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Hell had always been a dingy, stinking, festering rubbish tip even before it had manifested itself into the basement of a dreary office building. Damp clung to the walls like rot on meat, mould bloomed in every corner with grotesque enthusiasm, and the very foundations seemed to be crumbling under the weight of eternal neglect. Insect-infested nooks and shadowy crevices buzzed and skittered with life too repulsive to name.
The human import system - if it could be called a “system” - was purposefully convoluted, a bureaucratic nightmare designed to cram every hallway and chamber with the recently damned. And even when the corridors weren’t choked with wailing souls, they were teeming with demons - the bad, the worse, and the oozing . Everything you touched was corroded, diseased, and somehow moist. Utterly disgusting. Which, frankly, didn’t sit well with someone like Crowley.
He was a demon, yes, but a stylish one. Designer clothes, Italian leather shoes, hair coiffed to within an inch of its life; he made damnation look good . It was a particular insult to find himself brushing against mildew-covered banisters or dodging sulphurous puddles when he'd gone to such lengths to be immaculate.
Perhaps it was due to his extended periods on Earth, or maybe he was just built that way, but Crowley preferred things to be clean . Minimalism soothed something in him, maybe even quelled a few old, buried instincts. Or maybe it was just trauma. Centuries of being shoved into grim, windowless rooms had taught him to crave light, order, space. Hence why his flat in Mayfair had been so vast yet so empty, and why his plants never grew spots (if they knew what was good for them). He also tended to stress-clean. He had once spent six straight hours vacuuming, just to banish the memory of a particularly vile meeting with Beelzebub.
Which was why living with the angel had proven to be a slight adjustment to his lifestyle.
Aziraphale had spent his entire existence between here and Heaven, a hollow void of startling white and nothingness. There was clean, there was hospital clean, and then there was the sort of divine clean that made you feel like your very soul might be flagged as a contaminant. The kind of sterile purity that left no room for warmth, no space for individuality, just the ceaseless hum of order imposed from on high. His own safe space, the bookshop, had been a rebellion on that front - a glorious, dusty anachronism, cluttered to the rafters with forgotten treasures and the comforting smell of old paper and ink. It was a sanctuary. A place where Aziraphale could breathe, a place where he could truly get away from that corporate husk the other angels dared to call paradise.
To Crowley, it had always been a little bit maddening, but charming, in its own fusty way. He could visit, tolerate the stacks and the tea-stained tablecloths, and then he could go home, blow the dust from his jacket, and do a little wiping down of the kitchen counters that he never even used. But living there? Living in a cottage that looked like the bookshop had sprouted legs and relocated to the countryside - well, that was a different matter entirely. There was dust. So much dust . And books everywhere - not always neatly shelved, but in erratic piles, as if they’d been dropped mid-thought. Crumbs on armchairs, mismatched china in precarious stacks, and a sort of domestic entropy that seemed to grow stronger the more Crowley tried to fight it. He wouldn’t go so far as to say it reminded him of Hell. Hell had more sulphur, fewer teapots, and vastly worse lighting. But it was definitely messier than anything he’d willingly subjected himself to since the invention of soap.
Yet here he was, despite the itch at his fingertips, because he really couldn’t imagine anywhere better in the entire universe. In fact, it had helped to build up a sort of routine for him, which was important now that he was fully retired and in need of a boredom buster every now and then. No more temptations to plant, no more souls to corrupt, no infernal reports to fake. Just long, meandering days with nothing urgent to do and no one but the angel to do it with. Thus, each night before he hunkered down to bed, he would deep-clean the entire cottage from top to bottom. Crumbs would be vacuumed from between the cushions, tea rings scrubbed from every surface, the faintest trace of dust wiped from ornaments and picture frames. The books, though? He never touched the books. That was a boundary he respected.
Most nights, Aziraphale would simply watch him. Arms folded, expression serene - too serene. That particular, beatific stillness that could only be described as smug .
Crowley had his suspicions. More than once, he’d caught Aziraphale deliberately leaving toast crumbs on the sideboard. Or "accidentally" nudging a coaster just slightly askew. And the angel always seemed to be standing around when Crowley was at his most frantic, darting from corner to corner like a meerkat on a mission.
Sometimes, when Crowley paused mid-sprint with a feather duster in one hand and a glare in his eyes, he’d swear Aziraphale was trying not to laugh. The bastard.
And yet, beneath the irritation, he couldn’t quite bring himself to be angry. Not when the cottage smelled like cinnamon and old paper. Not when Aziraphale was humming softly in the kitchen. Not when home - this mess, this life - had started to feel so disarmingly permanent.
Tonight was different in a few respects, the most notable being that Aziraphale had been busy during the day, and had left much more for Crowley to clean than usual. Much more. Whether it had been purposeful or just the by-product of a very busy day, Crowley couldn’t say. Tomorrow was the village fair, and Aziraphale had been ever so enthusiastic to go, much to the demon’s disappointment. He had groaned, loudly and performatively, when the angel first floated the idea of attending. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy speaking with the humans that lived nearby, it was just that he hated having to put his sunglasses back on now that he’d grown accustomed to not having to wear them. The only time of year he got away with it was Halloween, when those terribly slit pupils and almost glowing yellow irises could be explained away as contact lenses.
