Chapter Text
Anthony Crowley didn’t choose to be a psychic. That is, if the choice had been given to him before actually being one, he probably would have said yes. But after waking up one day to a naked granny staring at him from the door to his bathroom, at the tender age of 20, he was ready to give it up immediately.
Still, after a bit more than 30 years living with his gift, he would say he did pretty well. Having a normal social life was of course ruled out when you were never quite sure if the person you were talking to was visible to the rest of the world or not, but living alone with his plants and the occasional lost soul was perfectly acceptable to him. The occasional call to his legal advisor, Muriel, was enough conversation for him. He wasn’t particularly fond of people in general, anyways.
When it came to making a living, he decided to turn a rather unfortunate gift into a strength. That’s how he became « Master Crowley, Ghost Hunter », charging a small fortune every time someone needed to get rid of a persistent spirit haunting them.
Well, actually, he only charged rich people, but seeing most ghosts were just dead rich people refusing to leave their estate, now owned by living rich people, paid jobs were more than enough to make up for the occasional vengeful spirit tormenting some family in Hackney.
Today was not a charity case. The man who called him earlier wanted to get rid of the ghost haunting his « country home in Oxfordshire », which meant he could probably ask for the price of a brand new sailing boat as payment for the job. And all he had to do was to visit this “Gabriel Heavenly”’s place and either tell the ghost there to kindly go off to the great beyond, which was surely better than a home that was no longer theirs, or banish an evil spirit with some salt and incense.
He hummed along with the radio, left the M40 and turned towards Oxford. It was a beautiful day in the countryside, sun shining on golden wheat fields, and Crowley wondered why Mr Heavenly would insist so much on him taking an umbrella. Things started to make sense when he arrived at Stormview Manor, a strangely accurate name given there was a singular storm cloud hanging over it. Rain started to pour as soon as his Bentley - a gift to himself after his 100th case - passed the portal, and the sudden drop in temperature gave him chills. He’d never felt such a strong presence before. Maybe things wouldn’t be as easy as usual this time. Crowley parked in front of the main door, grabbed the umbrella on the backseat, and cursed under his breath as he went into the storm. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait at the door. As soon as he had climbed the few marble steps leading to the door, it opened to reveal a tall, middle aged man with a smile so big it was almost creepy.
“Mister Crowley, yes?” The man asked, clearly on edge behind his smile. He offered a handshake “Gabriel Heavenly, I’m the one who called you.”
Crowley shook his hand, as Heavenly went on talking.
“I would have sent my butler but the poor man resigned. It all became…” He paused for a moment, pursing his lips, before shaking his head. “It became too much for him.”
He gestured to the room around them as if there was an explanation to be found in the marble floor or paintings on the walls. Crowley took his time to appreciate the place, thinking maybe it would give him some clue on what kind of spirit he would be dealing with.
“Poor man,” Heavenly repeated, then seemed to go back to the current business. “You can leave your umbrella at the door. Would you want to have some tea to discuss the situation? I have a nice…”
He was talking too much, bright blue eyes glancing everywhere like he was ready to bolt anytime. Crowley held up his hand, stopping him in his tracks.
He used the welcome silence to focus on his surrounding. He couldn’t tell if the ghost was haunting the room, or one close to them. Usually, it would be easy for Crowley to estimate how close he was to a spirit, based on how strong he could feel it. But the feeling here had been so strong from the start… He knew he was closer than when he entered the estate, but it was already off the charts then, and he had no idea how much stronger it could get.
“When did this start?” he asked. It was usually easier to understand a situation this way.
“Things were already a bit off when I moved in." Heavenly answered with a frown. "See, I inherited this manor from my great uncle. Do you think it might be him ?"
"Might be," Crowley said with a nod. It wasn’t unheard of, a ghost simply being the last occupant of the place, even though it wasn’t the only possible case. Sometimes, stuff just woke them up after decades or even centuries. “So you moved in and… Wait. Let me guess. Did you try to renovate?”
