Chapter Text
“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” (Hebrews 13:2)
In October 2023, Minnesota horticultural teacher Travis Gienger set the record for the World’s Heaviest Pumpkin with his behemoth gourd, dubbed Michael Jordan, at the 50th World Championship Pumpkin Weigh-Off in Half Moon Bay, California, USA. Pumpkin Michael Jordan clocked in at an astonishing 2,749 lbs (1,247 kg)—the same weight as an average adult male hippopotamus.
However, a new contender for the title has emerged at the annual Harvest Moon Festival in the unassuming village of Wood’s Bottom, West Sussex, UK. Well… it nearly emerged victorious. The pumpkin could have surpassed the record had it not exploded in spectacular fashion a few moments ago.
Two figures stand beside the pumpkin carcass gingerly picking its stringy guts from their clothing and hair. The pair are thankfully (one might even say miraculously) unharmed—in body if not in spirit.
“Oh, that’s a bother,” one of the gentlemen remarks to the other.
“Very… disappointing, yeah,” his companion replies through his teeth. “We had that red ribbon locked up too.”
With a wistful sigh, the latter waves a hand and vanishes the mess from their bodies into the aether. No one notices, save for the man beside him; most of the festival’s attendees are busy screaming and fleeing the scene.[1]
The pumpkin remains splattered over the village green are encumbering the mass exodus. The trails of translucent mucus aren’t helping matters. Nor are the clouds of pink feathers floating through the air and clinging to every available surface. Villagers of all ages (and a number of spooked animals) are sliding around ineffectually, several of them careening into abandoned booths like they’re trying to traverse an ice rink without skates. A small chorus of squirrels belts “What’s New Pussycat?” by Tom Jones—their harmonisation leaves much to be desired. It is, to put it mildly, a complete and utter cock-up.
But we are getting ahead of ourselves.
Three Months Earlier
It’s raining rose petals again.
These petals have a rich golden hue. Four days ago, the ones that fell from the sky in plump clusters had been snow-white. Three days before that the petals had been a rather shocking red.
The colours are not the primary concern.
What is of the utmost concern is that, once again, petals are littered across the perfectly manicured garden of Rosemary and Herbert Green. At least, it had been perfectly manicured a few hours earlier—grass freshly mowed, bushes trimmed, flowers and vegetables flourishing, and decidedly not covered in yellow rose petals.
Rosemary clicks her nails—also perfectly manicured—on the window sill in irritation, rocking back and forth muttering as if in prayer. Except in the place of “Our Father,” each refrain begins with, “Unacceptable, the inconvenience…”
Behind her, ensconced in his favourite armchair, her husband lets out a long exhale in response. If Rosemary chips her nail polish with her incessant drumming—it’s best not to think about it.[2]
“Herb!” his wife calls over her shoulder, her gaze fixed on the offensive floral debris lest it attempt anything else untoward. “Would you look at the state of our lawn?”
Herbert looks up from his copy of An Empire of Feathers and Flame and places his index finger in the book’s crease. He dearly hopes this is not a Bookmark Conversation.
“Don’t fret, love. One of the lads from down the road will take care of it for a tenner,” Herbert assures her. “‘Sides, the petals make great fertiliser. We only added ‘em to the compost a few days ago and the garden’s never been so lush. It’s a bloody marvel. Why, the aubergines alone! As big as my forearm and it’s not even the end of June.”
Rosemary pivots to face him and scowls. “It’s not just about the rose petals, Herb.” An intimidating amount of spittle punctuates her words. “There was that bizarre fog and— and the fireworks when there’s no holiday and… I know you don’t believe me, but I swear that bird really was singing Sondheim…”
Ah, so it’s to be a Bookmark Conversation, then. Herbert slips one between the novel’s pages. “I liked the fog,” he mumbles. “It smelled of lavender.”
“Lavender is cloying,” Rosemary replies sulkily.
