Chapter Text
South of Lower Tadfield, just at the edge of town, there was a proper estate. Sprawling, vast, composed of a hulking manor house and the surrounding lands hemmed in by trees and woods and a suitably picturesque babbling brook. That night, however, it was difficult to appreciate the beauty of the grounds, because it was damp, and cold, and pitch-black besides. Centered on the estate, the huge manor loomed, dark and squat, the few yellow lights on within blinking in the windows like eyes, and a small curl of smoke rising from one of the chimneys, an indicator of a fire lit against the cold tendrils of the fall night, slipping in through the windows and doors.
Within, in front of the fire, a very old man sat in a stiff-backed armchair, his knobby, fragile fingers resting lightly on the pages of a book. He was admiring the book; he couldn’t read, these days, with his eyes the way they were, but he still loved the feel of the books, the smell of the pages, the weight of the novel in his lap. He was seated in front of the fire, in his stiff-backed chair, swaddled in blankets, and he was thinking about his book.
He would die soon, he considered. It wasn’t an unreasonable thought, he was, after all, eighty-seven-years-old. It was a ripe old age, and he’d lived life to its fullest until he’d got too frail to travel, or even to roam around his own grounds. These past ten years his body had started to betray him, and he’d become progressively more home-bound, hobbled by weakness and painful joints and general weariness. But he’d found solace in his family’s old house. In the library.
In the books.
But he would die soon, he thought, and there was the question of what to do about the books. There were, after all, so many of them, and he loved them. The estate was to be gifted to a land trust, preserved as green space forever, and the contents of the house were to be auctioned off, all proceeds designated to a variety of charities of his choosing. But the books had not been included in his specifications of his post-mortem wishes. When he had written up the will with his lawyer five years ago, he had felt certain that he would devise a suitable solution for his books and would specify later that they were to be dealt with separately. He had thought about it in the intervening years, considered it at length, but he found himself coming up short of a good solution. He’d spoken to several rare books collectors, all over the country, but none of them had seemed the suitable type for his collection.
He would die soon, he thought, and if he didn’t shake a leg, one of those bastards would end up with his books.
There were a few contenders, last-resort types that wouldn’t be too bad, the old man thought, if push came to shove. There was Johnston from Oxford, but when she’d talked about what she would do with the collection, it seemed she only wanted to preserve the rarer specimens, and then put the rest in the library for just any old student to look at. That wouldn’t do. And then there was Evans from Carlisle - he would display and preserve the rarer specimens, which was well enough, but then he’d had the audacity to say he’d sell the more common books. As if! Selling a book!
Not to say anything of Fell from London. Oh, he’d said he would never sell a single book, but he had a shop . A shop, and he said he wouldn’t sell a book. The man in the manor may have been old, may have been failing, but he was not, thankfully, stupid .
But he would die soon, and he still didn’t know who would take his books. He sighed, and closed the book in his lap, brushing his fingers across the soft leather cover. Perhaps Oxford wasn’t the worst option …
The floor under his chair rocked a little, which told him there was someone coming. It was useful, the old house, how it told him when someone was coming now that his hearing wasn’t what it used to be. His armchair was positioned just so, and when someone - one of the nurses, always anymore - entered the room, the one warped floorboard that had not been replaced would wobble, and his chair would rock.
“Emily?” he called. “Is that the tea, then?”
“Not quite.”
He would die soon , the old man thought, as the pillow clamped over his face and he struggled against it, against an unseen attacker so much stronger than he. He’d known it, known it was coming, but this was, overall, rather sooner than he’d anticipated.
Well, he thought, as he slumped back, and his thoughts became slow, distant, like torn strands of a spider’s web waving in the breeze. So much for careful planning.
The book tumbled from his lap.
---
Sunday was a day of rest. So it was in the Beginning, and so it remained, 3 years after the planet had narrowly avoided Armageddon. Sunday was a day of rest, and so an angel and a demon rested.
Aziraphale rather loved Sunday mornings. He would wake up - he liked to sleep a little, on Saturday nights, because waking up made Sunday mornings all the sweeter - and read in bed, by the light of his halo, until the sun coming through the window grew bright enough to see by. He would turn the pages slowly, relaxed and luxurious, and he would run the fingers of his free hand through Crowley’s hair, or his feathers, if his wings were out, as he did. And Crowley would sleep, content and comfortable, usually with one arm wrapped defensively around a pillow and the other draped across Aziraphale’s waist.
This particular rainy Sunday was no exception. Aziraphale was propped up on pillows, reading State of Wonder , his wings relaxed and draped over the headboard. Crowley was sleeping, his face pressed against the soft flesh of the angel’s hip, his arm and his crippled right wing wrapped over Aziraphale’s lap. He was snoring. Had he been awake, Aziraphale would have remarked that it was all rather adorable, and that would have made Crowley annoyed, which would have made the morning even better. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t.
