Chapter Text
March 2013
The rest of London was out and about on that Wednesday morning. Bundled in their coats, people made their way to work, heads down against a day that had decided not to be spring just yet. Inside their flat, however, Aziraphale and Anthony were warm and comfortable. It was a cramped space, with barely enough room for a kitchen nook, a bed, and Anthony’s collection of instruments. That hardly mattered. It was pleasant here, with the light filtering through their one large window, and the popping sound of eggs frying on the griddle.
Aziraphale was already up, although he was still dressed in his night clothes and a bathrobe, and it was he who was preparing a late breakfast for the two of them. He had already had his first cup of tea. Over in the bed, Anthony had been awake for no more than ten minutes. He was stretched out on his belly now, long form mostly concealed by blankets, although one foot had escaped at the end.
He was texting someone and, whatever it was they had to say to him, it had just made him frown. Anthony turned to Aziraphale and announced, “The engagement’s off.”
Aziraphale simply rolled his eyes. You did not know someone for nearly twenty years in this life and 6,000 years in the previous, only to fail to learn to read them properly. Anthony’s grumpiness was real; his threat was not.
Aziraphale took two plates out from the cupboard and began to load them up with breakfast. The American style pancakes he’d made for the two of them were warming on a baking sheet in the oven, so as not to grow cold while the eggs were frying, and he shoveled a few of them out with a spatula. To this he added the streaky bacon which had been resting on a bit of paper towel. The eggs, just the right amount of runny, were added last.
“Come to the table, dear, and have something to eat while you tell me what horrible sin I’ve committed which has led to the end of our engagement and, I presume, our many years of friendship.” He offered his sunniest smile as Anthony grumpily extricated himself from beneath the sheets. He was never his best in the morning.
One blanket draped over his shoulder, like a disheveled cape, Anthony dragged himself over to the table, kissed Aziraphale on the top of the head, and then plopped himself down. He stared at the plate for a moment before observing, “You made pancakes.”
“It’s a good thing I did, too. Apparently today would not have been the day to remount my campaign to get you to eat beans for breakfast.”
“Cookout food,” Anthony muttered under his breath, before biting into a piece of bacon.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and reached for the syrup that his mother had mailed him in her most recent care package. “Now, would you please tell me why we’re calling off the wedding so that I might explain it to my parents in full detail?”
Anthony placed his phone dramatically on the table. “I was texting with my mother.”
“Just now? Good Lord, what time is it over there? Four in the morning?”
“About,” said Anthony. “She’s having trouble sleeping lately. Can’t get comfortable.”
“Right. Of course. I should have guessed. She’s only got about a month left, hasn’t she? It almost doesn’t seem real sometimes.”
Aziraphale meant that it almost didn’t seem real that Anthony’s mother was having another baby in her mid-forties, when her son was already an adult. However, he could have kept going, could have kept peeling back every aspect of their lives and made the very same statement.
He was mostly used to his life now, but every so often he’d look at it at all from a greater distance and remember just how odd it was.
For Aziraphale—once soldier of the Lord, once angel of the Eastern Gate, and principality (retired)—had been living as a human for nearly seventeen years. And that wasn’t living like a human, it was living as one, with all the physical foibles and aging that that entailed. Crowley had been at it even longer. For him, it had been just a little over twenty-two years.
It had started with a bit of trickery from Beelzebub and Gabriel. The archangel had been saddled with a chance at human life, and had been desperate to pass it off. By convincing Crowley that this would be forced on to Aziraphale if no one took the offer, they’d gotten him to volunteer instead. He’d disappeared to be born as an infant on the other side of the Atlantic (hence the pancakes).
But Crowley’s early life had not been easy. His father had been abusive, his poor mother had taken her refuge in various substances, and as soon as Aziraphale heard all this, he’d had to do something. The only option he’d been given was to become human himself, although he’d cheated a bit, and started at age nine. It had still required him to be adopted by an American family of his own, just to get close to Anthony, but it had worked. He’d been able to get the poor boy, and his wonderful mother too, safely out from his father’s clutches.