This was textbook haunting. The ghost lived, or, well, was spending his death peacefully, then someone decided to change everything in their beloved house and there started the flickering lights, footsteps in the night, and frog invasion. Well, thankfully, this last manifestation was rather rare.
“I did!" Heavenly said. "How did you…”
Crowley shook his head, and damn was this dude slow.
“Rookie mistake." He explained "They hate it when you change their stuff.”
“Well, this makes no sense,” Mr Heavenly said, shaking his head. “Why would Uncle Jo get angry? He never even spent time here. None of that stuff is his to begin with, he only got it with the house.”
Crowley had to fight the urge to sigh, pinch his nose, or express the exasperation he felt so deep in his soul.
“Then why would you think he is the one haunting the place?” he simply asked, trying to sound more confused than insulting, and probably failing a little.
“I don’t know, I…”
So much money, so little brain power. Ugh.
“Anyways,” Crowley cut off, “can’t the renovation be forgotten?”
This was a simple solution to the problem, and for a home that was centuries old, it sure still looked pretty good, but now Mr Heavenly looked like Crowley’s grandma when he had suggested she replaced her antique kettle with an electric one.
“No way!” he exclaimed, outraged. “This place is mine, I shall do with it as I please!”
Add entitled to the glorious list of qualities Mr Heavenly had, sure. There was something to be said about making such a poor impression in just 15 minutes, but Crowley focused on the paycheck.
“Right,” Crowley said, patience exhausted. There was nothing he could get from interrogating Heavenly further; he clearly knew nothing of use. “I’ll inspect the place, just bring me coffee, please.”
Hopefully Heavenly at least knew how to make coffee without his butler. Still, he followed the man to the kitchen, to make sure of it. A house fire would not help the investigation.
In the end, Mr Heavenly made a decent coffee. Sadly, it required that Crowley listens to his whole life story, or at least pretend to, until the man insisted Crowley called him « Gabriel » since they knew so much about each other. As soon as his cup was empty, Crowley put it on the marble counter and walked to the door.
“I opened all the rooms like you asked, feel free to go wherever you want. Whatever it takes…” Gabriel said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley cut him off once more, holding a hand up. “Is there anyone else with us in here or shall I assume anyone I meet is a ghost?”
“No one but us two.” Heavenly shook his head.
"Any suggestions on where to start looking? Some place where the manifestations are stronger?"
Mr. Heavenly thought about it for a minute then pointed up.
"There is more upstairs. It’s mostly the library, the main bedroom… Ha and I can’t access the attic. It’s not locked, but the door doesn’t seem to move."
Library it was, then. Crowley liked to leave a chance for ghosts to meet him before invading their more personal spaces. The attic seemed to be the ghost’s main place of dwelling, and a bedroom always felt pretty intimate.
The library, as it turned out, was a regular library. Crowley sure felt the increase in energy going up the large stairs, but that was all. The shelves there were filled with old books, all in mint conditions considering the time they had been left there. Crowley wasn’t much of a reader, but he could appreciate the diversity of genres represented. Romance, old legends, historical essays…
The bedroom somehow felt less personal. It was just a bed, a dresser, and art on the walls. The presence actually diminished there. Crowley shook his head. He had to go to the attic. Probably should have from the start. His damn politeness…
When Crowley entered the attic, there was a man, facing a large bookshelf, his back turned to Crowley. A ghost, if Mr Heavenly was to be trusted and no other living being was in the manor, but so much more… corporeal than what Crowley was used to. Not an ounce of transparency, no vague floating around. Not even the usual sense of unease. He also noted the storm raging outside didn’t seem to reach the attic. No rain hitting the roof above, no howling wind, and a warm light poured from the small windows.
“Hello?” Crowley said, unsure what to expect. Usually, the ghost would have sensed him already and screamed at him, tried to throw stuff at his face, but today, nothing was usual.
The ghost turned to him and, oh. His blond curls formed a halo, framing a delicate face. Blue eyes looked at him with a mix of surprise and hope.
