Chapter Text
It was a bright, clear British spring day and Aziraphale made his way across the yard of his family's stable with some pep in his step, quite looking forward to his first ride after some time away. The sun was giving it its best and the countryside seemed to have sprung to life, every plant and animal setting about their yearly work at the earliest given opportunity despite the fragility of the good weather. The first tentative touches of warmth the changing seasons dared to bequeath the land were always very, very conditional, particularly in England. The early morning chill still had the young man able to see his breath despite the sun attempting to thaw it, but that didn't deter him.
He had been into the stable to see his horse, Pancake, the night before and written on the chalkboard that he wanted her tacked up and ready for a morning hack the next day. The journey home from university had been quite taxing, but he was determined to spend plenty of time with her over the break, so it had been one of the only things he remembered to do before collapsing into bed, taking priority over unpacking his suitcase.
As he rounded the half-opened sliding door to the stable, instead of being greeted by his beloved palomino's head poking out of her stall, he got an eyeful of bare, freckled flesh. A tall, lean young man with shockingly bright ginger hair was mucking out Pancake's stall with his shirt off.
"Oh, good lord," he murmured, trying and failing to avert his gaze entirely. The stranger paused his work and turned his head to regard him over his shoulder, strands of his low ponytail dragging across his back and getting caught in his sweat. Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I, erm, wasn't aware we had a new stablehand."
The redhead grunted and turned back to his task.
Face pinching peevishly, the blonde tried again. "Um, hello? I'm Aziraphale."
"I know who you are." came the reply, the dismissal enough to distract him completely from his embarrassment and flick Aziraphale's Bitch Switch.
"Well, then, you have the advantage over me. Perhaps you would do your employer the courtesy of a proper introduction?" he snipped, part of him hating to pull the power card. A much smaller part of him liked it a little bit, though.
What he didn't like is that it got him nothing but ignored.
"You're here for Pancake, right?"
Aziraphale huffed. "Yes."
"I tied her up over there for you," the new stablehand nodded down the aisle where the little Haflinger stood patiently, ears pricked toward him. "She's ready to go, but I overslept, so I'm only just getting to her stall. Sorry."
A bit embarrassed to have been so distracted by the sight of a shirtless man that he failed to notice his own horse a few feet away, the blonde shuffled past the stranger and his wheelbarrow to get to her. She was indeed well-groomed and tacked up to his preference, and nickered softly in greeting as he approached.
"What happened to Eric?" he asked mildly, willing to leave the implication that he'd much rather have the other stablehand than this one hanging in his tone.
"Got kicked in the head," the redhead said offhandedly. "Did your parents not tell you?"
"What!? No!" Aziraphale squeaked. "Is he alright?"
"Yeah, he's fine, no major damage. Just concussed, so he's gonna be off resting for a while. Hence," the man turned and gave a dramatic bow, leaning half his weight on his pitchfork. "Anthony J. Crowley, stablehand extraordinaire, at your service."
"Oh, now you give me your name." he muttered, accepting the familiar thunk of Pancake's head against his chest in her demand to be petted, and obliging her. His attention was still split, though, as he tried and failed not to run his eyes down Crowley's front now he was presented with it.
His shoulders were dusted generously with freckles and his long, lean torso was overall marked with the sort of tan that suggested he normally worked outside, but the recent winter had presumably drained some of the depth out of the colour. There was a little triangular patch of dark, rusty chest hair that looked just messy enough to not be purposefully sculpted that way, and an equally ungroomed trail of hair under his navel leading the eye down into his low-slung black jeans.
Aziraphale had a rather bad feeling that the trajectory of his gaze had been noticed when it got back up to the stablehand's face and there was a smirk pulling at his thin lips. "When it's not being demanded of me, yes."
Oh, he could make some demands of him, alright, but the blonde was quick to shoo the thought away. Despite having just attempted to leverage their employer-employee relationship for a name, he would never abuse it for that.
He couldn't be blamed for looking, though, and resolved to meet the redhead's eye with a defiant lift of his chin. God, his eyes were stupidly pretty, as well. He'd never seen such a light shade of amber, they were practically the colour of honey. "Well, aren't you the contrary one?"
Crowley leaned harder on his fork, cocking his hip as if he knew exactly what he was doing. "Oh, yes. Love being contrary. Very contrary, me."
