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There are many guidebooks in the shop of A. Z. Fell and Co., Purveyor of Fine Books to the Gentry, on Whickber Street in Soho. There are the typical “How to tend your own backyard garden successfully”, “The big guidebook of British mushrooms”, “Taxes for dummies”, and even a children's book called “How to train your dragon”. There are books from the 1500s on how to recognise different herbs, there are books from the 1700s on how to work leather, and there is a book from the early 2000s on how to "get the right guy for you”, although Aziraphale is not quite sure how that one got into his book shop. But nowhere in his rather extensive collection is there a book called “How to live life successfully as a retired supernatural being”. But Aziraphale felt that he could use a good guidebook. However much he might have complained about the memos he had to send Upstairs, it had given some structure to life. Now, without those blessings and divine inspirations to perform, Aziraphale frequently finds himself at a loss on how to fill his days. Therefore, the “retired” category seemed to fit him quite well.
So, Aziraphale decided to bite the bullet (not in the way he had done in 1941; this time in the metaphorical sense) and went to one of those modern book shops where the personnel actually helped you find what you were looking for and let you buy it with a smile. Shuddering, he left the shop, went home, made himself a cup of cocoa and sat down in his armchair to read through his new books.
This was about a year ago, shortly after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. Since then, Aziraphale has learned that many of the things written in guidebooks for retired humans do not apply to retired supernatural beings. Many of the chapters talk about making a will, finding your own nursing home so your children don't find one for you, and making arrangements for one's own funeral. As immortals, they do not grow old and are unlikely to die and leave behind any possessions. Aziraphale is also quite sure that, were he and Crowley to die, there would be nothing left to bury.
Another thing that those books frequently write about is living life to its fullest and enjoying what time you have. That, Aziraphale can agree with. Since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, he and Crowley have enjoyed not having to hide from either of their head offices. They've gone to a park which was not Hyde Park, tried out fascinating little cafes and intriguing new restaurants. They've visited Madame Tracy and Mr Shadwell in their little bungalow just outside London and Adam and the Them and Anathema and Newton in Tadfield. The latter two were just about to leave for a trip around the world which Anathema was very excited and nervous about.
“We're going away, and I don't know anything about what's going to happen. This feels wild,” she beamed.
Just last week, Aziraphale dragged Crowley to see Alma Deutscher, the young wunderkind, in concert with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and was mesmerised. And yesterday, Crowley and Aziraphale went to the Royal Botanic Gardens, where the former spent the entire time growling and hissing at every plant whose branches were drooping even slightly. He obviously enjoyed himself immensely, Aziraphale thinks.
And next week, Aziraphale decides, they are going to do one of the things most frequently mentioned in many kinds of books as being restorative for body, mind, and soul: a day at the seaside. “If one could but go to Brighton!”, both Lydia Bennett and her mother exclaim in Pride and Prejudice by the inimitable Jane Austen, so Aziraphale's first intentions goes towards that beach. However, a cursory search reminds him that that beach had pebbles, not sand. Therefore, Aziraphale uses his slightly aged computer and discovers Camber Sands, a sandy beach only about one and a half hours drive from London.
Whether Crowley pretends to like it or not, they are going to Camber Sands, and they are going to enjoy themselves.
Crowley isn't enjoying himself at all. More and more grains of sand are finding their way into his usually impeccable leather shoes with every step he takes, seagulls are squawking at deafening levels and the wind keeps whipping his hair out of its perfect shape.
Aziraphale, already on top the dune, cries: "Come on, Crowley! It's simply magnificent!"
Crowley, grumbling all the way, follows him onto the beach. Aziraphale is looking at a spot, determining whether it is a worthy place to sit down. Having decreed that it is, he spreads out a threadbare grey tartan blanket and lowers himself with a contented sigh.
Crowley lifts an eyebrow.
"Do you really want to sit there, Angel? I don't know if your favourite waistcoat will survive the wind and the sand."
Aziraphale's smile dims.
"Really, Crowley, you've been difficult the whole way. Would you please just stop your grumbling and sit yourself down?"
Crowley stops his grumbling and sits himself down.
Aziraphale breathes deeply, then takes out a leather-bound book.
Crowley snorts. "Turning into a girly with frilly bows on our dress, are we?"
The former angel tuts. "I think, as an immortal being, it is quite beneficial to record my thoughts and memories in a diary. Especially now that I don't have to worry anymore that it will fall into the wrong hands."