“Come now, it's nothing to worry about. Just a few oddities. It’s not like it’s frogs or locusts or the Angel of Death. We don’t have to smear lamb’s blood above our door—”
“Locusts! Don’t even joke about that,” Rosemary huffs. “Can you imagine— My poor begonias.” She stares mournfully at the no-longer-tidy flower beds lining the front path. “You know the cottage on the other side of the hill? The new owners have been settled in a week as of today. And all of this”—she sweeps her arm through the air, coming perilously close to knocking over Herbert’s reading lamp—“began exactly a week ago.”
“Darling, don’t you think you’re being a little—” Rosemary cows Herbert with another scowl. “What I mean to say is,” he continues, “aren’t you and the girls going to go for a visit? Show ‘em some good old Wood’s Bottom hospitality? You’ll see, they’re normal folks, I’m sure.”
“Of course we have a visit planned, we aren’t barbarians,” Rosemary answers with a pretentious sniff. “Clara is making her vile muffins. Do you know she uses margarine instead of butter? Absolutely dreadful. But I suppose it can’t be helped. She’s the only one in our set with the time to whip something up.”
“Quite right! You do so much for the parish council and the church and all your clubs,” says Herbert, his spirits lifting with the knowledge that a return to his book is imminent. “Our new neighbours are so lucky that you are taking the time to welcome them and share what the village is all about.”
Rosemary preens, well-pleased with the recognition for her magnanimous efforts. “I’ll give the ladies a ring and see if we can pop ‘round this afternoon. We wouldn’t want to be derelict in our duties!”
The village of Wood’s Bottom in the South Downs is named for its position nestled between the sloping Devil’s Dyke valley to the south and dense forests to the north. On the outskirts of the village sits a cottage—though cottage might be a misnomer.
Its relatively modest exterior—with quaint brickwork and Tudor-style half-timbering—belies its far more expansive interior. It boasts a two-storey library with a spiral staircase, a media room with a television occupying the entirety of one wall (enjoyed from a chair so ostentatious it can only be properly called a throne), a modern kitchen stocked with appliances that never dare misbehave, a conservatory lush with equally obedient plants, and a generously sized bedroom with precisely one bed. It even has a turret housing a telescope that would be the envy of any observatory, including the fact that the trees bordering the property always bend to accommodate the view.
And, of course, there is a garden.
Like other properties within a two-mile radius, the cottage’s grounds are sprinkled with golden-yellow rose petals. Unlike other Wood’s Bottom residents, the cottage’s inhabitants are not distressed by this unusual phenomenon. Quite the contrary.
“Oh, my dear boy… they match your eyes,” Aziraphale says fondly, picking an errant petal from Crowley’s hair before tucking it in the breast pocket of his shirt with a small pat.
That Aziraphale even has a pocket available is somewhat extraordinary considering his state of dishabille. His shirt hangs open, naked chest heaving with the after-effects of his exertion. He’s collapsed on top of Crowley with his bare knees and elbows digging into the ground. He’s grateful for his forethought in rolling his sleeves to avoid unseemly grass stains. The trousers bunched around his ankles are probably a lost cause without a concentrated miracle.
Crowley is in no better state. His black vest is rucked up to his armpits, his dungaree shorts and underthings trapped in the vicinity of his shins. He still has one of his rubber gardening gloves on. In their haste to reach each other's skin, they’d been too keyed up to focus on a miracle but also too fervent to remove their clothes entirely the manual way. The uncovered parts of their bodies are plastered together with heat and slick, not to mention a considerable amount of dirt, grass, and petals.
Their human corporations have experienced a great deal throughout their existence, and yet, it's incredible how much more there is to feel. These bodies—they leave so many traces. It’s perfect.
“You’ve got a little something…” Crowley whispers. He reaches up to sweep the thumb of his ungloved hand over Aziraphale’s cheek. Judging by the state of his hands, it’s just as likely he is smearing dirt on Aziraphale’s face as removing it. It doesn’t matter in the slightest. “Didn’t take you for a literal roll in the hay or… erm… roll in the grass sort.”
“Well, I’m not on the grass, am I? I’m on you.” Aziraphale toys with a lock of Crowley’s hair curling handsomely against his forehead. “And you’re lovely.”