The sun rose in its time, but the day outside was gray and cold. Crowley considered waking up at one point, mumbling some semblance of “what time is it” in a sleep-slurred voice, but when he heard it was barely past seven he promptly snorted and rolled over before dropping immediately back to sleep. Aziraphale let him, for a while anyway, and he read on. He’d read the book once before, but it was during their time with Warlock, and he’d been a bit stressed, so he figured it was worth the re-read. It was fairly good, really, and he was enjoying it, and planned to enjoy it for another hour or so before getting insistent about getting out of bed.
Sundays were for rest, but that didn’t mean staying in bed all day, and the restaurant in the village did a lovely full English that Aziraphale was craving this morning.
In fact, he read for another two hours before his appetite won out over his desire to continue to relax in bed with Crowley. Gently, he mussed Crowley’s hair, if if were possible to make it more so, and nudged the demon between the wings with his knee. “Morning, Crowley.”
“Whazzit?”
“It’s half nine,” Aziraphale clarified. “I thought we’d go into town for breakfast.”
“Huh?” One yellow eye cracked open, just for a moment, before he swept his good wing up to cover his face. “Too early. Three more hours.”
“Mm, you’ve been asleep for ten hours now, Crowley. Up.” Not looking up from his book, he reached over to pull the wing down a little. “Breakfast.”
“Not hungry.” He grunted, as Aziraphale insistently held his hand over the leading edge of the black wing, and Crowley struggled to flick him off. Aziraphale was, as always, stronger, and after a few irritated pushes, Crowley chose to tuck his wings out of the mortal plane altogether and instead shove his head under the pillow.
Aziraphale turned a page. “ I’m hungry.” There was a reply from below the pillow, but it was so muffled as to be unintelligible. Still, Aziraphale had known Crowley for a very long time. “No need for that kind of language, dear boy.” He slid a hand under the covers, the better to prod Crowley in the ribs, perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary. “Up you get, you slothful thing.”
“ No .”
Aziraphale frowned, and turned a page. “It’s the first Sunday of the month, Crowley, you know. You know what that means?” No response, although the pillow did shift a little. “They’re doing Bloody Marys on special. You do like their Bloody Marys.” A period of silence. Then,
“Twenty more minutes.”
“Alright, then.”
He had intended, of course, to let Crowley sleep for another twenty minutes. Anyway, he didn’t feel he was at a good stopping point. But after fifteen minutes, buzzing broke them both out of their respective activities. Aziraphale looked to the cell phone, on the nightstand. “Your mobile’s ringing.”
“Let it.” Crowley sighed, slid out from under the pillow, and rolled onto his back. “Who calls at ten on a Sunday?”
“Rather a lot of people I’d imagine,” Aziraphale replied. He reached across the bed, the better to pick up the mobile and study the screen. “It’s an Oxford number.”
“Not Adam, is it?” Crowley asked, as he slid one eye open.
“It doesn’t say Adam.”
“Then let it go -”
“Hello?” Aziraphale sat back against the headboard. “Anthony Crowley’s phone.”
“Ugh,” Crowley grunted. “ Angel .”
“Yes, ah, yes this is Mr. Fell, yes. Oh, yes, hello.” He glanced to Crowley, who at the start of the conversation had sat up, propped on his elbows, one eyebrow arched inquiringly. “Yes, Janet I do recall - oh, no! How dreadful .” He held the mobile away from his face a little and covered it with his hand. “There’s been a murder,” he whispered to Crowley.
“Who is it and how did they get that number?” Crowley asked, considering there may yet be another murder today depending on the answer.
“Oh. Oh yes? You don’t say.” His eyes widened. “ Oh my, I … yes. Yes, I would. Yes, I know the place. And when?” He nodded, and made some kind of pointing gesture toward the mobile as he listened intently, obviously trying to signal something to Crowley, although the demon would be blessed if he had any idea what . “Oh. Yes, then. Yes, certainly I will be. Shame it’s under such terrible circumstances though, eh? Yes, of course. Oh, he’s well, thank you - how’s Martin? Ah, excellent. And Tracy? Oh, you must be so proud. Yes, of course I will. Thank you for the call, Janet, sounds like I’ll see you soon. Pip-pip. Yes, yes, ta love. Goodbye.” Only once he’d held the mobile away and cautiously prodded the ‘end call’ button as though it might bite him did he allow himself to frown, distastefully.
“I do not like these things,” he concluded, handing the phone back to Crowley, who at this point had sat up against the headboard as well.
“Who on the wide green bloody Earth was that?” Crowley demanded, tapping something on the phone and hearing the automated voice read out the unrecognized number. “Don’t know that number.”
Aziraphale stepped out of bed and stretched. “Dr. Johnston from Oxford. I gave her your number when she acquired a copy of the infamous Four Bears Bible a few months ago, so she could call if she ever decided to sell it on.”
“Got murdered by four bears then, did she?”
“Be awfully hard for her to call me if she had.” He shot Crowley an irritated look over his shoulder, and tucked his own wings away. “Don’t look at me like that - you know you would have just let it go to voicemail if I wasn’t with you.”
“You can’t just give out my number . I’m a demon .”
