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Chapter Text

Dramatis Personæ:

• Gabriel Jeremy Fell, seventh Lord Havensworth

• The Honorable Professor Aziraphale Fell, his brother

• Lady Michael Fell-Archer, their sister

• Miss Patricia "Pepper" Moonchild, their ward

• The Honorable Bertram Wooster, their nephew

• Reginald Jeeves, valet to Bertram Wooster

• Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, a businessman with the British Telephone Company

• Mr. Thaddeus Dowling, ambassador of the United States of America

• Mrs. Harriet Dowling, his wife

• Warlock Dowling, their son

• Newton Pulsifer, valet to Aziraphale Fell and aspiring telephone network engineer

• Job Shadwell, groundskeeper of Eastgate Abbey

• Lady Beatrix Prince, Duchess of Hellsingham

Various crowds of farmers, neighbors, maids, baronets, and other creatures native to the English countryside.

~

The scene is at Eastgate Abbey, ancestral home of the Lords Havensworth, in the summer of 1921.

Bertram "Bertie" Wooster was an easygoing young man, pure of heart and feeble of intellect; considering his position in life as a nephew to several formidable aunts with strong opinions and implacable will, this often didn't play out in his favor.

He was currently in Hampshire, enjoying the hospitality of Lord Havensworth, his uncle on his mother's side. He'd been invited there for the summer by his friend Pepper, an invitation that he had readily accepted as A) Pepper was excellent company and the estate stood in a lovely part of the country and B) Eastgate Castle was mercifully devoid of aunts, his uncles Gabriel and Aziraphale being overall pleasant and quite content with pottering around the house and grounds instead of roping him into disagreeable schemes like most of his relatives on his father's side. Bertie had frequently described his uncle Aziraphale as his guardian angel to fellow students back at Magdalen College, on account of said uncle earnestly yet kindly tutoring him before exams. Bertie had never been one for Shakespeare or any of his uncle's favorite authors, not out of disdain for the classics, but rather out of a general lack of interest in long sentences.

Bertie didn't share his uncle Aziraphale's passion for the written word, but they did see eye-to-eye on the subject of cuisine. Monsieur Rossignol, the cook of Eastgate Abbey, was nothing short of a magician. It was too bad really that Uncle Gabriel was so dead-set on his leafy vegetable and legume-based diet. These preferences had led to unfortunate frictions between said uncle and his cook in the past, sometimes culminating in poignant complaints in French. Uncle Aziraphale had always found the right words to make Rossignol feel appreciated enough to stay loyal to Eastgate Abbey, to Bertie's great relief. The only other place in England where one could find this level of talent in the culinary arts was Aunt Dahlia's house and, despite Aunt Dahlia being a generally good egg, Bertie sometimes had to pay the blood price to stay in her good graces.

He was too chivalrous for his own good is what he was. Take Pepper for instance; her letter of invitation had concluded with a mysterious "I am in dire need of your assistance on a very serious and confidential matter", and what was a loyal friend and proud Englishman to do but fly to her rescue?

Aziraphale was at peace with the universe. The afternoon light was drowning the library in gold, the nightingales' song was coming in through the open windows together with the fragrance of old English roses; he had "Pride and Prejudice" in one hand and a cup of Earl Grey in the other. The school year had just ended, which meant that he had left his beloved (but sometimes trying) literature students back in Oxford and had the whole summer ahead of him to enjoy. Two months to read to his heart's content, to stroll around the gorgeous grounds of Eastgate Abbey, and to delight in Rossignol's cooking. There would be guests coming in and out for sure; Aziraphale's brother liked a full house and sometimes ended up inviting quite a lot more people than Aziraphale would have liked for his tranquility at dinner. Thankfully, their stately country home was large enough to allow him the quiet he preferred when Gabriel's loud American friends or his fellow Swedish Gymnastics enthusiasts were visiting. The only house guest so far was young Bertie, who he happened to be quite fond of.

Aziraphale's daydreaming was harshly interrupted by the sound of a car screeching to a halt in front of the main entrance. Aziraphale laid his teacup on the tray. Eastgate's chauffeur certainly wouldn't mistreat the family car thusly, so it had to be a visitor. The library overlooked the front of the house; Aziraphale walked slowly to the open window, peeking outside.

The visitor's car had made a mess of the gravel, apparently driving at speeds inconsistent with a proper stop parallel to the front stairs. A tall and lanky figure clad all in black and sporting striking red hair came out of the driver's side. Some infernal intuition made the man look straight at where Aziraphale was standing. He smirked and waved while sauntering to the front door, outside of Aziraphale's view.

Aziraphale huffed. Despite leading the comfortable life of an aristocratic younger son, he knew trouble when he saw it. He'd dealt with his share of rowdy students all along his career, but some instinct was whispering to him that the visitor brought something more serious than practical jokes and drunken shenanigans.

Azitaphale left the library. As he walked down the corridor, he heard frantic footsteps behind him and felt a rush of air as Pepper almost ran past, dragging Bertie by the elbow.

"Aziraphale! Mr. Crowley is here! Oh, we're going to build a fortune!" she turned back to call at him. Bertie gave him an apologetic look as they disappeared down the stairs.

Aziraphale's concern increased. He followed after Pepper and Bertie, meeting Gabriel in the hall.

"Aziraphale! Mr. Crowley has arrived!" Gabriel said with a level of enthusiasm rivaling Pepper's. "He's the businessman I told you about a few days ago, the one I met when Patricia and I had dinner with the Duchess of Hellsingham?" he continued when he saw Aziraphale's confused expression. This information did nothing to diminish Aziraphale's misgivings, as Gabriel combined the enterprising spirit of their medieval ancestors with the business sense of a meatloaf. Lord Havensworth's name appeared in almost as many failed companies' creditors lists as it did athletic competitions, and it was only Aziraphale's valiant efforts that had kept his brother's financial investments limited enough to preserve the family fortune.

Aziraphale walked with Gabriel into the drawing room, suddenly regretting that he'd let his mind wander during Gabriel's detailed account of all the dinner conversations he'd had on his latest London trip. To be fair, most of it had centered around the latest fashions in physical exercise and his opinions about the many benefits Aziraphale would reap if he finally started going for invigorating swims in the lake like Gabriel did every other morning.

"The telephone, Aziraphale! We're getting one right here at Eastgate Abbey. We shall spearhead the march of progress in Great Britain! Mr. Crowley will explain it better. He was very persuasive in London."

Aziraphale and Gabriel entered the drawing room. The visitor was already deep in conversation with Pepper and Bertie, and turned towards them with the same sinuous grace Aziraphale had observed only moments ago.

Aziraphale's doubts coalesced into something bright and fiery when his eyes met Crowley's. The man was looking at him with the shadow of a smirk on his lips. Aziraphale tried not to look at them too long; Crowley's piercing eyes and sharp cheekbones were distracting enough by themselves. Aziraphale swallowed.

Trouble.

Aziraphale realised Gabriel had started talking.

"Aziraphale, this is Mr. Anthony Crowley from the British Telephone Company. Anthony, this is my brother Aziraphale. The brains of the family, eh?" Gabriel added with an elbow nudge.

"How do you do," Aziraphale said as he shook the man's hand. Did he imagine that Crowley's hand lingered a second more than was strictly necessary?

"How do you do," Crowley answered, his smirk a full-on winning smile now. Aziraphale tried to keep his own smile domesticated.

Gabriel beamed at them. Aziraphale gathered himself.

"So. Progress? In the form of … a home telephone?" The notion was preposterous. There was a telegraph station down at Havensbury. Surely that was enough for even the most forward-thinking people?

"I know it sounds crazy, but the telephone shouldn't be reserved for stockbrokers and governement officials. Now that we're networking post offices all over Britain, there is no reason why the main houses shouldn't be directly connected," Crowley said with an intense sort of conviction that almost made Aziraphale forget about his worries.

"Can you imagine? No need to take the train to London to talk to friends or do business, and no worries about what the busybodies at the post office will overhear. Discretion and comfort," Gabriel continued, "I knew you'd like it."

Gabriel was misunderstanding Aziraphale's horrified silence for assent, which unfortunately wasn't unusual.

"I'll say. It seems to me like having one of these devices at home would eliminate the advantages of keeping certain people at arm's length," Aziraphale countered.

Crowley laughed, and Aziraphale refused to examine the effect it was having on him. Curse the man and his wiles.

"Gabriel," Aziraphale pleaded at his brother, "People will call us."

Aziraphale could see already the crowds of insolvent entrepreneurs that would have constant access to his brother's optimistic naïveté, to say nothing of the fearsome relatives who hunted quiet country gentlemen such as himself for sport.

"If that is your only concern, I'm sure the footmen could filter out any unwanted calls," Crowley crooned.

He clearly hasn't met our extended family, Aziraphale thought, if he thinks a mere footman can keep them at bay. He couldn't admit it out loud though, anymore than he could explain why allowing Gabriel immediate connection to London was such a menace for Aziraphale's peace of mind.

"It's the future," Pepper interjected passionately. "Did you know the Duchess of Hellsingham is looking to acquire telephone companies all over Britain? And she's taken a special interest in Mr. Crowley's company. That's a pretty good indication it's time to invest." She turned to Crowley. "As soon as I come of age that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Crowley shot her a conspiratorial smile, as if they'd discussed this topic before and come to an agreement.

"That's the spirit!" Gabriel added, nodding approvingly at Pepper.

Aziraphale's heart sank. Despite her young age, Pepper was much more savvy than Lord Havensworth, reading the kind of books and newspapers that Aziraphale's parents would definitely not have allowed a young lady to read. Nevertheless, she didn't yet have the level of experience that allowed one to adequately contemplate risky financial investments. It looked more and more like Crowley's charm had not only been directed at Gabriel and not only deployed to get the family to install a telephone in their home.

Aziraphale looked worriedly at Gabriel, Pepper, and even Bertie as they all listened to an exposé that bordered on science fiction. According to Crowley, there were massive changes coming to the world economy in general and the British public in particular thanks to the development of the telephone network. The occasional remarks Crowley dropped about the need to spend money to make money did not escape Aziraphale. Nor did the amounts.

There was a snake in his Eden.

Chapter Text

Crowley was lounging on a stone bench in Eastgate Abbey's rose garden. He'd chosen the nook surrounded by the darkest red roses he could find. Enjoying pretty flowers needn't imply that one wasn't committed to one's aesthetic. He was on his back, one leg thrown over the back of the bench, savoring the way the sunny heat warmed his dark suit and wrung out the fragrance of the roses all around him. He occasionally sipped the icy gin & tonic that one of the household's many domestics had prepared for him.

This is the Life.

And that angel, bloody hell.

If Crowley had known such creatures could be found in the countryside, he would have sold the idea of rural network extensions to his colleagues much sooner. Those blue eyes had almost made him forget what he'd come here for. Getting the money, yes; that was an art he'd perfected over the years, and he was confident that Lord Havensworth would soon become one of the main investors in the British Telephone Company. But this trip was also about his own vision to persuade England's finest (or more accurately England's wealthiest) to get private home telephones. Crowley was convinced that their example would make larger and larger swathes of the public follow suit, despite the associated costs. Crowley meant for his telephone network to crisscross the country as tightly as the invisible web of kinship and private school friendships that connected England's oldest families. Getting a clan like the Fells to kickstart the movement was the second reason why his little holiday had higher stakes than playing the country gentleman for a few weeks.

Aye, there's the rub.

The angel didn't like it. He hadn't said why really, apart from an obvious disdain for modernity. He hadn't seemed to care much for the telegraph yesterday, and that was an invention from last century. Crowley squirmed on his bench. The idea of making Aziraphale Fell unhappy didn't sit right with him and he wasn't sure why. Crowley had made a lot of people unhappy during his career, rising from the position of a nobody with a fallen woman for a mother to head of sales at an up-and-coming company. Many of those people had been gentlemen just like Fell, with castles, gardens, family fortunes and a visceral mistrust for novelty. Crowley had always taken a special pleasure in making them bite the dust, metaphorically speaking.

Crowley tore his eyes away from the rose bobbing just over his head to fumble for the cocktail glass he'd put on the gravel below his bench.

He realized with a start that Aziraphale was standing not ten feet away from him. The man still looked unfairly beautiful, framed by an arch covered in climbing white roses, dappled light playing on his face. The perfect posture and book in his hand made him look like the statue of an angel of literature. Crowley got himself back into an upright position and tried to banish all thoughts of Fell in a toga from his mind.

"Oh, don't trouble yourself on my account."

"Did I take your spot?"

"Not at all, I only require a small third of this bench." Aziraphale sat next to Crowley. "I was looking for you, actually."

"I'm all yours." Crowley winced. What was happening to him? Maybe drinking in the sun had been a bad idea.

"I might have been a bit of a curmudgeon yesterday. You must pardon me, but Pepper and my brother tend to be on the more optimistic side, and I sometimes overcompensate when trying to keep the balance."

"No, that's all right," Crowley waved. The angel looked sad, in that self-contained way specific to well-bred Englishmen. "I'd hate for you to feel uncomfortable with changes in your own home. I'll tell the lads to pause the works. No phone unless you agree with it."

"Really? Oh, that is so nice of you to offer. It's been bothering me." Aziraphale's smile cut right through Crowley's internal monologue, which was along the lines of "Crowley what in the nine hells are you doing this is a terrible idea it's going to set you back weeks".

"But I don't know if I should stand in the way of that particular operation. I talked with Pepper this morning, and she sounded so delighted by the idea of talking to her friends in London more easily. They used to be inseparable as children, but now … Life scatters people away." Aziraphale sighed, then turned to Crowley with an arch look.

"And regarding those investments you mentioned yesterday. You painted quite a compelling picture of the future, but so did the chap who wanted Lord Havensworth to invest in a hot-air balloon cab system."

Crowley burst out laughing.

"I suppose anyone who has had to deal with London traffic would have been willing to hear him out, but nevertheless," Aziraphale added with an amused smile, "his business plan was a bit light on the details."

"I can walk you through my plans anytime. I don't have the company ledgers here with me, but I have annotated maps with census data and statistics about the existing network, and some other things. I'll show you anything you'd care to inspect."

Crowley took a deep breath. The conversation was moving back to familiar ground. Solid ground, ledgers and business plans. More solid than the angel's mischievous smile when he'd compared Crowley to a hot-air balloon salesman. And maybe that would help control the damage he'd just done to his time-sensitive strategy by halting things on the home telephone front. "I know I get carried away, but I do believe that the telephone is the future of communications if we build the infrastructure for it."

"Splendid. Tomorrow afternoon, if that is fine by you." Aziraphale nodded at Crowley's abandoned cocktail on the bench between them. "None of these though, I'll need my wits about me. I'm far from a specialist in those topics."

"Pity. The wine at dinner yesterday was better than anything I've ever tasted in London." Or maybe I'm biased because of all the soft appreciation noises that came out of your mouth. Crowley got up. His situation was worsening by the minute. "Well then, I'll give you your bench back, Mr. Fell. Have a good afternoon!"

Just as Crowley sauntered away, the angel delivered a parting blow with "Please, call me Aziraphale."

Crowley walked briskly back into the house. He was going to avoid the rose garden from now on. Too dangerous, that place. Climbing roses had clearly been designed specifically to mess with people's heads and infect them with romance. He couldn't afford to forget about his priorities just because of … whatever this was. He was usually good at fishing aspirations and inclinations out of people, and Aziraphale seemed like the kind of man who might welcome his more unprofessional attentions. However, the last few minutes had proven that Crowley couldn't trust his brain nor his mouth whenever the angel was near. He needed to get a grip on his wayward thoughts, because making a mess of things was not a risk he was willing to take, considering the financial stakes. He would have to admire from afar and leave it at that.

Aziraphale stared at the book he'd picked for what he thought would be a relaxing reading session out in the rose garden after a fraught conversation. He'd been staring at the same page for a good ten minutes now. He'd just planned to apologize for being so gloomy yesterday. Crowley might (possibly, hopefully not) be a cold-hearted con artist, but that didn't mean one should forget one's manners. Aziraphale tried to concentrate on the facts. He was going to get more details about Crowley's intentions, which was good. He could be rational about this. He could.

Aziraphale never acted on the temptations that he encountered in the wild, and he wasn't about to make an exception for one so rakish. He had heard from several members of the discreet gentlemens' club he sometimes frequented that he came across as very smart, extremely English, and indubitably queer. He didn't trust however his own intuition to tell him whether he was talking to someone who shared his romantic preferences. Since a misjudgment would lead to a lot of unpleasantness, he'd taken the habit of letting interested parties take the first step. This was a non-issue at said gentlemens' club anyway, since everyone there was on the same page.

Aziraphale went back inside to his desk and started writing letters. The first one was for Adam, Pepper's childhood friend, Aziraphale's former stellar pupil at Oxford, and current junior writer at The Times. That boy had always seemed like he knew more than should be expected for one so young; Aziraphale had not been surprised at all to see him gravitate towards journalism. The second letter was for Wensleydale, another of the Them, as Pepper's little group of friends used to call themselves in summers past. Wensleydale was secretary to one of His Majesty's finance cabinet members. Both letters enquired about any details concerning the British Telephone Company and a certain Mr. Anthony Crowley, partner member thereof. Aziraphale added a physical description in case Eastgate's new guest was not who he said he was. He is tall and very slender. He has shockingly bright red hair; exceptional eyes of a light brown that turns golden in candlelight, the only situation in which he'll renounce his sunglasses. He dresses all in black but it makes him look like a dashing rogue instead of a funeral director. He walks like a serpent, which doesn't make any sense but which you would understand if you observed him. His mouth … Aziraphale put his pen down abruptly, crushed his letter into a ball and threw it into the wastepaper basket's direction, missing by a fair amount. His attempt at describing Crowley was turning his style disturbingly lyrical and bringing his thoughts into a wholly inappropriate direction. Maybe he should pay the club a visit as soon as the house guests were gone. He should also limit his interactions with Crowley as much as was politely possible, such as not to feed into the fancy.

Aziraphale rewrote the letter, sans physical descriptions. He also resolved to ask Jeeves his opinion. The man had an uncanny ability to notice hidden things, not unlike Adam, now that he thought of it. They also shared the special talent of being able to subtly influence the world around them, and the generosity to use that talent for the good of others. Aziraphale had been relieved the first time Bertie had told him about the heroic feats of his new valet re: aunts. The dear boy was exactly the kind of person who could benefit from the discreet support of an astute manservant.

"This is absolutely out of the question." Bertie put his teacup back on the garden table in what he hoped was a commanding manner. The day had been lovely until now; the weather was perfect and the arrival of the American ambassador and his family meant that they would all be treated to Rossignol's finest at dinner. Unfortunately, the chat he was having with Pepper over tea and biscuits had made the day take a rather ominous turn.

"Bertie."

"Absolutely not!"

"Bertie!" Pepper's tone implied that she'd just found Bertram Wooster standing over the metaphorical corpse of Human Kindness, a bloody knife in his hands.

"Really now. Burglary is a step too far, what."

Pepper gave him a wounded look. She had just asked Bertie to "discreetly examine some papers" from his uncle Aziraphale's library. Lord Havensworth had told her, when she had started asking questions about her financial future, that she would come into her inheritance at the age of twenty-five. That was four years and three months from now, which was an eternity in the fast-moving business of telecommunication companies. She hadn't told this to Mr. Crowley; he probably assumed that she'd said "coming of age" in its usual meaning of "attaining majority at twenty-one". She wasn't even sure that the twenty-five-years-old thing was legal; Lord Havensworth had waved her away when she'd pressed with practical questions. Aziraphale had dodged the issue, saying that as far as he knew the paperwork was with his brother. Pepper strongly suspected that those inconvenient four additional years were nothing more than a gentlemen's agreement between her late father and Lord Havensworth.

On the day she'd come back to Eastgate Abbey after that dinner at the Duchess of Hellsingham's, her mind full of dreams (carefully planned dreams, she wasn't a child), she'd sneaked into Lord Havensworth's study and she'd searched his files for any information about her assets. It was a good thing that Lord Havensworth's administrative documents were meticulously organised, the keys to all the file cabinets living in a small box labeled "~keys~". She hadn't found anything, but Aziraphale had seen her come out of the study, and she hadn't been able to look completely innocent.

Hence the need for someone else to implement plan B: search Aziraphale's files. Bertie was seemingly determined to be a bother about it.

"Burglary? Come on Bertie, that's a bit dramatic don't you think? There is no breaking, only friendly entering. Aziraphale's desk is inside his library, so you have a good reason to be there if he finds you. Just say you want to borrow a book!"

"Pepper old thing, do you remember what happened to the last bloke who borrowed a book from Uncle Aziraphale? They still whisper his name in hushed tones over in Oxford."

"I know, but he brought it back with cheese stains on it, which you won't. Please Bertie. Do you not support the right of a young woman to lead an independent life, free of the interference of older relatives?"

Pepper knew that was a low blow. It didn't stop her, and it landed right where she wanted it to; Bertie was a good soul and an ally to all just causes.

"Oh, all right," Bertie conceded with a sigh. He bottomed up his cup of Darjeeling like a gentleman about to walk into the gladiators' arena.

Chapter Text

"Oh Thaddeus, what are we going to do? Mr. Sipperley came with such glowing references, I don't know how we're going to find another tutor on short notice."