Crowley dips his chin to his chest, working his jaw back and forth to school whatever expression is attempting to break free into submission. He opens his mouth in protest—likely some self-deprecating nonsense about being bony and uncomfortable. Aziraphale is having none of it. He shifts Crowley’s chin with the tips of his fingers and stops his mouth with a kiss. The kissing goes on for some time in leisurely, slow slides.
It’s in moments like these that Aziraphale appreciates the precious, peaceful, private existence of their new home. He’s been holding his breath for six thousand years—how strange and exhilarating it is to exhale now.
“My turtle dove,” Aziraphale says when they’ve come up for air, “I don’t know how else I’m supposed to respond when I come out to bring you lemonade and you’re looking like that. I haven’t seen you with so much exposed skin since… oh, Rome? Though I suppose there was also the bathing costume I wore as you when pulling one over on Hell…”
Crowley raises a brow and mouths, “Turtle dove?” They have been experimenting with pet names—or rather, Aziraphale has been experimenting. Some attempts are more successful than others.[3] Aziraphale shrugs unrepentantly.
Forging onward, Crowley shakes his head and replies, “I’d argue that you’ve seen me quite exposed over the last while. I mean, we spent an entire week…” The tips of his ears are reddening.
Oh, his ears. Aziraphale has yet to kiss Crowley there and feels an all-encompassing urge to remedy that egregious oversight immediately. He pulls Crowley’s earlobe between his lips with a light nip.
“Oh you know what I mean, you hellion. You bent over and wearing this—” Aziraphale trails his hand past Crowley’s hip to reach for one of the straps of his dungarees. Crowley’s breath hitches as Aziraphale slides the metal buckle, still cool despite the summer heat, against his abdomen. “And you expect me not to indulge? Especially after you so kindly made those egg sandwiches for me earlier. Thank you for those, by the way. They were delicious. Though, of course, not as delicious as—”
“Nmrrwgk,” Crowley sputters. The slits of his eyes are pulsing. “Ah— My pleasure. Yeah, picture of debonair debauchery, me. Do my knobby knees and wellies get you all hot and bothered?”
“Hot, certainly. But what’s wonderful is”—Aziraphale pauses with a dreamy sigh—“we don’t have to be bothered anymore.”
He can’t resist leaning forward to plant a kiss on Crowley’s bare shoulder where it’s starting to freckle from the sun. Burrowing his face in Crowley’s neck, he smiles against the demon’s throat as he feels him swallow.
“Love you—” The words burst from Crowley’s mouth with a puff of air. Since the world didn’t end in fire and brimstone for a second time, they’d said it many times and in multiple ways. Whispered in the dark, sluggish with sleep. With a peck on the cheek at breakfast. Panting hotly in each other’s mouths. On one memorable occasion, Crowley had blurted it out while perched on the highest rung of a bookshelf ladder. He’d toppled off the ladder head first in response to Aziraphale’s round, wet eyes.[4]
“And I love you something terrible,” Aziraphale murmurs in return against the hinge of Crowley’s jaw. A fizz of pleasure zips through his corporation—a champagne toast at the end of a satisfying meal.
Crowley begins to squirm like his bottle of champagne is ready to pop and bubble over again. His spine has always had a tentative relationship with physics, and Aziraphale starts to fret about its condition on the hard ground. He slides his hand underneath Crowley to cushion his back. Crowley responds immediately, using the leverage of Aziraphale’s hand underneath him to arch into his embrace.
“I’m not bothered, angel. At least… not because of the ground,” Crowley says, voice low and strained. His breathing is audibly quickening.
Aziraphale rolls his hips into the vee of Crowley’s legs. “Now who’s insatiable?”
Crowley is craning his neck toward Aziraphale's mouth in reply when a noise sounds from inside the house. The noise is, inexplicably, the opening trill of ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight).”
Perhaps not so inexplicably. Aziraphale pushes up on his forearms, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes at the demon beneath him.
“What?” asks Crowley innocently. “You said I could have free reign over the outdoors bit. The door chime is part of the outdoors.”
