Work Text:
2001
Mr Fell,
Don’t forget lunch tomorrow at the second alternative rendezvous. And if you should like to avoid scandalous allegations of being an occult wanker, I suggest you stop blessing every blessed pigeon on the street.
Sincerely,
You’re not even going to see this, are you?
A. J. Crowley
Public Disasters Officer
UK House of Bellends
2002
Really, what’s the point of having one of these if you don’t bother to check, angel? It’ll just fill up. You know what? Spam emails. That’s properly demonic.
A. J. Crowley
Her Royal Mess
Knight of Wessex
2003
Do these actually go to your spam folder? Would be funny, wouldn’t it?
A. J. Crowley
Miscommunications Officer
British Broadcasting Crimes
2004
Crowley scowled as his flip phone flashed with a new message and he lost the snake game he’d been playing. He’d been quite proud of inspiring the simple game – all those low-level frustrations as people clacked away on their small phone screens trying to stop the pixelated snake from biting itself – it was the only reason why he hadn’t upgraded to the up-and-coming smartphones yet.
Besides, the old phone had all the functionalities Crowley required of it, so when he remembered a few days ago to send an email report to Hell, a small email icon had dutifully appeared on the tiny screen. And really, as much as Crowley liked to consider himself a patron of knowledge and new, delightful inventions that he could take credit for by virtue of propositional logic (much like stock dividends, which he also liked to claim credit for), Crowley was partial to some old-fashioned things too.
Like his Bentley, that he was in. Or his ansaphone machine. Or his angel.
No, Crowley scowled some more. Aziraphale wasn’t his, and – he glared at his phone until the offending message opened itself:
GOING TO THE PARK? TRY DUCK-FRIENDLY BREAD. BUY 1 GET 1 FREE DEAL WITH FRIEND. LIMITED OFFER AS LONG AS STOCKS LAST.
That was – odd. Crowley pushed his sunglasses up into his hair to squint better at the message. Much like spam callers couldn’t discover his phone number to sell him life insurance (which he didn’t need) or double glazed windows (which he already had), spam mailers weren’t supposed to discover his email address. Especially not when he kept changing it every few months.
Was it some coded message from Hell? No, Hell didn’t send rude notes. Must be some lucky human bastard then. What even was duck-friendly bread? Then again, Crowley eyed the message: GOING TO THE PARK? It had been a few months since he’d seen the angel, and Aziraphale was overdue for some bothering, so.
“Ngh,” Crowley muttered to himself as he checked his hair in the Bentley’s rearview mirror, banished the flip phone away into the seventh dimension, and started heading to the bookshop.
2005
You’re an idiot. That girl could have saved herself. You’re going to get discorporated one of these days, and then what? I’m not doing your paperwork for you.
2006
Do you even remember the password for this? Does myspace still exist? You’re ridiculous, angel. I never even see you use that blessed computer.
2007
It’s kind of like talking to God, actually. Why do I even bother? You’re better than that, angel.
2008
It was five days after they decided to be godfathers to the Antichrist (and one day after Crowley decided to be Nanny instead) when another spam email made it through to his phone. A new phone, this time around, with touchscreen that Aziraphale had scrunched his nose at when Crowley had shown it off. The memory managed to jolt him out of his foul mood – those were simpler days, from before they’d known about the Antichrist and the End of Times and fuck. Why did Hell have to ruin things for him just when they were getting good? Well. Not good good. Just, oh, sod it.
He tossed a tube of lipstick aside, and was choosing another shade to try from his (also new) vanity table when his phone screen flashed with a new email: BUNDLE DEALS FOR MISTLETOE. He rolled his eyes. The screen flashed again: CHRISTMAS DISCOUNT FOR HOUSEPLANTS. He rolled his eyes again. The screen opened the message –
“No, don’t you dare!” Crowley hissed at it, stabbing his tube of lipstick in its general direction. “Who taught you to open – how many times do I need to – guh.” The lights on his vanity mirror flickered bright yellow before flashing pink, and turning back to a harsh fluorescent white that he dimmed back with a snap of his fingers. “Really, why do I bother?”
He glared at the advertised pictures. Well. He was willing to concede those were some very verdant leaves. And while Crowley didn’t have the time to discipline a new plant in his flat, surely the Dowlings had a garden large enough for another plant?