And a good deal of humaning at happened since then. There had been schools to attend and growing up to do. There had been first jobs and first crushes (Aziraphale’s nothing more than a passing fancy, Anthony’s a seven year saga of pining until he’d been old enough that the four and a half year gap between them had no longer been worthy of note). There had been coming out to, on Azirpahale’s side, a pair of very religious parents who’d initially reacted rather poorly. For Anthony, his mother had been nothing but supportive—it had been the high school friends that were the trouble. There had been Anthony’s joining a band and writing music. There had been the getting together, the struggling with distance, the proposal.
And now, here they were, sitting at their own little kitchen table, discussing Anthony’s mother on a Wednesday afternoon, and apparently calling off the engagement.
“So what is it that your lovely mother said that has caused you such ire?”
“They can’t stop thinking about your stupid name suggestion, that’s what. Your goddamn Shakespeare pun name is the problem. They like it. They think ‘Cleo’ is cute.”
“Oh, I think is Cleo is a sweet name. Are they actually going to use it?” Aziraphale asked brightly.
“Of course you think it’s sweet. You fucking suggested it.”
“If you’ll remember correctly,” Aziraphale began. “I actually said ‘Cleopatra’.”
“No, you said,” and here Anthony put on a pitch perfect imitation of Aziraphale’s accent, “ ‘Well, if you’re looking for names that go with Anthony, you can’t get much better than Cleopatra.’ And then chortled to yourself for five minutes.”
“It was funny!” Aziraphale insisted. Anthony had rolled his eyes at the time, but smiled. He wasn’t smiling now. Apparently his mother and her new husband actually considering the name changed things. “Anthony, my dear, I really don’t see what the issue is.”
“It’s a joke. You’ve turned my baby sister’s name and mine into a joke. Plus they’re like a couple, so it’s extra weird.”
Aziraphale kept his own eyes from rolling. Anthony was tired and dramatic. This conversation would not be happening if he’d had his coffee already. “Dear, no one else on earth is going to think about that. For one, I doubt they’re going to use the full name Cleopatra, so that’s half a reference gone. For another, everyone else calls you Tony. And, in case you’ve forgotten, your full name is not technically supposed to be pronounced the way I pronounce it. It’s supposed to have a soft ‘th’ in the middle.”
“I didn’t forget how to pronounce my own name,” Anthony argued, but he didn’t sound terribly convincing.
In a sacrifice borne of great love and mild annoyance, Aziraphale paused in the middle of his meal and got up to get Anthony a mug of coffee. It wasn’t worth continuing the conversation until he was fully awake.
With a small thunk, he set the mug down in front of Anthony, and settled back into his seat. He waited until Anthony had had a few sips before asking, “What is it that’s really got you so bothered this morning, my dear?”
Anthony sighed, eyes cast down at the light reflecting on the black surface of his coffee. “Sorry for being a dick.”
He looked properly guilty and it made Aziraphale’s heart melt, “Assuming we’re not actually calling anything off, I think I’m rather signed up for the occasionally grumpy morning. I’d just like to know what you’re grumpy about, unless it actually is the name?”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, waiting again for a response. Anthony did look properly serious now, and another sigh escaped him. “I’m just worried about her… I mean, there’s only a month left and she’s not… She’s not young! What if something happens? What if something happens and we’re still over here? We should’ve gone back earlier. We should’ve been back a month ago and all we’ve been doing is dragging our feet and... I don’t know. It’s sort of been hitting me these last couple nights, when she hasn’t been able to sleep. What if we waited too long?”
The plan had always been to go back to the United States that spring. That had been the plan since before they’d even settled in London. Neither of them had a job that tied them to a specific side of the Atlantic—Anthony had his music, Aziraphale was actually selling books. (Not his old ones, of course, but new old ones. Ones that he hunted down on commission.) They would keep their little flat here, and the bookshop, but they’d intended to get a place in the States as well.