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and focused on petting Pancake's velvety nose, refusing to give the stablehand the satisfaction of ogling him any more. "Some people would consider that a rather unattractive quality, you know?"
"I think I have plenty of other attractive ones to make up for it." The wiggle of eyebrows could practically be heard in Crowley's voice.
"Do you, indeed."
"I think so."
Pursing his lips in thought, Aziraphale opted not to respond, not quite trusting himself to continue this conversation. After untying his horse's reins from the bars of her stall, he lead her toward the exit, making sure there was enough room for the mare to maneuver around the stablehand's wheelbarrow without knocking it. Just before he stepped outside, though, something caught his eye.
The redhead's abandoned black henley was haphazardly draped over the stall door, dusty and spotted with sweat. Aziraphale's brain rather unhelpfully supplied mental images of Crowley tearing the garment off over his head and throwing it there, maybe even running those long fingers of his through his crimson locks to smooth it back into a ponytail in an effort to cool himself off further. At least he had tried to work clothed before giving in and making himself into the stereotypical image of a stablehand you might see on the cover of a lightly erotic novel, the blonde considered. Not that he'd know anything about those.
Aziraphale willed himself to ignore how good it smelled when he plucked the item up and folded it. Sure, there was the ever-present scent of hay and horses, which was pleasant enough. But then the shirt also smelled like Crowley wore it regularly, the sweat was fresh and very masculine, and there was leather and polish mixed in as well.
"I'll ride up to the house and have this laundered for you on my way."
"Why?" Crowley tilted his head and gave him an odd look, as if trying to read him for a good few seconds. Then, he snorted and seemed to dismiss whatever he might have been thinking. "Stealing my clothes, now? That's a rather underhanded way of getting me to hang about with no shirt on."
"I- I'm not!" the blonde protested, his voice jumping an octave. "I would never-"
"Don't bother. Didn't bring another shirt with me, anyway." Crowley grunted, having gone back to work with his pitchfork.
"Wh- you can't put it back on like this! It's filthy!"
"I can," he shrugged. "S'going back on a sweaty body anyway."
Aziraphale made a little disgusted noise in his throat. "Well, you're free to use the facilities. Obviously."
"Obviously," the redhead mocked. "But there's no point if I'm not done working. You know-" he paused to give Aziraphale a cool, appraising once-over that made him want to squirm. "Nevermind."
Again, the dismissal was worse than any insult that could have been thrown at him. Balling his fists at his sides, he didn't realize just how comical the picture of fury he must make, stood so straight with his pretty face scrunched up and practically trembling with frustration. The folded henley was promptly unfolded when Aziraphale, in a moment of thoughtless pettiness, hurled it at him. Crowley only caught it expertly with one hand and gave him a grin, a big, sharp thing that split his irritatingly handsome mug like a knife.
"You know you get this cute little crease between your eyebrows when you're cross?" was all he offered before he draped the shirt back over the stall door and returned to his task.
Aziraphale huffed, turned on his heel and flounced off, practically dragging an unsuspecting Pancake along with him. He took a moment in the yard just to pet the mare and calm himself; it wouldn't do to go riding with one's mind clouded by anger and attraction in equal measure, after all. When he donned his helmet and swung himself up into the saddle, the solid body of the horse beneath him and the control he felt directing her served to ground him very effectively. He enjoyed his hack mostly unbothered by the interaction with Crowley, the easy partnership between him and his pet a great source of comfort as they navigated familiar old bridleways and took in the scenery. Really, he wanted to get her in the arena and make sure that her dressage training was all still in place in case he wanted to compete any time soon - like over the summer - but it could wait.
Along every well-trod bridleway, there were bluebells blooming and new leaves unfurling on the trees. Birdsong saturated every inch of the crisp air, warbling whistles and intricate melodies belted out across every stand of trees and meadow to establish territories and attract mates. The sights, sounds, and smells of the countryside soothed some deep ache within him that had been growing all the time he was away. Just for a while, the constant gnawing dread of deadlines and exams faded away.
