The Garden's Echo

The morning sun slanted through the tall, dusty windows of A. Z. Fell and Co., illuminating swirling motes of paper dust in golden shafts of light. Aziraphale sat at his desk, a cup of Earl Grey steaming at his elbow, and felt a sense of peace so profound it was almost a physical presence in the room. The bookshop was quiet, a sanctuary of leather and ink and silence in the heart of a waking Soho. For the first time in a long time—perhaps ever—everything felt precisely as it should be.

He and Crowley had settled into a domestic rhythm that was still new enough to be a constant, quiet thrill. There were no grand pronouncements or cosmic shifts, only the gentle accumulation of small moments: shared bottles of wine without the pretense of temptation, Crowley’s sunglasses left on the corner of the desk, the comfortable silence of two beings who had orbited each other for six thousand years finally coming to rest in the same small, cluttered space.

A soft jingle from the brass bell above the door pulled him from his reverie. He frowned. He hadn’t yet turned the sign to ‘Open’. He preferred to have his mornings to himself, a small bastion of calm before the day truly began. Pushing his chair back, he moved to the front of the shop, his footsteps soft on the worn Persian rug.

There was no one there. He opened the door and peered out onto the street, which was just beginning to stir with its usual eclectic energy. Then he looked down. On the top step sat a parcel, wrapped in simple brown paper. It was the ribbon that caught his eye. It wasn’t string or tape, but a length of thick, cream-colored silk, tied in a perfect, elegant bow. There was no note, no label, no indication of its sender.

Curiosity overriding his caution, Aziraphale bent and lifted the package. It had a pleasing weight to it. He brought it inside, closing the door and setting it down on his desk. He worked the silk bow loose with careful fingers, smoothing the ribbon out and setting it aside before tearing away the paper.

His breath caught in his throat.

He sank into his desk chair, his hands hovering over the book for a moment before he dared to touch it. The leather binding was dark, almost black with age, the gilt lettering on the spine faded but still legible. Les Prophéties de M. Michel Nostradamus. He knew this copy. Not just the title, but this specific, individual book. He had been chasing rumors of its existence for more than a century, ever since he’d heard it had survived a fire in a private collection in Lyon in the late 1800s. A true 1555 first edition.

His fingers, trembling almost imperceptibly, finally made contact with the cover. It was cool and smooth. He lifted it reverently, bringing it closer to his face and inhaling. The scent was intoxicating—of ancient paper, of time itself, of history held captive in fragile pages. He opened it to the title page. It was all there. The printer’s mark, the slight discoloration on the bottom right corner he’d read about in a letter from a fellow collector in 1923. It was real.

A slow, wide smile spread across his face, a feeling of pure, unadulterated delight bubbling up inside him. His first instinct, immediate and overwhelming, was to share the news. To tell Crowley. He could picture the demon’s reaction with perfect clarity: the languid sprawl in the armchair opposite, the dismissive wave of one hand, the cynical remark about “another dusty old thing.” But then Crowley’s eyes, hidden behind the dark glasses, would find his, and the corner of his mouth would quirk upward in that small, private smile that was meant only for Aziraphale.

The thought of that smile sent a pleasant warmth spreading through his chest and coiling low in his belly. It was a feeling that was still surprisingly potent, this physical reaction to a simple thought of the demon. Their new reality, this open, acknowledged affection, had colored his entire existence. Simple joys, like the impossible arrival of a long-sought book, now felt like parts of a larger, more wonderful pattern.

He decided not to miracle a message. This was news to be delivered in person. He would wait. For now, it was enough. He carried the book over to his favorite armchair, the one with the indentation perfectly molded to his form, and sat down. He didn’t open the book to read. He simply held it in his lap, feeling its solid weight, basking in the quiet, sunlit perfection of the moment.

The bell above the door didn’t so much jingle as it shrieked, slammed against the wood by an entrance that was less an arrival and more an invasion. Crowley stormed in, a whirlwind of black fabric and agitated energy, ripping his sunglasses from his face as if they had personally offended him.

“Right. That’s it. Something is wrong,” he announced to the quiet, sun-dappled room.