Mrs. Harriet Dowling had just received a telegram from Oliver Sipperley informing her that he was sorry but he wouldn't be able to join them at Eastgate Abbey to tutor young Warlock after all. She had very much counted on the combination of wholesome country air and a new tutor (the latest of a long list of disappointments, but hope springs eternal) to finally convince her eleven-year-old son Warlock to start focusing on his education. Eton entrance examinations were two years away—just around the corner, so to speak.

Harriet's husband made a non-commital noise, his mouthful of toast providing plausible deniability for his lack of immediate suggestions. The rest of the breakfast table offered sympathetic glances and nods.

"You could ask young Rupert Brown," Gabriel offered. "He's our solicitor's son—very reliable chap. Best in class in classic literature back in the day, or so I hear from his father. He teaches secondary at Havensbury."

Aziraphale winced imperceptibly, but Crowley still noticed and smiled behind his coffee. Things were getting interesting. Breakfast rush hour in the country took place much earlier than he preferred, but he still had to finalise the investment commitments with Lord Havensworth. Pretending to enjoy early mornings like a hard-working man was a cost of doing business; at least he could gaze at the angel to soften the ordeal.

"Oh, no need to bother Mr. Brown." Aziraphale looked at Harriet. "I can tide you over until you find someone suitable when you go back to London." Aziraphale glanced at Warlock, who was munching sourly on a breadroll. The boy looked like the current conversation didn't concern him. Little did he know that Aziraphale had just saved him from the most tedious teacher in all of Hampshire. Aziraphale had seen the light leave the eyes of the young neighborhood lads whenever Mr. Brown The Younger was mentioned. Being stuck for tutoring sessions with the man on a bright summer day seemed to Aziraphale like a punishment too terrible for words.

Harriet thanked Aziraphale profusely; when she started enquiring about what he had in mind regarding lesson contents, he suddenly got up and motioned for Warlock to follow him.

"My dear Harriet, surely you don't mean to ask a magician to reveal his secrets?" Aziraphale wiggled happily and adjusted his bow tie. Crowley barely managed to conceal an undignified chortle. He'd met Mr. Brown The Elder the day before, and if the son was anything like the father, the Dowling boy had no idea what he'd just escaped.

Aziraphale exited the breakfast room. Warlock followed after him with the vague hope that there would be magic tricks involved.

Crowley was standing atop a small hill with Shadwell. He looked at the scenery spread out below and around them. They had a clear view of the Eastgate grounds, the house standing low to the left and the lake to the right, with the surrounding countryside and the village of Havensbury down the stream that meandered out of the estate.

For some reason, Aziraphale's valet (Salamander? Froggy? Something Pulsifer, anyway) had just joined them as they were discussing the path of the telephone lines that would soon connect the Havensbury telephone station to Eastgate Abbey. Aziraphale had officially confirmed that he didn't wish to veto the operation, but Crowley wanted to ensure the line was discreet enough to keep the views from the house and gardens as pristine as possible. They would probably bury the last leg of cables between the woods and the main house.

"I wish I could go into training to become a telephone engineer," Newt said wistfully as Crowley and Shadwell wrapped up and Crowley rolled the map.

"Laddie, ye's good as fried the transformer in th' laundry room when I let you try to change th' fuse. Ye'll not go anywhere near the telephone machinery," Shadwell warned.

Crowley didn't pay much attention to their heated argument about who or what was the real cause of the laundry room mishap. Seeing Newt had drawn his thoughts toward Newt's master, something that was happening with an increasingly disturbing frequency.

Crowley had spent most of the previous week convincing Aziraphale that he wasn't a snake oil salesman (Crowley himself had to admit that he had the physique for it). He'd brought all his documents and joined Aziraphale, Lord Havensworth, and their family solicitor in the strange room that served both as Aziraphale's study, library, and den. The place had originally been the house library, but Aziraphale had accumulated so many books himself that he not only had shelves added in the middle of the room, but he had also absorbed the adjoining small bedroom. It was almost like an antique bookstore, except the owner had no intention of parting with any of his stock. All the Eastgate staff referred to the place as Mr. Fell's library, never "the library".

While Crowley had rolled out his demonstration, Aziraphale had submitted him to a constant barrage of questions that implied a decent portion of his library must be dedicated to scientific publications and economic books, and that he'd read them all. The drill had been more intense than anything Crowley had ever been subjected to at the British Telephone Company's headquarters. But then, he'd never had a growing obsession with any of his colleagues, nor a potential rival at the table.

Crowley got in a mood as he thought back on Mr. Brown. The man managed to be both obsequious and proprietary, repeating Aziraphale's questions with congratulatory noises and gratifying Crowley with sneering looks whenever Aziraphale's attention was focused elsewhere. He always seemed to conveniently need to move between Crowley and Aziraphale whenever they got close. Lord Havensworth, on the other hand, had quickly gone ambling around the bookshelves after they'd started the discussion; he'd probably seen a butterfly coming through the window and gotten distracted.

Crowley couldn't imagine Aziraphale with Mr. Brown, if only because the latter's moustache was a heinous attack against taste. Not that the visual hadn't tormented Crowley late at night, alternating with much more pleasant recollections of Aziraphale leaning over his table, worrying his lower lip while examining the dotted lines displayed on Crowley's maps. Or Aziraphale summoning those adorable gold-rimmed reading glasses to parse through the rows and rows of numbers that made up the company's monthly financial results. Crowley had vivid dreams featuring Aziraphale and himself against that table the night after the meeting, and he wasn't sure if he was dreading or looking forward to more of the same over the following nights. Maybe this had been spurred on by the relief evident on Aziraphale's face when he had freed Crowley from his promise to halt the installation of the home telephone. Crowley had passed the test, he was sure, and the only hesitation left in Aziraphale probably concerned the admittedly large amounts of money Crowley had discussed with Lord Havensworth.

Crowley looked around. He hadn't even realised he'd walked down the hill, losing Shadwell and Pulsifer somewhere along the way. He was now in a grove, the sound of a stream not far away. Well, he still had the estate map, so it's not like he ran the risk of getting lost, and it was a nice day for a stroll. All the days had been nice here so far.

Crowley walked leisurely along the stream, not following any path, thinking he should enjoy the lack of fog and city lights, and go stargazing at some point.

He stopped when he heard voices coming from behind a thicket. One of them was Aziraphale; the other was a child who had to be Warlock.

"I wish you were a teacher at my school."

"I'm afraid your principal would object to me secretly taking the class out into the forest instead of teaching."

"You did teach. A bit. I liked the one with the magician and the fairy and the monster."

"Shakespeare's Tempest, yes. Your mother would send for young Mr Brown immediately if I let you leave our sessions without at least some formal knowledge. I think you should bind those sticks tighter if you don't want the stream's current to take your ship apart."

Crowley could hear the kindness in Aziraphale's voice and the burgeoning trust in Warlock's. He silently walked away, not wishing to disturb that delicate exercise. He thought back on the various teachers who had had the misfortune to cross his own path. Crowley would have been the first to admit that he'd been a right demon at school, but the hard-edged strictness of that institution had always rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe if someone had taken his class into the forest he would have had the stomach to go for longer studies. Maybe even taken a shot at the astronomy career he'd dreamed of when he was Warlock's age. Becoming one of Professor Aziraphale Fell's esteemed colleagues, meeting him in his university office, pinning him against the door...

Crowley found his way back to the main lawn. He needed to clear his head of obsessive thoughts about the angel. Aziraphale. Mr. Fell. The brother of future British Telephone Company investor Lord Havensworth. Crowley finally acknowledged that he had lost his grip on the situation and that he needed to look at it with a critical eye.

He imagined making a blatant proposition to Aziraphale, and being well-received. Then they could shag and Crowley would hopefully be rid of the heated dreams and absurd warmth that swept over him whenever Aziraphale was talking to him (or worse, letting his rare bastard smile make an appearance). Crowley imagined what the event would be like. Hot and urgent against the man's precious bookshelves maybe? Or slow and intent in a four-poster bed, getting to hear breathy pleading from that proper mouth. He shivered just thinking about it.

Or maybe Aziraphale would gently turn him down. That was technically a better outcome than Aziraphale being as straight and conservative as his environment threatened, and banishing Crowley with extreme prejudice, tanking his business relationship with Lord Havensworth, and shredding Crowley's reputation.

And yet, the idea that Aziraphale would have another man, but not him, felt very much like the worst-case scenario. Crowley had subtly probed Bertie and Pepper for information about Aziraphale's love life, and they hadn't mentioned any late wife or especially close "friend". Then again, people in these circles tended to be extremely discreet. Crowley had once been the bit on the side for a distinguished gentleman. He'd fallen hard and fast; his resulting years-long affair with a gorgeous, smart, and married member of the peerage had ended as silently as it had begun. He didn't do anything as idiotic as getting attached these days, especially not to respectable angels from excellent families.

Crowley sighed. The best way to get rid of a temptation was to yield to it, after all. Taking action would finally give him some control back at the very least.

Jeeves was helping Bertie dress for dinner. The mood in the room was tense. A conflict had arisen earlier when Jeeves had found a kilt stashed deep in Bertie's closet, and learned that Bertie intended to wear it at dinner. Jeeves wasn't opposed to kilts as a general rule; they had their place, even though that was certainly not at the dinner table of Eastgate Abbey. The main issue was that the tartan on the offending object was a particularly garish mix of orange, yellow, and deep green. Bertie had called it "seasonal", "fresh" and "ideal for this bally hot weather". Jeeves thought that the only environment where the temperature and sartorial norms would justify wearing this particular item was the sixth Circle of Hell. He hadn't said so, of course. He had simply raised a pained eyebrow and steeled himself for the task of helping his young master add a formal jacket to the kilt.

"Do you know, Jeeves, Pepper has entrusted me with a mission of the most delicate kind. A white-knight situation sort of thing."

"I'm surprised to hear it, sir. I was under the impression that Miss Patricia didn't care much for the chivalry of old."

"Well, she did try to help herself before she asked me. She wants me to find any written details about the exact conditions under which she is supposed to come into her inheritance. She'll be twenty-one soon, you see, but it looks like she might have to wait longer to start her business tycoon career."

Jeeves tugged on Bertie's waistcoat to remove any folds. He'd done his best to make the upper part of the ensemble presentable. The lower part, unfortunately, would have to remain between Bertie and his Maker.

"Any suggestions?"

"I would advise Miss Patricia to wait and see, sir. The telephone is one of the great revolutions of our times, indeed. I believe some will build fortunes upon it; whether Mr. Crowley and his associates will be among these people remains to be seen. Competition is fierce, I'm afraid."

Bertie thought "wait and see" was perfectly rotten advice. He didn't say so, of course. He was sure that Jeeves' apparent lack of useful ideas to rescue the young master was a consequence of his refusal to discard the kilt in favour of more conservative dinner garb. It wasn't the first time that his valet had tried to pull Bertie's clothing choices back towards the traditional, but sometimes a man had to stand for himself, tradition be damned. Bertie wasn't one of these men who let their valets walk all over them.

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Jeeves," Bertie answered haughtily as he exited his room. He didn't relish the prospect of rummaging through Uncle Aziraphale's papers, but he couldn't stand idle when a lady and dear friend was in distress. He had made a promise.

Bertie's dramatically timed exit meant he'd ended in the corridor outside his room much earlier than was strictly necessary to be on time for dinner. He was stricken by the sudden epiphany that he should use that time to try Uncle Aziraphale's library. Aziraphale's bedroom was next to Bertie's, and after that was his library. Bertie discreetly walked up to his uncle's door and put his ear to it.

He'd heard from Jeeves that Uncle Aziraphale's new valet, that Pulsifer fellow, was new at the job. The bits of sentences he heard through the door seemed to confirm this. It sounded like Uncle Aziraphale was explaining the intricacies of bow tie tying; Bertie recognized his uncle's tone. It was the same patient one he'd been accustomed to back in the day when they'd gone through the finer points of Dickens' Great Expectations. Hopefully this meant that Uncle Aziraphale would be occupied until dinnertime.

Bertie walked briskly up to the library door and slowly pushed it open.

Uncle Aziraphale had transformed the large rectangular room into something labyrinthic and cozy, but Bertie still knew how to get to his uncle's desk. It stood in a secluded corner just below a tall window. The desk was covered in notebooks, papers, and books. There was even a stray cup of tea that had escaped the sight of whichever poor soul was in charge of keeping the space vaguely clean and sorted. Bertie started looking in the desk drawers; nothing interesting came out of the ones that were unlocked. God knew where Uncle Aziraphale kept the drawer keys, if he hadn't lost them. Bertie wouldn't have put it past him. There was a filing cabinet under the bookshelves behind the chair; Bertie went for it next. He was halfway through the drawer labeled "L–P" (which contained many documents that had no L, M,N, O, or Ps in their titles) when he heard a sigh and approaching footsteps.

His blood froze, and he closed the drawer as silently as he could. Could the man not bear to be parted from his books for even a few minutes? Bertie had to think fast. He remembered Pepper's suggestion of pretending to borrow a book, not without a very unchivalrous tinge of bitterness. He pulled a book at random from the shelf above the filling cabinet.

"Bertie! What are you doing here?" Aziraphale asked when he came into the desk area.

"Oh! I was looking for a book. Was wondering if you had it, but of course you did!" Bertie was quite proud of how innocent he sounded. He looked down at the cover of the book in his hands.

"A Queer History of Great-Britain," Bertie read aloud. That sounded like some sort of humorous retelling of historical events, which gave him a brilliant idea for a cover story. "One of my pals expressly recommended it to me. Said I would love it. I, I had forgotten about it and I was bored and I thought, er, I should take the opportunity, since I'm here. Reading out in the garden, cultivate myself and all that?" Bertie knew he was starting to sound slightly unhinged. He finally dared to look up at his uncle. Instead of the glare of disappointment that he was used to receive from other relatives, Bertie found Aziraphale's sky-blue eyes staring at him with a strange kind of fondness. Definitely not like Bertram Wooster was a despicable spy out to invade an uncle's privacy.

"Oh, my dear boy. Of course you can borrow this. Keep it as long as you need. If you have any questions, do come to me."

Aziraphale's smile reminded Bertie of the time he'd brought his uncle the only academic accolade he'd ever obtained (his primary school prize for Scripture Knowledge).

"Please take good care of it. It is quite rare and difficult to replace."

Bertie stood there, trying to process the fact that Uncle Aziraphale was letting him leave his library with a rare book. His shock didn't seem to faze his uncle, who kept looking at him with infinite kindness.

The moment was broken by the foyer gong, resonating loud and clear to announce that dinner was ready to be served.

Bertie followed after his uncle, reflecting that he would surely have to answer to a higher power one day for lying to his guardian angel.

Chapter Text

Lady Michael Fell-Archer arrived at Eastgate Abbey on Monday, surprising even her relatives. Her trips to the family home were few and far between; as she liked to remind her brothers every time she visited, she was an extremely busy woman and had little time for holidays.

The exact nature of her work had always been a bit fuzzy to Aziraphale. It was invariably something to do with charities, but he heard a different name and purpose every time he talked to his sister about her current project. Not many of those philanthropic institutions, it seemed, succeeded in retaining Lady Michael's interest for long.

She was presently listing the many failings of "St. Beryl's Women Shelters & Homes" to Aziraphale over tea in the morning room. He was the one of her brothers with the longest attention span, which came at a cost. Hearing Lady Michael's opinions on the behavior of young women these days was not Aziraphale's idea of a good time, but living with Gabriel had honed his passive listening skills. He could keep track of the major points and nod at the appropriate moments while letting his mind wander into more pleasant places. If those places featured a certain tall and charming redhead, well. It was only fair, considering the circumstances.

"And by the way, why is Patricia not engaged yet? She's almost twenty-one."

Aziraphale was startled by the change of subject. He sipped on his tea to give himself time to think.

"Don't tell me you forgot about her late mother's wishes. You know she and Clarissa always talked about her getting engaged to Bertie."

"Michael, really. They were talking in the theoretical. I know your attachment to traditional family values, but we haven't betrothed babies since the middle ages."

Michael huffed. Young adults and babies were not that different in her opinion.

"Besides, neither Pepper nor Bertie have ever expressed romantic inclination for one another."

"They spend all their time together when Bertie comes here! This would have meant something back in our day."

"I don't think it means anything else than young friends preferring each other's company to fuddy-duddies like us."

"We're not that old, Aziraphale. You still have time to come around to the idea of marriage."

Aziraphale almost choked on his Earl Grey.

"Gabriel isn't married either!" He regretted this moment of panic instantly; he wouldn't normally throw his brother to the wolves like this. Michael had always had the ambition to direct the lives of those around her and her marriage talk was making Aziraphale nervous. Had she observed anything suspicious when he was in the same room with Crowley? Aziraphale was sure he hadn't let anything other than his usual politeness show, but he sometimes got the impression that his sister had guessed the reason why he had never been interested in marriage.

"Gabriel is widowed. At least he tried," Michael added with a pointed glare over her teacup. "And he is another problem entirely. Have you noticed how much he talks about the Duchess of Hellsingham? I would prefer he stay away from any thoughts of marriage at the moment."

Aziraphale had never met the Duchess, but he was grateful that the spotlight had moved away from his relationship with women and matrimony. He knew thanks to Gabriel that the Duchess was fond of early morning swims in icy lakes. He knew Pepper admired her business sense. Even Crowley had spoken favorably of her, but then she was an investor in the British Telephone Company. He'd heard from Michael that the Duchess' origins were humble and that she had buried four husbands of increasing social standing. There was talk of the deaths not being natural; Aziraphale knew how ruthless his class could be with outsiders, so he didn't put much stock into those rumours. Besides, Gabriel was only an Earl, so if the Duchess of Hellsingham was so focused on rising through the ranks he was probably safe.

"Speaking of knights of industry. What do you think of Gabriel's latest whim? I have to say I don't care much for Mr. Crowley's style, but having a home telephone would be wonderfully useful. I'm not sure I approve of all the time Patricia spends in his company. You seem to like him?"

"He's not as bad as the usual lot," Aziraphale said, praying for his blush to stay under control. Crowley was always in and out of Eastgate Abbey; his workers were setting up telephone lines all over Hampshire and he was often absent for lunch or dinner due to work travel. Aziraphale hoped that their rare interactions wouldn't have looked like anything else than ordinary conversation to an outside observer.

He was rescued from his sister's piercing eyes when Harriet Dowling came into the room to ask if anyone was interested in a bit of horse riding. He silently thanked the Lord for the diversion and enthusiastically accepted. Lady Michael disliked horses immensely; the outing would give him time to deal with the fact that maybe his appreciation for Crowley's style wasn't as discreet as he thought it was.

"Crowley! We're going on a riding tour of the grounds with the Dowlings and Aziraphale, would you like to join us?"

Crowley immediately put down his pen and forgot all about the letter he was writing. The visual of Aziraphale in riding clothes had temporarily taken hold of his mind and it didn't leave much resources for anything else. His mouth said "With pleasure" before his brain remembered that he had never ridden a horse in his life. He tried to extricate himself by saying he hadn't brought any of the necessary gear, but Gabriel enthusiastically informed him that one of his cousins had a similar build and his riding things must be stored in a wardrobe somewhere.

This is how, a few moments later, Crowley found himself in the courtyard in front of the stables wearing the tightest trousers he'd ever put on and wondering how fast one could learn to drive a horse. They were a bit like living cars, after all?

The stable boy was looking at him expectantly. Crowley had dressed in record time, hoping to arrive at the stables before everyone else to learn the basics, and they were alone in the courtyard.

"So, uh. I haven't ridden in a while, which one is your most easy going horse?" Crowley asked the boy, not willing to appear completely insane by admitting his complete lack of skills in the horse department.

The stable boy looked at him just a second too long for Crowley's comfort, then went back inside the stables. He came out shortly afterward, a friendly-looking black horse in tow. Crowley relaxed imperceptibly. The color was right at least, that had to be a good omen.

"That's Big Ted. He's very patient and quiet and smart," the boy said, petting Big Ted's neck affectionately. He had brought a stool with him, to Crowley's great relief. It allowed him to climb onto the horse with a minimal amount of fumbling.

"Tell him what you want, he mostly knows what to do," the boy said, "squeeze a bit with your legs to tell him to go, and pull gently on the reins to make him stop or turn."

Well, so much for pretending that he knew anything about horse riding. Crowley tried the boy's indications, and was surprised to see them working without a hitch.

"Good lad," the stable boy told the horse when he stopped at Crowley's light tugging on the reins. "Take good care of the guest, eh?" With those parting words, the boy went back into the stables.

"Big Ted," Crowley bent to whisper into the horse's ear, "if you help me not embarrass myself in front of Aziraphale, I'll get you …" What was that thing horses were fond of? "Peas." Big Ted didn't react. "Apples?" Big Ted lifted his head and gave the ground a bump with his hoof.

Crowley grinned. Things were looking up; it seemed his tempting and negotiations skills carried over beyond the human race.

"My friend," he said with more confidence than he'd felt since he'd walked into the courtyard, "we're in business, you and me." He petted the horse's mane, and got a soft neigh in response.