Still, Aziraphale had wanted to go. Charity, he’d said, with that gentle, insufferable conviction of his. The proceeds from the stalls would go toward the local community centre, and the angel had practically glowed at the prospect of helping. And who was Crowley to say no? It wasn’t like he had to pretend he didn’t care for the humans anymore. He was learning, slowly. Learning to peel back those ancient, infernal layers of cynicism and self-preservation. To smile back when someone greeted him. To wave, sometimes. To be nice in public and not spiral about it later. To let Aziraphale beam that ridiculous, blinding, million-dollar beam at him without recoiling, or pretending it didn’t make something in his chest ache in the strangest, softest way.
In preparation for the fair, Aziraphale had thrown himself wholeheartedly into a whirlwind of domestic industry. He’d baked batch after batch of cakes, buns, and biscuits, filling the kitchen with the alluring scent of vanilla and browned butter. When the baking was done, he had turned his attention to decoration and crafts. He’d stitched together long strings of colourful bunting, hand-painted cheerful banners, and crocheted a frankly unreasonable number of tiny garments and dolls.
Hours later, Aziraphale had finally surrendered to fatigue. He’d settled into his favourite armchair by the fireplace with a well-worn book, the fire casting a gentle glow over the pages. Before long, the soft crackling of the hearth and the warmth of the room lulled him to sleep, his tiny round spectacles slipping precariously to the tip of his nose. This was how Crowley had found him, after having been in the garden keeping out of the way throughout this spurt of creativity.
What greeted him upon stepping inside was less a living room and more a war zone of artistic fervour. The coffee table had vanished beneath a haphazard collage of fabric swatches, paper scraps, and smudged sketches. A pair of scissors lay ominously at the edge, blades agape like some careless trap waiting for a slip. Ribbons snaked across the rug, one unravelled trail disappearing beneath the sofa, as if trying to escape the madness. Glue sticks had lost their caps, tubes of paint lay on their sides with little puddles forming beside them, and markers rolled freely, none of them with lids in sight. Tape - both cellophane and masking - was strewn about as if in the aftermath of a very small and sticky tornado.
Amid it all, a half-drunk cup of tea sat unapologetically on the side table, placed directly on the wood instead of its matching saucer, which had been demoted to the floor nearby, now bearing the honour of holding two buttons and a dab of glitter.
Crowley surveyed the scene in mounting dismay. Any other day, he might’ve groaned or even hissed at the disarray. Yet, the vision of his precious angel softly snoring on the armchair, book slipping from limp fingers, drained any negative energy he might have been holding onto. Disorder he could tolerate. Even the risk of sitting on an open paint tube. What he couldn’t bear to interrupt was this - Aziraphale, utterly at peace, lost in dreams and surrounded by the beautiful wreckage of whatever inspired him.
The same Aziraphale that rarely, if ever, slept.
Crowley exhaled quietly and leaned against the doorframe, lips curling into something halfway between affection and exasperation.
“Honestly, angel,” he murmured, “you’re lucky you’re adorable.”
He snapped his fingers and the larger things, the fabric and card and paper that Aziraphale will have miracled up, disappeared in the blink of an eye. Another flick of the wrist and all of the glue sticks and markers found their lids. Then, he went to the angel’s desk, pulling out the middle drawer where he kept all of his crafting tools. He yanked the drawer fully from its runners and began throwing in markers, glue and scissors, uttering profanities under his breath as he did so.
His angel made a soft noise, almost a coo, in his slumber, and Crowley paused to cast him a loving look. Fuck, he was beautiful like this; he was always beautiful, in that maddening, radiant way that made Crowley feel like his chest couldn’t possibly contain all the feeling it held. But there was something else now, something quieter and more reverent in seeing him like this . Completely relaxed. Vulnerable. Trusting. Aziraphale didn’t sleep often, and as far as Crowley knew, he’d only started after they’d moved into the cottage together. Even then, it was never for long. But now, here he was - eyes closed, breath steady, face relaxed.
He stayed still for a moment, afraid to break the spell. For now, he just let himself look. Let himself feel. Let himself bask in the brilliant, impossible glow of the being he loved with every inch of his graceless, battered, and undeserving soul.
He could picture Aziraphale clearly in his mind’s eye, bustling about the room with that particular kind of cheerful purpose that turned even the simplest tasks into grand affairs. Perhaps his tongue would peek out between his teeth in quiet concentration as he carefully trimmed the banners, lining up each cut with precision, as if he were handling something far more delicate than paper. His brows might draw together in intense focus, hands steady and practiced, treating the job with the solemn care of a surgeon or a bomb disposal expert. And then, when everything looked just right, and every detail met his exacting standards, he’d let out a delighted sound and do that ridiculous little wiggle, the one where he shook his fists in triumph like a child too pleased to contain it. That simple gesture, so earnest and unselfconscious, never failed to endear him to Crowley all over again - as if he needed another reason.