“Is it now? Hmm. We’ll discuss the finer nuances of property management later.” Aziraphale skims his little finger along the flare of Crowley’s ribs, making him hiss with pleasure. “I suppose we ought to attend to that, though I hope it's not callers. It's hardly appropriate visiting hours—it's barely after lunch! And on a Sunday no less.”[5]
“Ought we?” Now it’s Crowley’s turn to affect a pout. “I’ll chase them away with a thought.”
“Oh no, no. You finish up with what you were doing out here. I’ll see what the fuss is about. I'm expecting a courier with a box of rare Forsters and I'd hate to miss it, so hopefully— Oh don't look at me like that.”
Aziraphale snaps his clothing to rights. Crowley groans and thumps his head on the grass as Aziraphale shimmies the dungarees up Crowley’s body and fastens the straps at his shoulders for him.
“That was not the finish I had in mind,” Crowley mumbles.
When Aziraphale opens the door, it is, unfortunately, not the courier with his box of rare Forsters waiting for him on the other side. Instead, three women are standing in a row, each dressed monochromatically—in pastel green, purple, and blue—with matching headscarves. Their faces are the same orange tone. The women’s coordinated wardrobes, similar shapes, and descending heights make them appear like a set of Russian nesting dolls.
The shortest woman in blue at the end of the line is holding a gift basket the size of her torso filled with muffins, her head barely peeking above the top. One of the muffins falls out and hits the porch with a disheartening thud that does not bode well for its brethren’s palatability.
“Hello,” Aziraphale greets the ladies with a tone of indulgence one might use to address a guileless dog with its tongue lolling out of its mouth. He is already regretting leaving the garden. “How may I help you?”
The tallest woman in green extends her hand. Her lacquered nails scrape the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist as he shakes it. “Hello, I’m Rosemary Green. These are my friends, Judith Dixon and Clara Zelly.” She gestures at the purple woman in the middle and the muffin holder respectively. “We’re liaisons,” she says with an attempted French accent, “with the Wood’s Bottom Ladies’ Guild. We’re here to welcome you to the village.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale sees Crowley’s black-clad form slink up behind him—in his regular ensemble instead of his more risqué gardening attire, thank goodness. Crowley braces his hands on either side of the door like Aziraphale’s overgrown shadow. The tall woman (Roseanne? Rosalie?) frowns slightly when Crowley doesn’t immediately remove his sunglasses.
“Oh, well. How— how charming, I suppose. I’m Aziraphale. And this is my— This is Crowley,” he supplies.[6]
The three women look like they are expecting Aziraphale to clarify his response. With no clarification forthcoming, Rosemary (that’s it!) continues, “You have an impressive vehicle out front. My Herb loves classic cars. He would love to pop by to—”
Aziraphale stops listening. He and Crowley exchange subtle eye flicks indicating that her Herb will certainly not be popping anything within the perimeter of their home.[7]
Rosemary clears her throat with a tiny “hem hem” and hands Aziraphale a thick manila envelope, which Aziraphale pinches like a piece of refuse.
“That contains our Kindred Neighbours Ordinances for Beautification,” she explains. “We are a tight-knit community. The KNOBs are essential to maintain the village’s dignity, appeal, and—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” says Crowley, slinging an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and pulling him close. The angel flushes with pleasure. “Aziraphale and I have no intention of unravelling your knots. Or KNOBs, as it were.”
Crowley’s face, however, conveys the delight of a kitten about to unroll an entire ball of yarn down a flight of stairs. Rosemary’s mouth spreads into an unsettling rictus smile that most decidedly does not reach her eyes. Aziraphale, by contrast, smiles with the full force of his angelic goodness. The middle one clutches her chest and the short one sways on her feet, muffin basket tipping precariously.
There is an awkward pause. It’s a bit early for tea time but Aziraphale could use something reviving—and a well-timed excuse to conclude the conversation. He looks at Crowley expectantly.
Crowley lets go of Aziraphale’s waist, settling his hand on the small of his back. “Right. Jasmine oolong okay?”
“Oh yes, dearest. It wouldn’t do to have too much caffeine at this time of day.”