"Hello, Crowley." Crowley looked to his side and saw Aziraphale entering the courtyard. He gently directed Big Ted to go meet him; the animal complied easily. It was more a consequence of Aziraphale's usual generosity with carrots than because of Crowley's equestrian prowess, but it confirmed the latter's optimism about horses as a general concept.

Any misgivings Crowley may still have had about his brilliant idea of pretending to know how to ride a horse in front of a group of experts evaporated instantly. Aziraphale approached and gave the most blinding smile when he took Crowley in. Vanity wasn't Crowley's favorite sin, but Aziraphale's reaction was moving it up the list. The hope that the man wouldn't be opposed to a private tour of Crowley's bed had his mind in a death grip. Aziraphale in riding clothes was exactly as delicious as he'd hoped. The trousers were doing wonderful things for his thighs, and the fitted jacket was hugging his waist and hips just right. To say nothing of the knee-high black leather boots. And when Crowley noticed the riding crop he came very close to spontaneous combustion.

"Good afternoon," Aziraphale said cheerfully, as if he hadn't just set fire to Crowley's insides with a single smile.

Crowley cocked his head and drawled an "hello" in answer. Aziraphale's smile got bashful and he dropped his gaze to Big Ted's head, giving the animal a few scratches. He was rewarded with a friendly head butt and lick from the horse. The ensuing giggle made the heat in Crowley's belly creep softly up towards his heart.

The stable boy reappeared with four horses in tow. Aziraphale turned to him after a quick glance back at Crowley and a half-muttered "Well, I'll just get along with it then". Crowley was treated to the rear view for a few precious moments, followed by Aziraphale hooking his boot into the stirrup and mounting on his horse in one gracefully controlled movement.

Crowley was so taken by it all that he barely noticed Lord Havensworth and the Dowlings arriving. They all got on their respective horses and the party rode onto the afternoon sunshine.

"Mr. Jeeves Sir? Why did you ask me to get Big Ted for Mr. Crowley?" the stable boy asked after the sound of hooves had stopped ringing through the courtyard.

"Mr. Crowley is a bit out of practice with horses."

"Out of practice?" the boy scoffed, "That man hasn't ever been near a horse in his damned life. We've got better ones for complete beginners. Big Ted's a sweetheart but he's got a mind of his own."

Jeeves gazed thoughtfully into the distance.

"I'm sure they'll get on splendidly."

Chapter Text

Gabriel and the Dowlings were riding in front; bits and pieces of their conversation about modern athletic diets made their way to Crowley over the gentle sounds of rustling leaves and birdsong. They were all following the edge of the forest, barley fields baking in the sun on their left, cool undergrowth to their right, and beech foliage fanning out over their heads. Big Ted was doing his best, but Crowley was about as comfortable as a snake trying to blend into a military parade. He preferred to lounge and slouch and drape himself over sitting implements when he could get away with it, but that was not advisable on a saddle.

Aziraphale was riding next to him and regaling him with local folk tales. Legend had it that one of the highwaymen that used to roam the country centuries ago had seduced the Lady Havensworth of that time. Aziraphale finished his story with a shrewd smile that confirmed Crowley's suspicion that the angel was just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing. Crowley would have loved nothing more than to lie down in the warm grass and continue listening to Aziraphale's stories. He was worried his physical discomfort was starting to show though, because the other man trailed off and looked at him with some concern.

"Oh listen to me go on. I hope I haven't bored you to death with my ramblings. I do love it when fiction meets with history."

"Not at all," Crowley hastened to reply. "Big storytelling fan, me. What's that?" he added, pointing at some ruins in the distance, not wanting to let Aziraphale mistake his discomfort for boredom.

"Oh, that's the old fort. It was built by one of our ancestors in the Middle Ages. There's only a bit of rampart and a crumbling tower left. You can see the western part of the Eastgate wall coming out from the trees over there."

Big Ted turned sharply away in the direction of the ruins just as Aziraphale finished his sentence. Crowley attempted a discreet redirection to keep on the path, but was splendidly ignored by his horse.

"Let's go that way, I'd like to see it," Crowley said over his shoulder; he had no choice but to let Big Ted take the reins.

"We're going to lose the others," Aziraphale said as he rode towards him. Gabriel and the Dowlings hadn't noticed their change of course.

"You know how to go back, no?" Crowley grinned. "And so does Lord Havensworth. We'll all be fine."

Aziraphale looked at the ruin and smiled.

"I haven't been over there in a long time. Do you know, that's where Gabriel and I used to hide from our Latin tutor when we were young."

"You? You used to hide from a Latin tutor?" The idea of Aziraphale misbehaving was fascinating to Crowley.

"Well, in my defense, he was very boring."

"Any relation of Mr. Brown's?"

Aziraphale's laugh escaped his lips before his sense of propriety had time to intervene.

"I'll take that as a yes, you know," Crowley needled.

Aziraphale's look of reprimand would have worked better if he hadn't been fighting a guilty smile.

"Isn't it a beautiful place?" Aziraphale redirected, nodding at the nature around them.

Crowley accepted the subject change; Aziraphale not disputing Mr. Brown's lack of charm was making him feel generous.

"Yes, it is," Crowley answered, looking resolutely at Aziraphale. He got rewarded by a soft contemplative smile that warmed him more than the slanted afternoon sun.

The country all around them looked as if it had been taken out of an illustrated book recounting the adventures of a little rabbit and his wily fox friend. They reached a green lane, passed a tiny stream, then rode through a wildflower-studded meadow until they faced the low hill upon which the ruin stood. The hill was partially covered with orchards. Crowley felt Big Ted pick up pace, again ignoring Crowley's attempts to slow him down; he understood why as soon as he came into view of a row of trees heavy with July apples. Big Ted stopped pointedly in front of the fence that surrounded the orchard.

Crowley sighed and glanced over his shoulder. Aziraphale was riding towards him, a sly smile on his face. It seemed like Big Ted had only partially held up his end of the contract. On the other hand, he'd brought him and Aziraphale to a beautiful and secluded place, so Crowley felt providing some payment was fair enough.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale called as he approached the apple trees.

Crowley looked quizzically at him.

"How much experience do you have with horses?"

Crowley mumbled a string of consonants as he dismounted without any of the grace Aziraphale was used to seeing in the man's movements.

Aziraphale watched Crowley jump over the fence and saunter towards the apple trees. The swagger was back now that the man was on the ground. He looked even more dashing than usual dressed like this. Had he always moved his hips so sinuously when walking? It almost made Aziraphale forget that he had just uncovered a highly entertaining secret, namely that Crowley had agreed to a horse ride without the slightest idea of how any of it worked. How cruel the world of business, if it made a man resort to such extremities to secure the respect of a potential investor. And mostly wasted, since Crowley had spent the whole time chatting with Aziraphale instead.

"Big Ted here is very fond of apples and he's been known to take the initiative, direction-wise, when he has a novice rider. He's such a smart boy, he even remembers which orchards have early apples," Aziraphale said as he lightly dismounted.

Crowley pretended he hadn't heard Aziraphale, seemingly concerned with choosing a large red fruit. He turned back towards Aziraphale and the horses, the apple in hand and a half-amused, half-apologetic smile on his face.

"I might have exaggerated my riding skills a little bit at the stables." He examined the apple as if, much like Sir Isaac Newton, he would find wisdom in it. "I have never been near a horse in my entire life. Absolute city boy."

Aziraphale burst out laughing; he shot a guilty look at Crowley, but the man didn't seem to take offense.

"You're not too bad for a beginner, but you really need to fix your posture or your back and thighs will murder you tomorrow."

Crowley winced.

An image of himself massaging Crowley's aching thighs flashed through Aziraphale's mind, unbidden. At least he could blame the heat that flushed his skin on the weather.

"Please don't expose me as a fraud when we come back?"

"Of course not. But I'm going to insist on showing you some basics before you go back on that horse."

"No offense, but I'm not getting back up until I absolutely need to," Crowley said as he offered Big Ted the apple with a sportsman's generosity. The horse enthusiastically started chomping on it.

"And I don't recommend stealing apples from the Devices' orchard. Miss Device is rumored to be a witch, you know."

"Not a problem, I have a good working relationship with witches." Crowley raised an eyebrow and made a show of going back to leave five shillings between the apple tree branches.

"I'm afraid this is going to benefit the neighborhood urchins rather than the Devices, but it's the intention that counts. Or so I heard from Miss Device."

"Good thing too—that was dangerously close to a good deed here."

They were standing face to face now, on opposite sides of the fence but still closer than absolutely necessary; Aziraphale was not quite sure how that had happened. His voice went soft.

"Why do you make yourself out to be worse than you really are? I already have proof that you're not a charlatan."

And he had. Not only had he not found anything suspicious in Crowley's plans during the afternoon he'd spent combing over them, but Adam and Wensleydale had answered his letters and confirmed that The British Telephone Company was a perfectly reputable institution (or at least as reputable as such things can be when competition is fierce and regulation is thin). Crowley's reputation was admittedly a bit more flamboyant than the average gentleman's, but neither Adam nor Wensleydale had uncovered anything unsavoury.

"You've got to be a bit of a rake or else no one will believe you're going to make a fortune." Crowley vaulted back to Aziraphale's side of the fence. "I'll look respectable once I'm rich."

Aziraphale thought that Crowley's general looks were fine just as they were, but he found himself unable to express this in a way that was suitable. He really ought to propose a proper break; they'd been riding for over an hour and it must have been quite painful for Crowley towards the end.

"Would you like to go have a rest on the old rampart wall? It's wide enough to lie on your back," Aziraphale offered, "because of your muscle aches!" he added with a blush when he saw Crowley flashing him a cheeky smile.

Crowley seemed fine with the plan, so Aziraphale took the reins of both horses and led the way round the orchard and up the hill. What everybody in the neighborhood called "the old fort" was really thirty feet of rampart wall that was half covered in vine, plus a crumbling tower that was mostly a pile of mossy rocks with a vaguely rounded side. Once they made it to the hilltop, Aziraphale tied the reins to a small tree near a patch of high grass and motioned Crowley towards the rocks.

"This is the delicate part. We're going to go up the rock heap, then climb on that side, which will bring us to the top of the wall."

"You've done this before, right?" Crowley asked, looking at the pile of rubble and the twenty feet high wall towering over them. There wasn't much of it left; weeds were growing in various crevices, and the top had lost many of its crenels.

"Of course! As a lad, mostly." Aziraphale merrily started on the climb, unaware that his complete disregard for building safety standards had brought a besotted smile on Crowley's face.

They made their way to the top, Aziraphale constantly checking on Crowley, up to the point where the other man haughtily explained that he'd had a lot of experience climbing the old factory wall near his childhood home, thank you very much.

Aziraphale reached the flat top of the rampart wall and took Crowley's hand to hoist him up the last stretch of stone. Aziraphale led them to the spot where he used to sit with a book when he was a teenager; Crowley followed silently behind him.

"Please take a seat," Aziraphale made a gesture indicating the flat slab at his feet.

Crowley sat down with his legs dangling over the edge of the wall, his back to the crenellations. Aziraphale sat next to him, closer than Lady Michael would have found appropriate if one of them had been a lady.

They both took a moment to appreciate the view, which was as spectacular as Aziraphale remembered. At their feet were the apple trees; the countryside stretched beyond, bright fields and hedges and lush groves bathed in the July sun. Havensbury was visible in the distance, nestled in the meander of a glittering river.

"There are a lot of beautiful places in this country, but I think this one is my favourite," Aziraphale said dreamily. He turned to Crowley. "Do you maybe see why I don't like change? This place is the closest thing to the garden of Eden on this Earth. It seems wrong to have black cables crossing such a landscape." Aziraphale looked back at the horizon, a sad look flickering on his face. Crowley had to do something about it.

"I see your point, but those fields and hedges are just as man-made as the telephone line." Crowley grinned. "Me, I like a good deep and dark forest full of spooky things. Keeps us mortals on our toes."

"I can see why you have a good working relationship with witches. Speaking of dark magic, how are things going with the home line?"

"Pretty good. We might make the first call next Sunday if everything goes well." Crowley feared the reality of it all was about to bring Aziraphale's mood down again. "You know," he added, "if anyone really annoying is trying to call you, you could always pretend there are problems on the line and it didn't ring. You could even pretend you got disconnected in the middle of a call if it gets too dire."

Crowley was proposing, again, a strategy that would be very bad publicity for the British Telephone Company if Aziraphale ever decided to put it into practice. Aziraphale was laughing though, so that sacrifice wasn't in vain. And he was looking at Crowley with a warm surprise that indicated that he, too, had noticed how selfless that advice was.

Crowley's first meeting with Lady Michael had given him a clearer understanding of Aziraphale's lack of enthusiasm for a home telephone. And according to Bertie, she wasn't even the most fearsome member of that family. In the span of one dinner conversation, she had communicated her displeasure with the future of Great Britain, the lack of drive of young men (at which point she had directed a pained look at Bertie Wooster), and the fact that young women didn't know their place as well as they used to (at which point she had looked at Pepper and sighed). Crowley had thought it useful to suggest that "They could switch. Pepper certainly has the drive, and Bertie seems to know his place in society?" Lady Michael had not been amused.

"It's mostly going to be Pepper using the phone I think," Aziraphale finally said.

"She asks lots of good questions, that one. Won't let it rest until I explain it all." Crowley himself was not at all worried about the future of Great Britain, but he was an optimist at heart. "She pretty much invited herself to my trip to Haven-on-Thyme last Wednesday to oversee the connection of the board in the post office." Crowley laughed at Aziraphale's apologetic expression. "That's a good thing! Made the car trip less boring. She's sharper than a lot of my employees. I tried to tell that to Lady Michael when she, hum, shared her opinions about the youth yesterday at dinner."

Aziraphale's expression became even more apologetic, although there was something of an "I tried to warn you" undercurrent to his smile.

Crowley stretched and laid down with his hands behind his head. Relaxing his back muscles on the warm stone felt heavenly. He glanced at Aziraphale, who was still sitting ramrod straight with his gaze fixed on the horizon. Crowley closed his eyes and relaxed in the sun. He was laying atop the wall of Eden with an angel who enjoyed his company and all was well with the world.

"How is your back?"

"Better now. Maybe I should have brought alcohol."

"I'm not sure drinking on top of a crumbling ruin is a good idea, my dear." Crowley opened his eyes at those last two words, and got hit with the sudden view of Aziraphale outlined against the deep blue sky, curls dancing in the light breeze, archly looking at him while he added "O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains!"

"That we should, with joy, pleasance revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!" Crowley smoothly sat back up as he completed Aziraphale's quote. He was rewarded by a blinding smile.

"Are you a Shakespeare enthusiast then?"

"My mother used to be an actress. I helped her rehearse for years." Before Aziraphale could ask what her stage name was (he had probably seen every one of Shakespeare plays in multiple theaters), Crowley continued. "For music hall, mostly. She wanted to move into theatre but it never really worked out. She got tired of the cheap dramas that she always got cast in. You know the kind; blushing damsels, evil temptresses, dashing heroes…"

Crowley's breath hitched. He suddenly grabbed his chest as a grimace of pain and a whizzing moan escaped his lips. Aziraphale gasped and seized Crowley's arm as he fainted, almost tipping over the edge of the wall.

"… and really drawn-out over the top villain deaths," Crowley added triumphantly as he sat up straight again, dashing a satisfied smile at Aziraphale while he readjusted his jacket.

"You absolute fiend," Aziraphale exclaimed, although his tone expressed more relief than exasperation.

"Acting fiend to you, sir." Crowley didn't feel sorry at all.

"Oh good Lord. What if you'd fallen down?"

"I knew you wouldn't let me break my neck. You're an angel."

Crowley realised he might have gone too far when he saw Aziraphale's shocked look. They both looked down to where Aziraphale was still holding Crowley biceps. Aziraphale cleared his throat and let it go.

"You know, because of your name? You and your siblings are all named after angels, aren't you?" Crowley hastened to add in an attempt to break the strangeness of the moment. "And you save little kids from summer homework?"

A very fetching blush was creeping up Aziraphale's neck.

"Don't worry. Your secrets are safe with me." As if Crowley would ever betray Aziraphale in any way.

"Oh, that's a relief. I'm just doing it so that Warlock doesn't have to escape into the woods alone and hide in old ruins like I used to. His parents expect a lot from him." Aziraphale smiled ruefully. "Maybe I should take Mrs Dowling for walks in the woods and explain how the study of theatre shouldn't be introduced to children as a competitive sport."

You should take me into the woods, Crowley thought. Whatever was left of his survival instinct after being alone with the angel for a whole afternoon prevented him from saying it out loud. Aziraphale was more friendly and unguarded today than was usual for a man of his age and class, especially considering how Crowley had come into his home to involuntarily attack his tranquility. What if it took years for Aziraphale to accept anything more than friendship? What if friendship was all that was on the table? The idea didn't bother Crowley as much as he thought it would. He remembered the way Aziraphale had looked at him at the stables. Delightful conversation and being looked at like that once in a while could be enough. He would make it enough anyway. He knew by now that it would be as impossible for him to walk away from this acquaintance as it would be for an apple to fall away from the ground.

The sun was sinking below the hills on the horizon, letting darkness rise behind their wall. Venus was cheekily twinkling on Crowley's left. They were well past dinner time already; any time now, they would have to go down and back at the house, but Crowley was certainly not going to be the one to remind anyone of that fact. He saw Aziraphale taking breath, probably to suggest they head back. Crowley reminded himself that all good things must come to an end.

"Why do you go by your last name?" Aziraphale said instead.

Crowley pursed his lips and only let out a low hum. He couldn't bring himself to say his usual lie.

"Oh, nevermind my idle curiosity. You don't have to tell me." Aziraphale had obviously picked up on his discomfort.

"It's my mother's name. My first name was chosen by my paternal grandmother. She had me baptised while my mother was still recovering from childbirth, just before she threw us out of the house."

Crowley was convinced that this first taste of holiness was the reason he'd always found churches repellent.

"My mother was a maid before she became a music hall performer, you see. Pretty enough to tempt a well-bred young gentleman, but not enough to make him take her to Gretna Green. Good thing my grandmother on the other side was more generous."

Crowley hadn't forgotten who he was talking to. A well-bred gentleman from an excellent family, who probably wouldn't compromise themselves with fallen women or sons thereof. Crowley had never been ashamed of what he was; his mother had made sure of that. But he still cultivated a fictitious family history to facilitate his mobility in the world. Aziraphale was the first member of the gentry who had ever heard the truth of it.

He wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected, but he was surprised to feel Aziraphale's hand softly landing on his forearm, and Aziraphale looking at him like he understood, somehow. Understood what it meant to be an unwed mother in a small village, or to be called a bastard as cold statement of fact by neighbors. Crowley shivered. In the rising darkness, with Aziraphale's compassionate face almost glowing in the setting sun, it was easy to believe that he was an actual angel who had borne witness to humans for thousands of years and stubbornly loved them all.

"I'm sorry you and your mother were treated so poorly. It doesn't sound like your father's family name was anything worth having." Aziraphale's look was gentle but the strong fingers quietly laying on Crowley's arm felt as protective as sympathetic.

"She took her revenge, you know. Once she got popular in the music hall, she created a whole bit using my father's name and mannerisms for the villain. She played his rebellious henchwoman. The show got so popular that most of the village saw it. Made quite a splash according to grandma, but then she's the one who advertised it relentlessly."

Aziraphale laughed out loud. He tried and failed several times to regain his composure; he let go of Crowley's arm at some point.

"How very Shakespearean of them both," Aziraphale finally concluded with a sigh. He looked around himself wistfully. "We should perhaps go down before it gets dark." He got up and extended a hand to help Crowley do the same. Crowley couldn't resist the warm palm and wound himself up until he was nose to nose with Aziraphale.

"Lead the way," he declared in a low voice, Aziraphale's hand still clasped in his own.

Chapter Text

Bertie was enjoying the quiet of a late breakfast. As usual, he had left his bed much later than the rest of the household. He could thus enjoy some warm toast and tea in welcome solitude. The arrival of Aunt Michael had been a blow to his peace of mind. She regarded him as little more than a lump of clay that might possibly amount to something if only it let itself be molded by a firm, God-fearing hand. Bertie was quite happy in the riverbed of his life and therefore tried to avoid any conversation with his aunt, for fear of being made to better himself.

At least he had found some valuable information about Pepper’s own future. Thanks to Jeeves, bless the man. His valet had informed him the day before that his uncles would be off for most of the afternoon on a horse riding excursion. Bertie had no idea that Uncle Aziraphale had become such a horse person that he would spend a whole afternoon riding, but the fact of the matter was that he and Mr. Crowley hadn’t come back until well after dinnertime. Leave it to Jeeves to keep on top of these things. It meant that Bertie had finally had the opportunity to go back to the library to comb through Uncle Aziraphale’s horrendously disorganised files to find documents about Pepper’s finances. Bertie’s conscience had weighed heavy on his soul while he worked; his feelings towards the blasted telephone and the world of business in general had bordered on the resentful. Maybe Uncle Aziraphale had the right idea after all. And to add insult to injury, Bertie had finally found the documents in question right on top of one of the many piles of paper strewn across his uncle’s mess of a desk, and not in a filing cabinet like one would expect in a good christian home.

