what the water gave me (we'll watch the sun kiss the sea)

“What’s your name?” Pepper asked, jumping to crest the next wave. She’d drifted further out to join Adam where he stood between the Them and the stranger.
“All these questions,” the man said, “next you’ll be asking me if I’m an animal, vegetable, or mineral.”
“Go on then,” said Adam. “Which one?”
(The Them find their summer holidays spoiled by fly-tipping. A woman struggles with life without prophecy. A bookshop owner learns to love, and a mysterious man navigates 21st century courtship. In other words, it's the selkie au no-one asked for.)

Notes:

I originally began this work under the title 'To Look On Tempests' (a reference to Shakespeare's Sonnet 116) on 6th June 2019. The story grew far too large and unwieldy, so I put it aside for a year and cut a few subplots out. The new title is a reference to Florence + the Machine's 'What the Water Gave Me' and Janelle Monáe's 'Look Into My Eyes'; both fantastic songs.
This is book-omens although there might be the odd reference to the miniseries or radio adaptions. While my book-fancast for Aziraphale was never clear, I'm rolling with my book-fancast of Crowley as Naveen Andrews as Jonas in Sense8. Anathema is Lancastrian as per the book. Pepper is black as per the miniseries.
Find me on tumblr at folieassdeux
Comments are my sustenance ;)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Prologue: Oil Slick

Chapter Text

Prologue

There was someone in the water.

Aziraphale turned to look at the pier. A dark shape in the corner of his eye, quickly lost beneath the roiling waves. He had to look sideways to stop gaudy glare of the arcade sign blinding him where it blazed from the inky black strip of the sea, but – yes – there was a the figure propped up against one of the supporting columns.

Thunder rolled ominously overhead. Aziraphale dithered. The rain was coming down harder now, staining his coat and threatening to fill his shoes. He had to make sure they were alright, it was the right thing to do. One shouldn’t be out swimming in this kind of weather.

He cast another glance along the glassy promenade ahead before scrambling over the shining shingle and down towards the oil slick water. The sea whipped up in the rising wind and was pummelled by the rain. Aziraphale picked up his pace. His shining oxfords slipped on the slope down towards the waves and he threw a hand out to catch himself. There was no point in worrying about getting wet anymore; he was covered in sand and muck.

“Excuse me!” he called, waving at the figure. His words were snatched and scattered in the gusts.

Aziraphale could see the figure’s head bobbing over the foaming wave-tops which crashed into the pier columns and sprayed their flecked saliva high up into the air.

“Excuse me!” he called again, but there was no response.

A sudden clap of lightning illuminated the figure’s brown skin and dark hair. Thunder boomed only seconds later, and Aziraphale wrung his shaking, wet fingers together.

There was no life ring beside the pier, but even if there had been one a rescue with it would be futile. His shoes were sucked deep into wet sand, and he knew that even cast from beyond the tide line the ring would be buffeted back to shore like a swatted fly.

There may be a ring on the pier, but by the time he made it there it would be too late.

Aziraphale looked on helplessly.

A person was going to drown tonight.

The figure turned and caught sight of him. Aziraphale waved his arms – they couldn’t hear him but perhaps his frantic flapping conveyed his words; Get back to shore, you fool! You’ll be killed! You’ll be smashed against the rocks or drowned!

The figure raised a hand and waved back at him. Aziraphale watched in astonishment as they dipped below the surface for a moment, rose, and began a casual forward stroke in the high-rise swells. They seemed unconcerned when they were pushed underwater, and utterly at ease in the roiling sea.

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