Sometimes when Aziraphale keenly misses Crowley and has nothing to do between assignments, he goes back to that castle—specifically to the rooms they’d spent the most time in together. Over nearly thirty years there had been corners Crowley had made his own: spots where he would sit and listen to Aziraphale read or play, a window they’d widened to give him a better view of the greenery in the courtyard. Though the place is shrouded in eerie quiet now, it’s always a reminder of a time when neither of them had to be alone.

Now they’ll have another place, one that will belong to them equally. Even if only for three months.

“I won’t argue with you on the rosebushes, unless you want them in the middle of the sitting room,” he teases. But with the press of his fingers and the softness of his smile he adds, I’m glad to be doing this with you.

The carriage begins to make its way up the slightly overgrown road that leads to their villa, the wheels jostling a little over grass and stones. In the afternoon sunlight the mossy patches on the wall around their new home nearly glow, Eden-green.