“You can see me!” he said, and not only could Crowley see him, but really it was as if he couldn’t see anything else anymore. Only that angelic face, and a beige suit that could only have been tailored in some ancient time, back when it was still a good idea to paint walls with arsenic.
“Oh, yeah, I can see you alright,” Crowley answered, a bit out of breath. “Not gonna lie, you’re nicer than I thought you would be. Old ghosts tend to be a bit… They get weird. Ruminating on one’s own death is not a good look.”
There was something on the ghost’s face, some pain? Did he hurt him? Shit.
“No, not you," Crowley insisted. "You look good. I mean, how did you even die? You still have all your limbs, and you don’t look sick.”
This, somehow, made the face worse. Way to go, Crowley, way to go. He had to find a way to fix this disaster of a conversation.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be indelicate. Like I said, what I meant earlier… I’m not used to well-mannered ghosts. Alright, maybe we could start with presentations. I’m Crowley. Anthony Crowley. It’s a pleasure to meet you…?”
“Aziraphale,” said the ghost.
“Aziraphale? What kind of name is Aziraphale?"
The ghost – Aziraphale – looked offended, and, yeah, Crowley should have seen this one coming. Years without actual conversations with friends made his social skills a bit rusty. Still, for once he could have a conversation with the spirit, and it had to be a touchy one.
“Well it’s mine. I don’t have another one,” Aziraphale said, pink lips pursed in a pout that Crowley could only qualify as adorable.
“Fine. So. Aziraphale. I’m sorry that I have to tell you this, but since you died, you can’t really stay here. To be honest, I’m pretty sure Heaven is going to be even better than this place.”
“Oh, I’m not going to Heaven," Aziraphale said immediately.
This was something new. Ghosts who had no idea they were dead? Yeah, that happened. Evil spirits? They had no conscience, as far as Crowley knew. But an actual, conscious ghost, somehow sure they weren’t going to Heaven? Weird.
“… You’re not?” he asked, because what was he supposed to say? “Look, I’ve seen wicked spirits, Hell-bound ones, and I can tell you you’re not going downstairs, so…” He tried to gesture his way into being understood, but it seemed all lost on Aziraphale.
“ …y’know ?” he finally asked, with not much hope.
“No, no,” insisted Aziraphale, who apparently at least understood a tiny bit of Crowley’s meaning. “I know the rules. People like me, we don’t go to Heaven.”
People like him? The hell did he even mean? He looked like he wouldn’t hurt a fly if it were buzzing around his head.
“Nice people?” Crowley asked. “I mean, yeah, it might seem a bit greedy to refuse to let the new owner in the house, but I don’t think that’s what the Bible meant when it said greed would send you to Hell.”
“It’s not.. I’m…” Aziraphale struggled a bit for a moment, then sighed before saying what sounded like a confession. “I’m a friend of Mr. Wilde.”
“Wilde?” It had to be someone at least a bit famous for him to say it like that, Crowley thought… “Oscar ? Oh. Oh. Oooohhh.” He had to stop Oh-ing at some point, but this was... “Oh okay. No. I see what you mean, it’s okay. Shit. Okay.”
He had to calm down. That was, like, a lot for just one morning, but the ghost just came out to him and, as intimidating as it was for Crowley, it had to be way worse for a Victorian, middle aged spirit. Still, what were the odds? A ghost, okay, not that rare in Crowley’s experience. A very present, corporeal, powerful ghost. Way more rare. Also not an evil spirit ? Unheard of when combined with the condition right before. Now, that he was also cute and into men? That had to be some lottery odds. Not that Crowley was interested. How would that even work? Surely there was no way…
Everything wasn’t about him, Crowley reminded himself, as a way to avoid thinking about whatever feelings he might have for a ghost he had basically just met. This was about Aziraphale, and that belief he had that gay people would go to Hell, which, well, thank years and years of homophobia for that.
“I still don’t think you’re going to Hell,” Crowley finally said, without anything better to give, “but it’s gonna take more than what I think to convince you, isn’t it?”
