Crowley and Aziraphale walk hand-in-hand over the threshold of their new home and almost immediately the hole in the ceiling widens by dropping a beam and several shingles to the ground.

"Lovely," Crowley mutters with no small amounts of sarcasm.

"Splendid!" Aziraphale says at the same time with no irony at all.

With a look that can be described as nothing else but disbelief steeped in adoration, Crowley turns to Aziraphale. "Splendid?" he questions, mimicking the angel's tone.

"Well, yes," Aziraphale answers. "I mean. . . We've repairs to do, certainly. But that only means it will be even more like ours. Almost as if we built it ourselves, don't you think?"

Crowley doesn't answer immediately. Instead he steps under the skylight the fallen beam had provided. (Secretly, Aziraphale thinks he glows under the almost-spotlight. Glows like a star.) He looks up at the sky and shrugs. "Won't be too difficult, I s'pose," he mutters. Then, he cracks his knuckles. "One demonic miracle, coming up."

Aziraphale stops him just in time by saying, "Oh, Crowley, let's not."

After a moment of confused sputtering, Crowley manages to reply, "Wha- Why not?"

With a shy little smile, Aziraphale joins the demon under the spotlight. "I was only thinking. . . What I'd like to do - what would really make me feel nice - is if we worked on this like any human would."

Crowley lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, you mean hiring somebody to fix it up?"

"No," Aziraphale huffs. "I mean with a hammer and nails and things."

Biting back a feral screech, Crowley nods. "And, do you know how to make all the needed repairs, angel?"

Aziraphale blinks like he hadn't considered that bit (he hadn't). "Please, Crowley," he says, trying to sound sure of himself. "I've been on earth for six-thousand years. I believe it's safe to assume that I know, something about architecture."

"I think you know it exists and that's about it," Crowley replies.

Aziraphale's lower lip protrudes slightly in a subtle, yet obvious, pout. "That isn't fair, Crowley," he says. "After all, I took care of the bookshop for nearly two-hundred years, and it was already an old building when I got it."

Ah, the bookshop. A wonderful thing to bring up just after leaving it behind. Crowley wonders for a moment if Aziraphale is playing an angle. . . Nah. He wouldn't. "Well, it's your home now, angel," Crowley sighs. "If you want to actually build it. . ." He suppressed a cringe. "That's what we'll do."

And so they do. Aziraphale actually buys proper supplies, sets aside a proper workspace. Learns how to use a saw properly for Heaven's sake. He works day and night on the repairs with his overcoat off and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. (Seeing him like this, Crowley has to admit, is the one good thing about doing manual repairs.) And the work is finished quickly, nicely, and without any accidents. Whether or not this can be attributed to Crowley miracle-ing a little progress every time Aziraphale turns his back and making very miraculously sure that the angel doesn't get his thumb caught between a hammer and a hard place, he will never admit.

It still takes a little longer for Aziraphale to be completely satisfied. He spends an extra week or so laboring over the finer details. (He's developing a keen interest in architecture. He's quite a lot better at it than he expected. No smashed thumbs or anything.) But even with nitpicking, the work has to be finished eventually.

Crowley is in the sitting room when Aziraphale comes in with his sleeves rolled up (thank you, Lord) and a grin on his face. "There. All done, except the painting."

"And I'm gonna guess you'll want to get a bucket of paint and a roller? Just like a human?" Crowley teases. He knows full well that both things are already paid for and waiting. Aziraphale shoots him a look, but he ignores it to say, "But even when the painting's done, the place won't be finished."

Aziraphale tilts his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Crowley begins. "We've got to shop for furniture, haven't we?"

"Oh, I suppose we have got to. . ."

"Or have we?"

"You just said we did."

Crowley huffs. "That's not the point! The point is- oh well, you might as well just see for yourself." Without another word, he miracles in two plush chairs, one tall and burgundy and the other stout and off-white.

Aziraphale gasps. "Why, Crowley! They're lovely."

"I bought them from Amazon," Crowley adds, just to assure the angel that the gesture wasn't entirely philanthropic and had its demonic side.

Aziraphale gives him a brief, chastising look, but gets right back to fawning over the chairs. "Just think: our first real pieces of furniture in our new home." He settles into the white chair, hands resting primly on the arms of the seat. "I love it, Crowley. Really, I do."

Crowley takes his place in the burgundy chair. He doesn't settle in so much as sit on the edge of the seat, hunkered over with his forearms on his knees and his hands clasped. "And soon, we'll put a fire in that fireplace, and the mantle will be covered in books and baubles and things."

"We'll put some proper curtains on the windows," Aziraphale mused.

"Hang some pictures on the walls."

"Put some of your lovely plants in the sunlight."

Crowley sat up a little straighter. "Don't you dare pamper them, angel," he warned.

Aziraphale ignored him. "Do you know...? It's our first home together. The very first that's been both yours and mine. And I'm so glad we're here, Crowley."

With a smile, Crowley reached across the gap between their chairs and took Aziraphale's hand and said, "Me too."