Bertie was busy considering the comparative advantages of blackberry jam versus marmalade for his next toast when Pepper entered the room.

“Hullo Bertie.” Pepper sat next to him, and made a move for the teapot. 

“Good morning old thing.” Bertie leaned conspiratorially towards his friend. They were the only people in the breakfast room, but one couldn’t be too prudent. “I have news for you. About…a certain business.”

“Oh Bertie, thank you! I knew you’d come through!”

Bertie took a moment to enjoy his laurels, and spread marmalade on his toast with confidence while Pepper poured herself a cup of tea.

“So. There is good news, and bad news. The bad news is that you do have to wait until you turn twenty-five to get your inheritance. The good news is that if you get married, you’ll get it on your wedding day.”

“Oh.” Pepper worried at her lips, her teacup ignored.

Bertie did not care at all for the way she was looking at him right this instant. He had been on the receiving end of that kind of look from young women more often than he was comfortable with. Much like a well-fed house cat being offered a juicy mouse on the proverbial silver platter, that look.

“You know, Bertie. I’ve complained about the inescapable nature of marriage in the past, and I know you share my views on the topic.”

Bertie couldn’t argue thus far. You don’t see so many of your dear friends (and occasionally enemies) tying the knot with specimens such as Honoria Glossop, Madeline Basset, Gwladys Pendlebury – and many others – without developing some healthy concerns.

“But it is an unfortunate fact that staying unmarried can expose a person to all sorts of unpleasantness.”

“Oh, rather! Do you know, the first words out of Aunt Michael’s mouth when she arrived were to ask what happened to my engagement to Honoria.” Bertie shuddered as he thought back on the fact that he would certainly have ended up married to Miss Honoria Glossop if not for Jeeves’ clever interference. He held to his toast to remind himself there were still good things in this world.

“Exactly! And this is why we should get married.”

A piece of toast went down the wrong pipe when Bertie heard those words. While he coughed it out, Pepper continued her demonstration.

“It’s the perfect arrangement, really. We’re good friends; you know I won’t get in your way and you won’t get in mine. We get everyone off our backs, and I can finally be independent.”

“Pepper! I mean I do enjoy your company, but…”

“Perfect! We can go to the registrar’s in London next week and have lunch after! My treat, of course.” 

Pepper rose joyfully, kissed Bertie on the temple, and exited the room. Bertie was left with his toast and some rather sombre thoughts. That was the problem when one played the gallant gentleman; it made one irresistible to the fairer sex. He finished his breakfast and went for a stroll in the gardens. He hoped the fresh air would set the old braincells up for success in the difficult task of finding a polite way out of an engagement to his best friend. He could have asked Jeeves, of course, but he knew how those things went. He would get saved all right, but he would feel morally obligated to forsake whichever swell piece of clothing Jeeves had most recently taken issue with. Bertie was not ready to part with his kilt yet, and so he must cross the desert alone.

Bertie was a bit miffed to find Crowley sitting on his favorite bench: the one near the stream that had a great view of the rose garden. On the other end, Crowley seemed like a dashed smart fellow. Not as smart as Jeeves, obviously, but still the kind of man able to extricate himself from all kinds of knotty situations. Maybe he would have some valuable insights.

“Hullo there,” Bertie said as he approached the side of the bench. 

“G‘morning,” Crowley answered, his gaze focused on the ducks standing a few feet in front of him. He was throwing raw peas at them for some reason.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Crowley looked at him with his head tilted and nodded his assent.

Bertie sat down, trying to find a way to explain his situation without besmirching the reputation of a dear friend and/or lending more reality to the fact that he was technically engaged. Fortunately, Crowley saved him from having to think of an opening sentence.

“You know your uncle Aziraphale well.” It wasn’t a question, and Bertie wondered what he meant to ask. “I got the impression that he didn’t part easily with his books.”

Bertie scoffed. 

“I’ll say! He is the most generous person I know, but he defends his books like a dragon sitting on the old doubloons and jewels hoard.” He thought for a bit. “Although he may be going soft. Just a few days ago, he let me borrow a book – a rare one apparently. The last time he did that was when I was a lad, and even then I think he bought it for me, so it doesn’t really count. The Adventures of Robin Hood . Spiffing story, that.”

Crowley looked at the book in his lap.

“He gave me this one yesterday, after I mentioned I enjoyed Wilde’s work.”

“Lent you, you mean?”

“No, he said it was a gift and that I should keep it.”

“That’s practically a marriage proposal from Uncle Aziraphale!” Bertie laughed. “You two are becoming pals after all? Did you change his mind about the telephone?” More evidence of Crowley’s powers of conviction. And Pepper looked up to Crowley quite a lot; maybe the man could actually help Bertie out of his conundrum.

Crowley didn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the cover of his new book. An Ideal Husband , by Oscar Wilde. 

“Yeah, hum. So he usually doesn’t give books away?”

“Oh, no.” Bertie thought for a moment. “I mean, he gives books to children who visit here sometimes. Well, that, and once a year he puts some of his rare ones up for auction for the Children of Eve Christmas Charity. He always buys them back though.” Bertie smiled fondly as some childhood memories surfaced. “He does a whole bit every year at their charity ball, you know. Dresses up as Santa Claus, ho ho hoes his way into the dinner hall and distributes some Beatrix Potters and Jack Londons to the cheering crowd. He brought Pepper and me to be his lil’ helpers for a few years; we had elf costumes and everything. He stopped taking us after Pepper organised a raid of the kitchens with the other kids the year she heard there was chocolate pudding.”

“He what ?”

Crowley looked floored. Bertie wasn’t sure why; a theatre director in need of a seasonal Spreader of Joy would only have to take one look at Uncle Aziraphale to know he was the man of the moment.

“Sorry, I have to go.” Crowley abruptly got up, book in hand, and left Bertie pondering how those high-powered business types were just as moony as the most avant-garde artists.

Crowley strode through the gardens, trying to drown his heart’s frantic beating with exercise. He’d known for a while that he’d go down on his knees if Aziraphale asked, but Bertie’s revelations had turned that idea from a pleasant late-night fantasy to a tale of chivalry. The Children of Eve was the only charitable organisation for unwed mothers that didn’t shove righteousness through their charges’ throats, the only one administered by former beneficiaries, and the only one that stayed clear of the Church. As a result, it always struggled to bring in funds, since wealthy philanthropists usually preferred their donations to be received with more self-flagellation. Crowley had been on the donors list since he’d started working. And Aziraphale didn’t just offer money; he'd actually gone there for decades and spread joy and brought the children of his own family to play. Crowley’s train of thought was nebulous, but he was elaborating on this whole knees metaphor; he wasn’t sure if it was for swearing fealty or opening a small jewelry box or for a more physical kind of worship. Maybe a little bit of each. He was going to find Aziraphale and bring him somewhere private and romantic and … 

Aziraphale was lying down in his little boat, drifting peacefully on the lake. A straw hat was laying on his face, shielding his eyes from the sun. He had originally taken the boat out for fishing, and the rod attached to the stern was evidence of his intent. The warm sun and quiet murmur of the water had, however, made a nap appear very tempting. Aziraphale had closed his eyes and let his mind wander while the boat bobbed gently on the water. It didn’t take long for his thoughts to tiptoe back to Crowley.

He had known Crowley was a fascinating man on the first day they met. He hadn’t expected him to be such good-natured company, or quite so nice – even if he was sure the man would deny such simple truths about himself. He really should thank Gabriel and Harriet for inviting him to the riding excursion. And the stable boy too, for inexplicably setting Crowley up with Big Ted.

Since their long conversation on the wall, he’d started thinking of Crowley as a friend. However, if he was quite honest with himself, “friend” wasn’t quite the right word for the situation. Aziraphale didn’t, as a rule, notice how the sun played in his friends’ hair, or admire his friends’ jawlines, or swoon as soon as his friends quoted Shakespeare. That last part would have been rather an impediment to his career as a professor of Elizabethan literature. Aziraphale’s thoughts drifted to the few times he’d held Crowley’s hand in his own. The first firm handshake that he still believed had lingered longer than was usual between gentlemen, and the last one on the wall, which had definitely lasted long enough to make his heart race. In a fit of bravery, Aziraphale had given his copy of An Ideal Husband to Crowley. Hadn’t the man said he was a fan of Wilde’s work with a certain kind of look as they were coming back to the house? Aziraphale cursed his lack of faith in his own intuition. Maybe he should be more direct? Or maybe not.

Aziraphale’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp tug on the fishing rod. He sat up and put his hat back on his head, moving to the stern. The fishing rod got tugged again, strongly enough to yank the small boat forward. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of a long silver shadow under the water. He seized the rod and fought to reel the fish in, occasionally getting a look at what seemed to be an absolutely massive and very angry trout. The hunter’s excitement took hold of Aziraphale’s heart; think of what a splendid dish Monsieur Rossignol would spin from this! A sound from the edge of the lake made him turn his head, and he saw Crowley waving. Unfortunately, at the same moment, the fish made a sudden turn to starboard and Aziraphale lost his balance, only getting a second of foreshadowing before he splashed into the water. Not that he would let that development deter him. He would get that fish on the dinner table by any means necessary.

The fish decided to dive towards the bottom of the lake; Aziraphale pulled on the line with one hand and plunged underwater to wrestle it back towards himself. He finally managed to catch the slippery thing; as he moved up for air in a triumphant mood, holding the trashing fish tight in his arms, he felt a strong arm grab his shoulder and pull him up.

Aziraphale’s head broke the water surface. He gasped for air and found himself face to face with Crowley. Crowley looked panicked for a second, then distracted, then cross. He let go of Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said as he found his footing on the muddy bottom of the lake. “What possessed you to swim up to here?”

“You were drowning.” It sounded like an accusation, not less self-righteous because Crowley was clearly, like Aziraphale, standing comfortably on the bottom of the lake with water not higher than his chin. 

“I was fishing.” To be fair, it might have looked like drowning to an outside observer. Aziraphale felt like the truly exceptional catch of the day, which was still trashing weakly under his grip, needed to become a part of the conversation. Aziraphale carefully lifted his arms, bringing the head of the fish above water. 

“Obviously,” Crowley sighed.

“Let me thank you for your brave attempt at saving my life,” Aziraphale said, before padding slowly back to his boat and tossing the fish into it.

“Oh, rub it in, why don’t you?” Crowley scowled at him without conviction. They moved towards the shore, Aziraphale pulling his boat behind him.

“Not at all, dear boy. I’m very touched.” And he was; he felt both merry and soft with affection from the fact that Crowley thought nothing of jumping into a lake for him. “It’s the intention that counts.” Aziraphale beamed at Crowley. He was only half jesting; he almost regretted that the lake wasn’t deeper than five feet on this side, because the idea of being rescued by Crowley made him sizzle with excitement.

Once they made it to dry land, Aziraphale sat down to take off his sodden shoes. He tried without much success to wring some excess water and silt from the hem of his trousers. The day was very warm, thankfully. He raised his eyes towards Crowley, who was now standing next to him and wringing his rolled up shirt in his hands. Crowley’s trousers were even clingier than usual after their impromptu bath in the lake. He apparently didn’t wear vests, or maybe it was wrapped together with the shirt in his hands? Whatever the reason, Aziraphale’s throat went dry as his eyes darted from Crowley’s taught belly to his chest to his clavicles. Droplets of water wound their way down the wiry muscles in Crowley’s arms as he pressed hard against the fabric between his hands. His usually perfectly coiffed hair was flattened around his skull, underlining the sharp angles of his face. And that man had jumped into the lake for him.

Aziraphale startled when Crowley’s gaze came back in his direction. He tried to shake the mood away by getting up and retrieving his fish from the boat. When he came back to Crowley, the man had put his shirt back on, halfway buttoned. No vest in sight. Aziraphale belatedly brought his eyes to Crowley’s face.

“Oh you have something…” Aziraphale reached behind Crowley’s ear. The other man let out a string of confused consonants, but didn’t back away. If anything, he went completely still while Aziraphale retrieved a water lily stem from his hair. Aziraphale forgot to breathe for a few seconds. 

“We should probably head back and get into a bath.” 

Crowley nodded assent with another vowel-less sound and they started walking across the lawn in the direction of the house. 

“You, hum. Won’t tell anyone, right?” Crowley didn’t look at him.

“Why ever not? Don’t you want to be hailed as a hero?” Levity. A better choice than throwing the trout in the grass and grabbing Crowley’s shoulders and kissing him in full view of all the windows of the southern aisle. Aziraphale took a big breath and tried to make his smile go from hopelessly sentimental to playful.

“Well, the fact that we were well within our depth sort of takes out the shine, to be honest.”

“I could tell everyone that we were further towards the island. It’s about ten feet deep over there.”

“Tsk. Lying, angel?” The smirk was back on Crowley’s face. He eyed Aziraphale up and down. 

Aziraphale’s heart picked up a few extra beats at the endearment. He could only imagine what a mess he looked like in his drenched clothes, mud covering his legs after thrashing around on the bottom of the lake with the fish. A bath was clearly going to be Aziraphale’s next priority after he deposited the trout in the care of Monsieur Rossignol.

“It’s the least I can do, dear boy. And it would be entirely selfless.”

“Of course. It’s the intention that counts.” 

They walked the rest of the way in a cheerful mood. Aziraphale took them to the side of the house to the servant’s entrance. No reason to muddy the main hall and the carpeting, and he could leave the fish with the kitchen staff. 

Crowley let the bubbly water rise over his ears as he slowly slid down in the bathtub. Since smelling of silt wasn’t really conducive to grand declarations, he’d decided to stay silent for the time being. When Aziraphale had said that they should get into a bath (after removing some plant thing from Crowley’s hair in a gesture that had very much felt like a caress), Crowley had formed the completely irrational notion that he meant together. His hand crept towards his cock. Aziraphale in drenched clothes had been a sight to remember. The shirt sleeves clinging to his arms and the trousers to his thighs and backside…Crowley’s lazy stroking faltered a bit as his thoughts ended up on the fish after trailing down the path of Aziraphale’s forearms. The moans he imagined Aziraphale would offer at dinnertime when they could all enjoy that fish with butter sauce brought Crowley’s thoughts back to incandescence.

In the end, Crowley spent much more time in his bath than he had originally intended, but came out of it with renewed optimism. He dressed in clean clothes and set out to find Aziraphale. The man wasn’t in his library, nor in his room; fortunately, Crowley found Newton Pulsifer in there, who informed him that his master had left earlier to go read outside in the gazebo.

Crowley swiftly left the house and made for the gazebo in question. It was a little hexagonal situation with wooden openwork, surrounded by azalea bushes and pine trees in a secluded part of the gardens. It was perfect for what Crowley had in mind.

As Crowley approached the gazebo, he saw Bertie Wooster striding in the opposite direction with a haunted expression on his face. He would have asked what was up if he hadn’t been busy imagining several variations of what exactly he would say to Aziraphale. As Crowley reached the gazebo’s entrance, he realised that the small construction was devoid of angels, but contained one forlorn-looking young Pepper pacing to and fro. 

“Hello.” Crowley was about to ask if she’d seen Aziraphale around when Pepper made a little choked off sound and slumped into the bench. He approached cautiously and sat down next to her. 

“What’s going on?”

“Bertie is trying to nitpick a very sound plan!” Pepper's lip trembled. “It’s so unfair that women can’t do anything without being married.”

Crowley frowned. She wasn't wrong, but he had seen Bertie reading A Queer History of Great Britain in the drawing room the other day, and the young man hadn't exactly looked like a man possessed by romance when they’d crossed paths moments ago.

“Men get to do exciting things whenever they want. I'll turn twenty one in three months, and yet I have to get married if I want financial independence. How is that being a legal adult?”

“So… do you mean that you have an agreement with Bertie?”

Pepper nodded and understanding dawned on Crowley. He remembered how excited Pepper had been when they'd had dinner with the Duchess of Hellsingham, who was essentially his boss, what with her massive wealth and majority shareholder status. Watching the duchess call the shots during the discussions about the future direction of the British Telephone Company would have made a big impression on a bright young girl eager to take over the world. 

Crowley tentatively put a hand on her shoulder. He thought for a second of the wife of a man he'd loved a very long time ago. She’d been a grey and defeated little thing.

“With all due respect…I don’t recommend it. I've seen people in loveless marriages and it’s not pretty. And it is permanent, especially for the wife.” Crowley also thought that Bertie was the last man in the world that a bright young woman should marry for convenience, but he kept that bit under his hat. He leaned toward Pepper conspiratorially. “Don't ever tell anyone I said that, but,” he lowered his voice, “love is actually real. You're not going to like having to pretend it's there when it's not.”

If you'd told Crowley he’d be giving romantic advice to the Youth a few months ago, he would have laughed in your face. The fact of the matter was that he was still high from his afternoon on the crumbling wall of Eden. He got up and paced around the gazebo while Pepper loudly blew her nose. An idea had taken seed in his mind; the first time Pepper had talked of becoming “an investor”, he had encouraged her because why the hell not, and she could have been instrumental in swaying Lord Havensworth. He hadn’t realised how passionate she would be about the subject until she’d bombarded him with questions at luncheons and breakfasts and dinners, and came with him to see progress in action at Haven-on-Thyme. Maybe she wanted to build a fortune more than she wanted to have a fortune. Maybe she just didn’t want to fritter away her youth doing whatever it was that well-mannered ladies did in their manors.

“Actually, if you want to be in the industry so badly,” Crowley turned back to Pepper, “how would you like to join us as an employee? We're constantly hiring and hell knows it's hard to find half-decent people.” 

Pepper lit up, looking at Crowley with bright eyes and a smile that reminded him of Aziraphale. She suddenly sprang up and hugged him. He gingerly hugged her back.

“Yes!” she exclaimed loudly as she let him go.

“I'm not going to give you the cushy position.” Crowley tapped her shoulder fondly. “They’re reserved for nepotism hires. You can start in the sales department and we'll see from there. The salary is mostly commission-based, and you'd better read all of your uncle’s books about telecommunications because the other guys will definitely test you.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” Pepper happily cackled. She put her hands to her mouth and paced around the gazebo, mind already elsewhere and wild with excitement.

“I’ll expect you in my office in London then?”

“Yes!” Pepper exclaimed with delight, “I’m going to go tell Bertie! And everyone!”

Lady Michael left her observation spot in the azalea bushes when she saw Pepper and Mr. Crowley walking out of the gazebo. Pepper seemed to be walking on a cloud, and Mr. Crowley was watching her with an amused smile. Lady Michael had been too far away to hear much of their conversation and they’d been facing away from her, but she’d certainly seen enough. Mr. Crowley putting his hands on Pepper, followed by Pepper’s resounding “yes!” before falling in Mr. Crowley’s arms did not leave much to the imagination. The Lord was testing her surely, throwing a very unfortunate marriage proposal into her circle so shortly after she’d lamented that the girl was still not engaged. She marched back to the house gritting her teeth and intent on finding her brothers.

How very dare he. Who was Mr. Crowley? Who was his family? And his connection to the Duchess of Hellsingham! Lady Michael couldn’t stomach the idea of a ward of her family marrying into this kind of society. She needed to find Aziraphale at least. He would be marginally more useful than Gabriel in convincing Pepper to immediately break this foolish engagement.

Chapter Text

“Everything all right, sir?” Newt asked after helping Aziraphale into his dinner jacket.

Nothing was right, but Aziraphale still smiled and nodded, sending Newt away. The poor boy had done his bow tie wrong again, but Aziraphale didn’t have the heart to tell him. Once Newt was gone, Aziraphale faced the mirror and set to work readjusting his dinner outfit. Unfortunately, this meant he couldn't avoid looking at his own face. He made quick work of the bow tie and looked away from his sad reflection.

Aziraphale had seen Bertie and Pepper in the gazebo having some sort of argument, so he had fallen back to the rose garden for his morning reading session. Maybe he had even specifically sought out a certain bench surrounded by dark red roses. His sister had found him there shortly after; she had wasted no time crushing his heart under her furious heel by informing him that Crowley had proposed to Pepper and that she had accepted. The fact that Crowley and Pepper had left together for the rest of the day to one of the most romantic villages in the region had not helped matters. The fact that Pepper had apparently looked overjoyed just before they’d left was even worse.

Lady Michael had taken Aziraphale's desperate denial of the news as agreement with her very negative opinion of the whole affair. She had tasked him with talking Pepper out of it. He’d accepted, too stunned to argue. Guilt had flared up hot and prickly just afterwards, when he’d realised that his first instinct had been to try and stop it instead of protecting the choice of the betrothed. He didn’t share Lady Michael’s misgivings regarding Crowley’s background and income; Aziraphale would never stand in the way of love because of this alone, he was sure. But Crowley in love with someone else? Aziraphale had spent his afternoon obsessively replaying their interactions since Crowley had arrived at Eastgate Abbey. Crowley and Pepper had seemed thick as thieves from the beginning. How had he read the situation so wrong? He knew he wasn’t the best at this kind of thing, but he had been almost sure that Crowley’s feelings for him went beyond friendship. On the wall, and at the lake just this morning. Aziraphale smiled involuntarily as he remembered Crowley’s soaked figure. He shook his head dejectedly, remembering that the man was engaged now. What a fool, to think that Crowley’s charm meant anything special just because he chose to direct it at him sometimes.  