“That’s not the important part -”
“Why don’t you get your own mobile? You have your own number then, and people can call you at absurd hours any day of the week to talk about Bibles and bears and whatever.” Aziraphale, in response, grabbed a pillow off the floor and flipped it toward Crowley’s face. The demon, fast as a snake, caught it before it hit him.
“Oi, what was that for?” Crowley asked. He tossed the pillow back, bouncing it off Aziraphale’s shoulder.
Aziraphale pulled his pajama shirt off over his head and neatly hung it in the closet. “For not paying attention. There was a murder , Crowley.”
“I got that part .” Crowley scoffed. “Who was it? This Dr. Johnston? Funeral’s next Sunday, then?”
The angel sighed, halfway through buttoning up his shirt. “It was Lord Bartleby. Very troubling - he was quite old, I can’t imagine why anyone would bother with murder. The funeral is on Tuesday, but of course I didn’t really know him beyond a passing acquaintance, so it wouldn’t be appropriate to go, I think. He had an extensive library,” he added, stripping out of his pajama pants. Crowley watched appreciatively. “I offered to buy a few volumes from him some years back, but he wasn’t interested in making a sale.”
Something caught up with Crowley. “Did you just say you can’t imagine why someone would bother with murder ? As opposed to just waiting him out?”
“He must have been in his eighties! Seems a bit redundant, but that’s humans for you.” He cinched his belt. “Anyway, apparently, in his will, he dictated that all of his belongings are to be auctioned off. Funds will go to charity, that sort of thing - he really was a rather good person. The auction is next Sunday.”
Crowley elected not to remark any further on the discussion of murder, partially because he agreed and partially because Aziraphale tended to get tetchy if his unconsciously less-than-angelic remarks were harped on. “I’m assuming,” Crowley said, as he rolled out of the bed and onto his feet, lithe and naked as he stretched, “that this includes the books?”
“Yes, to include all the contents of his library.”
Crowley did not bother asking if they were going, because of course they would be. “You don’t have room for many more. Here or at the shop.”
“I’ll find space. I don’t want the entire collection - I have a few of the ones that’ll be sold already, of course - but there were some.” Waistcoat buttoned, he turned his attention to his bowtie.
Crowley snapped his fingers, and was suddenly fully dressed, ready to step out for breakfast. He picked his sunglasses off of the empty dresser, ran his hands through his hair, and set about tying it up into a bun. “So where is this place? And who killed the old nob, by the way?”
“They don’t know.” The two of them left the bedroom then, pausing at the door for Aziraphale to shrug into his coat. Though it was still pouring as they walked out to the Bentley, the raindrops didn’t dare fall onto them. “Who the murderer is, that is. It’s under investigation. The estate, where the auction will be, is just south of Tadfield.”
“Oh, Tadfield.” Crowley brightened at that as he swung into his car. “We can see the kids.”
“I figured you’d like that bit.” He smiled at Crowley, a little smug but mostly affectionate. “For an agent of chaotic evil, dear boy, you really are quite predictable. Strong drinks or lost souls …”
Crowley shifted the Bentley into gear and pulled away from the curb, toward the village. “Keep it to yourself, alright?” he grumbled. “And just so you know, I’m limiting your book purchases. Ten. That’s all.”
“Oh, are you?” Aziraphale wiggled in the seat a little, completely amused at the demon’s proclamation. “What if there’s an eleventh that I just must have?”
“Hard limit, I’m afraid.” He hydro-planed around the corner of their street, all four of the Bentley’s wheels touching down on the high street and accelerating. “Not a single book over.”
“Not even if I ask nicely ?” He leaned across the bench seat, running a finger across the tops of Crowley’s shoulders before sliding his arm around the demon’s skinny ribs and hugging him tight. “I hear demons are always open to negotiation.”
“Nasty rumor, that.” The car rolled to a stop in front of the restaurant, and Crowley turned to face Aziraphale, the two of them nose-to-nose. “I thought you wanted breakfast.”
“Maybe we can discuss terms over coffee?”
“Hm.” Crowley cocked his head, and Aziraphale moved to meet him, but leaned forward into thin air, because the demon - oh, definitely a demon - had slid out of the car and closed the door behind him. When he came around, propping open the passenger door and gesturing grandly for his companion to disembark, he said, enunciating every word, “Ten. Books.”
“Well, I never.” Aziraphale sighed, stood up out of the car, and waited for Crowley to close the door before wrapping his arm around the other’s waist and pulling him close, the raindrops falling around them while they walked, as if deflected by some unseen umbrella. “Now who’s eager for breakfast? One mention of drinks -”
“Where’s the rush? No sense in hurrying.” Crowley stepped away from Aziraphale, the better to prop open the door. “Any good deal worth making is worth easing into, angel.” Aziraphale stepped inside, past Crowley, and ignored the playful shove to his shoulder. “You ought to know that.”
“Hm. I suppose I do.” The young man at the host station, one of the owner’s boys home from school for the weekend, recognized them as they came in and gestured them to follow him to a table. “We only have a week, though.”
“We have,” Crowley corrected, picking a Blood Mary off the bar, where it was waiting for one of the staff to deliver it to someone else’s table, “ all week.”