale sign propped in the front window. “Goodbye,” he said to the building which had housed him for two hundred years, and then turned to Crowley with a watery but determined smile. “Alright. Let’s go home.”
Crowley just nodded and opened the door of the Bentley for Aziraphale to climb in.
They talked on the drive to their new home together — about where Aziraphale wanted to go for dinner, about Crowley’s awfully reckless driving, about the weather for the upcoming week, about where Aziraphale had put all of his books (“I don’t see why you’re so concerned about it, it’s not like you’ll be reading them”), and about the dark skies that were wonderfully close to the cottage.
Aziraphale’s storage of his books was not nearly as overwhelming as Crowley had initially feared. They lined practically every wall outside of the kitchen, much to Crowley’s annoyance, but it somehow worked anyway. The sitting room with the fireplace was comfortably furnished with Aziraphale’s sofas, blankets, wingback chair, and ottoman, complete with the massive circular rug to cushion the floor. The study had Aziraphale’s desk and writing instruments, and was home to all of his bibles and other religious texts.
The problem, Crowley discovered as they explored Aziraphale’s layout of the cottage, was that one of the two bedrooms had been completely overtaken by bookshelves and was therefore unusable as a bedroom. “Aziraphale,” they said, arms crossed and scowling. “You filled my bedroom with books.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale replied sheepishly. “No, I — I only planned on there being one bedroom. Seeing how I don’t sleep.”
Crowley, wisely, chose not to comment on the pink in Aziraphale’s cheeks. Instead, they just said, “Right. Of course. That makes more sense.”
(There was a strange feeling in the pit of Crowley’s stomach. Disappointment? They ignored it.)
(They had always ignored it.)
Crowley made their own changes to the home, naturally. The tiles in the kitchen and the bathrooms were refreshed, the cabinetry and appliances updated, the bedclothes changed from Aziraphale’s ivory Egyptian cotton to Crowley’s pitch black silk, the fireplace threatened to not even think about setting fire to anything outside of the hearth. They planted a lush garden outside — roses, honeysuckle, hibiscus, irises, daffodils, azaleas, hydrangeas, ferns, and an assortment of herbs and vegetables, all of which they immediately began to berate and threaten.
(They were much less intimidating while wearing a straw hat and brandishing a hose, but the plants trembled placatingly anyway.)
The village they had chosen had a population of around 800 people, all of whom had almost immediately taken notice of the strange couple who had seemingly moved in overnight without a single moving truck. Very rarely did anything new happen in such a small town, so when the mismatched pair began to venture out to visit the businesses and explore the area, everyone took notice.
The first thing the townspeople established about the couple was that they were weird. Not in the sense that they were visibly queer, that wasn’t a problem at all, but there was this persistent voice in the back of everyone’s minds that insisted that the newcomers were just a little bit off. Something in the blond one’s twinkling eyes, maybe, or the redhead’s sharp smile. Whatever it was, it left everyone a bit unsettled.
The second thing the townspeople observed was that they were rather reclusive. Even when they went out together they tended to keep to themselves, secluded in some corner of a tavern or isolated at the back of a shop. Whenever someone spoke to them they engaged, Aziraphale with a friendly smile and a polite demeanor and Crowley with some sort of sarcastic comment or a nod of the head, but they tended not to be the ones to start a conversation. Most of the time, they kept to their own property, and that was just fine with everyone.