The tea is, naturally, not for guests but for Aziraphale to enjoy with a book (and a demon’s head pillowed in his lap) once the visitors have departed. Unlike Crowley, however, it appears their visitors are not good at taking the hint.[8]
Aziraphale moves to bid them farewell and close the door but is met with resistance from Rosemary's foot on the threshold. He would very much prefer not to employ the same tactics he’d used on those unseemly men who’d frequented the bookshop spouting threats, but if these ladies continue to keep him from his tea, his books, and his treasured alone time with Crowley, he will.
“It’s a fabulous place to live,” Rosemary presses on unabated, forcing the door back open with the side of her foot. Aziraphale’s mouth drops open in horror, while Crowley whips an arm over his face to cover his snorting laughter with a cough. The door groans in embarrassment. “We’ve won Best Kept Village several times. We certainly hope you find your place here, you and your…” The weight of the ellipses dropping off her tongue could crack the pavement.
The petite woman in blue (Cora? No! Clara!) is gripping the handle of her gift basket with whitening knuckles as if she were speeding down the motorway with her car on fire.[9] She lets out a breathy wheeze like a deflating balloon and shuffles forward to thrust the basket into Crowley’s arms.
“We’re allies!” she squeaks.
“Weeeeell…” Crowley stretches the word into several syllables of varying intonations, which means he is immensely proud of himself. “It would be a touch awkward if you were Axis.”
The three women let out high-pitched gasps in quick succession—one, two, three notes on a scale. Crowley flashes a wide, toothy grin, the apples of his cheeks so round they nudge his sunglasses.
Aziraphale seizes the opportunity to kick Rosemary’s foot out of the way with a grunt. “Toodle-oo,” he says with a wiggle of his fingers through the narrowing sliver between the door and its frame. “It was delightful to make your acquaintance.”
Aziraphale shuts the door with a firm click—the door promptly flips its lock closed, eager to be in the occupants’ good graces. Aziraphale tosses the envelope containing the blasted rules carelessly on the console table; they’ve had enough rules for several lifetimes.
Contemplating the muffin basket in Crowley’s arms, he pouts with disappointment. “She’s used margarine instead of butter in these, I'm sure of it.”
After his baking adventures during lockdown, Aziraphale considers himself both an expert consumer and maker when it comes to baked goods.[10] There is an infernal shift as Crowley alters the muffins’ composition from margarine to butter.
Aziraphale rewards him with a pleased hum and a warm smile. The long line of Crowley’s throat blooms an endearing shade of red—not unlike the rose petals from the previous Sunday. Six millennia Crowley had endeavoured to keep his blushes under wraps; Aziraphale is thrilled he now allows them to happen freely.
Crowley places the basket on the console table directly atop the discarded envelope and removes a small card wedged between two muffins. “What’s this, then?”
“Oh well, it’s nice to see some formal pleasantries,” Aziraphale grumbles, plucking the card from Crowley’s outstretched fingers to examine it. “I would have preferred if she’d left her card and waited for us to extend an invitation. It’s only proper.”[11]
Rosemary’s card is printed on thick cream-coloured paper with raised lettering:
“Rosemary and… Herb Green, wasn’t it? It’s a touch gauche, don’t you think? A little on the nose,” says Aziraphale. His own nose crinkles in distaste.
“Humans don’t generally choose their names, do they?” The corners of Crowley’s lips turn down in thought. “‘Suppose some do. But not their sort. Either way, I doubt name compatibility ranks highly among their reasons for selecting a”—he pauses dramatically, arching his eyebrows above the rims of his sunglasses—“mate.”[12] The tip of Crowley’s tongue emphasises the ‘t’ with a click.
Aziraphale knows his next expected move in their little repartee is to volley back innuendo or indulge in a bit of a fluster. While he does dearly love needling Crowley or playing the scandalised matron, instead, he presses his hands tightly to Crowley’s cheeks, causing the demon’s lips to pucker cartoonishly, and kisses him. Because he can. The kiss is relatively chaste—just a gentle, closed-mouth press. Aziraphale can see Crowley’s startled blinks through his dark lenses when they part.