While Aziraphale writes, Crowley leans back on his hands. There are people on the beach, but since it is a weekday, it is not too crowded. The wind has died down a bit and the sun is peeking out from the clouds. If pressed, he would admit that this is... not too horrible.
After a while, Aziraphale puts down his pen.
"You know, Crowley, sitting here reminds me of that time we were on the Isle of Skye. There was that one beach..."
"I don't remember the beach so much as the whiskey. Remember? Talisker?"
"Of course, that's what you focus on. But I admit, it was something special..."
They spend some time reminiscing. The next time Crowley checks, the sun is considerably higher in the sky.
They amble back towards the village where Aziraphale has seen a food stall selling smoked fish that he simply has to try. They sit at a small table close to the stall to enjoy their smoked cod.
"Really, now," Aziraphale exclaims, trying to shoo away the wasps that have descended on his lunch. "There are quite enough leftovers for all of you over in that bin."
The wasps choose to ignore him.
Crowley takes his empty glass, turns it upside down and deftly captures three of the wasps. Aziraphale smiles at him and goes back to his food.
"Do you know the thing about wasps, Angel?"
"No, what about them?"
"Quite a few of them aren't actually wasps. Whenever a demon downstairs does something particularly stupid or good, Beelzebub turns them into a wasp. Then they have to live on Earth, being a mild annoyance to the humans, until Beelzebub decides they've paid the price."
Aziraphale's eyes go round in astonishment. "Truly, Crowley?" He looks over at the glass, as though he is about to lift it.
Crowley smirks. "Don't pity them. They are eating your food, after all."
Aziraphale smirks back, says "Right you are," and finishes the remainder of his lunch.
Afterwards, he leads them towards the Bentley. He opens the trunk and lifts out a picnic basket Crowley is sure wasn't in there when they left. Crowley carries the basket, Aziraphale the blanket and they walk back to their old spot. They put blanket and basket down. Aziraphale sits, takes off his shoes and rolls up his trousers.
"Aren't you going to take off your shoes?"
Crowley simply barks out a laugh and walks towards the water. They walk along the shoreline for a while. The former angel obviously enjoys the feeling of the sand beneath his feet, but takes visible care not to be touched by a wave. Crowley wrinkles his forehead.
"Angel, why aren't you walking in the water? I thought you would want to."
Aziraphale's face changes. He looks almost... embarrassed.
"Well, the thing is, I can't."
"What, you can't walk in water?!"
"That is what I said," his friend replies testily.
"Prove it."
"Alright, if you insist."
The former angel turns to look in both direction with a shifty look on his face, then turns towards the water. A wave approaches. Aziraphale lifts his foot and takes a large step forward.
Crowley's eyes grow round.
Aziraphale makes sure to watch Crowley's face out of the corner of his eye as he steps onto the wave. His eyes have grown almost comically large, and his mouth hangs open just a tad. Aziraphale determinedly does not smile.
The wave carries Aziraphale back towards the shoreline, deposits him and retreats from underneath his feet.
It takes Crowley a moment to recover, but then a huge smile breaks out on his face. He starts laughing so loudly that an elderly lady walking her poodle closeby wrinkles her nose disapprovingly. Aziraphale can't help it; he joins in.
"So... you angels... can walk on water... like Him?!"
After a while, their laughter dies down, and they walk on. Aziraphale picks up different kinds of shells to show to Crowley and puts the more beautiful ones in his pockets. Once they are bulging, he starts transferring them into Crowley's pockets instead, which he endures with only mild complaining.
The sun is already quite low on the sky when they get back to their blanket. Aziraphale takes the sandwiches out of the basket. Miraculously, they are still nice and fresh after hours in the sun. He goes to reach for the bottle ("Just any kind of red wine," he thinks to himself) when Crowley stops him with a hand on his wrist.
"Let me," he says simply.
He reaches into the basket, takes out a bottle and two glasses, and makes a great show of hiding the label while he pours. He holds out the glass to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale takes the glass, holds it against the light and smells the bouquet. His eyebrows rise.
This is a kind of wine he had only tasted once, in the 1700s in the Bourgogne. He had forgotten to ask for the name and never managed to find it again. But Crowley has.
They share a smile and clink glasses.
"To freedom," Crowley says.
"To freedom," Aziraphale agrees.
And he thinks to himself that those guide books still hold merit, even for a former demon and angel.