Chapter Text
But these stories don’t mean anything
When you’ve got no one to tell them to
It’s true, I was made for you
The Story, Brandi Carlile
~~~~~
One week after they got back from Paris, Aziraphale opened the bookshop for the first time since returning to earth. He never thought he would actually be happy to see customers, and when he shooed some of them away from purchases, it was with a sense of glee and nostalgia.
He was just about to close up in the late afternoon when the front door bell chimed, and in walked a small elderly woman with glasses that took up half her face. On seeing Aziraphale she smiled. “Hello there! I do hope I caught you in time, you’re not closing are you?”
“Not at all,” Aziraphale said. One last customer of the day couldn’t hurt. “Is there something in particular I can help you with?”
“Oh, I’m just here to look around,” she said, surveying the shop. “I see not much has changed in the last thirty years.”
“I take it you’ve been here before?”
“Only once. And that was long before your time, dearie.”
Something about this woman was familiar, but Aziraphale couldn’t quite place her.
“Gertie!” Another elderly woman called from the entrance, puttering inside. “There you are, I was wondering where you’d run off to. Think you’re so fast with that new hip.”
“It’s not my fault you got distracted at the cafe,” Gertie tutted. “Talking that poor woman’s ear off about the good old days.”
“It’s only right she should appreciate how much things have changed for us. Oh, hello,” the other woman said, finally taking notice of Aziraphale. “Are you the owner? Mr Fell?”
“Yes, I was just getting acquainted with Miss…?”
“Gertrude. And this is my Lola,” she said, smiling and taking the other woman’s hand.
“Lovely to meet you,” he said, still not shaking the feeling as if he’d seen them somewhere before. “Do you live in the neighborhood?”
“No, just visiting the city,” Lola said. “Our friend George used to come here back in the nineties, and he always had such lovely things to say about your shop. I believe he knew your father. Is he around, by any chance?”
“My father has passed, I’m afraid. But I do recall him mentioning a George from those days.” Aziraphale knew exactly who they were talking about. The poor lad had died from AIDS at only thirty years old, and his partner followed barely a week later. “Lovely young man, such a shame.”
“He was a darling,” Gertie said. “It’s been years, but we wanted to honor his memory in a small way. We thought we’d stop by while we were in the area.”
“And will you be in London for long?” Aziraphale asked.
“Just one more night. We’re doing a tour of the country,” Gertie said. “One last hurrah, so to speak, before we make the big move.”
“Wales has gotten a wee bit chilly for us,” said Lola. “At our age, we can’t exactly be trudging about in wellies and keeping up the garden.”
The pieces finally clicked. These were the women whose grinning faces Aziraphale had seen in a wedding photo, in the sitting room of the cottage he and Crowley had recently taken refuge in.
Apparently sensing a customer conversation that had gone on too long, Crowley came sauntering out of the back room. “Hey, Angel. Don’t we have to get going soon?” he asked, with a grin that said, do you need help kicking these humans out of the shop? And if so, may I make a dramatic scene out of it?
“Not at all,” Aziraphale answered, to both questions. “Ladies, this is - this is my - this is Crowley.” He still hadn’t settled on an adequate definition of their relationship that humans would understand. He honestly didn’t know what combination of words in any language described what they were to each other.
But Crowley didn’t seem to notice the fumble, or if he did, was kind enough not to let it show. “Charmed,” he said with a broad smile.
“Gertrude and Lola here were just telling me about life in Wales,” Aziraphale said. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head almost imperceptibly, until Crowley understood.
“Oh, were they indeed? Lovely countryside, Wales.”
“We’ll miss it a great deal,” said Lola. “But it’s time for a change.”
“Where are you ladies moving to, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Portugal,” Gertie said. “We found a nice little house on the southern coast, somewhere we can relax. At our age there aren’t many years left, are there? Got to make the most of them while you can.”
“With the climate over there, I can finally grow oranges,” Lola said. “That’s always been missing from our garden.”
“Very important, a garden,” Crowley said. “Plants are basically children that can’t talk back to you.”
“That’s how I’ve lived to such an age, dearie,” Lola said with a wink.
“We’re heading up to Edinburgh after this, and then putting the house up for sale next week. Not sure how long it’ll take to find a buyer, with the market being what it is.”
“Oh, I have a feeling someone will snatch it right up,” Aziraphale said.
“Thank you for indulging us,” Lola said. “Sorry we’ve not made very good customers.”
“Aziraphale doesn’t mind, does he?” said Crowley.
“Not at all. In fact - if you’d wait just one moment, my dears…” he scurried off to the back room, and returned with a small green book. “Please take this. But be careful, it’s quite fragile. I’ll wrap it up before you go.”