A cold shiver went down Aziraphale’s spine as an ugly idea sank a claw into his mind. What if there had been something genuine between them, and the proposal was only meant to build a respectable facade that would allow Crowley to stay close to Aziraphale? The notion made his stomach churn. Or maybe it was good old-fashioned greed. Pepper’s fortune may not be as impressive as the Fell’s, but it was still sizable, and a husband would have full control of it. And she was so much younger than Crowley. If Crowley intended to use Pepper… 

Aziraphale went to his library. There was still some time before dinner, and he needed the company of his books to steel himself for what was to come. The only uncertainty was whether he was going to be the only one getting his heart broken. He wondered if Crowley and Pepper had come back already. A wave of despair washed over him as he remembered how he’d missed dinner himself the day before, after letting time stand still atop a wall.

Crowley and Pepper had barely walked back from the gazebo when a footman appeared at Crowley’s side and brought a telegram to his attention. Crowley groaned as he read it; there’d been a cock-up in Bumpleigh over some land rights and the line workers had been denied access to the property that the line was supposed to go through. Crowley’s countryside diplomacy game had levelled up quite significantly in the previous weeks, but he knew from experience that it would take him the rest of the day to smooth it all over. Bumpleigh wasn’t next door either. He would have preferred to have a leisurely lunch in Aziraphale’s company, followed by a stroll through the park’s most romantic spots (of which there were many – he’d planned a path already), but he was still technically at work. He sighed. Aziraphale would have appreciated the irony of Crowley getting cockblocked by a telegram.

“Pepper. I’ve got to leave for Bumpleigh to preach progress to…” Crowley read the name on the telegram again, “a Mrs. Spencer-Gregson. How would you like to be thrown into the deep end? Consider this a trial run.” He was curious to see what the girl was capable of.

Pepper agreed enthusiastically, and after sending the footman to pack them sandwiches and excuse them both to Lord Havensworth for missing lunch, they drove away at speeds that would make Shadwell work overtime to rake the front terrace gravel back into shape.

Crowley turned out to be completely correct in his estimation of the time it would take to convince Mrs. Spencer-Gregson to let the telephone line pass through some god-forsaken piece of land that she happened to own. To be fair (not Crowley’s favorite thing), it would have taken him a lot more time if Pepper hadn’t been there. He’d learned on arrival that the lady in question was Bertie’s aunt on his father’s side; Pepper had secretly counted on this to tip the scale in their favor and make a good impression on Crowley. She had confessed to it just before exiting the car, unable to keep up a deception for long. Crowley had made a note to mentor her out of that adorable honesty.

They both came back to Eastgate Abbey just in time to race to their respective rooms and dress for dinner; Crowley would be damned if he missed Aziraphale and his trout. The anticipation made him put his evening wear on in record time. He found himself ready much earlier than was necessary and had the brilliant idea to go to the library to see if Aziraphale was there.

The library was empty, but Crowley decided to wait there just in case Aziraphale decided to make an appearance. He pondered going to Aziraphale’s room directly, but decided against it. The angel was attached to tradition after all, and would probably appreciate some decorum. One could not simply push him into bed and snog him senseless, even if one really wanted to.

Crowley walked around the shelves, looking curiously at the titles and the various items scattered among the shelves. He smiled when he saw a forgotten cup of tea between two identical copies of Far from the Madding Crowd. He ended up in front of Aziraphale’s desk, which was covered in piles of papers and books interleaved with bookmarks. Lecture preparations maybe? Crowley idly wondered what Aziraphale’s literature lectures were like. His eyes lingered on an unassuming folder in the corner near the window. It was labelled “Miss Patricia Moonchild”.

He probably shouldn’t peek. It looked private. Pepper had told him about her financial situation and the whole marriage clause thing during the long car ride to Bumpleigh. Crowley had cackled when she said she’d sent Bertie to go look for information in his uncle’s library. Crowley couldn’t believe that in this day and age the legal guardians of a young girl would keep her in the dark to such an extent. 

He slipped a finger under the folder cover and revealed the first page. 

Aziraphale walked into his library, his mood lifting the tiniest amount just because of the comforting presence of his books. He heard a sound from the far corner where his desk was. He walked around the bookcases, silent as a cat.

Aziraphale found Crowley standing next to his desk, deeply occupied with the folder in his hands. Aziraphale recognized it instantly.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale’s voice rang a bit too loud in the complete silence of the library. Crowley startled like an alley cat meeting the business end of a broom.

He sputtered a “Ngk?” as the piece of paper he’d been examining flew gracefully face-up to Aziraphale’s feet. An account balance sheet; good old-fashioned greed it was then. To start with.

Crowley tried to shove the folder back where it belonged, knocking down a pile of files in the process and sending more papers to the rug. Aziraphale took a step forward, despair clutching his insides.

Crowley squirmed and looked at the ground, looking like the tempter of Eden just after it got the “On your belly you will crawl” lecture from God. Aziraphale would have found his embarrassment enchanting in other circumstances. 

“Sorry about the snooping. ‘M just too curious for my own good is all.” Crowley looked up and the softness in his voice pierced Aziraphale’s heart. “I was looking for you, actually. There’s… something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Oh, but this made it all so much worse.

“I heard of your offer to Patricia.” Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to even say “proposal”. “How dare you.” His foolish feelings were one thing, but breaking the heart of little Pepper? He would smite Crowley to Hell. Did the man imagine that Aziraphale would have approved of the whole scheme? Surely he didn’t come across as that much of a hypocrite?

“What? I thought you’d be in favour.” Crowley had the absolute nerve of looking confused and even a little bit self-righteous. His expression quickly turned to panic when he saw the fury in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“It’s only a job offer! Girls are allowed to want something else than marriage and kids!” 

Aziraphale’s anger gave way to confusion; hope was knocking at the back of his mind, trying to make a dramatic entrance.

“What are you talking about?” Aziraphale hadn’t pressed his sister for details after she’d broken the news, too busy trying to hide the extent to which it had affected him. “Michael told me you proposed to Pepper.” 

Crowley shook his head slowly and approached Aziraphale like a man trying to defuse a bomb. “Only thing I proposed to Pepper was a job with the British Telephone Company. She was very happy to accept. Granted, I did it in a romantic spot, but that was a coincidence. Can’t throw a rock around here without hitting a romantic spot.”

“Do you mean… you do not have designs on her?” The sliver of hope was turning into a whole sunrise complete with orchestra and nightingales, because Crowley had removed his sunglasses and was shaking his head, eyes riveted on Aziraphale. Crowley came closer, slow and certain as the rising tide. Aziraphale instinctively took a step back to give himself space to think, bumping into the table behind him. Crowley halted as soon as he saw Aziraphale moving back.

“There is only one person in this house that I have designs on.” 

Crowley was so near now that Aziraphale could see the gold flecks in his eyes. The mesmerising colour and Crowley’s rumble of a voice and Crowley’s cologne wafting in and out of his perception were all making it quite difficult to remember why he’d taken a step back in the first place. What did one usually do when discovering oneself the object of a very obvious and very effective seduction?

“Honorable designs?” 

“No,” Crowley answered as he closed the distance between himself and Aziraphale.

Their hips brushed and it was a good thing that Aziraphale had forgotten how to breathe, because something very much like a gasp wanted to escape from his throat. Crowley lightly laid his hand just where Aziraphale’s neck met his shoulder, never breaking eye contact. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s shallow breath brush against his lips. It felt like a question was being asked; when Crowley’s thumb stroked the soft skin above Aziraphale’s collar, what little intelligent thought was left in Aziraphale’s brain beat a hasty retreat from the hunger catching fire in his belly. Aziraphale’s eyelids fell under their own weight and he grabbed Crowley’s nape.

Crowley had flown in an aeroplane once, with a half-insane war veteran at the helm. If laying his hand on Aziraphale had felt like the heavy acceleration of take-off, crashing his mouth against the angel’s felt more like the loops and hammerheads that had taken him screaming into the sky.

Crowley buried his fingers in Aziraphale’s curls, angling his face just so. Aziraphale parted his lips immediately, sending Crowley’s thoughts into a tailspin. Crowley forgot all his previous fantasies of this moment to make room for extremely detailed memories: the storm in Aziraphale’s heavy-lidded gaze, the firm softness of Aziraphale’s body, the glide of downy hair against his palm when Aziraphale moved his head to nip at his lower lip, his tongue down Aziraphale’s throat.

One of Aziraphale’s hands was busy stroking Crowley’s own hair, the other was moving down his back, sending shivers down Crowley’s spine as it lingered on his waist, pulling him closer. Shivers that Aziraphale could feel, if the way his hand tightened on Crowley’s dinner jacket was any indication. The same hand made a desperate move to Crowley’s backside after Crowley clutched a fistful of curls to make Aziraphale bare his throat. His mouth on Aziraphale’s jaw drew out more delightful noises; if Crowley had been paying attention to anything other than Aziraphale, he would have noticed that some of these noises were coming from his own throat. 

Crowley was busy studying which parts of Aziraphale were the most sensitive when he felt a tight pull slam his hips against the angel’s, instantly making several things clear: Aziraphale’s cock was just as hot and hard as his own, Aziraphale wanted to do something about it, and they were clearly wearing too many clothes. He grabbed Aziraphale’s thighs and lifted him onto the table; the effect on his middle-aged lower back would be a problem for another day. Aziraphale gave Crowley the most devastating smile when he looked at him from his new position and locked his legs behind Crowley’s back. Crowley lost himself in the grind and the increasingly desperate whispers of his name coming from Aziraphale’s lips. 

“Crowley, wait.”

Crowley looked up from the soft crook of Aziraphale’s neck he’d buried his face in, eyes hazy with lust. “Ngk?”

“The gong. The dinner gong. They just rang it. We have to go down for dinner.” Aziraphale was struggling for coherence, but still his feet came back down to the ground and his hands dropped to Crowley’s forearms.

Crowley wanted to say something witty about going down and delicious meals, but his ability to form intelligible sentences had been lost somewhere between Aziraphale’s thighs. He certainly hadn't heard any gong.

“I’m sorry. I fear we must join the others. Staying here too long would raise unwelcome questions,” Aziraphale added a bit breathily. He readjusted Crowley’s jacket and tie to brush out the evidence of their intimate moment. “I’ll go first, you can join me in a minute.” Crowley stared at him, slowly remembering the social norms of his time and judging them harshly. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, my dear.” Aziraphale’s smile had a glint of mischief that did nothing to bring Crowley back to the world of formal dinners and unruffled hair. “We can come back to this later in the evening.” 

Aziraphale left a light kiss on Crowley’s temple and walked out of his library, leaving Crowley a bit disoriented. Was it too late to run to his room for a quick wank? It probably was. Once he was alone, Crowley hunched over the table, both hands flat on the surface, to steady himself with a few deep breaths. He finally came back to the world, a world where Aziraphale wanted him and dinners were followed by evenings and maybe even nights. He laughed softly and braced himself for what was gearing up to be the longest dinner of his entire life.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was walking on a cloud. He caught a glimpse of himself in the large mirror adorning the hall and smiled at a reflection that looked much happier than the last time he’d seen it. He was tempted to imagine what the near future held as far as Crowley and himself were concerned, but he had made a truly herculean effort to compose himself after leaving the library. It wouldn’t do to dwell too much on how Crowley’s heated breath had felt against his skin just moments ago. He smoothed his dinner jacket, remembering Crowley’s hands grabbing him. He hoped that anyone noticing the wrinkles would blame them on Newt’s fledgling skills, then felt guilty for the thought. 

He entered the drawing room; the rest of the party had already started moving towards the double doors leading to the dining room. Aziraphale had just joined the march when he heard someone sauntering up behind him. He turned back for a polite salutation. Crowley’s posture was as defiantly offhand as usual, but he was directing a rather intense look at Aziraphale. Crowley leaned close enough to not be heard by the people in front of them. 

“Angel. I would very much like to know,” Crowley muttered in a low growl, “how you manage to look so calm and collected after...” He let his eyebrows finish the sentence, punctuating it with a salacious grin. 

“That’s an Eton education for you, dear.” Aziraphale adjusted his bow tie and walked into the dining room. A quick look at the table informed him that the usual seating plan had been altered.

“Have you talked to Patricia about you-know-what?” Lady Michael whispered to Aziraphale before they took their seats. Thankfully, she was going to sit opposite him, so anything she might wish to add would need to be public.

“Oh, it’s quite alright. I support it fully, actually.” Aziraphale was a kind man, but he had spent an exceedingly painful afternoon because of his sister’s inaccurate eavesdropping and he wasn’t above a reasonable amount of retribution. He took his place next to Pepper, realising Crowley was going to sit on his other side.

“Congratulations, Pepper! I’m sure it will be splendid,” Aziraphale loudly announced once everyone was settled.

Pepper smiled and thanked him happily while Lady Michael prayed for the Lord to finally grant her the ability to set her brothers on fire with her mind.

“Oh, don’t be so old-fashioned, Michael. I know you like to keep yourself occupied. Why deny a young girl the freedom to do the same?” Aziraphale smiled genially and attacked the fleurs de courgettes farcies. They were as delicious as they looked, the delicate petals covering a melt-in-the-mouth stuffing.

Pepper launched into an enthusiastic description of her future career, with Crowley providing explanatory context when needed. Lady Michael slowly got up to speed with the state of things and only marginally relaxed. Aziraphale chanced a glance at Crowley, and found him looking admiringly in his direction. Everyone else was now talking animatedly about the telephone that would be installed in the hall of Eastgate Abbey within a few days. 

Aziraphale felt a hand landing on his left thigh. He hardly had time to deal with the ensuing heat flaring between his legs when the hand came back somewhere more appropriate. Crowley looked so innocent it was almost shocking, considering his usual expression leaned towards the playful and devilish. Aziraphale felt a blush creeping on and looked around. He met Jeeves’ eyes for a second while the valet was serving wine. He looked completely neutral, but then that man was always extremely professional. No one seemed to have noticed anything; the conversation had moved to women’s career opportunities in America. The Dowlings were patriotically advertising their country’s sacred promise to get everyone to work, Gabriel was happy to see his ward settling into the business world, while Bertie seemed enthusiastic about Pepper's new future, but somehow a bit shaken. Aziraphale resolved to gently prod him about what he’d learnt from reading A Queer History of Great Britain. Maybe he should also talk to him about the kilt. It must be one of those modern “interpretations” of a perfectly serviceable classic garment, and although Aziraphale was one to live and let live, he had noticed the pained looks that Jeeves sometimes shot at the thing. 

Aziraphale took the menu on the table. He knew his trout was the main course, but the whole non-engagement business had made him forget to ask Monsieur Rossignol for details on his plans. 

"Truite farcie braisée à l'Apremont," he read with delight and not a small amount of British accent. Monsieur Rossignol believed that only heathens wrote menus in English. 

“That is the most adorable attempt I have ever heard.”

Aziraphale huffed, his breath cutting short when Crowley delicately took the menu from his hand, fingers brushing in the process, and read it in full in perfect French, gaze solidly fixed on Aziraphale, in a low voice that warmed Aziraphale’s belly like old brandy. 

“Oh. You’re fluent, it seems,” Aziraphale remarked airily.

“Complete with Normandie accent, courtesy of my mother’s best friend when I was little. She looked after me when mum was at work.” 

“At work? What did your mother do for a living, Mr. Crowley?” Lady Michael’s eagle eyes were fixed on Crowley. Her question was topical, but her tone implied that there was only a narrow category of jobs that she considered acceptable for women. If her pinched lips during Pepper’s descriptions were any indication, working for a telephone company had barely made the list. Aziraphale tensed as he imagined his sister making her disdain for music-hall performers evident. He could see the gears turning in Crowley’s mind, and wondered if anyone had ever asked Crowley that question in public. It was unlikely; mothers of successful men were usually assumed to be gentle and bland figures in the background, and not a worthy topic of conversation.

“Theatre.” Crowley took a sip of wine. Aziraphale didn’t like the pondering expression of his sister. 

“Does your mother have your hair?” he asked Crowley. 

“Yes, I mostly take after her. Why do you ask?”

“I think I saw her at the Old Vic, before the war. As Lady Macbeth, directed by…” Aziraphale paused shortly and looked at the ceiling as if remembering a play took any sort of effort. “Sir Bailey, if memory serves. Such a mesmerizing performance all around. Look like the innocent flower / But be the serpent under't…” Aziraphale addressed no one in particular, but spied Lady Michael from the corner of his eye and saw her tense like someone about to be submitted to a non-consensual Shakespeare lecture. “I’ve always thought the nod to the book of Genesis very interesting in that scene. According to Samuel Johnson…”

He finished his thoughts on Macbeth and Ms Crowley’s imaginary performance mostly for Crowley’s benefit, as Lady Michael chose to drop the matter and Bertie’s eyes had started glazing over the moment he’d mentioned Samuel Johnson.

Unfortunately, Lady Michael’s stormy energy needed to go somewhere and Bertie Wooster was the missing link between humans and lightning rods.

“Bertie dear, must you really wear that thing at dinner?”

“Tartan is stylish! Ask Uncle Aziraphale.”

“My dear boy, my own tastes differ slightly, colour-wise, but I support your right to, hum, experiment.” Aziraphale glanced at Lady Michael; she looked fiercely disapproving, but in a way more consistent with her habitual demeanor.

Crowley came to the rescue by recounting a wedding in his family for which he had to procure a kilt on short notice in a remote part of the Scottish highlands. The various plot twists of that story allowed the storm to pass safely, and Lady Michael resigned herself to a conversation about American philanthropists with Mr. Dowling. Aziraphale could have done without the distraction of thinking of Crowley attending a wedding dance in a kilt. At least the fact that Crowley was sitting next to him and not on the opposite side of the table meant he could easily refrain from staring at the man. Feeling his presence near enough to touch, on the other hand, made his thoughts unravel every time he wasn’t engaged in active conversation. The side looks and quick smiles that Crowley kept shooting at him weren’t helping either. If Crowley touched his thigh again he was sure he would scream, good education be damned. Aziraphale was still having trouble reining in his thoughts about how tantalisingly close to his crotch Crowley’s fingers had wandered.

“Oh my, it's huge! Good job, Aziraphale!” Gabriel's enthusiastic announcement when the trout was deposited at the center of the table startled Aziraphale back to the present. The fish was magnificent, and the scent of the white wine sauce was heavenly.

“Oh yes, it was definitely worth the bath,” Aziraphale commented. 

“And didn’t this invigorating exercise convince you to go swimming regularly? You have to take care of yourself, Aziraphale.” Gabriel had been pressing Aziraphale to join him for his morning swims for decades, and he would surely do it until Death claimed one of them. It was how his brother showed affection, Aziraphale knew.

“I saw you rushing after Aziraphale,” Mrs. Dowling told Crowley with some concern. “I hope neither of you took any undue risks just for a trout.”

Aziraphale let out a shy laugh, hearing a faint breath intake coming from Crowley’s direction. Thankfully, Mrs. Dowling wasn’t familiar with the details of the Eastgate lake depth. The footmen had served everyone, and the conversation moved to more general praise of Monsieur Rossignol’s talent. Aziraphale took a bite and closed his eyes. It was everything he’d hoped for when he'd been overcome by his ancestral hunting instincts. Maybe it was the satisfaction of knowing he had a small part in this, but he felt that Monsieur Rossignol had truly outdone himself. When he opened his eyes again, Crowley was staring at him, his own plate untouched. 

“You’re right to keep quiet about your daring rescue,” Aziraphale murmured to Crowley. “Hearing you gave the lake a try might give Gabriel ideas, and then you will have to join him in the water at dawn for exercise. Aziraphale shuddered at the idea and glanced at Crowley. “Unless that is something you would be interested in for networking purposes?”

“I’ll do a lot of things for business partners, but I draw the line at stripping and jumping into icy water at 6am. Besides, I am not a morning person.” Crowley took his wine glass off-handedly, and looked Aziraphale dead in the eye. “I do my best work at night. No distractions, you see. It really allows one to… focus.” Crowley’s tone had grown dark and sibilant. He was eyeing him shamelessly while animated conversations carried all around them. Aziraphale nodded, thinking he could benefit from a cold water bath just about now. For the first time since the start of Monsieur Rossignol’s tenure, he found himself wishing that dinner was over. Aziraphale tried to pay attention to what his brother was saying.

“The Duchess of Hellsingham has finally answered! She accepted my invitation and will join us soon for a few days.” Gabriel sounded even more earnest than usual, but Lady Michael’s expression had grown cold. Pepper was delighted, the Dowlings were curious, and Bertie seemed mostly unconcerned since Lady Hellsingham wasn’t an aunt. Only Crowley seemed a little nervous.

“Is something the matter?” Aziraphale asked Crowley.

“Myeah, just wondering why she’s coming, and if it has anything to do with the fact that Lord Havensworth’s financial investment in the British Telephone Company wasn’t as sizable as we first discussed.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a sly smile. “Apparently someone convinced him to curb his enthusiasm in the name of caution.”

“Oh? Well congratulations on the signing anyway. When did it happen?”