Only, this was the first time they’d actually gotten to live together, properly, just the two of them. After years with an ocean between them, with time zones and editing jobs and rock and roll tours keeping them apart, it was just them. And that had been wonderful, especially for Aziraphale, who could remember far many more years that had kept them apart, back before they’d been children together.
So, was it any wonder they’d found it easy to put off the next step? Everything had been easy and comfortable. The idea of hunting for another place to stay, with all the worries and cares that would come with it, had always seemed like something they could do later. Aziraphale supposed that wasn’t true anymore. There was only a month until the baby came now, and he couldn’t fault Anthony for worrying. He didn’t want to. He loved how much Anthony loved his mother. He loved that Crowley had gotten a mother worth loving.
Besides, even if there hadn’t been impending familial upheaval, Anthony only had a traveler’s visa. He’d be in London illegally by the end of May.
Aziraphale reached out and put a hand over Anthony’s. “You’re right, dear, we really ought to get ourselves ‘in gear’ as they say, hmm? Tonight, let’s you and I make a real effort to see what flats are available in Connecticut. And, we’ll get ourselves a pair of tickets back too. Two weeks from now. Even if we haven’t found a flat by then, I’m sure our parents will put us up.”
Whether it was the coffee or Aziraphale’s words, Anthony was cheered. At least, he was cheered enough to be a nuisance again. “You’ve made me call this place a flat nonstop. The one we get in America is an apartment.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and went back to his pancakes.
They went to the bookshop after breakfast, where Tony curled up on his couch with his acoustic guitar and pretended to write. In actuality, he was watching Ezra. Ezra was always so at home in the old shop. To the untrained eye, the place was a mess, piles of books and odd bits of paper, but Ezra knew where everything was. He could walk up to a shelf and find exactly what he was looking for with little more than a glance. Sometimes Tony was tempted to rearrange something, just to mess with him, but he was too afraid to touch most of what was in there. He did not know how much any given thing was worth, but he knew that all together it was worth more than he could fathom. If Ezra ever sold it all, the two of them would be set for life.
Of course, Ezra rarely sold any of it. He did all his sales by commission, preferring to hunt down requested texts from other people’s collections and precure those. The only time anything ever left these shelves was if he happened to stumble on a better copy of something he already had. Then he’d trade it out and finish the commission with the lesser copy of the book.
He was working on a commission now, using his cell phone to place an overseas call to some connection back in the states. Ezra’s voice was at its most prim and proper. “Good morning, Mr. Appleby. This is Ezra Fell. I hope I’m not calling too early?”
There was light coming through the windows just behind Ezra’s desk. It was doing that thing where it got caught in his curls and made them seem to glow. It would have made him look angelic, if he weren’t putting on his serious business face and drumming the end of a pen against his notebook.
“Yes. Quite well, thank you. I’m calling with a request from a buyer. She’s looking for a copy of Poe’s Tales of the Grotesque and Arabbesque. First edition, ideally. That’s too bad. But you’ll keep an ear out, won’t you? And, yes, I’m still looking for that Jane Eyre for you. The trick is finding someone willing to part with it.”
The conversation was winding to a close, and it was important that Tony do something to look busy, to look like he hadn’t simply been staring at Ezra like a lovesick idiot. He adjusted his grip on the guitar and began to pluck idly at the strings.
Then Ezra hung up and sighed heavily, crossing something from his list with an expression of deep consternation. Business was not going well today, and suddenly Tony felt like he ought to be doing more than pretending to write. They’d talked that morning about picking out that apartment back home. That would mean double rents and extra costs. It wasn’t fair to leave that all on Ezra’s shoulders. Tony ought to be pulling his weight too.
Unfortunately, money problems didn’t serve as the best muse for deep, personal creation—at least not for him. It didn’t help that writing a song wouldn’t exactly solve the money problems anyway. Not immediately. There’d be no return on that investment of time until his band, Prometheus, could get together again, record, plan an album release, figure out a tour schedule… That wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon.
The bassist had gone and married Tony’s mother. He was the father of the upcoming baby.
Tony started to worry again.
If only songs about being anxious over your pregnant mom in her forties had the same near-universal appeal as love songs.
