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It was a quiet morning. Oh, there were birds singing and the soft noise of the breeze ruffling leaves. But mostly Crowley could hear his own breathing, the clink of his mug as he set it on the metal table, the scrape of his shoes against the patio bricks.
It’d only been a few months since he’d exchanged the chaos of his London flat — traffic outside the window, a pub that stayed open too late — for a small bungalow at the edge of a sleepy village in the South Downs. He still wasn’t used to the difference.
No neighbors stomping overhead. No late-night kebab shop arguments. No one asking him to join a building WhatsApp group.
Just space. Freedom. Silence.
He liked it.
He liked the garden, too — wild, brambly, half-feral. Ivy climbing wherever it pleased, lavender and rosemary mixed in with primroses and snapdragons. It was a far cry from the too-perfect houseplants he’d cultivated in London. But it suited him, as did the hedgerow that ensured his privacy.
Ancient and overgrown, it was a fortress of greenery dividing his property from the neighbor’s. He wondered if it had been left to grow that way on purpose or if it was simple neglect. Either way, the neighbour seemed as happy as Crowley to keep to himself. On a few occasions, while perusing the village shops, Crowley had observed him — cardiganed, soft-spoken, polite in a way that made Crowley feel like a hooligan by comparison.
But they’d only met once face-to-face.
A few weeks after Crowley moved in, the neighbour had appeared at his front door with a misdelivered parcel. Crowley, fresh from a shower, had answered wearing only a towel, water still dripping down his chest from his long, red hair.
The man’s eyes had gone wide — and then he’d squeaked, “Oh, good lord,” blushed an alarming shade of puce, and practically fled. They’d never spoken again.
Well. Crowley didn’t need friends.
He had Amy.
Orange and unpredictable, the cat pinged from room to room like a meteor set on destruction, alternately skidding across tables and chattering at the ghosts that Crowley supposed must live in the ceiling.
This particular Sunday morning — after breaking the silence by yowling at the back door until Crowley opened it — Amy prowled the garden like a jaguar, tail high, occasionally stopping to pounce on invisible enemies. Crowley followed with a mug of coffee, watching the cat navigate the overgrown flowerbeds and towering weeds that hadn’t yet been addressed.
“Oi,” he called lazily as Amy approached the back edge of the property, “don’t you dare go under that hedge. Last time you came out with half a vole.”
Amy ignored him completely and vanished into the thick greenery separating the two gardens.
Crowley sighed and followed. When he reached the hedge, he crouched, frowning into the leaves.
“Amy,” he called softly, “don’t make me come in there.”
No response, only the faint susurrus of shifting branches.
He leaned closer and, without thinking, said in the sing-song voice reserved only for the cat: “My scrumptious darling boy! Whatever are you doing over there?”
There was a rustle — and a voice. A very human voice.
“…watering my roses?”
Crowley straightened so fast he splashed hot coffee over his hand.
He peeked around the hedge and — yes. There he was. His neighbour, in a cream jumper and gardening gloves, clutching a watering can like it might protect him from Half-Naked Neighbor Round Two.
A number of thoughts sped through Crowley’s brain at that point. Chief among them, however, was a single word: Die.
Unfortunately, that didn’t seem likely.
“Oh — bloody — sorry,” he spluttered, wiping his coffee-scalded hand on his trousers. “Wasn’t talking to you. That was meant for — er — the cat.”
“The cat?” the neighbour repeated.
“Yeah.” Crowley pointed vaguely at the ground. “Little orange menace. He went under the hedge.”
There was a long pause during which Crowley thought he might actually expire.
“I see,” the neighbour said finally. His tone was careful, polite, as though approaching a dangerous animal. “And he is, ah… scrumptious?”
Crowley groaned softly into his palm. “It’s— look, it’s a cat thing. You talk to them. Stupid voice, stupid names. I don’t go around calling everyone that.”
“You don’t go around calling everyone your… scrumptious darling boy?” the neighbour clarified.
“Yeah,” Crowley muttered. “That.”
“Mmmhmm.”
That was it. Crowley was going to have to pack up and move away before he’d even gotten truly settled here. Scotland might be nice. Or perhaps the Maldives.
Amy emerged from the hedge then — perfectly pristine, utterly unbothered, and looking unbearably pleased with himself — and sauntered straight toward the neighbour. The man made a quiet noise of surprise, then crouched down to scratch behind his ears, visibly relaxing as the cat purred and leaned into him.
“Oh, he’s beautiful,” he said softly. “What’s his name?”
“Amy,” Crowley said.