Crowley smiled to himself, allowed his eyes to linger for a second more, and then set to work.
The ring left behind by the teacup had to be scrubbed the human way - vigorously and with mild cursing - because if even a trace remained, Crowley would somehow sense its presence every time he attempted to lounge nearby. It was as if the demon had developed an almost supernatural sensitivity to minor imperfections in his immediate vicinity. So, with a sigh of resignation, he miracled up a paste of olive oil and coarse salt, slapped it onto the offending stain, ready to be scrubbed after a few minutes of soaking.
Carefully, he stacked the teacup on its saucer, added three crumb-covered plates to the pile, and balanced the whole wobbly arrangement in his arms as he made his way toward the kitchen. He nearly dropped the entire stack when he reached the doorway.
The kitchen looked like it had hosted a very small, very localised apocalypse - one involving flour, an overturned sugar bowl, and what appeared to be the remnants of a failed attempt at jam. He blinked, then muttered something under his breath that might have been a prayer or a swear. Possibly both. He couldn’t even begin to fathom how Aziraphale had managed to get the kitchen into this state.
No, scratch that. He could absolutely fathom it.
He could see it perfectly now: Aziraphale twirling across the tiled floor, hips swaying to some jaunty old tune lodged in his head (something from the 1940s, no doubt, with far too many brass instruments). What should have been simple ingredient measuring would, in his hands, become full-blown choreography. Cup-fulls of flour tossed over his shoulder like confetti, a casual disregard for gravity as he attempted to juggle eggs, only to crack them triumphantly - and messily - against the marble countertop. And through it all, his face would be positively glowing, lit from within by that irrepressible joy he wore so rarely, but so sincerely, the kind of expression that only ever surfaced when he felt truly free. Free to create. Free to be ridiculous. Free to be his whole, unburdened self.
How could Crowley resent that for even a moment?
One more miracle, and the pots were crammed into the dishwasher. The rest, unfortunately, was up to him. With a resigned huff, he salvaged what he could: the non-spilled portion of flour and the sugar that hadn't formed into crystalline rock on the countertop were returned to their rightful places. Then, wielding his little handheld vacuum like a holy relic, he began sucking up the worst of the mess.
A liberal spray of scented cleaner followed by a brisk scrub with a damp cloth restored the counters and stovetop to a shine that could almost pass for divine. He switched to the full-sized vacuum for the kitchen tiles, then followed up with a mop, gliding it over the floor like a finishing touch on a masterpiece.
Satisfied that the kitchen had returned to a state of respectable order, he padded back into the sitting room to tackle the olive oil and salt mixture now dried on the table. A bit of elbow grease and a polishing cloth later, the wooden surface gleamed like new. Only the carpet remained.
He hesitated.
Aziraphale was still asleep on the armchair, now practically curled like a well-fed cat in the aftermath of tea and scones. The carpet, however, was a minefield of glitter - an alarming amount, even by celestial standards. There was no getting around it. With a wince of pre-emptive guilt, he clicked on the vacuum. The machine roared to life with all the subtlety of a jet engine. Crowley froze, glancing nervously at the angel.
Aziraphale snorted softly, wrinkled his nose in protest, and burrowed deeper into the cushions without waking. Crowley smirked and got on with his task.
The cottage was positively sparkling by the time the demon was finished; he stood in the centre of the room for a moment, arms crossed, surveying his work with a satisfied grunt. As always, a quiet swell of pride bloomed in his chest. He never would’ve guessed, centuries ago, that he’d come to crave this kind of domestic ritual. But here he was.
Aziraphale was still dead to the world, a faint smile on his face.
“Dreaming of whatever you like best, eh?” Crowley whispered fondly, before bending down to plant a tender kiss to his forehead. Then, he snapped a tartan blanket into existence and covered his angel up, removing his reading glasses from where they’d slipped askew, and setting them neatly on the side table.
He took a step back and let his gaze roam over the scene. The room, tidy and warm. The angel, serene and safe. This - this was the real achievement. More meaningful than spotless counters or perfectly arranged shelves. Because the mess wasn’t accidental. Aziraphale left it for him daily, deliberately. Aziraphale gave him something to fix, something to put right. And in return, Crowley gave him peace. Balance.
But there was more to it than that.
Because Crowley hated mess. It was a loathing carved into him from years spent in Hell, where chaos wasn’t charming or whimsical, but choking. Filth not symbolic, but suffocating. Disorder there wasn’t freedom ; it was torment. Sensory overload, screaming, smoke, and pain - forever spinning out with no logic and no escape.
He’d crawled his way out of that.
And now, every wiped surface, every straightened ornament, every cushion placed just right. It was defiance. It was a reclamation.
And somehow, Aziraphale understood. He understood so well that he made messes on purpose, trusting Crowley to undo them. Trusting that it helped.
And it did .
“Fucking love you,” he croaked, barely louder than a breath. His fingers gently stroked through those impossibly soft, snow-white curls. “Sleep well, my angel.”
He hovered there, just for a moment longer.
Then he turned off the lamp, and the room faded to a quiet, peaceful dark.