Ezra was on his third phone call when Tony gave up. He abandoned his guitar on the couch, and headed in amongst the shelves. Hesitant as he was to touch most of the books, there was one section that Ezra had introduced him to that Tony had not been able to resist. Back in one corner of the shop, was a box of old sheet music. They had all been spread out through the shelves at one point, in whatever chaotic order had made sense to Ezra at the time. But he’d been kind enough to pull them aside for Tony’s benefit, and Tony went to look at them now.
The vast majority of them were musicals, apparently some interests were hereditary, but there were a fair number of old music hall numbers, and a few tin pan alley songs that had made their way over from the states a long time before Tony ever had. Tony thumbed through them, pulling out some that caught his eye, only to put them back when he decided they weren’t quite what he wanted. At last he came across one that was enough fun for the job. He left it on top of the others and hurried back to get his guitar, before returning once more to his odd little music corner. The couch was more comfortable, but he didn’t want to be so close to Ezra when he was on the phone.
Tony settled down on the floor, one leg out stretched, the other curled up to better support the guitar. He pulled his own phone out from his pocket and placed it on a low shelf before him, propped up horizontally with the screen facing him, ready to record a video.
If he wasn’t going to be useful by writing anything today, the least he could do was help a bit with Prometheus’s online presence. Their twitter account was pathetic between tours and the Youtube channel was languishing. Posting something, anything, might lead to a few more downloads, or a bit of ad revenue.
Tony hit record, and then began to speak in the quietest version of his stage voice that he could muster. “Hey Prometheus fans. Long time no see. First, I’d like to thank everyone whose been super respectful about Xave going underground for a while. And I’d like to say fuck you to everyone who keeps making comments about him and my mom.” He nonchalantly flipped the camera off before continuing. “I’ve got something a little different for you today. I found some old music in my boyfriend’s book hoard. The one that I, once again, have to warn you not to search out, because he would 1,000% murder someone over books. Anyway, since we haven’t got anything new for you, and probably won’t for a while, because, you know: baby, I thought maybe people would enjoy a little something old.”
Tony leaned over to pick up the sheet music for his chosen song, holding the cover up to the camera in the hopes that the picture of a young couple in an old car would be clear enough to see. Prometheus had a youtube channel, but they were not youtubers. Tony didn’t really know what he was doing. He had no idea if any of their followers would even give a shit about this sort of thing. He took refuge in his indifferent, cool guy, rock persona. “Probably none of you give a shit about Tin Pan Alley songs from 1905, but I’m bored so you’re getting it anyway.”
He opened the sheet music up before him and studied it, plucking at his guitar as he read to himself. The phone was still recording, which was fine. If anything this would be the part that people liked, the seeing him work. He looked up and gave a small comment to his audience. “This really wants to be played on a piano, but here we are.”
Tony’s head twinged, just slightly, the way it had so often when he was a kid, when he’d gotten odd bits of de ja vu. He was almost certain he’d never heard this song before, the one that was now playing in his head as he looked over the sheet music. He was almost certain, but it seemed so familiar.
“Fuck it, let’s just do it,” Tony announced. Then he began to play in earnest.
Come away with me, Lucille
In my merry Oldsmobile
Down the road of life we’ll fly
Automobubbling, you and I
To the church we’ll swiftly steal
Then our wedding bells will peal
You can go as far as you like with me
In my merry Oldsmobile.”
He wondered, vaguely, if people back in 1905 had meant the same thing with the phrase “go as far as you like”, and decided that they probably had. Dirty old bastards.
It was a stupid, fun little song, and Tony enjoyed himself straight through it, although he ended with a self-deprecating shrug to his audience. “Jack and Violet are going to give me so much shit for uploading this,” he told them, in reference to the drummer and lead guitarist. The fans would like that. They thought it was funny when they bickered. Then Tony leaned forward and stopped the recording.
It was only then that he realized Ezra was no longer off at the other side of the bookshop. He was standing nearby, leaning against a bookshelf and studying Tony closely. He smiled, soft and distant when Tony met his eye. “What made you choose that song?”