Aziraphale looked up from his armchair, a placid smile on his face. “Crowley, my dear. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Pleasant? Pleasant?” Crowley stalked towards him, his long limbs covering the distance in a few angry strides. “There is nothing pleasant about it. The traffic from Mayfair was… cooperative. Green lights, angel. All of them. People were letting me merge. A taxi driver smiled at me.” He said the word with the same disgust he might reserve for holy water. “And the Bentley… she’s started cleaning herself again. Spontaneously. A pigeon flew over us on Regent Street and I swear the car produced a forcefield. Not a single dropping.”

Aziraphale chuckled, the sound soft and warm. “Well, I fail to see the problem. It sounds like a rather lovely drive.” He held up the book in his lap. “And it seems to be a day for lovely things. Look what appeared on my doorstep this morning. No note, no sender. Just… there. A perfect first edition.”

Crowley stopped dead, his serpentine eyes narrowing. He didn’t look at the book. Instead, he tilted his head, his gaze sweeping the shop as if he could see the very air. He took a slow, deliberate breath through his nose.

“No,” he said, his voice dropping to a low hiss. “It’s not lovely. It’s… cloying.” He took another step, circling the armchair where Aziraphale sat. “Can’t you feel it? It’s thick. Sweet. Like a perfume that’s been left out in the sun too long.”

“I feel perfectly content, thank you,” Aziraphale said, though a flicker of his good mood was beginning to dim under the intensity of Crowley’s scrutiny.

“It’s not Heaven,” Crowley continued, ignoring him, his fingers tracing the back of Aziraphale’s chair. The light touch sent a shiver through the angel that had nothing to do with the temperature. “There’s none of that high-and-mighty ozone smell. And it’s definitely not Hell. Not enough satisfying misery.” He leaned down, his face now inches from Aziraphale’s, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that smelled of expensive coffee and something ancient and fiery. “This is something else, angel. Something… neutral. And I don’t like things that are neutral.”

His gaze finally dropped to the book in Aziraphale’s lap. He reached out and took it, his touch far from reverent. He flipped it over, his thumb brushing against the worn leather. His eyes then darted to the desk, spotting the cream-colored silk ribbon lying in a neat coil.

“Appeared on your doorstep, tied with a ribbon?” he said, his voice laced with a dark skepticism. He placed the book back in Aziraphale’s hands and straightened up. “This isn’t a lovely thing. This is evidence. Exhibit A in whatever weird, saccharine game is being played.”

The warmth that had settled deep in Aziraphale’s gut earlier began to feel less like contentment and more like a warning. He looked at Crowley, at the tense line of his jaw and the genuine concern etched around his eyes. The demon wasn’t just being cynical for the sake of it; he was genuinely unsettled, his primal instincts screaming that a predator was nearby, even if it was one disguised in good fortune.

Crowley scrubbed a hand through his dark red hair, pacing a short, tight line in front of the fireplace. “Good traffic, a self-washing car, a priceless book you’ve been hunting for a century… It’s too much. It’s too easy.” He stopped and pinned Aziraphale with a look. “Nothing is ever this easy for us.”

Aziraphale sighed, the perfect joy of his morning now thoroughly punctured. He placed the rare book carefully on a nearby table, away from Crowley’s agitated energy. “Perhaps. But does it matter? It’s a lovely book. Your car is clean. Let’s just call it a win and leave it at that.”

“Leave it at that?” Crowley’s voice was incredulous. “Angel, when has anything involving us ever been simple enough to ‘leave at that’? This is a sign. A symptom. And I, for one, would like to know the disease before it starts getting messy.” He finally stopped his pacing and leaned against the edge of Aziraphale’s desk, crossing his arms. The posture was meant to look casual, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “We need to discuss this properly. Somewhere neutral.”

Aziraphale’s gaze softened. He knew that tone. It was the same one Crowley had used on the South Downs, watching the sky burn with the promise of Armageddon. It was fear, dressed up in a fine suit of cynicism. “The Ritz?” he suggested gently. “I believe they have a Victoria sponge today that is particularly divine.”

Crowley’s expression didn’t change, but a fraction of the tension eased from his frame. “Fine. But you’re paying.”

An hour later, they were seated at their customary table, the quiet hum of the Palm Court a familiar comfort. A tiered stand sat between them, bearing delicate sandwiches, scones, and an array of tiny, perfect cakes. Aziraphale was methodically working his way through a cucumber sandwich, while Crowley ignored the food entirely, his yellow eyes fixed on the angel with unnerving intensity.

