Chapter Text
Crowley has been staring at the screen of his laptop in disbelief for the past several minutes. There was a single picture of a dilapidated cottage with its rotten windows and cracked stonework, slipped tiles and wonky roof. But no amount of disbelief was going to change the fact that it was, very clearly, a listed building in the countryside.
Listed building. Why of all the godforsaken projects Anathema had to send him a listed building in the middle of the fucking Cotswolds!? With the eyes of his imagination, he can already see the inevitable mould growing under insulated walls that had been incorrectly applied in the sixties, the impossible to repair cracked and drafty windows, smoking chimneys, wonky floors… Fuck, it could even have asbestos on the ceiling for all he knows! The list goes on and on. It's a never ending bottomless pit of problems.
The more he stares at it the more convinced he is that it's a pointless job. No matter how much time and effort Anthony J. Crowley—the talented architect (between jobs, temporarily )—puts into it, it will never get the approvals it needs to bring it up to standard. He knows, mainly from Ana's complaints, how difficult it is to get anything changed in a listed building, even a simple window replacement can end up being a real battle, no matter how rotten the existing frame is. Conservation officers have it really in their head about preserving the existing matter of the building.
All nostalgic bullshit really.
But, while the project might not be viable… Crowley does need money and quickly. Technically as long as he prepares the planning and listed building application, submits it to the relevant council and tells the client sorry it didn't work afterwards, he'll do his job. He'll get that paycheck he so desperately needs, which should last him a while until he finds some proper work. Somewhere far away from the slow life of the countryside, where people don't hate each other any less but won't ever tell you that to your face
Sure, he might feel bad about sort of scamming the poor bloke afterwards, for a while anyway, but at least he won't end up starving to death or losing his posh flat, and that has to count for something.
Crowley's phone ringing jolts him from his brooding. Of course, he's been expecting the call as soon as he's read the email. Still he groans, not nearly ready for this conversation, but clicks the green button on the screen all the same.
"Yeah?"
"Rude much," Anathema's voice chirps on the other side, not put off in the slightest. "Have you seen my email yet?"
Crowley only groans again, pinching the bridge of his nose as he does so. He knows how this will go but that does not mean he has to be happy about it.
"I'll take it as a yes?" Anathema continues, all too used to Crowley's unintelligible sounds.
"It's the worst job I've ever come across," Crowley says. He's not even joking.
"Good. You're taking it then?"
Crowley releases a defeated sigh. They both know he doesn't have a choice. "Yeah."
"Perfect, I'll send you the client's details. Let me know when you're in the area, we'll catch up and I can introduce you."
Crowley puts his phone down, resigned. Briefly contemplating if it would be less painful to throw himself off a bridge. He clicks back to Anathema's email and looks up the village. It's just the kind of unassuming place he expected to see. So, alright, on the photos it looks rather idyllic, but what the pictures don't show is the community divided on just about every possible subject, raising up in arms whenever anyone wants to build an extension or make any other tiny change in the village, the endless disputes and petty grudges. People quarreling over the amount of leaves that were cut on their side of the hedge.
He shudders.
He should know, he's from far up north, from the wettest, darkest corner of England, where you can't drive through a village without sheep jumping on the road. He ran away from it all as far as he could, worked hard on his degree that took bloody forever and slaved his way up in the most prestigious architectural studios only to be kicked out when recession hit. He even got rid of his accent and now he's being asked to go back to all of that. Life has a sense of irony.
Anathema chose a different path. She met this Newt bloke and moved out into the countryside in the Cotswolds pretty much straight out of university, started her own business there. She did alright for herself, even in such a God forgotten place. And still, she stayed in touch, which is more than he could say for the rest of his friends who only call him when they need something. Like a lift, or plans for renovating their flat.
As if on a cue his phone beeps again. He looks down to see Bee's name. Coming today? - is Bee's short message. He stretches in his chair. There's not really anything else to do, he's been spending his days mostly trying to forget that he has bills to pay, a job to find and a life to sort out. Yep, he types back.
Bee was an old friend. They met ages ago in one of those big architectural studios where they make whole teams redundant if they need to cut spendings. Bee managed to find another job on short notice, Crowley wasn't so lucky.