Crowley flicked his gaze to his reflection in the mirror. Besides, smuggling a new plant would add more to Brother Francis’ work, and Crowley let himself smile at that. Crooked, and fond, and altogether damned.
2009
why are you blessing garden snakes?
2010
Angel,
Some suggestions on herb gardening:
- Don’t.
- Sister Slug doesn’t need kindness. She needs you to stop flooding her home. With your tartan garden hose.
- Stop using a tartan garden hose.
- Who even sells a tartan garden hose
- Brother snake doesn’t like garlic
- If we really only had 9 years left, is this really what you want to be doing? Wearing fake teeth and fake mustaches and not even your favorite coat?
2011
Brother Francis,
For the herb garden, consider GINGER
- Very stubborn bastards
- Won’t grow better
- But good for health
- Helps heart sickness
- Anti-inflammatory
- Calms you the fuck down you posh bastard
- I wasn’t insulting your plants
- I was insulting your snakes
HOW TO RAISE GINGER CONSUMPTION:
- Spice up your life (by spice girls)
- Eat ginger.
- Plant ginger.
- barnes-and-noble.com/search/demon-summoning-books
Yours,
x
2012
You had ONE JOB: gardens.
You do NOT give the Antichrist a PET SNAKE. He’s the Destroyer of Worlds, he doesn’t need a hellhound AND a snake
And you let the boy name the snake Tony??
2013
Crowley’s head was tilted against the kitchen wall, a migraine ringing loud. Getting Warlock to sleep tonight had been more difficult than usual, and Hell had seen fit to check in through the TV in Warlock’s bedroom and the smell of sulfur was still clinging in the shadows, and the pet snake was sick, and –
The air shifted. Something sharp.
A mug of ginger tea appeared in midair. No, not midair, because: Aziraphale. Aziraphale, out of his Brother Francis costume and back in his old tartan bowtie and coat, clean-shaven cheeks with a hint of sweet aftershave – sweeter than Eden’s apples.
Aziraphale, holding out a warm mug of ginger tea, smiling even warmer.
“I’ve heard it’s good for the health,” Aziraphale said, voice soft in the dim kitchen light, the house quiet past midnight. A fairytale run out of time and a happy ending slipping away each second. The angel cleared his throat, going on unsure. “Ginger, that is. Ah. I was – just about to pop back to the bookshop. Just for the weekend. Some paperwork to catch up on.”
Crowley blinked, hazy and tired and migraine turned into muddled confusion. “The bookshop?”
Aziraphale’s smile crumpled into a frown. “Are you quite alright, my dear?”
The mug stayed between them, a bizarre peace offering that Crowley couldn’t figure out – there was something important about ginger and tea, but – “’m fine.” Crowley grabbed the mug. “Long day, is all. Long century.” Ginger tea was as close as Aziraphale could ever get to making a Hellfire drink, and Crowley chugged it all in one go before adding with a snort, “You think it’ll last any longer?”
The tea burned brighter than any fire. More damned. More blessed.
Outside, a light drizzle had started to pour. Aziraphale miracled the mug clean, back into the right cupboard, and he studied Crowley for a minute longer.
“Would you like to come with me?” Aziraphale asked, in the end. “To the bookshop?”
Crowley frowned right back at the angel. Nothing was making sense. “Should I say thank you?”
Aziraphale flicked the kitchen lights off. In the dark, the last of the light clung to the corner of Aziraphale’s pained smile. “No,” the angel answered. “No,” Aziraphale repeated just as the silence stretched, as fumbling as faith. “Just – yes.”
(If Crowley had checked the smartphone left behind on the kitchen counter, there would have been a new email there, with a subject line that read: BEST REAL ESTATE DEALS SOUTH OF LONDON. TOWNHOUSES, BEACH HOUSES, PRIVATE COTTAGES AND MORE. )
2014
Thanks, angel.
2015
But still. Stop blessing the garden snakes.
2016
Calm your wings, angel. I didn’t sacrifice the boy’s snake. I gave it away. To the London Zoo. Where it won’t have to see any more tartan.
2017
Two years left. Think we did it?
2018
Last Christmas party before Armageddon. Don’t suppose you have any gifts for me?
2019
Crowley,
I would spend it exactly how we did it: with you.