“You’re being deliberately obtuse,” Crowley said, picking up the argument exactly where they had left it. “You cannot possibly believe that a book you’ve been searching for since the invention of the steam engine just happened to appear on your doorstep.”

“I believe in the possibility of good fortune,” Aziraphale replied primly, dabbing his lips with a linen napkin. “It’s a very human concept, and I’ve grown rather fond of it. Just as I’m fond of this Battenberg.” He speared a small, checkered piece with his fork and held it out. “Try some. It’s wonderfully moist.”

Crowley ignored the offering. “It’s not fortune, it’s a setup. Someone is buttering you up. Buttering us up. And I want to know who, and what they want before the bill comes due.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. “Think about it. Who benefits from making us happy and complacent? Not Hell. And Heaven’s idea of happiness usually involves a lot more smiting and fewer first editions.”

“Maybe it’s no one,” Aziraphale insisted, his patience fraying. He ate the piece of cake himself, a small act of defiance. “Maybe after… everything… the universe has simply decided to cut us a bit of slack. Is that so impossible to imagine? That we might simply be allowed a period of peace?”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with the unspoken weight of the apocalypse they had averted, of the millennia of secret meetings and shared glances that had finally culminated in this quiet, domestic peace. It was this peace that Aziraphale was so desperate to protect, and this same peace that Crowley was certain was under threat.

Crowley’s expression shifted, the anger draining away to be replaced by something more raw. He slowly uncoiled one hand from where it was clenched on his knee and laid it on the white tablecloth, palm up. It was an offering. A truce.

Aziraphale looked from the demon’s intense gaze to the offered hand. He hesitated for only a second before placing his own hand over Crowley’s. The demon’s skin was cool, a familiar contrast to the warmth that immediately began to spread through Aziraphale’s palm. Crowley’s long, elegant fingers curled up, capturing his.

“I want it to be peace, angel,” Crowley said, his voice now devoid of its earlier sharpness. It was quiet, earnest, and aimed directly at Aziraphale’s heart. “More than anything. But I’ve been around for a long time. And things that seem too good to be true… usually are.” His thumb began to stroke the back of Aziraphale’s hand, a slow, hypnotic rhythm that sent a deep, pleasant tremor up the angel’s arm.

The touch was grounding, an anchor in the swirl of Aziraphale’s determined optimism and Crowley’s deep-seated paranoia. It was an intimacy they would never have allowed in public before, yet here it was, a simple, profound connection under the discreet chandeliers of the Ritz.

“I just don’t want anything to spoil this,” Crowley admitted, his eyes flicking down to their joined hands and then back up to Aziraphale’s face.

All the fight went out of Aziraphale. He saw it with perfect clarity then: the book, the car, the easy traffic—they weren’t the point. The point was the fragile, precious thing they were building together in the quiet corners of the bookshop. Crowley wasn’t trying to ruin his good mood; he was trying to protect their life.

Aziraphale tightened his grip, his fingers lacing through Crowley’s. “Nothing will,” he promised, his voice thick with an emotion that had nothing to do with sponge cake. “We won’t let it.”

They sat like that for a long moment, the debate forgotten. The clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations of the other patrons faded into a distant hum. There was only the solid weight of their hands, the unspoken understanding that passed between them, and the shared, silent vow to face whatever was coming, together.

The afternoon sun was warm on their faces as they left the hotel, a comfortable quiet having settled between them. The tension had not vanished, but it had changed its shape, transforming from a sharp point of contention into a shared, heavy blanket. Crowley didn’t release Aziraphale’s hand immediately, their fingers remaining linked as they walked onto Arlington Street, a silent statement that was both a comfort and a defiance.

They strolled in the direction of Soho, forgoing the Bentley for the simple pleasure of walking through the city they both, in their own ways, adored. Crowley’s thumb continued its lazy circles on the back of Aziraphale’s hand, the repetitive motion a soothing counterpoint to the demon’s low, persistent grumbling about the unnatural brightness of the day.

“It’s just too… cheerful,” Crowley muttered, squinting at the sky from behind his dark glasses. “The clouds look painted on. It’s unsettling.”

“It’s called a lovely day, my dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice soft. He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “We are allowed to have them.”