He takes shower in a hurry and puts a tight black henley over equally tight jeans even though he's not expecting to take anyone home tonight. Style is the last thing he has though and he's not giving that one up without a fight. He picks up his jacket, dons his designer sunglasses and leaves the flat, bumping into a small package in the doorway that the postman must have left without even knocking.
He knows who it is from even before he sees the familiar handwriting. He knows what's inside—the same stuff as usual—catholic brochures, silver crosses and other Christian paraphernalia. No letter. No explanation whatsoever. He sighs and tosses it away without opening. His father never bothers so he won't either.
Moments later he's running down the staircase of his flat in Mayfair, one of the most expensive districts in London, and hops inside his vintage car. They're only his on paper, the flat has an extortionate mortgage on it, that he will be paying for the rest of his life, and the car is on lease.
Crowley turns on the ignition just as that nagging question that's been boring into his skull for the past weeks makes it all the way to his consciousness and he drops his forehead onto the steering wheel. Is he happy? He has everything he ever wanted—a posh flat, a vintage car, and his plants. He should be happy. As if he fucking owed it to anyone to be. One more demand to add to his anxieties. Without further delay he drives off into the town.
The club is too loud and too dark, Crowley immediately hates it. Sipping his beer at the bar he observes the rest of his group twich and dangle awkwardly on the dancefloor. He doesn't even like the music that's blasting out the speakers. Briefly, he wonders why he even keeps coming here. He's forty-two, unemployed and well over putting any effort into even the most casual of hookups. The empty messed up sheets brought less comfort with every passing morning, chipping away at his heart, until finally Crowley settled for empty tidy ones. Less heartbreak this way.
But that of course is the answer—with no other human interaction to fill this gap, he turned to whomever still responded to his texts, however briefly. Even though Bee's group tolerated him at best, they quickly became the only company he had in this lonely city and Crowley accepted whatever he was given. The good thing about Bee's group was that they never asked Crowley if he found a job yet, what he was going to do with his life, or if he was happy .
Bee slinks off the dancefloor, snatches Crowley's beer and leans on the bartop like they have no care in the world. Hastur, Ligur and Dagon follow suit as if they were Bee's demons to command. Crowley tries to say something, to protest at least but the four of them barely even hear him, continuing the conversation from the dancefloor. Crowley pretends that being ignored doesn't bother him. It doesn't. Losing something you never had shouldn't hurt, right?
"...leave the bloke's drink," Dagon pries it out of Bee's fingers and pushes back towards Crowley over the bar top. "I'm not carrying you home again like last week."
"I'll buy him another one."
"Last week?" Crowley chimes in, trying very hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He spent his last week at home. Alpne. "What was last week?"
"Oh you know, the usual. I posted the invite on our Messenger group chat, haven't you seen it?" Bee responds airily.
"I don't have Facebook." If he had to deal with one more social media he'd explode. "And I can't drink another one, I'm driving, remember?"
"Duh," they say tapping their head as if to blame their memory.
Crowley gives up. He picks the now nearly empty pint and finishes whatever's left of it. He lives just round the corner, he doesn't have to be driving at all tonight but he promised to give them a lift. He sighs. Unexpectedly his mind gravitates towards the cottage he's going to see on the weekend, the long drive to the small town in the middle of nowhere and the weather forecast that's predicting heavy rain.
If nothing else, it will at least take his mind off his problems.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Crowley slams the steering wheel repeatedly as the Bentley makes unhappy noises braving the narrow country lanes. The motorway to Tadfield was closed, ob-fucking-vioisly ! like every fucking summer! Exactly on the day he had to drive somewhere. You would think the English Highways would finally learn how to lay the tarmac properly, but nooo . Every year it was the same old song.
Crowley follows the diversion for a while before stopping to update his sat-nav. It takes forever to decide on a course, but once it does, it ends up directing him through the most narrow, winding and single-carriageway roads that have more potholes than he has freckles. Someone above there must hate him with passion.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older. Shorter of breath and one day closer to death. The radio chimes in helpfully. He loves Pink Floyd, he really does. Nothing like listening to music that matches your mood but today it's just not helping.
When he finally arrives on site, late by only an hour, his back hurts, his head hurts, Anathema called at least three times, finally leaving him a message that something important came up, and she couldn't make the meeting so Crowley had to go alone.
Great .
