Tadfield. A slow late afternoon in the bookshop. Aziraphale is considering closing early and adjourning to Madame Tracy's for tea with Crowley when the demon bursts through the door. Normally he doesn't return to the shop until after closing, as he tends to alarm the customers. Like now. One of the two remaining customers drops her book as Crowley gives her a brief furious snarl as he hurries past on his way to the back room. A wave of heat and woodsmoke follows him. Aziraphale approaches her and gently murmurs as he picks up the dropped book, carefully inspects it, and replaces it on the shelf.
Perhaps it would be best if I were to close a bit early. Is your purchase urgent, or can I offer you more assistance tomorrow?
I . . . I was hoping to find "Birds of Borneo." But it can wait.
Ah. A classic work. I believe I have two copies in relatively good condition.
That's fine. I'll come back tomorrow. Thank you, Mr. Fell.
Aziraphale escorts her to the door through which the other customer has already fled. Locks up. Takes a deep breath, and goes to the back room. Where he finds Crowley curled up in a fetal position atop a giant pillow on the Persian carpet, robed in Aziraphale's tatty old brown cut velvet dressing gown. And fast asleep.
The angel goes over to the tiny kitchenette to make a cup of cocoa. Snaps his fingers to swap his jacket for a soft rolled collar cardigan, his boots and socks for a pair of fleece-lined leather slippers he acquired in 1955. Quietly seats himself in his old armchair. Gazes at Crowley. Thinks how when the demon's face relaxes in sleep he looks completely different. Like an innocent child. Takes a book off the lamp table, opens it to the place marker and begins to read.
Two hours later. Crowley opens one eye. Grimaces. Uncoils and stretches like a cat. Looks expectantly at Aziraphale. The angel puts a marker in his book, rises from his chair, places another giant pillow against the chair front, and seats himself on the carpet. Crowley writhes over and lies against the angel's chest. Snaps his fingers, and Aziraphale is now wearing the old brown robe and Crowley is wearing himself. Aziraphale wraps his arms around the demon and strokes his hair, petting the velvety fade and running his fingers through the tousled quiff.
Mmmmm. That feels good. I'm never letting my hair grow again.
They sit quietly for a long while, simply enjoying the intimacy of each other's presence. Then Crowley murmurs:
You know, Aziraphale, when I suggested we move the bookshop to Tadfield, I was hoping it would be a retreat for us. You could play with your old books . . . we could have a little cottage . . . I could garden and raise interesting plants . . . Adam's protection would keep Hell and the Heavenly Host at bay. Instead . . .
Aziraphale finishes the thought:
It's been one excitement after another, hasn't it?
Make that "one damned bloody fucking excitement" and you'll have my complete agreement.
On the bright side, at least members of the opposition seem to be getting it in the neck lately. Instead of us.
Crowley smiles snakily.
Yessss. Gabriel getting fried, Daji getting melted . . . definitely heartwarming.
Not to mention Eric and Hekla. Did you manage to figure out a way to keep them safe?
Maybe. Got them stashed at that stable where Georgia likes to go riding. Tell you all about it later.
What about your meeting with Mr. Pickersgill? Were you successful in your encouragement to renovate the rectory?
Temptation, Aziraphale, temptation. Not encouragement. Allow me some shreds of professional pride, if you don't mind.
So, yes?
Yep. I'm becoming a major landowner in Tadfield. Tadfield Manor. The driving track. Two farms. The parish hall site. And now the church and rectory.
The church and rectory?
I didn't tell you?
Crowley smirks as he continues:
Having connections to the Disposable Demons paid off. Helped me dig up the dirt on Mr. Pickersgill's superiors. Whoooeee! Jackpot.
You blackmailed them into transferring the church and rectory into your ownership?
I prefer the phrase, "made them an offer they couldn't refuse." Under the guise of re-establishing the vicarage as in the gift of the Tadfield estate.
Does Mr. Pickersgill know that a demon now owns all the church properties in Tadfield?
Oh yes. Wasn't terribly fazed. Remarkable human, that. Very flexible thinker.
Perhaps he, too, sees that deep down—
Dammit, Aziraphale, if you go on one more time about how I'm a good person—
Tch, Crowley. Of course that's only deep down. The entire rest of you is as devious and wicked as they come.
Thank you, Angel.
Crowley pauses a moment as a thought occurs to him.
You did that on purpose to tweak me, didn't you. Bastard.
A smug smile flits across the angel's face. He caresses Crowley's shoulders and nuzzles his hair.
Speaking of the Disposable Demons, do you think they're going to be a problem?
And how. Yesterday the two Erics at the driving course roughed up a mechanic and got him fired.
Oh? What happened?
The usual human male trouble. Made a pass at Karen. She clobbered him. A fight erupted. At least the Erics didn't gut him. Had the sense to not pull out their knives.
Gut him? Knives? Good heavens, Crowley!
Crowley stretches out an arm, and a Neolithic obsidian blade appears in his hand.
They all carry one of these. Sharper than sin. Useful for dealing with the obstreperous damned.
Oh my word.
They scared the hell out of the other mechanics. Think I'll have to transfer them to management only. Get a new Disposable Demon on the garage crew. I fucking hate personnel problems. Add that to the list of things I didn't sign on for in Tadfield.
Well, here's another one for you. Anathema came in today and told me that her new needlework store manager is a witch.
Satan's sins! Tell me it isn't that old bat from up north.
Oh, you've met her before?
Several times. She's about 250 years old.
I thought witches died like other humans?
Not if they escape getting killed. One of the perks of being a witch. You go when you feel like it. Look at Agnes Nutter – still hanging on as a shade, for Hell's sake. Usually they get bored after about a century on Earth. But this particular witch finds needlework endlessly fascinating.
Tell me her name isn't Madame Defarge.
Crowley laughs.
Oh no. Name's Clare Weaver.
Namesake of St. Clare of Assisi?
Damned if I know. I've been thinking of sojourning up to Fair Isle to have her knit a new sweater vest for you. To replace the one that Gabriel torched.
Ah. I really loved that vest.
Well, now someone who can do an even better one is going to be right down the street.
Do you think Pepper will get on with her?
Crowley snorts.
Clare does the sweet old lady act to perfection. Fluffy. Powdery. Pink cheeks. Makes treacle seem sour.
Is she a wicked witch?
Oh no. Damnably kind. 'S nearly gotten her killed any number of times. But enough of her. You can pry her story out over tea some time.
Crowley is silent for some moments. Then:
Between our Antichrist, demons, angels, and witches, Tadfield is turning into a candidate for a BBC series. Only we're stuck in it.
Crowley. Do you really think you could have retired quietly to a village cottage?
Well, yes. I could entirely get behind doing nothing more than raising exotic plants and spending days in Divine Ecstasy with you.
Really, my dear?
Long pause.
Obviously not.
Hang on, Crowley. Have you considered the possibility that you are in fact succeeding? Just on a larger scale? Instead of a cottage and garden, you're becoming the owner of a village and farmlands? An estate? A protective enclave for all of us?
Crowley grins.
Kiss me, Angel. We need to address the Divine Ecstasy part.
[And our authorial drone flies off as our lovers enjoy a night of Divine Ecstasy.]
