#i can't wait for season 2 or the trailer aaaa!!

[bastardsallofyou]

Over a year ago I wrote this headcanon, and I finally decided to add to it slightly!

It had been a successful week for Anathema and Newt, all things considered. While the idea of moving to a 300 year old bookshop was certainly a revelation for them both, and the country-raised Anathema felt especially out of place, Soho became their niche. 

There were a surprising amount of vegan cafes in the area (Newt still argued, jokingly, that “We lived through the end of the world and you’re still worried about sushi? What if the world actually ended tomorrow and you hadn’t had a single hot-dog?” Anathema only had to bring up the fact that Newt had actually been a vegetarian before Armageddon, and they’d shut up quickly. Or, alternatively, make lingering eye contract as she ate. That’d do the trick.)

Clubs were dotted around the area, with neon signs grappling for their attention, but the two were the furthest people from the partying kind. That had been their biggest qualm about moving there- but if a quiet, well-read angel had survived three hundred years in Soho, they could stand a few more. It helped that there seemed to be a miraculous element to the bookshop that blocked out the noise, and filtered the neon flashing into toned-down mood lighting.

And so, they developed a routine. They went on walks in St James’ Park, and had brunch at cafes. They spent afternoons “helping” a certain angel and demon pack up the bookshop, though only three of them actually packed, while one spent hours meticulously dusting and whipping his head around if he heard a noise that sounded too harsh for the packing of one of his precious first editions. They’d watch movies with the curtains drawn, and Newt would attempt to fix Aziraphale’s ancient computer every evening. Occasionally, the pair splashed out on a fancy restaurant for dinner. They’d decided it was an appropriate use for the cash that would mysteriously appear on their coffee table, along with a bunch of flowers. 

Depending on the week, the flowers would be one of two combinations. One was wildflowers, bursting displays of scarlet and amber, which changed along with the seasons. A note came alongside them, in the swirling handwriting of someone who had too much time on their hands: “Take care, my loves. Pop over if you need a good cup of tea and a chat.” Newt would rather spend an afternoon trying to fix computers (and failing miserably), as they were afraid they’d just spill the tea on Madame Tracy’s nice, pink carpet. That, and they’d walked in on a particularly flirty dinner date between her and the Sergeant, which had scarred them for life. But Tracey and Anathema had bonded over their shared love of the occult, and the witch knew just the right things to say so that the medium would make her the nicest cup of herbal tea. 

The other would be the same year-round: orange pansies and white lilies. Hope, happiness, and a new beginning. And a note. Four words- two in a kind of swirling handwriting that was old and otherworldly rather than painstakingly practised; two in a rushed scribble, though the author had more time on his hands than any of them. 

“Thank you.” Times two. One from each of them. One to each of you.