Well. It could have been worse, Crowley tells himself looking from his expensive watch to the dilapidated honey-coloured, stone cottage. At the vines wound around window sills and reaching to the tip of the roof, digging mercilessly into the structure. It could have been worse, it could have been a more complicated building, a farmhouse for example, or a grade one, instead of grade two listed building or, or… well, there really are not that many things that could have been worse than this, honestly. But for now Crowley's just here to assess the structure, listen to the bloke's ideas (likely impossible to achieve) and possibly also the story of the man's life—the kind of people who owned old buildings loved talking about themselves.
Crowley walks through the overgrown arched pergola gateway and onto the front garden blooming with flowers of all imaginable colours, overhanging leaves brushing his head as he passes. There is a sign on the building that reads Thyme Cottage, Fennel Street . How quaint.
He fixes his jacket, checks his sunglasses that he takes off really only around friends, and runs his hand through his already ruined hair. Brave and prepared, he knocks on the little blue door.
No response.
"Hello?" He says unsure, swears, fumbling with his phone to see if he got any messages in the meantime, checks the address again. If he's just made this fucking journey for nothing he's going to—
"Mr Anthony Crowley?"
Crowley raises his eyes and feels his stomach tying into a knot. He was not prepared for this. In front of him, in a beige dated coat stands a middle-aged blond man, nervously fiddling with his hands. His smile is polite, but somehow also sincere, shining into the depths of Crowley's soul.
Crowley nods, that's all he can do in the face of this angel's manifesting in front of him, evening sun illuminating the man's hair like a halo. All the words have long left him and he can only manage a couple of unintelligible noises. It's a crime to be this good looking. He immediately wants to take the angel out for a dinner or a drink. Fuck, he'd do anything the man asked him to.
"Aziraphale Fell," the angel introduces himself, extending his hand and Crowley squeezes it automatically. There's a faintest blush colouring the man's cheeks as they touch, or maybe it's just the sunny day playing with his poor eyesight. "I apologize, Anathema called and said she couldn't make it and that you would be late. I am afraid I lost the sense of time reading on the bench in the garden at the rear."
Crowley just nods again and then it comes to his attention how fucking rude he is. He fixes his sunglasses back up on his nose like a shield he needs now more than ever. "Yes. I mean quite, er. Anthony J. Crowley, but of course you know that already." He bumbles through the words.
Aziraphale lets out the most adorable giggle. "Anathema did say you are a little bit, um, eccentric."
Crowley lets out a forced laugh at that, at least it does remove some of the tension from his limbs. Pot calling the kettle black, he thinks and makes a mental note to get back at Anathema for that. He still feels out of his depth somewhat, but then Aziraphale invites him into the cottage and Crowley finally has something concrete to talk about.
Aziraphale shows him around every room, adding a line or two of a passing comment, but not saying anything about himself or his personal life, curiously enough. That's probably for the best though, he really is just here to do the job. There's the living room with cracked flagstones and an inglenook fireplace that takes up most of the wall in a small kitchen. Some windows are cracked and have rotted away in places, all single glazed obviously. There are cobwebs in every corner and some butterfly wings on the cill, which makes bats' presence almost an inevitability. They're a protected species in the UK, he explains to Aziraphale, he won't get away without the expensive bat survey.
The floors on the first floor are so wonky that Crowley is afraid to walk on it. They will need to be replaced, that is, if the conservation officer allows it. Floorboards could likely be reused so that's something. At the very end of the tour Aziraphale opens the door to a small bedroom and Crowley notices with surprise that it looks… lived in. Full of books and beige clothes.
"I apologise for the mess, I am still unpacking."
"You live here?" Crowley blurts out because he cannot stop himself. In this state?
"Yes, I was hoping I might be able to renovate the cottage while staying here. You… don't think that's possible?" Aziraphale gives him a wary look and Crowley feels himself folding on himself. Well, he's not going to lie.
"That might be… challenging."
"Ah," Aziraphale's face falls for a split second but the smile is quickly back again. "I will keep that in mind. Thank you."
Having finished the tour of the house they go downstairs. Crowley makes an action plan in his head and a list of all the reports and surveys that will be needed—measured building survey, bat survey, structural survey… There's so many reports that are going to be needed that Crowley isn't sure the cottage is even worth keeping at this point. Selling it off for half a million would be the no-brainer option. And yet the angel clearly wants to stay here.