“Dunno. Just seemed fun, I guess.” Tony frowned, there was something almost sad in Ezra’s expression that he didn’t like. Perhaps, he was tired after working all morning. “Want to get out of here for a while, maybe have lunch in the park?”
The sadness was replaced by warmth. Ezra’s smile widened. “That sounds just lovely.”
They’d stopped at home first, to pack a few sandwiches and a bit of fruit into a picnic hamper, before heading to St. James. It was still jacket weather, not quite warm enough to enjoy sitting in the grass. It was, however, much nicer than it had been in the morning. It wasn’t spring yet, but there was a gentleness to the breeze that told you it was coming. Aziraphale and Anthony sat together on their bench, nibbling on their sandwiches and looking out at the water.
“I just think we should go, once, before we leave the country. I mean, we’ve been here for months and haven’t gone. It’s your favorite restaurant.” Anthony was talking, of course, about the Ritz. “You didn’t let me take you when we arrived; let me take you now. It doesn’t even have to be dinner. We could go for lunch.”
“Between multiple flats, plane tickets we waited far too long to buy, less than certain careers, and a wedding, we simply can’t afford it. It would be wasteful. We should be saving.” Or, alternately, Aziraphale could sell one of his books, but that wasn’t going to happen.
Anthony frowned as he bit into his sandwich. “Just seems lame that I took you there when we were kids but I can’t afford it now.”
He looked so delightfully grumpy at not being able to buy Aziraphale nice things, that Aziraphale could not help himself. He leaned over and placed a kiss on Anthony’s cheek. “You didn’t have anything else to save for back then, dearest. Besides, I don’t need a fancy dinner to be happy. These have been the best months of my life, even if we’ve had to live a bit more simply. I like playing bohemians with you.”
Anthony rolled his eyes, but could not manage to keep down a smile.
Deciding that was settled, Aziraphale rested his head on one of Anthony’s bony shoulders. He’d meant every word he said. True, he sometimes missed the finer things in life, the things he’d once been able to miracle into existence, or get Crowley to miracle for him. Sometimes it was even a matter of missing the disposable income he’d had with more roommates and a steadier job. Yet, he would happily trade away all those fine and lovely things for the life he had just now. He had Anthony to fall asleep beside each evening, his grumpy face to wake up to in the morning, his hand to hold as they walked through the city, his lips to kiss when they were alone. They were free as humans, to do so much that had never been allowed in their former life. How often had they sat on this very bench, painfully aware of the space required between them? Now Aziraphale could nestle his head on Anthony’s shoulder without concern over who could see.
The only thing he would have changed, if he had had his druthers, was for Anthony to actually know the truth of any of it—for him to know that he was really a demon, that Aziraphale was really an angel, that they had known each other in a life before this one. Aziraphale would have loved to tell him, but he couldn’t. Gabriel had told him as much, had said that the heavenly host would end their lives if he did.
So Aziraphale appreciated what he had, as he had it, while he had it and he hoped that, even without knowing the whole story, Anthony did too.
They sat together on the same side of the table, plates of vegetable based pasta before them. Their heads were close together, as they both peered at the screen of Ezra’s aging laptop. A map of Norford, Connecticut was displayed before them, all dotted with different apartment buildings.
Tony slurped up some of his spaghetti and then gestured at the screen with his fork. “What about this one. Got a loft.”
“I don’t know,” Ezra said with a tsk. “I was rather hoping we might have an actual bedroom. We won’t have the bookshop to go to when we need a bit more space, like we do here. I’d like to have somewhere with a door we can close to somewhere other than the toilet.”
“I guess. Really limits our options though.” Tony leaned a cheek on his hand. “I mean, look at the dinky little balcony on this one. There’s hardly anything to step out onto.”
“I think you’re supposed to simply open the door and lean on the railing. Go back to the map.” Ezra’s eyes lit up and he pointed excitedly. “That place is affordable.”
“That place is in a shit area of the city.”