Love,
- Send Drafts?
- Yes
- >>>No
- Delete Drafts?
- Yes
- >>>No
2020
It’s three days into the new year, Apocalypse botched and all, when Crowley found himself scrolling aimlessly through his phone as he lounged in Aziraphale’s armchair, the bookshop always warm in winter.
Aziraphale frowned at Crowley’s screen. “What’s that?”
BEST REAL ESTATE DEALS IN SOUTH LONDON, the email read out in big block letters. Crowley shrugged, sunglasses slipping down his nose. “Some old spam mail. ‘m just clearing things out.”
For some reason, Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed pink. “Ah, yes.” Blue eyes darted around, almost guilty. “Jolly good.”
Crowley raised a brow.
There was leftover mistletoe, still hanging from the staircase, right above Aziraphale’s head. Ah, that explained the flush. Any other day, Crowley might have teased him for it, but they’d just survived the End of Times, and they’d tricked their way into freedom and that pink flush was more than temptation.
It was tenderness, which Crowley promptly distracted himself from by tucking his phone away, pushing himself out of the chair, and sauntering over to peck a quick kiss onto Aziraphale’s cheek.
“I’ll go make tea,” Crowley cleared his throat. “You want some?”
2021
Crowley,
Thank you, for lunch. For everything.
Yours,
Aziraphale
- Send Drafts?
- Yes
- >>>No
- Delete Drafts?
- Yes
- >>>No
2022
Crowley,
There is a gift for you. Bottom right drawer. You’ve always been better at gardens than me. You’ve always been better at courage.
- Send Drafts?
- Yes
- >>>No
- Delete Drafts?
- Yes
- >>>No
2023
Archangel,
You're not going to see this either, are you?
2024
Muriel frowned in the bookshop’s backroom. The Demon Crowley had left no instructions for what to do with a house key in a bottom drawer, or the old kom-put-ter, but after a decent four hours tilting their head around, the thing lit up with a screeching whine.
And, having spent so long in angelic company, the device lit back to where it was expected to be: at the last screen that was used. There were so many letters Muriel didn't understand, but a bright red prompt flashed at the center of the screen. 668 DRAFTS FOUND.
- 668 drafts found
- DELETE ALL
- SEND ALL
Ah. Must be some old paperwork. This wasn’t so confusing, after all.
Muriel hit SEND ALL.
7 minutes (and some stopped time) later
Crowley yelped. “What the fuck?”
His phone clattered onto the Bentley’s floor. Beside him was Aziraphale. With a tartan flask. Crowley sniffed the air – yup, that was honest to Satan ginger tea.
“I can explain,” Aziraphale started, as if he hadn’t just appeared out of thin air a second ago. As if Crowley’s phone didn’t have six hundred sixty eight new emails.
“A key?” Crowley snarled, but his voice rose high enough that it lost all edge.
“I bought a cottage.”
“You wot?”
“I wrote the emails.”
“Duck-friendly bread?”
“I asked your phones nicely. They all agreed, even that really old one you could fold.”
“You brainwashed my phones?”
“I might have bribed them.” Aziraphale paused, shifting in the Bentley’s passenger seat. The car was a traitor for letting Aziraphale in, but, “I might have cursed them,” Aziraphale muttered, cheeks flushed. “You’re always changing your number! And your – your electronic mail address!”
“It’s email, you bastard.” And despite himself, Crowley felt a snort rise up, bubbling into a laugh. “And you read all my emails?”
“Tea?” Aziraphale offered the tartan flask.
Crowley shook his head. “You bought a cottage.”
“It’s got a tartan garden hose.”
“What in Heaven am I supposed to do with you?”
Aziraphale glanced away. “I’d show you, but, ah, I might – I may need your help before that.”
“My help?”
A nod. When Aziraphale looked back at him, his blue gaze was as steady as faith. “If we really had only a week left, what would you want to be doing?”
“A week? Angel, a week?”
(They saved the world again. Of course they did.)
(And when they sorted out their hearts, they christened their cottage. Of course they did.)
2025
Angel,
Coin toss was heads. You’re doing our property taxes this year. x.
Yours,
Crowley
Crowley,
Stop buying mistletoe.
I’ll kiss you without them.
Love,
Aziraphale