Upon returning to the stable, Aziraphale came across a second unexpected sight for that day, though not nearly as affecting as the first one had been. Crowley was leaning on the stall door of one of his father's racehorses - a particularly tall, lean black thoroughbred with a stripe and four white socks - and hugging the beast's head to his chest while he petted its face quite tenderly. While it could be considered an overly familiar gesture for a stablehand, and a new one at that, the horse in question didn't seem to be minding the attention, eyes half-lidded and ears relaxed while the redhead appeared to be speaking to her softly.
What made it more strange was the way Crowley stepped back quickly, only keeping one of his slender hands on the horse's face when he turned to greet the blonde, and his mouth twisted with badly-concealed consternation as he tried to act natural. "Enjoy your ride?"
Aziraphale only nodded primly and subtly cast his eyes toward the plate on the black mare's stall door - it read 'Bentley'. It must have been one of his father's new purchases, because he was quite sure there had been no Bentley in the stable when he'd gone back to university after Christmas.
"Very much, thank you. It's a beautiful day," the blonde said offhandedly, noting how Bentley stretched her neck to try and nibble Crowley's hair when he moved away. "Are you...planning on going for a ride yourself?"
"Oh, no. No. I mean, with what horse?" he chuckled nervously, scratching self-consciously at his nape. "I don't have my own."
"Well, that one seems to like you just fine," he remarked, and in response to the clear question in Crowley's amber eyes continued, "I won't tell."
For a moment, there was genuine, naked delight and surprise on the redhead's face, but he quickly caught hold of it and waved a hand dismissively as he approached. "Can't, I've got too much to do. Here, let me get her cleaned up for you."
Aziraphale handed over her reins, but then set about unbuckling the leather strap under the mare's rounded belly. "No, I'll do it, thank you. Just hold her still for me."
Crowley held the reins loosely, frowning and folding his arms. "Something wrong with the way I groomed her this morning?"
"No, no! Not at all, dear boy," he insisted while hauling the saddle off. "I just rather enjoy the bonding time."
"Oh." Crowley seemed strangely deflated by that, but then broke out into an easy smile. "Fair enough."
Still, he insisted on taking the saddle to the tack room for him. When he came back with a hoof pick and brush, Aziraphale cringed inwardly.
"I can manage by myself, you know. You don't have to run around after me. I thought you had lots to do?" he asked pointedly, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice as he accepted the tools.
"Well, I thought I did, then someone stole my job." the redhead teased.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, it's hardly a big ask for one to take care of their own horse after a ride." he tutted, swapping the reins back to the stablehand.
Cocking his head and his hip, Crowley declined to comment and instead looked at him as if he were a particularly difficult puzzle. The scrutiny made Aziraphale want to squirm again, wondering what exactly his problem was. The new stablehand was very expressive but entirely unreadable, irreverent and yet eager to please, somehow all at once. It made no sense, and it didn't help that he was very aware of Crowley's eyes still on him as he turned and bent over to pick out one of Pancake's hooves.
"I want to get her in the arena tomorrow," Aziraphale told him casually over his shoulder. "Make sure she hasn't forgotten everything in case I can compete this year. But I can get her ready myself-"
"You compete?" Crowley cut in, sounding surprised.
"Oh, Heavens, yes. Only since I was big enough to ride!" the blonde laughed airily. "Dressage, and we're rather good at it, if I do say so myself."
"Would you, uh, mind if I watched?" he asked, hesitation clear in his voice, and Aziraphale found the tall redhead's freckled face turning a rather pleasing shade of pink when he half-turned to look at him. "Tomorrow, I mean."
"Of course not."
Crowley cleared his throat and focused his attention squarely on petting Pancake's face, rubbing his palm up and down the flat plane of her forehead, which the mare seemed to approve of. "Cool. I'll be there."
Turning back to his task of picking debris out of his beloved horse's hooves one by one, Aziraphale was pensive. They'd been flirting quite heavily earlier, he was sure of it, but then the stablehand seemed to throw his defenses back up at random.
It was going to be a very difficult spring break if things continued this way. Aziraphale inwardly snorted at the phrase - it was such an American expression, wasn't it? Spring break, bro! It conjured images of wet T-shirt competitions, beaches, boats and quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol. In England, the Easter break was just taking a muggy National Express coach home from university and mooching off your parents to conserve your meagre student loans for a few weeks.
At least he had a month or so to spend with Pancake and maybe, maybe he could get Crowley to open up a bit more.