“Just this morning, before I saved your life at sea.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t completely tamp down his chuckle. Whether it was from imagining Crowley as a dashing ship captain or from the fact Gabriel had heeded his advice regarding Crowley’s grand plans, he couldn’t know. Aziraphale trusted Crowley now, more than he probably should, but that didn’t mean he was going to let his brother run wild with the family fortune. If the rest of the staff of the British Telephone Company was even half as resourceful as Crowley, they would surely work miracles on a tighter budget in any case. Crowley didn’t seem to hold it against him. He kept sending those half smiles in his direction when no one else was looking, and Aziraphale hoped against all decorum and common sense that Crowley’s hand would find its way to his thigh again.

The meal finally ended. Crowley excused himself as soon as the ladies had retreated to do whatever it was that ladies did when the gentlemen weren’t looking. Aziraphale resigned himself to a bit of smalltalk with Mr. Dowling to hide the fact that he wanted nothing more than to run after Crowley and continue the exchange that had been so rudely interrupted by the dinner gong.

Crowley was sitting at the large table in Aziraphale’s library in his pyjamas and dressing gown, his maps and letters spread in front of him, thinking about local land rights and trying to evaluate how much of the Hampshire countryside was cursed with the likes of Mrs. Spencer-Gregson. He’d been at it for a while; Aziraphale was taking his time downstairs. Crowley had heard Bertie and Pepper go back to their rooms, each time discreetly checking if the angel had finally come up, and each time being disappointed. So instead of pacing like a caged lion in his room, he’d decided to take his mind off the wait by focusing on something useful.

He’d excused himself as soon as was polite after dinner because he wasn’t sure how much longer he would have been safely able to handle banter with Aziraphale and his blistering smiles. Especially after the indecent noises the angel had made throughout dinner. It was the first time they’d been seated next to each other and hearing the little bursts of Aziraphale’s pleasure up close and personal had been an intense experience. Crowley had snapped immediately after the entrées, unable to prevent his hand from flying down to Aziraphale’s thigh. And there was something about the weaponised pedantry being deployed to save the good society standing of Crowley’s family that was really doing it for him. Crowley tapped his fingers on the table and lost himself in thoughts of what he’d been doing to Aziraphale on this very same piece of furniture an hour ago. Maybe deciding to sit at this table specifically had been a mistake.

“Crowley?”

Crowley startled when he heard Aziraphale’s voice behind him. He turned to see the angel smiling fondly at him, words getting stuck in his throat when he noticed that he was wearing nothing more than tartan pyjamas. With the top two buttons undone.

“Hard at work I see? You are an evening person.”

“Well, someone stayed quite late downstairs, so I tried to keep myself occupied,” Crowley explained, not seeing it fit to mention that he had strongly considered a cold shower as an alternate approach to calm down a bit.

“My apologies, I got detained by Gabriel and Mr. Dowling, and then I had to take a bath and prepare myself.”

“Didn’t you already take a bath after the lake? How many baths per day does one man need?” 

Aziraphale looked at him in silence, a slow bit down smile blooming on his face as Crowley finally parsed the “prepare myself” part of his last sentence. Oh. Crowley unceremoniously pushed his chair away and walked towards Aziraphale.

“Are these black silk pyjamas? A bit dramatic for a work trip, isn’t it?” Aziraphale put on a brave front, but Crowley had been very intentional with the way he’d untied his dressing gown while moving, and the effect it had on the angel was unmissable. 

“I can take them off if they offend you,” Crowley whispered in Aziraphale’s ear, one hand slowly undoing his own buttons while the other slithered into Aziraphale’s open collar to brush against his collarbone. 

The angel shuddered, and through a haze of lust Crowley thought he heard a breathy “Good Lord," just before he finally tasted Aziraphale’s mouth again. He should have been ready for the wave of yearning that washed over him, shutting down the constant agitation of his mind to let his hips and tongue take the lead. But he wasn’t. If anything, it was even worse after a whole dinner fighting to keep his hands to himself, with the knowledge of what Aziraphale’s hunger felt like running wild in his brain. Aziraphale’s hands sneaked under his shirt, stroking bare skin. Crowley let out a whine rivalling Aziraphale’s best; the angel’s hold on his waist tightened at the sound. It was contagious then. It made sense, Crowley was feeling delirious and spending the next few days in bed seemed more appealing by the second.

“My dear,” Aziraphale gasped against Crowley’s mouth, “I think we need to take this somewhere with a door that locks.”

“Ngk,” answered Crowley, trying to convey that this sounded like a great plan and he approved it wholeheartedly.

They reluctantly detached from each other, still holding hands by some silent agreement. Once they were out of the library, Crowley almost ran to the part of the corridor where the bedrooms were, pulling Aziraphale behind him. He had his hand on the door handle when Aziraphale hissed a warning in his ear. 

“Oh no, that’s Bertie’s room!”

Crowley removed his hand from the doorknob as if it were boiling and they made a run for Aziraphale’s room, Crowley muttering curses under his breath and Aziraphale trying to suppress giggles when he closed his door behind them. Aziraphale stood silently behind the door, catching his breath while surveilling any noises coming from the corridor. Crowley slithered behind him, hands sneaking back on the angel’s hips.

“Home at last,” Crowley whispered, nibbling at Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale turned back to face him, an unguarded smile on his lips that did queer things to Crowley’s belly. Aziraphale threw himself at Crowley with a surprising amount of force, considering how close they already were. The momentum carried them up to the bed; Crowley grew even more impatient when he realised that the angel had done it on purpose. He tried to peel away Aziraphale’s pyjamas, but he kept being distracted by the constant wonder of Aziraphale’s touch on his skin. Aziraphale, on the contrary, made quick work of discarding Crowley’s more dramatic nightwear to a nearby chair, ignoring his disjointed mutterings to the effect of “‘ngk get on the bed” and “I needmghgrm…”

“What do you need?” Aziraphale whispered between kisses, his perfect diction standing like a challenge to Crowley’s heated and wandering attention. Was it his fault that every square inch of Aziraphale’s body was worthy of consideration?

“You know what I need,” Crowley purred. 

“Riding lessons?” Aziraphale’s smile took no prisoners. Crowley burst out laughing, wanting nothing more than to devour Aziraphale’s bastard grin. How was the man not naked yet? He had no rights looking so delectable while wearing the world’s second ugliest tartan.

“Yes. Why don’t we get you out of this beige horror first, though?” Crowley dug his fingers into Aziraphael’s plush backside, pulling a surprised but not displeased sound from the angel’s lips.

“How dare you! This is my grandmother’s family tartan; she chose the pattern herself.” Aziraphale’s reproach had no bite, mostly because his mouth was nuzzled in Crowley’s hair while he uttered it.

“My apologies.” That was the most brazenly insincere thing Crowley had ever said, and he’d spent a decade as a salesman. He fully intended to bend this man over the bed and drive him delirious with pleasure, or at least he would do so as soon as he regained the motor coordination that was currently being destroyed by Aziraphale’s teeth slowly dragging on his neck.

”Hmm, not good enough,” Aziraphale sighed. Crowley had retaliated to his vicious neck attack by slipping his hand south of the border and curling his fingers around the angel’s cock. “I want a proper apology,” Aziraphale continued in a breathy voice.

Crowley sank to his knees, taking Aziraphale’s pyjama bottoms down with him. He shot a grin upwards at Aziraphale; the angel looked stricken with awe, his eyes huge and dark and his hands bracing against the bed.

Crowley took him into his mouth and proceeded to suck the cheek right out of him.

“I, ah, I forgive you,” Aziraphale gasped when Crowley flicked his tongue, but Crowley didn’t stop. The angel had asked for a proper apology, after all, and Crowley was a master of malicious compliance. 

Aziraphale’s knees buckled and a high-pitched whine escaped his lips when Crowley’s finger entered him. Crowley grinned around Aziraphale’s cock when disjointed encouragements started falling from the angel’s lips. He may still have a chance at being the brains of this operation, judging by the increasingly improper structure of Aziraphale’s sentences. The thought vanished when Aziraphale grabbed his hair to pull him away and Crowley met his hungry gaze. He rose back up, unable to take his eyes off Aziraphale’s, and pulled him into another kiss. Crowley’s hands ran everywhere on Aziraphale’s neck, shoulders, back, and arse. Aziraphale’s hands were steady on Crowley’s waist, but there were shivers running down to the tips of the angel’s fingers.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said with his eyes half closed and his lips brushing Crowley’s own. “I should like you to take me now.” 

The words reached Crowley's cock before his brain. Aziraphale quickly found himself on all fours grasping at the pile of pillows while Crowley grabbed the oil bottle on the bedside table with one hand and lined himself up against the most magnificent arse he had ever seen. Their hearts missed the same beat when Crowley drove into Aziraphale, tearing more delicious sounds out of the angel when he started moving. Aziraphale’s pleading grew increasingly desperate as Crowley thrust harder and deeper. 

Crowley’s hand flew to Aziraphale’s cock when the angel’s whispered commentary finally lost any resemblance to the English language. Crowley’s other hand hastily covered Aziraphale’s mouth when the angel came with a moan strong enough to traverse the house’s thick walls. “Shhh angel,” Crowley whispered while he fucked him through it, “you’re going to wake up the kids.” His whole body was flush against Aziraphale’s; the angel’s every stuttering breath reverberated into his own ribcage. He felt a curious tongue on his fingers as Aziraphale fell back to the Earth like a feather in a puff of wind.

Aziraphale giggled and lightly sucked on Crowley’s fingers, shuddering as oversensitivity prickled at his skin. Crowley pulled out and Aziraphale rolled on his back. He was a sight that Crowley was sure he would remember until his dying day. Messy curls, indulgent curves, sparkling eyes, and the most brilliant of smiles. 

“Would you like me to…?” Aziraphale offered, rising from the tangle of bedsheets and pillows when he saw that Crowley was still hard as rock. 

“No, don’t… Stay right where you are.” Crowley pushed Aziraphale back into the pillows and sat on plush thighs. The view was too perfect. He took himself in hand, stroking gracelessly while his eyes roamed everywhere on Aziraphale. Aziraphale was staring back at him, strong hands anchoring Crowley’s wiry legs, then slipping towards his groin to push him over the edge. It didn’t take long at all for the fire in Crowley’s insides to flare out in long spurts all over the angel's belly. Aziraphale rose up and grabbed him into a tight embrace as soon as Crowley opened his eyes back to the world, dragging him back into the pillows and crashing their mouths together. Crowley burrowed his face into Aziraphale’s neck and heard a very soft "Oh, Crowley," murmured right against his earlobe, followed by gentle fingers in his hair. Crowley burrowed deeper, his arms locking around Aziraphale, nestling the rest of his body snugly against soft curves. 

“Fancy a third bath, angel?”

Chapter Text

“I say, Jeeves?”

“Sir?”

“Have you seen Uncle Aziraphale’s book anywhere? Little yellow thing called A Queer History of Great Britain ?”

“I'm afraid not, sir.”

Bertie slipped into the shirt that Jeeves was holding for him. He had had a fitful night, far from the solid nine hours he'd reliably gotten at Eastgate Abbey so far, courtesy of the wholesome country air. Bertie had had difficulties finding sleep after going to bed, haunted by visions of the very uncomfortable discussion he would need to have with Pepper. He had tried to broach the subject in the morning and, suffice to say, it had not gone over well. Bertie was sure he wouldn't be able to walk past a gazebo without flinching for a good long while.

Furthermore, when he'd decided to give A Queer History Of Great Britain a try in order to take his mind off it all, he'd realised with mounting horror that his uncle’s book was nowhere to be found. He had been taking it with him to various places over the course of the previous week, vaguely aware that he should at least attempt to read it in case Uncle Aziraphale ever enquired after his opinion on the material. He hadn't got past the first page yet; sitting somewhere comfortable with a book always seemed to result in a bout of daydreaming followed by a nap. And so it was that Guilt had joined Dread to stand guard over Bertie's bed.

Not long after Bertie had finally dozed off, he'd been awoken by a terrible scream. Bertie wasn't quite sure whether he'd dreamed it or actually heard it. No further screams and/or manifestations of violence had been forthcoming, which had been both a relief and slightly off putting.

“You didn’t hear any screaming during the night Jeeves?”

“No, sir.”

“No blood on the carpets anywhere this morning?”

“Not that I'm aware, sir.”

Jeeves’ manners were flawless as usual, but to Bertie's well-trained ear, there was a definite undercurrent of coolness. No doubt because of the man’s ridiculous prejudice against a very innocent kilt. Exhibit A: the absence of thoughtful enquiries about the mood of the young master after what had clearly been a trying night for same.

Bertie wondered if he should try to ask Mr. Crowley for advice again. Uncle Aziraphale had sounded very happy at dinner when it was announced that Eastgate Abbey would soon get its own telephone. If Mr. Crowley could convince Uncle Aziraphale to let Progress into his home, surely he could convince his newest employee to refrain from trying to make Bertie the happiest of men. Bertie took a deep breath and thanked Jeeves before heading for the breakfast room. 

He met his favourite uncle in the hall and tried to project the countenance of a dependable young man who had never lost a book in his life. Uncle Aziraphale looked positively beaming, which was a considerable achievement for someone who radiated angelic kindness as a matter of habit. Guilt pawed at Bertie’s conscience. 

“Hullo. Feeling smashing this morning, what?”

Uncle Aziraphale looked at Bertie and smiled as if his nephew had just offered him one of those first editions he was always on about.

“Quite! It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“I take it you didn’t you hear the scream, then?”

“Oh.” There was a moment of hesitation. “I suppose not.” Uncle Aziraphale’s smile decreased somewhat in wattage, but soon came back in full force. “I got the best night of sleep I’ve had in ages, actually. What kind of scream…?”

“Oh, nevermind. I probably had a nightmare.” Bertie sighed. Of course his famously insomniac uncle would happen to find sleep on the very night an odd phenomenon disturbed Bertie’s own slumber. 

They both entered the breakfast room and found Lord Havensworth, Lady Michael and the whole Dowling family already seated at the table. 

“Are ghosts real?” Warlock enquired excitedly of Aziraphale as soon as he saw him enter the room.

“Ghosts are not real, Warlock. We’ve been over this,” Mrs. Dowling sushed. Aziraphale and Bertie took their seats and made their move towards the tea and toast.

“I heard a scream! And this house is very old.” Warlock sounded more offended by his mother’s lack of faith than spooked by the discovery that dark forces might be abroad. The rest of the table chuckled as if the question had already been explored at length before the newcomers had arrived.

Bertie buttered his toast thoughtfully while Aziraphale assured young Warlock that there were no ghosts in Eastgate Abbey, but plenty of foxes prowling the grounds, and did you know that foxes’ screams sound just like human screams?

Warlock’s room was just above Bertie’s own, and that gave Bertie pause. He had heard plenty of foxes in his life, a common side effect of spending time in the English countryside. The sound he’d heard had definitely not come from a fox. Bertie had never personally witnessed a soul being poked by a demon in the pits of Hell, but he imagined that's what it would sound like. He shuddered. Warlock was arguing with Aziraphale about the reality of ghosts, surprising his parents by his judicious use of Shakespearean characters to support his point. Bertie thought back on his uncle’s reaction in the hall. Aziraphale had almost sounded like a chap who knows more than he’s letting on. 

“Maybe it was great aunt Agnes calling from beyond the veil, eh? Did someone lose a book?” Lord Havensworth proposed in jest. 

“Oh, please Gabriel, you’re going to scare the child,” Lady Michael admonished. She needn’t have worried, because Warlock latched onto the unexpected support, nodding enthusiastically along and asking who Agnes was. 

“Come on, Michael! You’re the one who used to say her vengeful ghost would come after anyone who entered the library without permission,” Lord Havensworth retorted. “To be honest, I think if she ever came back to exact revenge, it would be against young men who don’t honour their promises. You know, because of…”

“Gabriel.” Lady Michael’s tone was colder than ice. “Let’s drop the subject, if you please.”

Bertie grew uneasy. Great aunt Agnes had preceded Aziraphale as official family bookworm; she’d been rumored to dabble in the dark arts. Anyone within earshot of Shadwell at the Flaming Sword pub late at night was bound to be treated to the stories at some point. The most that anyone in the family had ever shared with Bertie on the subject was that Agnes had been an eccentric sort of lady and that there had been a broken engagement in her youth.

The book thing was new, and not a little disturbing, considering Bertie’s current circumstances. Bertie wished Warlock would drop the subject. Ghosts were not real. Unfortunately, the boy had found a new calling as a paranormal detective.

“I’m going to investigate tonight,” Warlock announced to the general public before stuffing an entire roll in his mouth.

“Good morning everybody!” Crowley pushed open the door with unbridled enthusiasm. He went to sit near Aziraphale. “What are we investigating, Warlock?”

“Ghosts! They are real, Mr. Crowley, right?”

“Absolutely,” Crowley answered with a smirk indicating that his opinions were based on what would make for the most inflammatory discourse, rather than the rational worldview one might expect from a respectable businessman.

Warlock hooted and looked triumphantly at the audience while Crowley filled his cup with coffee.

“Did you hear it too then?” Warlock asked Crowley. “The scream of the ghost last night?” 

Crowley almost coughed his coffee back into his cup.

“I’m sure it was a fox,” Aziraphale repeated with what could only be described as a pointed tone, staring Crowley down. Bertie’s unease increased. He strongly suspected, from Crowley’s reaction, that he had something to do with the events of the night.

Bertie was so lost in his suppositions that he didn’t hear Crowley mutter, “Silver fox, I’m sure,” under his breath while Lord Havensworth chuckled and Mrs. Dowling sighed. Bertie was spooked now. He excused himself and abandoned his cup of tea, needing to escape the Shadow hanging over him. 

Bertie walked back up to his room. There was nothing for it now; the situation was too dire for words. It took a certain kind of fortitude to acknowledge one’s need for help, he told himself. What was a kilt in the grand scheme of things? Certainly not something worth losing sleep over. Or worth losing other things. Bertie shuddered. He wouldn’t put it past a deceased aunt to defy the laws of nature to smite an unworthy nephew.

When Bertie opened the door and saw Jeeves smoothing out the wrinkles of his bed cover, looking like some undergod of serenity and crisp linens, he felt some of the weight lift from his shoulders. The man would find a way, he was sure of it.

Jeeves stood near the wardrobe, his tartan nemesis in his arms. Mr. Wooster had just told him he’d grown tired of it, and had given him instructions to donate it to the needy. Jeeves had no intention of doing so; he believed every man had a right to dignity, and he wasn’t going to add to the trials of the Poor by saddling them with such horror. The garment would be disposed of permanently.

“Jeeves, since you’re here. I need some help. I’m engaged to Pepper.”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“Oh, no, actually, that’s what I need your help with. It’s a sort of financial arrangement. She needs to be married to inherit and live the entrepreneurial life.” Mr. Wooster looked dejected; Jeeves felt the familiar protective spirit stir. 

“You know how I can’t say no to a personal friend,” Mr. Wooster sighed. “But it’s a bit thick, what? I’d much rather she’d made the offer to another chap. Where’s Adam when you need him?”

“A delicate matter indeed, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

“While you’re at it, could you keep an eye out for A Queer History of Great Britain? I may have misplaced it but I’d rather not alarm Uncle Aziraphale. You know how he gets.”

“Very well, sir.”

Jeeves watched Bertie leave the room exuding a bit more joie de vivre than the young man had come in with. It almost made Jeeves feel guilty for knowing exactly where A Queer History of Great Britain was located and not sharing that information forthwith.

The book was currently residing on Lord Havensworth’s bedside table. Jeeves had read it himself on the day he’d noticed it on the armchair in the billiard room. He had found it most illuminating; most of the contents hadn’t surprised him, but other parts had, which was a rare enough occurrence for someone who had spent more than a decade serving as a gentleman’s gentleman. Jeeves had concluded that Lord Havensworth would benefit from the more pedagogical aspects of the book if he was going to cultivate a friendship with the Duchess of Hellsingham.

According to the bookmark, Lord Havensworth had made good progress on the text during the handful of days that had passed since Jeeves had casually left the book in his bedroom. Once His Grace was done, Jeeves would make sure the book would find its way back to Mr. Wooster.

There was still the matter of the engagement. Jeeves sighed as he made his way to the laundry room. He felt some personal responsibility for the mishap. He was the one who had made sure that Mr. Fell would be occupied for a full afternoon, helped in this by the involuntary but no doubt enthusiastic participation of Mr. Crowley and Big Ted. The ploy had given Mr. Wooster free rein on Mr. Fell’s library, allowing him to find the information his friend had requested without running the risk of being branded a snoop by a beloved uncle. Unfortunately, Mr. Wooster had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. 

At least the strategic deployment of a stubborn horse had had the benefit of forcing Messrs. Fell and Crowley to finally stop orbiting each other and come to an arrangement. Jeeves had an inkling about the source of the scream that had so disturbed the sleep of Mr. Wooster and young Warlock. There had been some looks exchanged between Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley at dinner the evening before, to say nothing of wandering hands under the table. Maybe Jeeves had taken the habit of intervening in Mr. Wooster’s love life a bit too often. There was, however, a limit to the amount of unresolved romantic tension that a man could witness without stepping forward. Jeeves had strongly considered locking the gentlemen in the decorative cottage at the far end of the lake with a crate of wine and some sandwiches, and letting nature run its course. Thankfully, he wouldn’t need to resort to such lengths to bring the situation to a satisfactory ending, but he hoped that Mr. Fell would introduce Mr. Crowley to said cottage. Jeeves didn’t wish for Mr. Wooster to lose more rest over the gentlemen’s quest for a satisfactory ending of their own.