"You must think me daft for wanting to live here, but it belonged to our family for generations, it would be a shame to sell it now. Plus I really like living out in the country. I grew up here, you see. The views, the pace of life, the little village shops…" Aziraphale says as if reading Crowley's mind.
"I bet," Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale fits with the scenery like a glove, by comparison making Crowley stand out like a sore thumb. Like a stain on the background of the perfect tranquility.
But he does like the garden. If there's one thing he misses in London is the greenery and the plants. Sure there are public gardens, St. James Park and the like, but he can only ever grow plants in pots in his flat. While here… there are roses and fuchsias, Japanese maple and foxglove and hollyhocks with bumblebees flying around it.
"Could I tempt you to a coffee perhaps?"
"What?" Crowley's brain short-circuits at the sudden question, his heart thumping in his chest. Is the man really implying what Crowley thinks is in fact being inferred?
"From the village cafe?" Aziraphale continues, "so we could discuss the next steps? It's my first project like this, you see."
Oh, of course. What else did Crowley think this was going to be? He's your client, you idiot. But why does his stomach keep doing those flips over and over? There is nothing to get excited about, just some old chap renovating his cottage. A passing project for Crowley, nothing to get attached to. Afterwards he'll go back to London and they won't ever see each other again.
"Yes please, lead the way."
Aziraphale beams and a moment later they're walking down the road side by side through the picturesque village. Some cottages have thatched roofs, others clay tiles but all of them are consistently built in the same type of golden stone. It also doesn't escape Crowley's attention that in the whole place there are merely two pubs, a church and a primary school. That's it, that's all there is. It makes his skin crawl. But Aziraphale seems to be enjoying it well enough, telling him all about the quirks of the place and the people that live in it. [1]
When Aziraphale cuts his path towards what looks like an old chapel, Crowley makes a double take but then they enter and it turns out to be converted into a small shop and cafe. As far as Crowley's experiences with little towns go, this blows his mind. Aziraphale orders him a coffee, tea for himself and a piece of cake for them both.
They move through the tastefully converted space towards a timber extension at the back with a glass gable. The sun filters through the window and falls on their table. It's just so… peaceful, so very different to the rush of London. No one's shouting or running anywhere, just a few old ladies sitting in the corner and chatting about books.
"Isn't it lovely, this place?" Aziraphale smiles again at no one in particular.
"Yes, look, um—"
"Aziraphale," The man smiles. "Don't worry, I know it is a mouthful."
"Right. Aziraphale. Look." Crowley thinks he's going to regret it even more than playing along, but what the hell? He can be a decent human being for once. "I want to be upfront with you about this. It's going to be costly. And I don't even mean the renovation. The whole planning process is… " he's not going to say he doesn't know the local council and hasn't done a project like this in ages, isn't going to say his experience is lacking, that would be too much. "Complicated. It's a listed building in the Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty [2] with strong potential for bats. Those reports are not cheap, so you really need to know..."
"I'm prepared for the costs," Aziraphale moves his hand forward and Crowley thinks, no, hopes, it might land on his, but it stops just short. Crowley can't help but notice that the only ring Aziraphale wears is resting on his pinky finger. "My aunt left me a little bit of inheritance for the renovation when she passed away. She was always very conscious about these things." Aziraphale's words are honest, perhaps a tad too honest for his own good.
Crowley doesn't know how to react. Most people hearing this would take note of it and ramp up their prices. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"It's alright, she had a happy life. My family lived in the area for quite some time, this is a lovely opportunity to finally move back." Aziraphale sips his tea in contemplation. "May I ask where you are from?"
"Just… London." Crowley leans on his elbow, looking over the countryside that suddenly doesn't look so terrible. It's green and alive and airy. He isn't going to admit he's from up north, he hates when people try to place his origins.
"Ah, London. Many fun gay bars, especially in Soho. Have you visited?"
It's so unexpected that Crowley almost spits out his coffee. He looks up and sees that glint in Aziraphale's eye, the little mischievous grin that hides behind all that politeness.
Fucking bastard .
"Um, yeah. A couple." Crowley mutters, hand brushing through his hair, which he does when he's nervous. He was not prepared for this. Crowley isn't a fan of clubs, though some more camp and obscure ones fit his mood and sense of style just fine. He tries to imagine Aziraphale in any of them and fails, but the question bubbles up to his lips all the same. "Have you…?"