“We’re not,” Crowley countered, though without any real heat. “It’s not in the job description.”

As they turned the corner into Soho Square, the low thrum of London traffic was drowned out by a different sound—a chorus of excited chatter and laughter. A crowd was gathered around the small, unassuming fountain in the center of the green, a feature they had passed a thousand times without notice. Today, it was the center of attention.

It was no longer spouting the usual tepid, slightly greenish water. From the mouth of the stone cherub poured a steady, steaming stream of rich, dark liquid that filled the air with the scent of expertly roasted coffee beans. People were holding up mugs, thermoses, and even cupped hands, their faces alight with surprised delight.

“Oh, my word,” Aziraphale breathed, his eyes wide. A smile bloomed on his face, erasing the last of his earlier worry. “Crowley, look! It’s a coffee fountain!” He tugged on the demon’s hand, pulling him closer to the joyous scene. “Isn’t it just marvelous? What a wonderfully whimsical thing to happen.”

Crowley did not smile. He stopped at the edge of the crowd, his body going rigid. His gaze swept over the scene, analytical and cold, missing none of the details that Aziraphale’s delight had glossed over.

“Marvelous,” Crowley repeated, his voice flat. “Look closer, angel.” He gestured with his chin towards the edge of the square. “See that little cafe? The one we went to last month?” The windows were dark, the chairs stacked on the tables. The two young baristas who worked there were standing on the pavement, arms crossed, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and despair. “Marvelous for them, is it?”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered. He followed Crowley’s gaze and felt a pang of guilt. “Oh. Well, I… I hadn’t noticed.”

“Of course you hadn’t,” Crowley said, his voice low and tight. He dropped Aziraphale’s hand, the loss of contact feeling sudden and sharp. He stepped forward, putting himself slightly in front of the angel as if to shield him. “And look there.” He pointed to two men in suits who were arguing loudly, one accusing the other of taking the last paper cup from a miraculously replenished stack. A woman nearby was trying to wipe a dark splash of coffee from her white coat, glaring at the laughing student who had bumped into her.

“It’s a gift, Crowley,” Aziraphale insisted, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction.

“It’s chaos,” Crowley shot back, turning to face him. The sun caught the lenses of his glasses, hiding his eyes, but Aziraphale could feel the intensity of his stare. “It’s a pretty, charming, coffee-scented chaos. This is Exhibit B, angel. First, a private little miracle just for you. Now a public one. The stakes are getting higher. The audience is getting bigger.”

The joyful noise of the crowd suddenly sounded brittle, the laughter a little too loud, the excitement edged with greed. The scent of coffee was becoming overwhelming, thick and cloying, just as Crowley had described the feeling in the bookshop. He was right. Of course, he was right. The demon’s cynicism was a finely honed survival instinct, perfected over six millennia of watching things fall apart.

Aziraphale felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze. This wasn’t a harmless bit of universal goodwill. It was a targeted campaign. The book had been a lure for him, a test of his perception. This fountain felt like a taunt, a broad, public display of the very power Crowley had sensed lurking in the shadows.

“What do you think it is?” Aziraphale asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Crowley’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, his posture shifting from confrontational to protective once more. He moved back to Aziraphale’s side, his arm brushing against the angel’s. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his own voice quiet now, meant only for Aziraphale. “But it’s not a game I want us to play. It feels like someone is trying to make a point, and we’re the punchline.”

He placed a hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back, a firm, grounding pressure. The gesture was possessive, proprietorial, a silent declaration to any watching eyes, seen or unseen. “Let’s go home,” Crowley said, the words a low rumble. “Away from this.”

Aziraphale nodded, allowing the demon to steer him away from the square, away from the chaos disguised as a blessing. The cheerful sounds faded behind them, replaced by the familiar rhythm of their footsteps on the pavement as they made their way back to the one place that felt safe, the bookshop on Whickber Street. But as they walked, a sense of dread began to coalesce in Aziraphale’s chest. The world suddenly felt thin, as if the comfortable reality he so enjoyed was a fragile veneer, and something with ancient, unknowable intentions was beginning to scratch its way through.

The familiar jingle of the bell above the bookshop door was usually a sound of comfort for Aziraphale, a signal of his return to the sanctuary of his own making. Tonight, it sounded like a closing latch on a cage they had willingly walked into. The scent of old paper and leather did little to soothe the knot of anxiety in his stomach. The outside world, with its strange and unsettling gifts, suddenly felt far too close.