“Hello, Amy,” the man said, a pleased little smile gracing his lips when the cat bumped a whiskery cheek against his fingers. “I’m Aziraphale.”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated. “Interesting name.”
“Mum was into esoterica,” Aziraphale said. “I’m named after an obscure angel. And speaking of unusual names,” —he looked up at Crowley with a tilted head— “Amy? I thought you said your cat was a boy?”
“He is.” Crowley cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “He’s… ah.. named after a demon from the Ars Goetia,” he said. “Shows up as fire, teaches astronomy, reveals treasure, commands thirty-six legions — all very majestic and terrifying. And then he’s… this.”
Amy currently resembled nothing so much as a buttered croissant, rolling on his back, paws curled, belly presented.
Aziraphale’s laugh was soft and amused. “Well,” he murmured, tickling the fur under Amy’s chin, “however terrifying his namesake may be, this version is quite the charmer.”
Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets, cheeks warm despite the morning breeze. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “he didn’t learn it from me.”
Aziraphale looked up at him through his lashes and — damn him — smiled. “I’m not entirely convinced of that.”
Crowley blinked. That was nearly friendly. Perhaps his neighbour didn’t hate him after all.
The silence stretched for a moment until Aziraphale stood, brushing grass off his knees. “Well — ah — I should return to my roses.”
“Right, yeah, of course,” Crowley said, trying not to sound disappointed. “Gardening. Rosemaintenance. Good.”
Brilliant, he was. A wordsmith more skilled than Shakespeare.
He gestured inelegantly at the cat who was weaving neat figure eights around Aziraphale’s ankles. “Thanks for not — you know — shooing him.”
“Well, I certainly don’t mind a guest in my bush from time to time.”
Crowley couldn’t help it — he burst out laughing, that kind of helpless laughter that bubbled up without consent, a potent blend of mortification, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like delight.
“Oh dear,” Aziraphale muttered, his cheeks flushing crimson. “The cat. I don’t mind if Amy visits the hedge.”
“Right,” Crowley said, deciding that he could bestow a little mercy and not call further attention to that particular slip of the tongue. “That’s very kind of you.”
Aziraphale hesitated — a moment that stretched, hopeful and terrible — then offered a tiny wave. “Nice seeing you, Crowley.”
He knew his name.
Of course he did.
It’d been on the bloody parcel. Didn’t mean anything.
Still… Crowley’s heart did a stupid little somersault.
“Yeah,” he said.
Crowley lifted two fingers from his coffee mug. Not an actual wave — that seemed too much. Just a little flutter of movement that hopefully translated to: You too. And please don’t think about what I just called my cat ever again.
Crowley scooped up Amy against his chest and started towards home, only to be interrupted by his neighbour’s voice.
“You know, I do understand,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley turned back to face him. “My mother used to speak to her dog Gabriel as if he were a small Victorian child — mummy’s special, most gallant little gentleman, she called him.” He laughed, a bright note that settled in Crowley’s chest like a flame. “Never mind that he was a Saint Bernard who weighed twelve stone and spent most of his time drooling on the rug.”
Crowley grinned. “She sounds like quite a character, your mother.”
“Indeed,” Aziraphale said decisively. Then more quietly: “Perhaps we could swap stories over tea one day?”
Crowley managed something like a nod and watched the crinkles deepen at the corners of his neighbour’s eyes. “Yeah. Could do that.”
“Shall we say tomorrow at three?” Aziraphale offered. “I promise to be fully clothed when I answer the door.”
His cheeks went pink again, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d said such a thing.
Crowley grinned, slow and deliberate. That was flirting, whether his neighbor had meant to or not. He let his eyes drop from Aziraphale’s face, just a little. “Don’t get fancied up on my account.”
The pink in Aziraphale’s cheeks turned to scarlet. Crowley tipped his head.
“See you at three tomorrow,” he said. Then added, just to see what would happen: “Angel.”
Something sparked in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he wiggled a little, then bent and picked up a pair of pruning shears, waving at Crowley as he got to work.
As Crowley walked back towards his house with an armful of cat, he heard the clack of the blades. If they sounded a bit more aggressive than seemed warranted, well, he could think of a few ways Aziraphale could work off some excess energy — with Crowley’s help of course.
Amy purred triumphantly, tucking his head under Crowley’s chin.
“Yes, yes,” Crowley told him, bending to press a kiss to fiery fur, “you’re a very good, very scrumptious, very darling boy who’s living up to your name.” He cast a glance back toward the hedge. “And you might not be the only one.”