He was crossing the hall to the kitchen doors when he saw Patricia Moonchild coming out of the breakfast room.

“Good morning, Miss.”

“Hullo, Jeeves.” The young lady glanced at the kilt still in Jeeves arms. “Did Bertie finally allow you to burn this thing?”

“Quite the contrary; Mr. Wooster is planning to wear it to the wedding. Please allow me to offer my congratulations, Miss.”

“The what now?” Miss Moonchild seemed puzzled, but recognition quickly dawned on her face, followed by a frown. “Oh! Oh, I suppose I need to clear that out with Bertie.”

Miss Moonchild climbed the stairs, seemingly deep in thought. Jeeves was rather of the opinion that she didn’t plan on becoming a bride anytime soon. In his experience, engaged young ladies advertised the fact with more cheerfulness and vitality. Were she still to consider nuptials with Mr. Wooster, the prospect of standing in church next to a certain affront to Scottish tradition would hopefully be enough of a deterrent. Miss Moonchild’s maid had never mentioned any engagement, but she had noted that her mistress’s spirits had lifted considerably after Mr. Crowley had offered her to join the march of progress.

Jeeves pushed the door to the servant’s quarters to bring the kilt to its final resting place. He was quite looking forward to his ongoing chess game with M. Rossignol afterwards. 

Crowley watched his workers put the final turn of the screw on the phone box that was now proudly adorning the wall in the hallway. Aziraphale was standing pensively next to him, which was making Crowley a bit uneasy. The contracts with Lord Havensworth were signed, the rural network in the general area was well underway, the Eastgate Abbey phone was finally installed and the whole Fell family seemed to be happy with this development. There was nothing officially keeping Crowley here anymore, and he’d been getting increasingly pointed queries from the British Telephone Company board asking why he was spending so much time in the country. Things had become more efficient since Lady Hellsingham had joined the board and a sizable part of her fortune had joined the company coffers. There had been some mysterious resignations, the most notable one being a financial manager who had seen fit to explain the concept of interest rates to Lady Hellsingham; word on the accounting floor was that the man had moved to Switzerland to join an order of silent monks. Crowley was smart enough to avoid such pitfalls, but he still didn't wish to push his luck.

“Why don’t we go outside and let these people work instead of hovering?” Aziraphale proposed, frowning.

They walked out in the crisp morning, Aziraphale still oddly silent. Crowley had received at breakfast a telegram from the board requesting his presence back in London in no uncertain terms. Aziraphale had looked sadly resigned when Crowley had told him he had to leave the same day. There hadn’t been a private moment yet for Crowley to expand on the fact that he had found the previous night magnificent and that he very much hoped for more of the same in the future. To be fair, Crowley hoped for much more; not just nights but mornings, picnics, dinners (without the presence of Aziraphale’s family, ideally), concerts, plays… How would Aziraphale react to Crowley slowly inching his hand up his thigh in the dark during a Shakespeare performance? And he really wanted to get his angel alone somewhere with good sound proofing and no nearby relatives. He just needed to find a way to tell him all this out of earshot of his family and without sounding like a blubbering mess.

Their silent meandering took them to the rose garden. Crowley remembered his initial plans to take Aziraphale somewhere romantic and get on one knee. Or both. He glanced at the angel and saw him looking back from the corner of his eye, lip twitching shyly. One of these days, Crowley was sure, he would walk straight into a tree or a manhole because of those smiles.

Aziraphale stopped and glanced around. They were alone under a pergola, the leafy vines shadowing them from prying eyes. Aziraphale let out a sigh that was barely audible over the rustling leaves.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s gaze dropped to the waistcoat buttons he was worrying at, “I would very much like to see you again sometime. If you’d be amenable, of course.”

Crowley realised that Aziraphale might have got the notion that he was a fickle man, a misunderstanding that he must clear immediately.

“Listen, hum.” Crowley cleared his throat. He could feel a hot blush creeping up; this was why he didn’t usually do sincerity. He looked briefly upwards, hoping to find some shred of eloquence in the flowers above their heads. “We haven’t known each other for a long time, but. I would like to spend… a lot more time with you. Day, night. I mean. A lot, lot more time. In London, in Hampshire, in Oxford. Anywhere you want to go.” 

Aziraphale was looking at him in a way that twisted Crowley’s tongue and made his thoughts run wild with visions of personal gardens and bathtub temptations and lazy mornings free from any sense of propriety. Aziraphale looked around, and satisfied with the complete absence of relatives, grabbed Crowley’s face in his hands and crashed their lips together. Crowley immediately sneaked his hands under Aziraphael’s jacket, sorely tempted to pull up the shirt fabric and get to the warmth underneath. The kiss turned softer before Aziraphale’s hands moved to Crowley’s shoulders and he moved back just enough to whisper in his ear, cheek nestled against Crowley’s neck.

“You know you’re always welcome at Eastgate Abbey, but I would love to visit you in London. And I hope you’ll come see me in Oxford during the school year. I have a quiet cottage with a garden by the river.”

“Hmm. Do you have lots of foxes over there?”

Aziraphale laughed despite himself, and the memory of the sound helped lift Crowley’s spirits while he gathered his things back at the house, bade farewell to everyone, and told the butler to send a telegram confirming his return to the British Telephone Company headquarters.

The separation was further softened by Aziraphale asking to ride in the car with Crowley until the park’s gates, citing a wish to stroll back to the house afterwards. If the car got parked in a side lane in the woods and if someone got pushed against the seat and snogged to within an inch of his life, the British Telephone Company would just have to deal with the resulting loss of productivity. It was no-one’s business at all if the snogging devolved into a client going down on one of the British Telephone Company employees and if it made that same employee almost forget to leave him his phone number.

Chapter Text

“So how do you like your new telephone?” 

“More than I thought I would. “I have to say that it rather depends on who is calling.”

Aziraphale had made good use of Crowley’s suggestion to cut short unpleasant telephone conversations by inventing technical failures. Not wanting to undermine Crowley’s professional endeavours, Aziraphale compensated his occasional slander of telephone cables by good naturedly supporting the idea of home telephones to his friends and neighbors. Lord Emsworth over at Blandings had already put in an order with the British Telephone Company. Aziraphale closed his eyes as he listened to the laughter travelling through the line. It was grainy and uneven, but it was better than silence. He would never acknowledge it in front of Crowley, but the telephone could in fact provide some things that letters couldn’t. Crowley had been gone for two weeks and already Azirpahale found the wait until their next meeting unbearable. Good thing he was going back to his home in Oxford soon. Aziraphale enjoyed his library at Eastgate, the beautiful grounds, and M. Rossignol’s cooking, but there was something to be said for a detached house that only belonged to himself and in which he could stay in bed all day with a guest without prompting unwanted questions.

“By the way, Lady Hellsingham seems to have taken a shine to Gabriel. They’re spending a lot of time together in the gardens.”

“Ha, maybe she’s trying to convince him to join forces, financially speaking. She is very persuasive.”

“That is high praise, coming from you. Although I think Michael would be relieved to hear that they only talk business. She thinks Her Grace and Gabriel might be an item. Needless to say, she doesn’t approve of it.”

“Is it because of the dead husbands?”

“I think she could get past that if Lady Hellsingham hadn’t been born Miss Beescraft from the Devil’s Acre. Bertie, however, is quite in awe of Her Grace ever since she and Michael had a, let’s say, lively dinner conversation on the topic of young ladies choosing to work rather than marry. Michael is not very happy about Pepper’s career choices. She had been trying to set Bertie up with her, if you can imagine.” 

Crowley laughed again. Aziraphale had, of course, tried to plead the cause of young people’s right to freedom, maybe more so than usual. Bertie’s panic at the idea of marriage had taken on a different meaning ever since the boy had asked to borrow A Queer History Of Great Britain . He needn’t have worried; Lady Hellsingham had salted the earth with the tears of deadlier opponents than Lady Michael. Once his aunt had been silenced, Bertie had looked at Lady Hellsingham like a small mammal that had just witnessed a bear slay a wolf.

“I can’t imagine Bertie Wooster married to anyone, to be honest. By the way, Pepper just sold personal telephones to all the members of the largest suffragette club in London. We’re drowning in work over here. I’m taking my dinners at the office.” Crowley sighed. “I miss the table in your library. Got some good work done there.” Aziraphale pictured Crowley’s slanted smile and blushed.

“It misses you very much as well, dear boy. I’m quite looking forward to the next time you’ll come.”

“Me too, angel. Especially after your last letter. I have been studying your drawings very thoroughly.”

“Something that the telephone wouldn’t be able to convey, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Who knows? Maybe one day,” Crowley retorted. “I can’t wait until I have my hands on…” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted with some urgency, “this is a topic more suitable for private conversation, not the house telephone.”

Aziraphale glanced around to check whether anyone else was in the hallway. The deeper harmonics that sometimes peeked through the line made him wish that the blasted machine had been installed in his bedroom instead of the one place in the house that every guest and staff member went through at least four times a day. Aziraphale was still committed to demonstrating that letters were to be reckoned with. He had given his best effort in three rather racy and inventive pages complemented by a few pencil drawings. They may not have been worthy of the Tate, but Aziraphale believed they captured quite well the feeling of Crowley’s hands on his thighs and his own wishes for their next meeting. He hadn’t signed, of course, and he had sent the envelope from a nearby village just to be sure.

“Is anyone waiting for their turn on the telephone on your side? If it’s so popular already, maybe you need a second line!” 

“I was thinking of the telephone operators. I heard that some of them listen in occasionally on slow days.”

“Ah, got it.” There was a short pause. Aziraphale tried to not be disappointed, but they did have to be at least a little bit careful. “Do you know I’m working on a short story?”

“Are you? I thought you weren’t the literary type.”

“What can I say? Your letter inspired me —utterly sold the power of the written word to me. I’m calling it The Serpent Tamer or the Curse of Plausible Deniability . I was saving it for a retaliation letter, but let me read you the beginning. Don’t worry too much about the plot. I’m mostly trying to convey an atmosphere.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Here goes.”

"It was a dark and stormy night, but the cave was warm. Angel wasn’t surprised; the villagers had insisted that the cave went all the way down to the pits of Hell, but the steam rising over the hot spring pools indicated that the warmth was of natural origin. He was wondering where the dim light bathing the cave came from, as tonight was the new moon. The water surface shivered. An enormous black snake slithered out of the water and coiled around Angel’s naked legs. Angel had meant to wait out the storm and dry his clothes; he had heard the tales of the mysterious cave creature, but had never believed them. Angel’s heart beat faster, but to his surprise it wasn’t out of fear. The feeling of wet scales sliding around his plush thighs was strangely pleasant, and he was disappointed when the snake suddenly disappeared, leaving him cold and shivering. 

Where the snake had been, there was now a man. His hair was as red as the snake’s belly and his eyes were yellow. He was clad only in a black silk robe and he was soaked head to toe. The man gave Angel a hungry smile that lit a fire in Angel’s belly. 

“What… Who are you?”

“You can call me Crawly,” the man said, walking slowly towards Angel, extending a graceful hand. “The fates have blessed me tonight,” he said while casting a lingering look all over Angel’s body. 

Angel took the hand without hesitation, a hot wave of want exploding in him when Crawly’s long fingers closed against his palm. Crawly must have felt it too, because he tugged decisively on Angel’s arm, throwing them both off balance. Angel fell into Crawly’s arms while Crawly spun him around and pinned him against a large boulder. A moan escaped Angel’s lips when Crawly’s hand snaked around his hips to seize his..."

Aziraphale leaned his head against the cool wall marble, gripping the telephone speaker against his ear, equally aroused, appalled, and amused. 

“Do send me the manuscript once you're done,” he finally answered, his tone embarrassingly close to a squeak. “I’m very curious to hear the story in full. You paint a very vivid image, dear boy.” He would have given anything to have Crowley in front of him right now, to see his face as he uttered those filthy absurdities, to push him up against a wall and shut him up with kisses.

“Thanks, angel. It means a lot coming from an expert such as yourself. By the way, guess where I'm calling you from!”

“I don’t know, your office?”

“Nope. I’m at the Feltham switchboard. The operators are gone for the evening so I have the place to myself! There’s only us on the line. Or any line out of Southwest London.”

“Oh thank the Lord.”

“I think I can swing by next Saturday evening, if you like.” Crowley’s tone was tentative. “But I’ll have to go late in the morning.”

“That would be wonderful.” Aziraphale smiled at the wall and took a conspiratorial tone. “I have strongly implied to Gabriel and Michael that my duties at Oxford would call me back earlier than usual. I will go back in three weeks. I was thinking that the university would benefit from getting more telephone lines, but the Dean of Studies wrote back to me saying that Hastur, Ligur & Sons are the ones who manage the current equipment.”

“Well, well, well, I shall enjoy stealing this account very much.”

Aziraphale laughed, then glanced at the clock. “Oh dear me, it is very late. How long did we stay talking?”

Crowley laughed triumphantly.

“You can call me anytime and for as long as you want. But I should head home and go to bed soon.”

“Well then. I suppose it’s time to wish each other good night.”

“Good night, angel.”

Aziraphale looked around him. The hallway was empty.

“Good night, darling,” he said softly before hanging up.

Crowley slowly drove his car through the open gate. It was late after dinner on Saturday night, just before sunset. The vision of Aziraphale opening the wrought iron portal of Eastgate Abbey, drowned in golden light and backed by lush foliage, gave Crowley the impression that he was entering Heaven. This was better though, he mused as Aziraphale joined him inside the car after closing the portal behind them. Heaven’s angels certainly weren’t able to do the kind of things Aziraphale had done the last time they’d been together in the Bentley.

“I missed you so.” Aziraphale leaned towards Crowley and kissed him on the cheek, one of his hands finding Crowley’s on the wheel. 

“Ngk,” was all that Crowley managed. The angel looked so soft.

“You were rather more wordy on the phone, my dear. To say nothing of your letters.” Aziraphale’s whole face was alight with mirth and his most bastardly smile was on display just for Crowley to see. Crowley leaped towards him and kissed him. It had been weeks since they’d been together, and he didn’t want to waste a single moment. He had half a mind to climb into Aziraphale’s lap, but he remembered at the last minute that it would bring them further than was reasonable with the car not yet sheltered by the estate trees. Crowley regretfully put his hands back on the wheel and his eyes on the path, turning to take the side lane that Aziraphale had told him about on the phone.

“So… I take it we’re not going to the main house?” Aziraphale had been very secretive when he had provided directions for his arrival.

“Come and see,” Aziraphale cryptically answered.

They chatted about the myriad of ideas that had come to them in the twenty-four hours since their last phone call while Crowley drove on. The chatter helped Crowley keep his mind out of the gutter and his hands to himself; a good thing it was too, considering that the lane was so bad that he needed to keep both hands on the wheel to avoid ending up between the birches. Want was humming low in his belly; he’d been exchanging improper phone calls and even worse letters with Aziraphale for a while, and there was only so much release a man could achieve with a few sheets of paper as inspiration. Crowley had started the Serpent Tamer as a joke, but it was now on its tenth chapter and had taken on a distinct sentimental tone, even if the text would make any reputable printing press self combust from embarrassment.

They came into view of the far end of the lake through a clearing in the trees. Aziraphale motioned for him to park the car behind a large shed, and they walked to the edge of the water.

“Voilà!” Aziraphale announced, with a smile and flourish of hands that was halfway pleased, halfway nervous. He gestured at a rowboat attached to a small pier, then at the island gracing the lake not far from them; Crowley could make out the outline of a thatched roof between the trees. 

“What’s that, a folly?”

”Yes, my great-grandfather had it built. He liked to retire there and enjoy the quiet of a simpler life. You know, an oyster and champagne lunch, and some philosophising in the garden.”

Crowley laughed and slithered close to Aziraphale, leaning close to his ear. “Very nice.” Aziraphale shivered and cleared his throat.

“We shan’t be disturbed there,” Aziraphale said, his hand trailing lightly over Crowley’s own. He brought Crowley down the pier and sat down in the boat at the rower’s bench.

The lake was a shining mirror, only disturbed by ducks gliding between reeds and the oars' rhythmic dips. Aziraphale and Crowley stayed mostly silent during their crossing to the island; Aziraphale because of his rowing efforts, and Crowley because watching Aziraphale in the quiet evening, jacket down and sleeves rolled up, was the closest he’d ever come to a religious experience.

The cottage was a neat little house that had obviously been built specifically to be picturesque. The interior was a cozy mystery behind lace curtains, and a modest garden in front spilled over the house in the form of climbing roses. 

Crowley sauntered on the path to the front door, his skin prickling with the knowledge that Aziraphale was watching him. He turned back under the porch and slouched against the yellow door. Aziraphale walked up to him, but Crowley moved in front of the lock and grabbed Aziraphale’s arse before he could take the key out. Crowley pulled Aziraphale flush against him and kissed the scandalized noises out of the angel.

“Get thee behind me, foul fiend,” Aziraphale said when Crowley released his mouth, but he didn’t try to escape Crowley’s grip. Crowley obliged and slinked behind Aziraphale, clinging to his backside and stroking his belly as Aziraphale opened the lock with clumsier hands than usual. 

“After you,” Aziraphale announced, pushing the door open. Crowley walked in and took in the view; the living room looked exactly as comfortable as one would expect, given its exterior. He was already forming some very specific plans involving Aziraphale and the chintz sofa in front of the chimney. 

As soon as Aziraphale followed him inside, Crowley pushed the door closed and crowded Aziraphale against it, sparking off a breathy sigh from the angel. Crowley nestled his face in Aziraphale’s neck and added a hint of teeth to his kisses to avoid passing for a complete softy. He felt Aziraphale’s hands land on his sides and prowl under his jacket. There were some promising sounds coming from the angel’s throat, especially after Crowley’s hands wandered to his hips.

“Have you had dinner? It’s late but I brought a few things here earlier, just in case.” Aziraphale’s tone implied that Good Hosting and Wanton Lust had been fighting hard for control of his mouth, and Good Hosting had won by only a thin margin. There was a wicker basket on the living-room table, but as far as Crowley was concerned, the contents were secondary to the biteable jaw he was currently preoccupied with.

“You know what I’m going to say.” Crowley took his face out of Aziraphale’s neck to look at him. He brought one hand to Aziraphale’s face, swiping his bottom lip with his thumb. The angel’s radiant smile felt as soft as it looked. Aziraphale grabbed the back of Crowley’s neck and went in for a proper kiss. Crowley could hear Aziraphale’s moans through his own mouth, and it was chipping away at his resolve to take his sweet time with this. Those moans were a deeper, more languorous version of Aziraphale’s dinner sounds. Crowley wondered if he would ever be able to share a good meal with Aziraphale without getting hard.

"You’re dinner,” Crowley growled, looking Aziraphale in the eye with no shame. To be fair, he tasted delicious.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, shaking his head but still exploring the nuances of Crowley’s lower back with his hands.

Crowley smirked and leant his forehead against Aziraphale’s while he slowly undid the buttons on Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Aziraphale’s hands froze while he worked, his breath stuttering against Crowley’s cheek. Once he was done, Crowley slipped his fingers under the hanging sides of the waistcoat and went for Aziraphale’s braces.

“Bloody hell, are these tartan?” Crowley fumbled with the brace buttons. 

“Language, darling,” Aziraphale whispered.  

“Nope. I enjoy being a nuisance.” Crowley could see a lot more curse words in his future if they made Aziraphale call him “darling” in that breathy tone. Azirphale drew him closer, humming pensively. 

“I think I could teach you manners.”

Crowley moved away a fraction to express his extreme scepticism re: Aziraphale’s statement, but the shine in Aziraphale’s eyes distracted him just enough to let Aziraphale deal his parting shot.

“I could make you beg.”

The air left Crowley’s lungs so fast he thought he might be having a heart attack. Aziraphale’s smile had gone scalding, to the point that Crowley could only utter “Oh really?” He was dying to know what Aziraphale had in mind. “You’re welcome to try, angel.”

“Lovely. Let’s take this to the bedroom, shall we?”

Aziraphale didn’t wait for an answer and made his way to the bedroom door. Crowley followed, hastily getting rid of most of his clothes in the time it took him to join Aziraphale beside the bed. He didn’t intend to fight fair.

Crowley had been expecting the way Aziraphale’s eyes raked over his body, but it still made him shiver. He took the rest of his clothes off and threw his balled up trousers in the general direction of a sturdy chest of drawers, narrowly missing a stoneware vase. Aziraphale was still fully clothed, hands primly folded in front of him.

“Well?” Crowley raised a single eyebrow, one hand cockily resting against his hip. 

Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, but instead of the kiss that Crowley was expecting, Aziraphale pushed down to sit Crowley on the edge of the bed. Only then did Aziraphale take Crowley’s face between his palms to join their mouths, his fingers gently stroking the edges of Crowley’s face. Crowley’s thoughts dissolved; he didn’t even try to touch Aziraphale, content with letting him decide what was going to happen to the rest of the skin that was currently on display. Aziraphale finally let his lips go, staring into Crowley’s eyes as though they were his new favourite book. 