Crowley locked the door behind them, the click of the deadbolt echoing in the quiet shop. He didn't bother with the lights, letting the dim glow of the London streetlamps filter through the dusty windows. He moved with a restless energy, shedding his jacket and tossing it onto a pile of books before striding to the small cabinet where Aziraphale kept the truly excellent vintages. The cork came out of a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape with a dull, final thud.

He poured two generous glasses, his movements sharp and economical, and pressed one into Aziraphale’s hand without a word. The angel took it, his fingers cold against the glass.

“You were right,” Aziraphale said, his voice small. He didn’t look at Crowley, his gaze fixed on the swirling crimson in his glass. “About all of it. The coffee, the… the chaos. I was so determined to see the good in it that I refused to see the truth.”

Crowley took a long drink from his own glass before answering. He didn't gloat. The victory was hollow, confirming a danger he had no desire to face. “It wasn’t about being right, angel.” He began to pace the narrow aisle between stacks of Restoration poetry, a caged serpent in a room full of flammable material. “This is an escalation. A performance. And we’re the front-row seats.” He stopped and turned, his silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the window. “Something is putting on a show, and it wants us to watch.”

“But for what purpose?” Aziraphale sank into his favorite armchair, the worn leather groaning in protest. He felt tired, a deep, soul-level weariness that no amount of sleep could fix. “To what end? If it’s not from… below, and it doesn’t feel like… home… then what is it?”

Before Crowley could offer a theory, the air in the shop changed. It grew heavy, charged with static, and the faint scent of ozone and something impossibly clean, like the air after a lightning strike on a glacier, filled the space. A soft, golden light began to gather in the center of the room, just above the Persian rug. It was not the fire-and-brimstone fanfare of a demonic appearance, nor the blinding, trumpet-heralded arrival of an archangel. It was quiet, insidious, and utterly, unmistakably, heavenly.

Crowley froze mid-pace, his body coiling with instant, reflexive aggression. A low hiss escaped his lips as he moved to stand directly in front of Aziraphale’s chair, his arms slightly raised in a defensive posture.

The light coalesced, shimmering as it wove itself into crisp, sharp letters of pure white light that hung suspended in the air. It was a formal notice, written in the cold, impersonal script of celestial bureaucracy.

CELESTIAL MEMORANDUM
TO: Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate (Terrestrial Assignment)
FROM: Office of Provincial Oversight, Ethereal Domain
SUBJECT: Irregular Benevolent Phenomena (Sector 3B, London)

NOTICE IS HEREBY GIVEN:
A pattern of unauthorized benevolent phenomena has been registered within your assigned territory. These events constitute a deviation from the Great Plan and require official assessment.

To this end, an Observer will be dispatched to your location to monitor, investigate, and report on the source of said phenomena. Full cooperation is mandated. The Observer, Lyra of the Seraphim Cadre, will make contact within one terrestrial day cycle.

END OF NOTICE

The words hung there for a moment, stark and unforgiving, before dissolving into a thousand tiny motes of light that simply winked out of existence. The air returned to normal, leaving only the scent of old books, wine, and a lingering, metallic tang of fear.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Aziraphale’s hand, the one not holding his wine glass, had flown to his chest. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. An observer. A formal investigation. After six thousand years of carefully curated ambiguity and quiet arrangements, Heaven was finally taking notice. And not in a good way.

“Ngk,” Crowley choked out, the sound a knot of fury and dread. He spun around to face Aziraphale, his eyes, visible even in the gloom, wide with a terrifying blaze. “No. Absolutely not.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “They are not sending some celestial busybody here to poke around our lives. To watch you. To watch us.”

The possessive pronoun hung in the air between them, as solid and real as the formal notice had been. Crowley wasn’t just angry; he was terrified. Aziraphale could see it in the rigid set of his jaw, in the way his entire body was braced for a fight. This wasn’t an inconvenience. It was a threat to the very foundation of the life they had built, brick by brick, lie by lie, for millennia.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, his own voice trembling.

“No,” the demon repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “They’re not welcome here.” He took a step closer, his expression a mask of feral protectiveness. “I won’t let them.”