“Oh, you’re right. That’s where you lived when you were small, in that horrible little flat right off the interstate. No, that wouldn’t do at all.”
They went on, clicking on places, debating floor plans, using street view to ‘walk around the neighborhood’. They weren’t, actually, getting anywhere, but it felt like progress anyway. It was the first time they’d actually tried, and that had to count for something. They still had a month after all, and they’d started, which was a first step. A first step wasn’t bad.
When the apartment searching went from fun to frustrating, Tony shut the laptop. He threw his head back. “That’s enough for now.”
“It would be easier if we had a different budget, wouldn’t it?” said Ezra. Tony knew what he was going to say next before he actually said it.
“No.” Tony was already prepared to argue. “You’re not selling your ancestral book hoard. We can live just fine in a studio apartment if we have to, but you’re not going to find more signed copies of all those Oscar Wilde scripts.”
“Well, but, fine. Still, perhaps we could find other ways to raise our budget. I might be able to take on some book repair work. You know, have people send me books that need a bit of care. I’m quite good at it! That might bring in some more consistent money. And, although it will involve spending more up front, there is an antique auction coming up on the first of April. I’m sure I could find some books there that will sell well. That might give us more of a cushion.”
Tony sighed. It was always Ezra finding ways to add to their coffers, while Tony played the starving artist.
“Would you come with me to an antique auction? I know they’re not quite your thing.”
That, at least, Tony could do. “If you need an escort, I’d be happy to go.”
Ezra beamed at him, before giving Tony a quick peck. “Thank you, dearest.”
That smile was everything and Tony would do whatever he could to keep seeing it. “You go read, angel, I got the dishes.”
The evening drew to a close. Tony cleaned up, then set himself to sit on the window ledge, idly playing his acoustic while Soho nightlife went on in the world outside. Behind him, Ezra was already curled up in bed, already in his pajamas, with a book in his hands.
It was pleasant, in their little room, just the two of them. It was good to be in the same space, even when they weren’t doing anything together. Eventually, Ezra yawned and stretched, and put his book on his tiny night stand. He smiled, sleepily, at Tony.
“Come to bed, Anthony.”
Tony supposed it wouldn’t be so bad, if they didn’t get the perfect apartment. They’d find a way to be happy wherever they were.
April 2013
Tony had never felt so much like arm candy as he did that night, but he didn’t entirely mind the sensation. If he couldn’t get dressed up to take Ezra on a proper night out, he could get dressed up to take him to the auction house. He knew he looked handsome in a suit, which was good, because that was all he really brought to the table. Ezra very clearly knew what he was doing. He’d done reconnaissance, going in days prior to see what would be on display.
He knew his goals, had his budget, had his plan. He was in business mode, so completely competent and knowledgeable in his field that he radiated confidence. This was not something that was usually true of Ezra, who managed to second guess nearly every decision he ever made. He didn’t second guess himself tonight. He knew what he was bidding on and precisely how to play the game.
It was, frankly, hot. Tony, did his best to look cool and unaffected, in the hopes that that would make Ezra look even more competent by comparison. In truth, Tony was fantasizing about what they might do when they got home. He liked this hyper confident version of his angel. He liked it so much that he didn’t really register just how much Ezra was spending until everything was over and they were stopping at the bookshop to drop off Ezra’s spoils.
“Are you certain it’s alright that I spent that much?” Ezra asked as he locked up the shop.
“Hmm?” said Tony, lost once again in his imagination. He was coming back down to earth to find his angel’s confidence depleted. He was twisting his hands together in a sure sign of anxiety. “We said 20,000 pounds. You stuck to it, even though you wanted some of that other stuff. And you’ll make it back when you find buyers. So, why are you worrying?”
“Because that was quite a dent in our savings! If I don’t make sales soon, we’re not going to be able to get a rental when we need it. We’re going to be stuck staying with my parents. And, I suppose it’s just occurring to me what a gamble my whole career is. Perhaps I should have stuck with publishing…”
Tony took Ezra’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “If we have to stay with your parents, then we stay with your parents. We’re lucky enough to have that to fall back on, so why not take the risk? Besides, I’m sure you didn’t spend more on anything than you know you can get for it. You know your shit, angel. You were awesome in there. It was sexy.”