Aziraphale took a seat cushion on the wing chair standing near the bed, and laid it at Crowley’s feet. He knelt on it, one hand on each of Crowley’s knees.

“Planning to stay here awhile?” The end of Crowley’s sentence was swallowed by a gasp as Aziraphale licked the tip of his cock. 

Aziraphale looked up, a knowing smile dancing on his lips, and hummed a vague sort of assent as he moved his hands up Crowley’s thighs at a glacial pace. He was still clothed, posture flawless as if he was about to start class. Crowley was so hypnotised by the slow advance of Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured fingers towards the inside of his thighs that he was almost surprised when Aziraphale pushed his legs open and dove to take his cock fully into his mouth. Crowley closed his eyes and threw his head back, hands flying to Aziraphale’s hair for purchase, all the nerve endings in his body crackling open. Crowley looked down at Aziraphale, who licked and moaned and swallowed as if Crowley’s cock was all the sustenance he needed. The part of Crowley’s brain that wanted to make this last was being shoved aside by the more feral part, the one that wanted to thrust into Aziraphale’s hot mouth and come down his throat again and again.

Crowley bit back a please, more when Aziraphale let him go. 

“What’s that, darling?”

“Ngk, not begging.” It had been close though. “Just appreciation.”

Aziraphale started taking his bow-tie off slowly, eyes never leaving Crowley’s face. Crowley’s hand flew to his cock almost unconsciously, but Aziraphale’s gaze followed his hand and he tutted, stopping the work on his shirt buttons until Crowley’s hand was back on the bed. Aziraphale beamed at him and got up to remove his jacket and lay it carefully next to Crowley’s trousers on the chest of drawers. 

Crowley strongly considered leaping on him to rip the rest of his clothes off with his teeth, but there were no spare clothes for Aziraphale in this decorative cottage as far as he knew, so he had to behave. Somewhat. The sun was setting, and the golden light was doing wonderful things to Aziraphale’s now naked body.

“On your back, please.” Crowley clambered up the bed. Anything to get Aziraphale’s mouth on him again. “You know, the Serpent Tamer revealed some quite interesting themes. I’m thinking in particular of the scene with the fight and the cursed vines?”

Aziraphale climbed on the bed, hovering over Crowley, skimming one of his hands over Crowley’s heated skin. Crowley brushed his fingers against Aziraphale’s cock, tearing a sigh out of the angel. Two could play this game.

“Oh, that?” Crowley tried to sound like imagining this particular bit hadn’t carried him over the edge several times in the solitude of his London flat. He failed, not least because attempting nonchalance with his hips bracketed by Aziraphale’s knees was doomed to failure.

“Studying subtext is my job.” Aziraphale leaned down to kiss Crowley’s neck, his hand moving up to play with one of Crowley’s nipples. “This one was rather close to the surface though,” he whispered in Crowley’s ear before biting the lobe.

Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed Aziraphale’s waist and dragged him flush against him. Crowley’s mouth and hands and belly and legs were finally full of angel again. He shimmied under Aziraphale to get their positions just right and started grinding their cocks together. Aziraphale quickly trapped his thighs down with his legs. 

“What happened to ‘please’?” Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s mouth. He pinned Crowley’s hands to the mattress when Crowley tried to take both their cocks in his hand, and kissed him like a man starving. It got Crowley drunk harder and faster than any of the fine wines he’d ever tasted. That’s what you get for sending filthy material to a professor of literature; Aziraphale only stopped his exploration of Crowley’s tongue to do something that was a direct quote from the Serpent Tamer. He turned Crowley onto his belly in one swift movement that felt easier than it should be, and started kissing the nape of his neck. 

“Do you like this?”

It sounded like a genuine question more than an attempt at dirty talk, and yet it made Crowley want to lift up his arse so that Aziraphale could have his way with him. Crowley nodded into the pillow, and felt Aziraphale trailing kisses along his spine, occasionally stroking between Crowley’s legs. Crowley’s mind turned to jelly, then to fire when he heard the popping sound of a small vial behind him. Aziraphale’s mouth came back to his shoulder blade just moments before his finger entered Crowley. Crowley lost track of time as Aziraphale stroked gently but relentlessly, sometimes whispering his name in a way that made Crowley think that the angel was maybe getting caught out at his own game. Not that he minded. Aziraphale could do pretty much anything to him at this point; Crowley hoped that he would. His fingers were clever and teasing, circling a certain spot that made Crowley emit incoherent sounds. “ More, ” he would try, and he would get more, but not enough. One especially languorous twist of Aziraphale’s hand around his cock gave him the energy to form a complete sentence.

“Fuck me now, angel!”

“If you say please.” 

Aziraphale wasn’t completely merciless, because Crowley felt him move and soon his fingers were replaced by a thick cock, pressing hard and sinking in deep. Crowley moaned in relief and pleasure, but Aziraphale was merciless after all, because that is all Crowley got before he pulled out. Crowley wailed and turned over. The bastard was so beautiful like this, curls damp with sweat, eyes shining in the moonlight coming through the lace curtains, half silver and half shadow. Aziraphale took Crowley’s chin in one hand, kissing him while he moved Crowley’s thigh with the other, aligning himself again. He moved agonizingly slowly, Crowley’s hands desperately clinging to his arse and shoulders. Crowley was going to go insane, but it was so good and Aziraphale smelled and sounded so good. Aziraphale stopped, looking down at Crowley as if he was the one begging for something.

“Is there anything you would like to say to me?” The angel’s smile was so hopeful and yet so bastardly that it flayed Crowley raw.

“I love you,” Crowley answered, lost to anything that wasn’t Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale gazed down at the gorgeous creature under him, writhing around his cock. He couldn’t believe his ears, but the adoring look in Crowley’s eyes didn’t leave much room for doubts or insecurity. Aziraphale closed his eyes and pushed deep, overwhelmed. He wasn’t in the mood for games anymore, not after that, so he let all the raw want that he’d been cautiously handling until now break through. He thrust mindlessly, holding Crowley tight and drowning in his glorious moans. Crowley came untouched in mere seconds, Aziraphale falling shortly after him, the other man’s laughter tickling his ears.

“Did you mean it?” Aziraphale hadn’t dared ask this while looking into Crowley’s eyes. He’d waited until they were clean and under the duvet, Crowley’s head nestled on his chest, holding close. Crowley went still. Aziraphale held his breath. 

“Yeah.”

Crowley tried to look up, but Aziraphale had engulfed him in the tightest hug known to man, whispering some things that Crowley very much wanted to hear. Sleep took them between kisses, the windows still open against the night.

Aziraphale opened heavy eyes. The light of dawn filtered through the curtains. He thought he’d heard voices, but all was quiet in the cottage. The only noise was Crowley’s breath against his ear and one lone bird outside. They had somehow ended up as a pair of happy spoons during the night, Crowley’s arm thrown around Aziraphale’s waist and one of his legs wrapped around Aziraphale’s shin. Aziraphale closed his eyes and burrowed under the covers. Who would be out there at daybreak anyway? Especially since he and Crowley had taken the only boat on the lake, and he’d asked Shadwell yesterday to avoid work on the island because he was planning to use the cottage for the night. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes again, thinking he must have dreamt it, when the voices came back: enthusiastic, much closer, and so unmistakable that Aziraphale instantly became wide awake.

Gabriel.

Chapter Text

Reports of the murderous nature of the Duchess of Hellsingham were greatly exaggerated. Of the four husbands she’d buried, only two had died by her hand, and one of these was an accident. There were, after all, some bedroom activities that were unadvisable for a seventy year old man with a weak heart and a general distaste for physical exercise.

Society might have forgiven a dead husband or three (there had been a World War and a pandemic, after all) but Lady Beatrix Hellsingham’s insistence on wearing suits and making her own financial decisions was a step too far. The fact that these decisions kept growing an already large fortune was even more unforgivable to her late husbands’ relatives. There might have been whispers about her methods and the deaths of her husbands, but no one ever refused her invitations to dinner. Especially not Gabriel Fell, seventh Lord Havensworth.

Gabriel was a breath of fresh air in Lady Hellsingham’s life. He was intellectually negligible, but he enjoyed being a sounding board for her ruthless plans, and he didn’t mind her wearing trousers and sporting short hair. His chiseled jawline and broad shoulders didn’t hurt either.

Lady Hellsingham was admiring said shoulders as Gabriel emerged from the water on the small island on the Eastgate Abbey lake. He had offered for her to join him in his daily swims after she’d destroyed him at golf, and back then she’d wondered if it had been an attempt at saving his dignity as a sportsman. She knew now that Lord Havensworth was an untroubled soul that had sincerely wanted to share the simple pleasure of jumping into cold water at 6am with her.

She got out of the lake to join him on the island shore, wondering if the small cottage Gabriel had told her about featured a comfortable bed. Nothing like a good swim to rouse the senses: another thing that she and Gabriel saw eye-to-eye on. Really, she would have to watch herself. That is exactly how one acquired husbands, and she had reached a point in her life where they were more trouble than they were worth.

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale shook Crowley’s shoulders in the hopes of waking him up from what looked like deep slumber.

“Ngk?” Crowley opened a lazy eye, then bolted upright when he saw the panicked expression on Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale had jumped out of the bed and was frantically gathering their clothes. Aziraphale knew his brother was not the brightest bulb in the box, but even so, he would have trouble explaining the situation in a way that was consistent with the high propriety standards of the Fell family.

“Gabriel is coming. And it sounds like he has company.” The voices were very close now, just in front of the cottage.

Aziraphale heard the sound of the front door opening. Escaping out of the window was out of the question as it opened to the front of the cottage and, by the sound of it, Lady Hellsingham was loitering in the garden.

Crowley leaped out and made the bed with an efficiency that would have made his army sergeant proud. When the bedroom handle moved, Aziraphale dropped to the floor with the clothes and rolled under the bed, closely followed by Crowley.

Gabriel and Lady Hellsingham entered. Aziraphale held his breath. Nobody would have any reason to look under a bed upon entering a bedroom. That was not a thing that people did. He was pretty sure he’d taken all the clothes, and they’d left the window cracked open during the night, so hopefully the bedroom smelled like a respectable English garden and not like… Aziraphale closed his eyes and couldn’t help a smile as he remembered the previous evening. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that Crowley was looking at him with an air of apologetic concern.

Crowley was pointing at the side of the bed, where Gabriel’s feet were visible. 

Gabriel’s naked feet.

Aziraphale finally paid attention to what his brother was saying. Gabriel sounded extremely cheerful, which wasn’t unusual, but he was saying things to Lady Hellsingham that Aziraphale immediately wished he could scrub away from his mind. The words “muffin” and “suck” were uttered in the same sentence, an event that Aziraphale hoped never to witness again. Aziraphale only went to church out of habit, but when the bed dipped, old instincts bubbled back to the surface and he whispered a short prayer to the Almighty.

Crowley let out the tiniest chuckle, which was swallowed by the sound of the bed creaking when Lady Hellsingham joined Gabriel.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and mouthed “I’m so sorry” silently. Crowley squeezed his hand and scrunched up his face when they heard a moan emanate from Lord Havensworth. Aziraphale steeled himself and tried to think about the theme of forgiveness in Shakespeare’s later romances, a topic he was going to lecture on in the autumn. Thankfully, the disturbing noises coming from above came to an abrupt halt.

“Hrmm, darling” Lady Hellsingham said. “I think we need to go back to the house for a bath first. The taste is less than ideal; it must be some algae from the lake.”

Gabriel emitted disappointed noises that Lady Hellsingham answered with a laugh and the suggestion to have a swimming pool installed to avoid such issues in the future.

Aziraphale thanked the Lord and Mother Nature for the vibrant lake ecosystem that had apparently changed Lady Hellsingham’s mind. Crowley winked cheekily, meaning “crisis averted”; Aziraphale winked back, meaning “for better or for worse, in sickness and in health”. Crowley squeezed his hand again; Aziraphale hoped his message had come across, but if they got out of this alive, he would make sure to say it again and again, out loud.

Gabriel and Lady Hellsingham seemed to have settled into a more businesslike conversation. 

“Don’t answer the letter from the electric mill people. That company is a disaster waiting to happen, you will never see your money again.” 

“Really? They made it sound so exciting though. But whatever you say, muffin. Maybe I should run those things past you first from now on. You always know.”

A dash of hope went through Aziraphale at the words while sickening endearments trickled from the bed. Was his brother finally acknowledging his lack of expertise in matters of entrepreneurship? Whatever one might say about Lady Hellsingham, she wasn’t one to get fooled easily, and Aziraphale doubted that many people would dare to swindle someone she called a friend. 

“Speaking of deception, do you mind if I hire the Pulsifer boy? They said at the Post Office that he can destroy equipment just by looking at it. That’s a precious gift that I’d like to see used against our competitors’ installations.”

“I’m sure Aziraphale won’t mind. Pulsifer is rather clumsy; Aziraphale hired him out of kindness.”

Gabriel wasn’t wrong. Aziraphale knew of Newt’s hopes to work in the technologies, and had even bought some books about telecommunications for him. He also knew that Newt’s hopes had been dashed just before he had entered his service. Newt and His Majesty’s Post Office had parted ways on unfriendly terms after the Haven-on-Thyme telegraph station had undergone a series of strange mishaps on Newt’s first day of employment.

“I’m going to make an offer to Jeeves too. I’ve heard things from multiple sources that make me think he has the biggest brains in the castle. No offense, darling.”

“None taken,” Gabriel chuckled.

Crowley tried hard to swallow a bark of laughter while Aziraphale harboured some uncharitable thoughts towards Lady Hellsingham. He did have a Ph.D., after all. Although if he was completely honest, she may have a point. He was sure he could hold his own in literary conversation, but Jeeves had a certain je ne sais quoi that made him uniquely able to defuse complicated social situations. Crowley was still shaking in little bursts, a hand covering his mouth. Aziraphale kicked Crowley gently with his foot so he would remember where they were. It helped only marginally. 

“There is no way he would be content with staying a valet for the rest of his life,” Lady Hellsingham continued thoughtfully.

Over the years, little by little and often through random chance, Aziraphale had discovered that Bertie’s valet had a marvellous breadth of intelligence. He still wondered why Jeeves didn’t seek out a more lucrative and prestigious career than a gentleman’s personal gentleman.

And then the light struck. Jeeves’ unwavering loyalty; Bertie seeking out A Queer History of Great Britain and saying often how lost he would be without Jeeves… He had to warn them both. If Lady Hellsingham made a generous offer to Jeeves, people would start wondering why the man preferred to stay with his young master. Aziraphale took a deep breath. At least the whole ordeal had been good for something. 

Up on the comfortable side of the bed, Lady Hellsingham was still contemplating her company’s staff.

“Someone disciplined like him would team up well with Crowley. Crowley’s a great salesman, but he’s got distracted lately.”

Crowley stopped laughing and pricked his ears. It was Aziraphale’s turn to raise a self-satisfied eyebrow at him. Lady Hellsingham, however, did not expand on the subject. She only said she needed to think more on it, and that some more physical activity would help. Thankfully, she only meant swimming because the bed creaked again and two pairs of feet appeared at the side. Lady Hellsingham and Gabriel left the bedroom, then the cottage. Aziraphale and Crowley stayed motionless and completely silent for some time.

“Should we get out?” Crowley whispered at last.

Aziraphale nodded, and they cautiously slid out from under the bed. When it was confirmed the coast was clear, they dusted themselves and rummaged through their heap of clothes to get dressed. 

“How,” Aziraphale deplored as he buttoned up his shirt, “am I going to have dinner with these people?” He was sure the memory would haunt him for years to come.

“Dinner? I have to work with Lady Hellsingham.” Crowley was putting his trousers back on, which was a delicate operation considering the tight fit. “If I ever get distracted in a meeting, I’ll think of today and she will know. Somehow.”

“Surely Lady Hellsingham can’t read minds.” Aziraphale sounded confident, but the few interactions he’d had with Lady Hellsingham since she’d come to the castle had convinced him that she was incredibly perceptive. “There is a bright side to this. If she convinces Gabriel to ignore the various lunatics that come knocking at our door for investment money, it would take a great weight off my mind.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on Crowley’s back as it disappeared behind a shirt. It was the first time he’d seen Crowley dress, and watching him in the quiet morning almost made him forget how close they’d just come to an extremely unpleasant scene.

“This could have gone so much worse.” Now that the danger had passed, Aziraphale felt the shock creep slowly back into his mind. Crowley noticed and got closer.

“It didn’t, though.”

Crowley was standing only a few inches away, the swagger back in his posture. There was a fluff ball in his hair at the exact same spot a water lily stem had been stuck seemingly ages ago. 

“This,” Aziraphale said as he reached out to remove it, “reminds me of our misadventure in the lake.” This time though he could gaze into Crowley’s eyes as indulgently as he wanted. 

“I wanted to do this so badly back then,” Crowley murmured as he took Aziraphale’s face in his hands and kissed him softly.

They left the cottage and walked through the woods like shadows, watching the lake for any sign of activity before they ventured out to the boat.

“I have to warn Bertie,” Aziraphale said while he rowed them back to land. “I think he and Jeeves may be an item,” he added when Crowley looked nonplussed. 

“Really? I was wondering what he was doing with that queer history book. If they want to avoid Lady Hellsingham, they’d better leave as soon as possible. She’s pretty swift once she’s gotten an idea.”

Crowley sprawled on the boat bench, one hand playing in the water, darting gazes at Aziraphale as if he was testing his ability to keep his focus on rowing. Although seeing Crowley drenched again was a tempting idea, Aziraphale had no wish to explain at the house how he’d managed to fall into the lake again. They therefore reached the pier safely, and made their way to the car. Aziraphale sighed when Crowley opened the door for him. They would have to part soon, but at least their next meeting would not necessitate elaborate planning. 

“I’ll be in Oxford in two weeks. No relatives, no valet, the whole house and garden to myself.”

Crowley crowded Aziraphale against the car, whispering that this was very valuable information to have indeed, before he dragged his mouth against Aziraphale’s ear.

“I have only one neighbor in a fifty yard radius and she’s hard of hearing,” Aziraphale continued, since details about his living situation had been so well-received. He got gently pushed down into the passenger seat with a lapful of Crowley for his troubles. Crowley was obviously eager to give him a preview of what he was planning to do in Aziraphale’s private home, and Aziraphale vigorously expressed his enthusiasm.

“I am the only person with a key to the front door,” Aziraphale finished, his hands buried under Crowley’s waistcoat for emphasis.

“Expect me there your first weekend, then.” Crowley grinned and reluctantly detached himself from Aziraphale’s chest to slither into the driver’s seat. “I might have business with the French Post Office this winter. What do you say to a Paris trip next academic break?”

“Oh, lovely. I know a place that makes the perfect crêpes!”

Bertie sighed in contentment. The country was all right in summer, but there was nothing like home. Uncle Aziraphale had done the guardian angel thing again, tipping him to the fact that Lady Hellsingham was planning to steal Jeeves away. He hadn’t given specifics, but he had seemed pretty serious. Mr. Crowley had strongly implied that Her Grace’s methods could be a bit ruthless when Bertie had countered that he was pretty sure Jeeves wouldn’t be interested. Bertie had therefore packed his things, said his goodbyes to the family, and retreated back to his home in London.

“Would you have liked to work for the British Telephone Company, Jeeves?” Bertie felt a small pang of guilt. Who was he really to stand between Jeeves and a brilliant career in telecommunications?

“I’m perfectly content where I am, sir. I don’t think the atmosphere of that place would suit me.”

“Yes, I suppose having Lady Hellsingham preside over your workplace would give even the strongest men pause. At least she scared Aunt Michael out of Eastgate Abbey. It’s a bit like those whatsits. The plants that prevent other plants from growing near them?”

“Allelopathic flora, sir?”

“Quite. You know, Pepper is married to her work now from what she tells me. I hope it becomes fashionable. There are far too many marriage-inclined young ladies in circulation if you ask me. It’s a danger to the public.”

Bertie took a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet of his flat. There was probably a Shakespeare quote about men taking freedom for granted; Uncle Aziraphale would know. 

“I want to celebrate not being engaged. I’m thinking about the Riviera. It must be quite nice this time of year, not too crowded.”

Jeeves hummed evenly and left Bertie’s gin and tonic on the side table. Of course Jeeves would never speak ill of the ladies, but Bertie knew he was partial to the French southern coast. 

Bertie’s gaze fell on A Queer History of Great Britain lying on the table near his cocktail glass. Thank the heavens that Jeeves had found it before they’d left Eastgate Abbey. Uncle Aziraphale had enquired after it on the day of Bertie’s departure, and upon learning that Bertie hadn’t finished it, he had made Bertie promise to read the book in full (his uncle need not know that Bertie’s “not finished” had meant “barely read beyond the first paragraph”). Uncle Aziraphale had even told him he could keep the book indefinitely, looking almost teary eyed. Bertie Wooster may not be a man of letters, but he was a man of his word and there was no time like the present.

He settled comfortably in his armchair, opened A Queer History of Great Britain, and prepared himself to be enlightened.

If thou rememb’rest not the slightest folly/That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved.

Silvius (Act II, Scene iii)
― William Shakespeare, As You Like It