Oh, how nice it would be. To swipe away years and decades, and maybe even centuries of self hatred with some kind words and a smile. Maybe some people managed it. Maybe. Not Crowley, though. He could banish evil spirits, not evil thoughts. Hell, if he could do such a thing he’d have done it to himself a long time ago.
He looked at Aziraphale. His cheeks were still a bit pink, and his lips were pursed, but there was something more now. A sparkle in his eye. Something that made Crowley think that, maybe, maybe all hope wasn’t lost. The thing was, Crowley was clearly not the best person to help. Or at least, not without a lot of research on the internet. He took his phone out of his pocket, without much hope. As he anticipated, no signal. He sighed. When he looked up, Aziraphale was staring at the device in his hand.
“That’s a smartphone,” Crowley said, not sure how to explain it without knowing how up to date on technology Aziraphale was. “Do you know about phones already?”
“I know enough about phones to know this isn’t one,” Aziraphale said, arching an eyebrow. Crowley couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well, a lot of things have changed since they started the concept. It has a screen, which… I don’t suppose you know about television?”
“I know all there is to know about television!” Aziraphale answered, vexed. “I was in Paris for the Exposition Universelle! I saw the work of Nipkow. All theoretical.”
“Aziraphale." Corwley softly said. "What year do you suppose it is?”
“1902 ?" Aziraphale answered. "Maybe 1903, I’m pretty sure there was a winter…”
“2023. We’re in 2023.”
“Nonsense.”
“Look at me." Crowley insisted. "Tattoo on the face? My clothes probably look weird to you? I have a shiny device in my pocket that I call a phone? I don’t want to shock you or anything but uh. It’s been some time since 1903. Televisions aren’t just theoretical now. They’re big, flat, and give high quality images in color. And telephones got smart, fit in one’s pocket and use satellites - yeah we also send stuff to space now- to communicate all around the world, and also we can read the news on those. And watch videos of cats doing cute things. I would show you but you seem to interfere with the signal so… Yeah.”
Aziraphale clearly wasn’t convinced yet.
“Look, I get that it’s a lot to take on at once, but. I mean, you’re a ghost. Is it that hard to believe that you could have lost track of time?”
When he got back to it, Crowley’s apartment felt empty. Emptier than usual, that is, which was a feat in itself, seeing it was spacious, and minimalist in decor. Only various plants were here to bring some silent, still life to the place. Usually, they were exactly the kind of calm presence Crowley needed, but right now he hated this… void. Absence of sound, of kind words and delightful laugh. Absence of a certain ghost.
Once he had accepted just how much time had passed since his death, Aziraphale had been especially curious about everything he had missed, and Crowley had been way too happy to tell him all about it, although he did decide to wait a bit before talking about global warming, nuclear bombs and the second World War. They would get there eventually. Or maybe not. He was supposed to send Aziraphale away after all. And now he wasn’t very motivated to do it…
Crowley groaned and flopped on the couch. This was a nightmare. He found the perfect man, just to realize he happened to have been dead for decades. This had to be his damn luck. Or… A small voice in his head was telling him this had to be fate. That this could be his soulmate right there, and that was why he had to be a psychic.
The thought sent him into a fit of nervous laughter. Oh, that was bad. He was already too far gone, he would never recover from this, of that he was sure. Of all the messed up things that could have happened in his life. Of all the messed up things that had already happened, this… This…!
It had taken all of his will power to leave the manor, when Gabriel had knocked on the attic door to let him know that, although he was glad to see Crowley had found a way to get in there, it was getting late.
With a groan, he got back up, and started pacing with no real direction. First he decided to spray some mist on his plants, finger a bit strong on the spray’s trigger. Then when all plants were positively wet, he swapped the spray for a rag and dusted every surface he could find. He found the silence unsettling and put on some music.
Still, he found himself staring at nothing, back on the couch. After a while, he made a decision. He sent a text to Muriel and packed his suitcase.