Chapter Text
One last reminder that this Prequel can be skipped the 'real story' is in chapter 2
An old stone cottage in the English countryside has been purchased by an Angel and a Demon who, for the second time, averted the end of the universe and the beginning of eternity. This fact was unknown to the villagers, whose curiosity surrounding the mysterious people who bought the perpetually vacant cabin had grown exponentially since its purchase.
Rumors about the odd pair have been circulating through the little community where everyone at least knows of one another. “They haven’t arrived yet!” Donna Hastings whispered, not very quietly, to her neighbor Mrs. Craig, who had brought up the subject. “Well, someone must’ve signed the paperwork, luv. I’m sure they showed their face for that at least,” she answered. It wasn’t any of Patricia's business, which didn’t stop her from making it her business. “It’s kinda rude showin’ up in a tight-knit community without so much as a hello!” she continued, offended. Mrs. Hastings tried again to remind her neighbor that the cottage had only come into their possession as recently as a week ago and that the couple hadn’t even moved in yet.
Patricia was good at making things her business and decided to investigate the case of the sold cottage. She started with a phone call to her best friend, who certainly would know a thing or two as her shop was located in the center of their village where gossip flows like rivers of milk and honey. “You alright, dear?” Jennifer answered the phone. “I’m alright, Jen luv. How are you?” she countered, but continued before her friend could answer, “Listen, have you heard anything about the folks who bought the old stone cottage last week?” she asked. “Patsy, you fancy yourself a detective again then?” Jen laughed at the other end. “Well, all it takes is one wrongin’ to turn a quaint village into a… a… a dump! And before you know it, there are skyscrapers everywhere and people bein’ stabbed in the streets like…” “...like in London,” Jen finished exasperatedly. She has heard Patricia’s speech more than once. In fact, she is sure Patricia said the exact thing about her and her family to someone else when they came to settle in their village. “I haven’t heard much about them. It’s two blokes, though only one came to sign the papers. But two names are on the deed apparently. You’d have to ask Susie, but you know she doesn’t talk about her clients.” Patricia knew very well that Susie would not divulge any information about her clients. She had made that fact clear in no uncertain terms when Patricia inquired about Jen all those years ago.
Village detective Patricia Morrison had decided to take matters into her own hands. She will investigate the site herself. So she packed up her two dachshunds into her little car and made the short ten-minute trip to the cottage. She strapped each of her dogs into their harness and leashes and went about patrolling the neighborhood. After twenty minutes of walking up and down the same few streets and encountering nobody, Patricia decided to head back home. She went back to the nearby field where she had parked the car and hoisted her dogs in one by one. “Well, that was a bust,” she muttered as she got into the driver’s seat and started the car. Around a minute into her drive, the cottage she had been stalking, nay observing, had become invisible behind the bushes and trees. One could only see the little mailbox at the top of the entryway. The moment she took her eyes off her rearview mirror, she was startled by a loud whirring black vintage car whizzing by her at an obnoxious speed. “A right twat you are!” she angrily called out to the driver, frowning at the rearview mirror. To her surprise, the car came to a screeching stop right in front of the old cottage mailbox. Patricia kept driving, which caused her to miss whoever was coming out of the car. She sure hoped whoever they were that they weren’t the new neighbors.
“If that’s them, they’ll be trouble alright!” Patricia ranted to her husband Robert as she set the food on the table. “It might very well be them, dear,” he answered, a fair bit calmer than his wife, who had become increasingly anxious about the safety of their village. “What makes you say that?” she nearly shouted in her panic. “Well, you say that the only possible day they could have signed the papers was Tuesday…” “Right,” Patricia answered. “And you said the car today was black and an old model…” “Right,” Patricia urged impatiently. “Well, Tuesday I had to go to old Dan’s farm to reshingle the shed roof, and I drove past the old cottage, and there was a black old Bentley parked next to Susie’s.” Patricia’s fears for the worst were realized. She had to warn the neighborhood.
“Well, if whoever they are feels comfortable driving like that on a country road, imagine what else they feel comfortable doing!” Patricia talked excitedly at Jen, who was extremely busy stocking gardening inventory on her shelves. “And…and…it’ll be just a matter of time before crime rates run rampant ‘round here!” It was lucky that Jen had her back turned, which concealed her eye roll. “I’m sure they’re alright, dear. Anyway, nothing you can do about that now, can you?” she said flatly. It was indeed true that there was nothing Patricia could do about the impending move-in of these people and thus the downfall of their quaint little village.
Patricia was having tea in the little tea room run by Mr. and Mr. Hillier. She was waiting for her girlfriends to help her brainstorm plans to prevent the impending moral decay of their village. Tom Hillier made his way to her table, asking if she’d like to order the usual high tea special. “Nah, we’ll let the girls decide when they get here,” she answered, not looking up from her notebook in which she had scribbled her talking points. Tom gave her a tight smile and nod before retreating. Due to Patricia’s tendency to worry and speak without thinking, she had, unbeknownst to her, ruffled the feathers of Tom and Hari Hillier with a comment on how unlikely brothers they made. One of the couple being of Indian descent and one of German and English ancestry.