He doesn't know if it's real or just his imagination, because he can so easily misinterpret every little thing. But his heart has already got a hold on this beautiful blond man and he knows it's not going to let go of him easily.
"I used to live in Soho, had a little bookshop just on the corner there. That was ages ago though. My lifestyle didn't really agree with London's rush." Aziraphale dodges the question expertly.
"Mhm," Crowley mutters, finishing his coffee and setting the empty mug on the table, feeling that he's given all his cards away without getting anything in return. "Right then. I'll be in touch with my scope of work. If you can sign and scan them back to me, I can start organising things."
"Of course. As I said, whatever you think is needed. Anathema spoke very highly of you and I'm sure you'll do a splendid job." Aziraphale stands up and offers Crowley his hand one more time. It's warm and reassuring and once again he feels like his mind malfunctions from the touch alone.
"Ngk." He intones and moves towards the exit before he's going to combust on the spot.
"Oh, and Crowley? Any chance you could send the documents in the post? I don't actually… own a scanner."
Crowley's lips curl in a smile. That does fit the man so very well. "Of course, angel."
"I'm so sorry Crowley! I got a flat tyre, the AA took forever to get to me. How did your meeting go?" Anathema opens the door to a cute little cottage, rose bushes growing on each side. It's a little bit cramped inside, but it's alright for two, he supposes. It's all open space on the ground floor—kitchen, dining and living, with a staircase tucked in the corner. Anathema and Newt moved into Jasmine Cottage in the last few months, Crowley hadn't had the chance to properly visit yet.
At the mention of Aziraphale Crowley shrivels inside. He called the man angel , he doesn't know how he's going to live with himself after such an embarrassment.
"It was…" Crowley stops for words, knowing that Anathema is reading him with her sixth sense. "Fine," he hisses finally.
"Was it really," she says sneakily, raising one brow, her grin growing wider as she sets the groceries on the rustic wooden worktop of her kitchen. "Well?"
"Well what?" Crowley says exasperated, making sure the glasses are firmly perched on his nose, which is a tell-tale sign on its own, body folded into an origami on the small armchair.
"Well tell me all about it, since you don't seem to be even remotely hating the project."
Crowley raises his eyebrows. "That's what gives me away in the end? How do you two even know each other?" Anathema mentioned he was a friend, didn't she?
"Book club."
"Oh, of course." He says, pulling a pillow over his face as he's folding on himself even more.
"Look, I know you're worried, but it's going to be fine. Newt will help you with the planning side of it, he is very good at his job. You just need to take care of the drawings. And the," she waves a hand in the air, "the vision."
"Mhm," Crowley mutters because he's not going to admit it's not about the building at all. Not anymore. He suddenly wants to do the best fucking job of his life for the angelic man he's literally just met.
"You can crash over here, there's a spare bedroom upstairs. Stay however long you need."
"Thanks. I need to get back to London though, take care of the, uh, things ."
Anathema rolls her eyes. "You've only just got here. At least stay for dinner. Newt is cooking today," her smile brightens as she waves to somebody over the dining window.
"Hullo," Newt appears in the doorway. "Look what I got at the butchers." He proudly shows off a very generous lamb shank that makes Crowley's mouth water.
"Just the dinner then." Crowley agrees and covers his face back with a pillow.
This cannot be real, it rarely ever happens that he's attracted to people, let alone this much. But he is, can't deny it, wants to get to know Aziraphale, spend all his free time with him, learn every little secret and see him happy, and sad, and excited. Well, he just might, just not in the context he wants to. And what did he even have to offer in return anyway? Crowley isn't interesting whatsoever. He doesn't have anything to say to keep the conversation going, which always has been his problem.
It's alright, Aziraphale is a client and that means off limits. This whole countryside gig is still only temporary.
It's time to dust off his old T's & C's and set out the plan of attack. Building survey, that one's going to be commissioned out, after seeing the building Crowley is definitely not surveying it himself. Structural survey, because it could technically fall down any time. Bat survey, they're not getting away with it. Bloody flying rats, what kind of protected species is even that?
There's going to be a lot of work involved, but it's suddenly not such a daunting task as it seemed to be this very morning.