Crowley makes one of his trademark Avoid Saying Something Embarrassing Noises.[13] He lays his warm palms over Aziraphale’s hands on either side of his face, lingering there before slowly bringing both pairs down and weaving their fingers together with a squeeze.
“Mmph, yeah. Alright. How ‘bout that tea, then? We can curl up in the sitting room…”
The small, aching hint of hopefulness in Crowley’s voice makes Aziraphale want to roll him up in a blanket and keep him tucked in his arms for the rest of the day. Perhaps he shall, actually.
“Marvellous my dear, I’ll be along quick as a wink,” Aziraphale answers, squeezing Crowley’s fingers in return before reluctantly letting him go.
Watching Crowley’s retreating back as he ambles toward their kitchen swinging the basket of much-improved muffins, Aziraphale takes a moment to indulge his thoughts. He finds himself doing that quite a bit as of late. Unlike the endless prickle of worry that characterised his consciousness for millennia, these notions are far more pleasant.
Crowley helped him purchase the stunning French walnut console table from The Electronic Bay. They’d decided on the parquet flooring he’s standing on together.[14] Everywhere, there is evidence of their entwined lives. Their foyer. Their unwanted visitors. Their home.
Aziraphale runs the pad of his thumb over Rosemary’s card and suddenly visualises a monogram with two initials fitted snugly side by side. Elegant serifs, the downward stroke of the ‘A’ looping through the back curve of the ‘C’. He tucks the card into his shirt pocket next to the rose petal. Though he has no intention of asking about the muffin recipe, he will certainly inquire about the name of Rosemary’s stationer.
[1] Were their focus not so preoccupied, they might note that the pumpkin shards had just broken the record for velocity achieved by a vegetable projectile. The previous record was established in 1948 by Mr Bartholomew Kimberley of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada, for his innovative cucumber cannons. return
[2] Rosemary is banned from two different nail salons in Brighton for berating the staff after her manicure smudged immediately upon leaving the premises. return
[3] “Pookie” had been resoundingly rejected immediately. Aziraphale will never be able to live down the attempt. Crowley prefers the tried-and-true “angel,” though he’s nearly let other endearments slip out once or twice. return
[4] Since Crowley had been reshelving books to spell out rude sentences using the first letter of the titles, it served him right. return
[5] Aziraphale adheres to guest visiting hours and etiquette as outlined in Our Deportment. Or the Manners, Conduct and Dress of the Most Refined Society by John H. Young (1882). return
[6] As with the pet names, they are still working on the nomenclature. return
[7] They silently—through a series of complex eyebrow motions—make plans to ensure that any trespassers who come within 25 feet of the cottage will be struck with the sudden urge to urinate and rush to the closest lavatory immediately. return
[8] Excerpt from Chapter 6 ("Etiquette of Visiting") of Our Deportment: "A person who pays a visit upon a general invitation need not be surprised if he finds himself as unwelcome as he is unexpected. His friends may be absent from home, or their house may be already full, or they may not have made arrangements for visitors. From these and other causes, they may be greatly inconvenienced by an unexpected arrival." So you see, it’s the ladies who are being abominably rude in the first place. Aziraphale is paying them a courtesy by even answering the door. return
[9] Crowley obviously finds this extremely relatable. return
[10] Aziraphale need only believe his homemade treats to be delicious for it to be true, an advantage not afforded to your average baker. return
[11] They likely would have never extended an invitation, but that’s hardly the point. return
[12] Young Rosemary had, in fact, selected Herbert Green from among her many suitors for his name—the opportunity to be part of a complementary pair and honour her keen interest in gardening was simply too good to pass up. Though she generally prefers formality, she calls him “Herb” exclusively. They have three grown children—Parsley, Sage, and Coriander (who had, after years of extensive therapy, legally changed his name from Thyme in 2007). return
[13] It’s one of Aziraphale’s very favourite Crowley Noises next to— Well, you know. return
[14] It’s not important how long it took them to decide. They’d communicated. return