The bell at the front door pinged as it opened. Patricia looked up, hoping to see one of her friends. Instead, she was met with the sight of a professor-type stranger with oddly light blonde hair wearing a beige suit and waistcoat. Patricia lowered her head again; it wasn’t uncommon to see strange faces in their village. The introduction of Airbnb a number of years ago led to city folk regularly venturing to their village for a holiday. She had been extremely against the practice but had grown accustomed to it since. She liked talking to city tourists as she loved getting sensationalized news of the disarray that any given big city had devolved into.
“Hello sir, will you be alone today or are we waiting on someone?” Tom smiled at the strange new customer. “Ah yes, I will be alone today, but I hope to bring my partner soon,” the man said friendly. “He’s just out today,” he continued to explain without really being prompted. Tom, who was relieved to hear that the man, who in all honesty he had assumed was gay upon his walking in, but one can never be sure, had a male partner and therefore wouldn’t object to his own relationship. “Why don’t you have a seat at this table, sir, and I’ll pop back with a menu in a moment.” The man smiled and took a seat a couple of tables opposite Patricia. She looked up at the man once more to study him. He was smiling seemingly at nothing. She thought of him as both oddly blonde and jolly for his age.
Tom was back with the menu. “So you’re here for a while then?” he inquired. “I certainly hope to be,” Aziraphale answered with a warm smile. “My partner and I just purchased a little stone cottage outside the village. We should like to repair it and move in by the end of next month.” Patricia’s interest peaked, and she could not help but stare at the man a few tables away. He did not look like the type to bring about moral decay, knife fights, and city development projects to her beloved village. He also did not seem the type to drive his car at breakneck speeds on a countryside road. She had not noticed that she was openly staring as she looked the man up and down. He may look physically robust, but he struck her as the delicate type. Aziraphale, who had noticed her staring, gave her a closed-lipped smile and a small wave. Patricia quickly looked back into her notebook, staring at her talking points, which after this revelation seemed rather silly.
It had been about two weeks since the tea room incident. Patricia had abruptly dropped the topic of the new neighbors, slightly embarrassed for her quick judgments. This did not last, however, as the odd couple had suddenly become the town’s topic. “There is something so odd about them,” Mr. Wright said to Mrs. Hastings at the shops. “The blonde fellow, Mr. Fell, is very friendly, but his partner seems a right bastard if you ask me.” Old widowed Hastings usually disapproved of coarse language, but when it is old widowed Mr. Wright doing it, she can’t help but giggle in the most charmed manner. “Well, he might just be the quiet type. I’m sure someone as nice as Mr. Fell would not associate with a ruffian,” she says. She might be old and maybe a bit behind the times, but she certainly is not the closed-minded or judgmental type.
Mr. Fell and who people have sussed out to be ‘just Crowley’ came up in conversation again at the pub. Roger Morrison felt partly vindicated on behalf of his wife. “They are filthy rich, I gather. That Crowley guy is a menace on the roads,” Old Dan said. Bobby answered, “I swear I heard the bastard hiss like a snake once. He gives me the creeps, that one.”
Roger, who in his forty years of marriage was influenced by his wife's talent to jump to conclusions, piped up, half drunk and slurring his words. “They could both be sinister, you know… Organized crime. Fell’s the brains… dainty sod… and Crowley’s the muscle!” He gained a few laughs and jeers at the thought of the skinny bloke being the ‘muscle,’ but Roger went on to defend his theory. “Listen, in this day and age, all you need is a gun. You don’t need to be a big bloke if you have a gun.” The group of friends contemplated this drunkenly before moving on to lighter topics. A seed of suspicion had been planted that night.
The town had grown suspicious of their new celestial neighbors, who had been, up to this point, mostly minding their own business, fixing up their cottage. Crowley had decided that now that the big repairs and additions were made, he should get started on the garden. It was already too late to plant anything for this year's harvest, but he thought he could get started on making raised beds and maybe constructing a greenhouse for his houseplants.
He had gone into the little village to a garden supply shop run by a late-thirties woman by the name of Jennifer Keppler. “You alright, sir?” she asked the lanky figure walking up and down her four aisles. “You don’t happen to sell greenhouses ready to assemble?” the man in the dark glasses asked. “Nah, luv, but what I can do for you is order one in, but you’d have to pay for it now and pick it up here. What type are you looking for, dear?” she asked with a friendly smile. She had heard the rumors around town but tried not to go down that route and stay friendly. She had, after all, been in the same position as this new odd couple. It went as far as the village boycotting her newly opened shop. She wouldn’t have made it through the year had it not been for dear Mrs. Hastings setting her foot down and breaking the boycott.
Jennifer ended up having a very interesting conversation with Crowley. She found that, other than plant care and gardening, they really did not have much in common but still got along splendidly. She thought he was rather hilarious. He had told her he worked as a nanny, which she was pretty sure was a very funny joke. Whatever his real profession was, Jennifer decided that it was in Crowley’s past and that he now seemed to be very benign.
Crowley sensed something amiss everywhere he went. People were wary of him, which he generally did not mind. However, he worried that whatever prejudice targeted towards him might transfer over to his Angel, which would be quite upsetting. Crowley liked the lady with the plant shop. She had said to him as he was leaving, “Listen, Mr. Crowley, the people here really are good people, but they need to get used to your faces. Word to the wise, maybe show yourselves more in the community. People talk about what they fear, and they fear what they don't know.”