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Title: A Grim Fete
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Facing an eternity on Earth, Aziraphale and Crowley are in search of hobbies. What they end up with is the local garden fete.
AN: Holy Hell, I'm writing something because I want to and not for a challenge. This is the spontaneous and unasked for sequel to Paradise.
“You have such a lovely garden.”
Aziraphale smiled at the compliment, even though it wasn’t strictly aimed at him. Crowley was the one who dealt with the plants, both inside and out, and on a fine day he could be spotted slinking through the garden with pruning shears, a watering can, and a menacing expression. As a result, the aforementioned lovely garden was the kind of lush and vibrant green that only terror could induce.
“You know, that place was in such a state before you and your, er, gentleman came along,” the baker continued, slipping his ordered scones into a paper bag, “but you’ve really brightened the place up. It’s like the Garden of Eden.”
“Smaller,” Aziraphale corrected, and she blinked at him before laughing.
“You are a funny one, Mr Fell,” she said in the way that people do when they’re not sure someone’s joking or just crazy. “Though, I do wonder – you might not know, being new to the area, but there’s a garden fete every midsummer. You should enter something.”
Aziraphale wasn’t sure about him doing anything, since he’s not involved in the gardening process at all (Crowley says he’ll take pity on them), but it might be a nice idea for Crowley. Maybe. He’d taken well to retirement at first, but there was a distinct air of boredom to his actions now – and a bored Crowley was a creative Crowley, which not only explained the garden but could also prove disastrous if it got out of hand.
“Do you have a leaflet?” he asked.
…
“A garden fete?” Crowley asked, holding the leaflet like it was about to spring up and bless him.
“I asked around. It’s more like a country fair, really,” Aziraphale explained. “You enter examples of your home grown produce, or home baked food to win a small prize. Very competitive. Looks like it’s taken seriously around here.”
Crowley grimaced. “Aren’t these things one of yours?” he asked.
Aziraphale blinked at him. “Hardly,” he replied. “I thought they were yours.”
They exchanged a look over their scones and tea. “Humans,” they said in unison.
Crowley took a bite of pastry, paused to lick clotted cream from the corner of his mouth, and smiled. “Must be really vicious, then,” he said with the kind of pride only the source of original sin could muster.
Aziraphale smiled back. “I thought you’d like it.”
…
Retirement was a funny thing. Fair enough, they hadn’t been doing their jobs properly (at least, in the eyes of management) for centuries, and they’d definitely broken company policy – as it were – but helping the Antichrist avert the Apocalypse, but the sudden freedom to be anything they wanted had left them floundering.
What did you do with an eternal lifespan in a mortal realm? The only things they’d agreed on were peace and quiet and sticking together because six thousand years of only one person’s constant presence could lead even an angel and a demon into some interesting decisions.
And since no one objected when they bought the cottage, nor when Crowley slipped a ring on Aziraphale’s finger and muttered something like “about time, really”, they figured that Upstairs and Downstairs were probably quite glad to see the back of them.
But the sudden freedom to investigate this Free Will that Humanity didn’t appreciate half as much as it should was…intimidating. There were old habits and then there were the habits of six millennia and then there were the things that you just couldn’t get away with in small country villages where everyone had a vague idea of who you were (but no idea of the truth, of course).
They needed…hobbies.
…
The news that Mr Crowley was entering the garden fete soon spread around the village of Firle. It was the gossip of several evenings at The Ram where the regulars – most of whom were also entering – muttered darkly into their pints about city boys with their sunglasses and their green foliage.
Several months ago, when Mr A.J. Crowley and Mr A.Z. Fell moved into Orchard Cottage, it had been uniformly decided that the two men were odd, but harmless – and that Mr Crowley was (by Firle standards) the odder of the two. He wore too much black, sunglasses even inside, and had a habit of hissing. They’d watched in envy as the tired, old garden had been transformed from a village disappointment to a slice of paradise, and there was many a neighbour waiting for an invitation past the gate.
No invitation had come. The two men kept to themselves while being incredibly polite to everyone they met, and there were stories from Mrs Wyatt next door about a large, black snake that coiled up in the garden on fine days and the occasional huge, white feather catching in the breeze.