“Anthony!” Ezra said, doing his best to sound scandalized. He wasn’t. He was smiling, clearly pleased with himself. There was a heat to the expression too, and Tony picked up the pace. He wanted to get home as fast as he could. Judging by the way Ezra stepped in close to him, and started walking faster too, the feeling was mutual.
However, before they reached the flat, Tony’s phone went off. Surprised, he pulled it from his pocket, growing only more confused when he saw that it was Edith Clark. Ezra’s mother didn’t usually call him. Even if she wanted to talk, she’d just ask Ezra to hand his phone over.
Tony answered. “Hello?”
“Tony! Honey, I’ve got some news. Are you sitting down? Is Ezra with you?”
“What? What happened?!” This was not the time to be worrying about chairs or if he got odd looks for shouting in the street. Ezra gave him a quizzical look, and then gently guided him off to the edge of the sidewalk so others could get by. He kept his hand on Tony’s elbow, as he waited to hear more.
“So, everyone’s alright,” Edith’s tone was even, and almost frustratingly calm. “Everything’s going just fine, but, your mom has gone into labor. Xave just brought her to the hospital.”
“Labor? Already? We were supposed to have like three more weeks! This is bad, right? This is really bad. Is Mom okay?” Ezra pulled Tony into a hug, which was good because his knees were about to give out.
“It’s not really bad, Tony. Thirty-seven weeks is a little early, but it’s not even considered premature. She’s got a good doctor, Xave is with her, and Elijah and I will be joining them as soon as soon as we can. She’s in good hands. You don’t need to worry. I’ll text you updates. You’ll be home in a week, and there’ll be a new sister waiting for you.”
His mother was in the hospital, right now, and he was clear across the ocean. They should have gone home earlier. He knew they should have gone home earlier. This was all his fault. He was a terrible son. What if something terrible happened? What if she died? A week. He was going to abandon her for an entire week.
Reading Tony’s terrified silence correctly, Ezra took the phone out of his hands. “Mother? Hello, I think I caught most of that over the speaker. Anthony will be there as soon as we can, whether we can get a refund on our upcoming flight or not. Yes. We’ll keep in touch. I love you very much. I’ll see you soon.”
Ezra hung up the phone, slid it into his own pocket, and then took Tony by the shoulders and met his eyes. “Anthony, dear, take a breath. It’s going to be just fine. We’re nearly back at the flat. We’ll pack up our belongings, we’ll call a cab, and we’ll get ourselves to Heathrow.”
“But what about—”
“Atiku already has a key to both the flat and the bookshop. He and Leon promised to check on both for us while we’re overseas. We already worked that all out, and an extra week shouldn’t be a problem. If it is, I can call my friends in Tadfield and I’m sure they’ll be willing to step up. You don’t need to worry about any of that just now.”
“But—”
“I know the tickets will be expensive, but we’ll just have to deal with it. If that means we’re staying with my parents longer than we’d like, then so be it. I’m getting you to your mother, alright?”
Tony nodded numbly. Some other time, when his brain was working properly again, he’d have to thank Ezra for taking control now. It was good that only one of them was panicking at the moment.
His mind was in a thousand pieces, and he needed Ezra’s firm hand to guide him back to the flat. In his current state, Tony would have wandered right past it. They were up on their floor before Tony even remembered how to speak. He’d stumbled on a thought that he absolutely had to share. “Wait? It’s April Fools Day. Maybe your mom is just kidding?”
Ezra looked at him with pity. “Dear, does that honestly sound like my mother?”
“No,” Tony admitted. It sounded a little like something his mother might have done, but not Edith. Closest thing she could think of as a prank was to offer you a cupcake and then surprise you with whole cake. This was real. “Fuck. April 1st, 2013 is one hell of a fucking birthday.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less from a sibling of yours,” said Ezra. Then he pulled Tony down so he could kiss him on the forehead. “Now let’s pack. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”