“Are you sure, angel?” Crowley murmured.
“Yes. Quite sure.” Aziraphale handed over the book that had been in his collection since 1894. The cover was embossed with an opulent peacock in shining gold, the words Pride and Prejudice stamped over the splay of feathers.
“Gertie, it’s your favorite! She loves Jane Austen, the romantic sap.”
“This is too kind of you, Mr Fell,” said Gertie. “Are you sure we can’t pay you for this?”
“Oh, I won’t accept a penny. Consider it a going away present, in George’s honor.”
“Maybe you’ll actually read it now,” Gertie said to Lola. “Can you believe she’s only ever seen the film versions?”
“Terrible shame,” said Crowley. “Frightfully uncultured not to have read Austen.” Aziraphale shot an exasperated look his way.
As the women disappeared out the door, Aziraphale sensed a small healing miracle. “Was that you?” he asked Crowley.
“Dunno what you’re talking about.” At Aziraphale’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “Figure Lola won’t mind me zapping that little start of a melanoma. And what’s with you giving away a book? That’s twice in one year now, should I be worried?”
“I’ve still got the full set of first editions,” he said. “And I wanted them to have something. After all, what are the odds?” Aziraphale mused. “That they would find their way to us.”
“You touched a lot of lives here, angel. Only fitting that they would find a way to repay you. I mean, they basically hosted you for half a week. Even though they don’t know it.”
“You did clean everything before we left, didn’t you?”
“Course I did. They’ll never know anyone was there. And if the rose bushes stay miraculously spot free, well, that’s just a lucky coincidence.”
“Does make you wonder, though.”
“I know that look, what are you scheming?”
“There’s no scheme, my dear.” Aziraphale said, as he flipped the sign to Closed. “I’m just thinking how nice it was, being away from everything. And it was such a lovely cottage.”
“Are you being serious?” Crowley tilted his head and frowned. “You’d want to leave London?”
“Not permanently, just…” he sighed. “I can’t explain it, but somehow I feel as though - it’s almost as if we’ve been on guard duty all this time. And now our watch is ended, and there’s this heaviness that’s lifted, and we’re free to do as we please.” He turned to Crowley, suddenly worried that he’d overstepped. “What do you think? We don’t have to, of course, if you don’t want to, I know you’re fond of the city.”
“I think it’s a fabulous idea,” Crowley said, reaching out to still Aziraphale's hands that had started nervously fidgeting. “Get some space for ourselves without Muriel barging in every five minutes. We can have Jesus over for tea.”
Aziraphale smiled, relieved. “Lovely. What does a house cost these days, anyway? Ten thousand pounds?”
“Oh, angel. Let me introduce you to Zillow, and you’ll cry yourself to sleep.”
~~~~~
For the most part, the cottage met their needs nicely. They only made three additions - a garage, a greenhouse, and a library. Crowley insisted on renovating the main bathroom with a walk-in double rain shower, and since neither of their corporations needed actual cleaning, was only used for the most scandalous activities. Usually after Crowley returned dirty and sweaty from working in the garden.
They kept the bookshop, but returned to London less and less frequently over time. Muriel was more than happy to keep it running while they were away, maintaining their impeccable record of absolutely zero quarterly sales. Aziraphale was glad for it. He didn’t want to leave Soho without a guardian angel to watch over his neighbors.
The Bentley now occasionally turned spring green, which confused Crowley to no end. He suspected Aziraphale, of course, but he had only himself and his gorgeous new eyes to blame. He grew his hair out to an appropriately fashionable length, and on bright days Aziraphale could see it catching the sun from the garden, like the glinting of an apple on a tree. He finally had the chance to run his fingers through those long curls, like he had wanted to do since Eden.
There were days when Aziraphale couldn’t quite believe it, that they were allowed to be in love like this. He wondered how many years it would take for the anxiety to fully disappear, especially for Crowley, who would occasionally wake in a cold sweat muttering about hellfire and something that sounded suspiciously like “fuck your oat milk latte.”
It took a long time for the world to recover from everything Metatron and heaven had thrown at it. But it did recover. Slowly but surely, smart and caring people stepped forward, as they always had and always would. It was the one thing that had allowed Aziraphale and Crowley to wade through the callous cruelties of history - no matter how bad things got, humanity always sprung back. They had never witnessed any evil that wasn’t dwarfed by the depths of love and resiliency in the human heart.
And as the tides of the world outside rose and fell, a not quite angel and a not quite demon would sit on their porch on pleasant nights, and watch the garden grow and the stars move in the sky. And every day, they had roses.