Odd, ran the consensus. Very odd, but harmless. But now they were competition.
…
The cottage had come with a greenhouse full of strawberry plants and grape vines, and well-established fruit trees lining the back fence with a single, glorious apple tree in the middle of the lawn. Under Crowley’s merciless regime, the plants had decided that the best course of action was to produce as much large, uniformly shaped fruit as possible. As such, the glut in the weeks preceding the fete was frankly ridiculous.
Aziraphale had never realised it was possible to drown in fruit.
It was practicality and desperation that led to him braving the internet – something he usually tried to avoid at all costs, but which Crowley had insisted on them having installed – in search of recipes. It would be a shame, he decided, if the trees’ attempts to save themselves were wasted. Besides: daiquiri flavoured cupcakes sounded rather spectacular.
He raided the local Sainsbury’s for ingredients and cooking implements, and became increasingly aware while strolling down the baking aisle that he was being watched. The right sort of little old ladies can most certainly intimidate even an Angel of the Lord (retired), and the kind of little old ladies who take garden fetes very seriously were certainly the right sort.
Aziraphale backed off rather quickly.
…
“I’m beginning to think we seriously underestimated the importance of this fete in regards to the community, dearest,” he said. “Mrs Garrett very nearly caused a scene getting to the last box of sprinkles.”
Crowley made an obscene noise around a mouthful of daiquiri cupcake in response. It was his third. Aziraphale had used them to bribe the demon into taking a break from terrorising the begonias - “Don’t think I’ll let you slack off. You’ll perk up or you’ll be swimming the Thames with concrete roots” – and they were sprawled together beneath the apple tree with a cooling rack and a bottle of rum between them.
“Of course,” he continued, waving a hand. “It was easy to just miracle up another one, but the whole thing was quite unnecessary. I think we’re upsetting the neighbours.”
“Playing to win, Angel,” Crowley said, swallowing. “Those are possibly illegal. You should enter them.”
“Do you really think so?”
Crowley’s kiss was sticky, and it tasted of rum and strawberries. “Of course,” he said. “If we’re going to piss off the whole village, we may as well do it properly.”
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Facing an eternity on Earth, Aziraphale and Crowley are in search of hobbies. What they end up with is the local garden fete.
AN: Holy Hell, I'm writing something because I want to and not for a challenge. This is the spontaneous and unasked for sequel to Paradise.
“You have such a lovely garden.”
Aziraphale smiled at the compliment, even though it wasn’t strictly aimed at him. Crowley was the one who dealt with the plants, both inside and out, and on a fine day he could be spotted slinking through the garden with pruning shears, a watering can, and a menacing expression. As a result, the aforementioned lovely garden was the kind of lush and vibrant green that only terror could induce.
“You know, that place was in such a state before you and your, er, gentleman came along,” the baker continued, slipping his ordered scones into a paper bag, “but you’ve really brightened the place up. It’s like the Garden of Eden.”
“Smaller,” Aziraphale corrected, and she blinked at him before laughing.
“You are a funny one, Mr Fell,” she said in the way that people do when they’re not sure someone’s joking or just crazy. “Though, I do wonder – you might not know, being new to the area, but there’s a garden fete every midsummer. You should enter something.”
Aziraphale wasn’t sure about him doing anything, since he’s not involved in the gardening process at all (Crowley says he’ll take pity on them), but it might be a nice idea for Crowley. Maybe. He’d taken well to retirement at first, but there was a distinct air of boredom to his actions now – and a bored Crowley was a creative Crowley, which not only explained the garden but could also prove disastrous if it got out of hand.
“Do you have a leaflet?” he asked.
…
“A garden fete?” Crowley asked, holding the leaflet like it was about to spring up and bless him.
“I asked around. It’s more like a country fair, really,” Aziraphale explained. “You enter examples of your home grown produce, or home baked food to win a small prize. Very competitive. Looks like it’s taken seriously around here.”
Crowley grimaced. “Aren’t these things one of yours?” he asked.
Aziraphale blinked at him. “Hardly,” he replied. “I thought they were yours.”
They exchanged a look over their scones and tea. “Humans,” they said in unison.
