Chapter Text
“…and tha’s how I got rid of that buggrin’ Borogravian succubus,” concluded former Witchfinder-Sergeant Shadwell, scraggly and ponderous as always, proudly sitting back in one of Aziraphale’s comfortable chairs and only barely refraining from pounding himself on the chest. “Sent ‘er right back to her dark masters. Good riddance.”
“Quite so,” Aziraphale politely agreed. “I’m sure that’s the last we’ll see of that foul creature.” Privately, he decided it was probably for the best no environmental charity would ever ring Shadwell’s doorbell for donations again. He made a mental note to personally lift them up a little more whenever he could, instead. “Thank you for your service.”
“Soo.” Shadwell took a sip of his tea (condensed milk, nine sugars, of course). “To what do I owe the pleasure of yer invitation, mr. Fell?”
Back before Armageddon, Aziraphale wouldn’t have thought he’d ever invite Shadwell over to the bookshop. Just after it, even less so; it was awful enough when people tried to buy his books, he’d scarcely known how to feel about someone who’d just let them burn (the offense of being dragged back to Heaven paled in comparison). But with time and what appeared to be nothing short of a miracle all its own, Shadwell gradually came to terms with Aziraphale a) being an actual angel formerly of the Lord, b) having temporarily possessed his new wife, and c) said wife having been rather okay with this all along, in that order. For his own part, Aziraphale had gradually gotten over the whole bookshop debacle and having been rather rudely exorcised, not in that order[1].
Grievances having been put aside, the two had actually come to appreciate one another. After all, they were both fond of bygone eras of history, good craftsmanship, antique literature and collecting a proper amount of clutter around themselves. They’d both seen themselves as protectors of reason in the face of darkness, and sometimes still did. Aziraphale had been the first to offer a helping hand and a fair amount of good luck when Shadwell and madame Tracy had moved to their seaside bungalow together, further aided by Newt, Anathema and a reluctant Crowley. Madame Tracy had managed to make the old Witchfinder a bit more palatable as well; Shadwell seemed to have let go of many of his old prejudices, although not all[2]. Aziraphale could sympathise with even that, however; he supposed he’d rather done the same, and it’d taken him, too, far too long.
Which sort of brought him to the reason Shadwell had had the pleasure of the invitation. The angel smiled. “I just thought we had some catching up to do. And, well, Crowley and I have something to ask of you. A favor of sorts.”
“Eh, speakin’ of mr. Crowley, where is he?” Shadwell seemed slightly nervous at the name drop. “Haven’t seen him since the move. Come ta’ think of it, barely saw him then.”
“Oh, he’s in Tadfield today. He won’t be back before dinner, I reckon.” Aziraphale stirred his tea. “Now, I know you’re no longer a Witchfinder-Sergeant, but surely you still keep in touch with the Army, yes?”
“O – o’ course,” Shadwell nodded, with the air of a man who might at some point have been baffled not to be found out, but who wasn’t about to give up the gig now.
“And I know Crowley and I no longer finance the Army, but surely… ah, we’d want to invite them to a certain occasion. All of them.” Crowley had agreed to this idea when Aziraphale had brought it up, with a grin just a bit more foul than normal. The angel had happily taken it for enthusiasm. After all, the Witchfinder Army had been a terrific help in bringing the people that’d actually been of help to Tadfield’s airbase in time; the demon must appreciate them for that at the very least.
Shadwell had gone uncharacteristically quiet. Aziraphale cocked his head. “How are they all, by the way? All in good health? Sergeant Pepper’s allergies –”
“Oh, that they be, all hale and healthy, nothin’ to report,” the old Witchfinder babbled in a voice that’d very much like to change the subject, but found itself in the novel position of not wanting to be impolite to someone he’d actually come to appreciate. It was all the Jezebel’s doing, encouraging him to develop that pesky conscience. Or perhaps, as he was almost ready to admit to himself, the notion that the fell darkness of the supernatural wasn’t so bad that combating it justified rampant fraud and lying to the rare few people he was starting to consider friends. “I reckon they can forego a day battlin’ evil – er, when were ye thinkin’…?”
“Oh, springtime next year, not anything too soon. That’s a yes, then?” Aziraphale beamed at him, and Shadwell suddenly understood all too well why mr. Crowley always wore sunglasses. “How wonderful. We’d be delighted to have them.”
Shadwell fidgeted under that smile. “And ta’ think,” he chuckled nervously, “I’d thought fer a moment you were a demon, mr. Fell. Look at us now.”
“You do know Crowley is an actual demon, mr. Shadwell?”
Crowley wasn’t the one he’d seen phasing out of his wife. Shadwell still stubbornly clung to the notion the man was mafia, or some former rockstar. He briefly opened his mouth, then just shook his head, vaguely dismissing the question altogether.
“And that personally I much prefer dealing with demons over, say, creative people?” Aziraphale smiled patiently, but Shadwell looked more than ever like a man who hadn’t had a creative thought in over fifty years. “Oh, never you mind.”
Shadwell squirmed again. He thought of Tracy and the influence she’d had on him, wringing him out for some modicum of openness and honesty. He thought of how he’d avoided both for a very long time. He thought of how mr. Fell had known how he took his tea, and how he really wouldn’t want mr. Crowley to find out the truth on his own. More than that, he found, he didn’t want mr. Fell to find out on his own. For some reason, that idea unsettled him more. He cleared his throat, put down his cup. “Mr. Fell, there’s, ah, there’s something I have to tell ye.”
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, after a long and rambling story spanning the past sixty years and unveiling rather a lot of his own ignorance and naiveté. Nothing new there, then; he’d grown used to it by now. So that was why Crowley had smirked at the notion of inviting the entire Army. “Well, you really had us good.” He chuckled. “I suppose I must applaud you, mr. Shadwell, running the whole business on your own!”
“Yer not… miffed in any capacity, then?”
“My dear fellow, you’ve done a bang-up job of it, and money was never much of an issue for us,” the angel smiled. “I’m glad you told me, I really am. I can only imagine what it must’ve been like, keeping up appearances for so long.” (He could imagine. He really could. He found himself experiencing some potent second-hand relief.) “Well. Then I suppose I should only be asking if you can spare a day for us come spring. And madame Tracy, of course, wouldn’t miss her for the world.”
“Aye. Aye, o’ course.”
“And… there’s something else I was planning to ask of you alone.” Aziraphale smiled down at his hands for a moment, met the former Sergeant’s eyes, and posed his question.
Shadwell blinked for a moment, considered the glad tidings he’d just been given, and straightened his back. “Afore I take part in any o’ this… I have ta’ ask ye. How… how many nipples hae ye got, mr. Fell?”
“Ah. Well. Just the two… whenever I deem them necessary.” Aziraphale sipped his tea, offering just a hint of smirk over the cup’s rim. “You see, size and shape are merely options for me and my wonderful fiancé, and nipples on our current forms are rather superfluous.”
Shadwell’s mouth worked as he turned this information over in his head. He’d never had to think about too few nipples. In the end, he simply shrugged. “Well, tha’s alright then.” He grinned, reaching across the coffee table to shake Aziraphale’s hand. “Aye, I’ll be there.”