Crowley took a bite of pastry, paused to lick clotted cream from the corner of his mouth, and smiled. “Must be really vicious, then,” he said with the kind of pride only the source of original sin could muster.
Aziraphale smiled back. “I thought you’d like it.”
…
Retirement was a funny thing. Fair enough, they hadn’t been doing their jobs properly (at least, in the eyes of management) for centuries, and they’d definitely broken company policy – as it were – but helping the Antichrist avert the Apocalypse, but the sudden freedom to be anything they wanted had left them floundering.
What did you do with an eternal lifespan in a mortal realm? The only things they’d agreed on were peace and quiet and sticking together because six thousand years of only one person’s constant presence could lead even an angel and a demon into some interesting decisions.
And since no one objected when they bought the cottage, nor when Crowley slipped a ring on Aziraphale’s finger and muttered something like “about time, really”, they figured that Upstairs and Downstairs were probably quite glad to see the back of them.
But the sudden freedom to investigate this Free Will that Humanity didn’t appreciate half as much as it should was…intimidating. There were old habits and then there were the habits of six millennia and then there were the things that you just couldn’t get away with in small country villages where everyone had a vague idea of who you were (but no idea of the truth, of course).
They needed…hobbies.
…
The news that Mr Crowley was entering the garden fete soon spread around the village of Firle. It was the gossip of several evenings at The Ram where the regulars – most of whom were also entering – muttered darkly into their pints about city boys with their sunglasses and their green foliage.
Several months ago, when Mr A.J. Crowley and Mr A.Z. Fell moved into Orchard Cottage, it had been uniformly decided that the two men were odd, but harmless – and that Mr Crowley was (by Firle standards) the odder of the two. He wore too much black, sunglasses even inside, and had a habit of hissing. They’d watched in envy as the tired, old garden had been transformed from a village disappointment to a slice of paradise, and there was many a neighbour waiting for an invitation past the gate.
No invitation had come. The two men kept to themselves while being incredibly polite to everyone they met, and there were stories from Mrs Wyatt next door about a large, black snake that coiled up in the garden on fine days and the occasional huge, white feather catching in the breeze.
Odd, ran the consensus. Very odd, but harmless. But now they were competition.
…
The cottage had come with a greenhouse full of strawberry plants and grape vines, and well-established fruit trees lining the back fence with a single, glorious apple tree in the middle of the lawn. Under Crowley’s merciless regime, the plants had decided that the best course of action was to produce as much large, uniformly shaped fruit as possible. As such, the glut in the weeks preceding the fete was frankly ridiculous.
Aziraphale had never realised it was possible to drown in fruit.
It was practicality and desperation that led to him braving the internet – something he usually tried to avoid at all costs, but which Crowley had insisted on them having installed – in search of recipes. It would be a shame, he decided, if the trees’ attempts to save themselves were wasted. Besides: daiquiri flavoured cupcakes sounded rather spectacular.
He raided the local Sainsbury’s for ingredients and cooking implements, and became increasingly aware while strolling down the baking aisle that he was being watched. The right sort of little old ladies can most certainly intimidate even an Angel of the Lord (retired), and the kind of little old ladies who take garden fetes very seriously were certainly the right sort.
Aziraphale backed off rather quickly.
…
“I’m beginning to think we seriously underestimated the importance of this fete in regards to the community, dearest,” he said. “Mrs Garrett very nearly caused a scene getting to the last box of sprinkles.”
Crowley made an obscene noise around a mouthful of daiquiri cupcake in response. It was his third. Aziraphale had used them to bribe the demon into taking a break from terrorising the begonias - “Don’t think I’ll let you slack off. You’ll perk up or you’ll be swimming the Thames with concrete roots” – and they were sprawled together beneath the apple tree with a cooling rack and a bottle of rum between them.
“Of course,” he continued, waving a hand. “It was easy to just miracle up another one, but the whole thing was quite unnecessary. I think we’re upsetting the neighbours.”
“Playing to win, Angel,” Crowley said, swallowing. “Those are possibly illegal. You should enter them.”
“Do you really think so?”
Crowley’s kiss was sticky, and it tasted of rum and strawberries. “Of course,” he said. “If we’re going to piss off the whole village, we may as well do it properly.”
