Chapter Text
In which two people meet, try hard not to meet again, and fail miserably…
Anthony Crowley was bored.
He disliked weddings. Especially when he didn’t really know anyone, and had only come because Luke wanted to make a splash entrance using Crowley’s beloved Bentley, which they certainly did, upstaging the groom’s limo.
The groom was some cousin or other of Luke’s that he’d never met. In fact, the only familiar face here was the best man—Graham, who was an old school chum of Luke’s who had recently resurfaced after years away. He’d been making a nuisance of himself lately, hanging around too much, but Crowley didn’t really want to dwell on that. He was fine. They were fine—it had been nearly a whole year since he and Luke had hit it off and gotten together. The longest relationship of his forty-two years, in fact.
No flash-in-the-pan mate from Luke’s Uni days was likely to threaten that. Right?
Right.
He waved a waiter over to exchange his empty champagne glass for a full one, and then continued wandering around the reception hall, all by himself, because Luke had gone off to congratulate the newlyweds and got lost somewhere in the throng in the ballroom next door, where most of the guests were flailing away to some local rock band with more enthusiasm than talent.
What a tiresome day this had been. He took a drink, and then yawned. He’d risen earlier than usual for a Sunday, for the drive from London to this out-of-the-way village near Oxford—Tadhill? Tadstream? Whatever. He’d never been good with names. The motorway had been clogged with traffic. The wedding had taken for-bloody-ever. He just wanted to go home.
The one bright spot happened after the ceremony finished, when he’d bolted outside for fresh air, because he didn’t like crowds. Crowley had wandered around the grounds of this old manor house, and he found a wonderful garden behind it, with an astonishing array of flower beds, rose arbors, fruit trees and kitchen garden, a pond, a greenhouse, and even a small summer house. Though he could see things were overgrown already in early May, which didn’t bode well for summer—the weeds would get quickly out of hand if not dealt with soon. He was poking around at a bed infested with shotweed when the manor’s owner appeared.
They’d had a nice chat about the garden—Mary something—Hudson? Howell? Whatever. She’d recently converted the home into an event space, but hadn’t had the time to find a gardener, and when she learned his profession, had expressed interest in engaging his services.
She had even offered the use of a cottage on the grounds. Crowley was sorely tempted, because his business in London had fallen off lately, his bills were in arrears, and the salary she named had been excellent. It truly was a fabulous garden—something he could only dream of, and he longed to bring it back to full splendor. The sole sticking point was Luke—how could he leave him behind? So Crowley had reluctantly fobbed her off with “I’ll think about it”, and that was that.
London was his home, and he wished Luke would finish socializing so they could leave.
“Ah, there you are!”
Crowley turned around at the unfamiliar female voice. Two people were striding across the reception room, heading towards him—an older woman, maybe late sixties—with long, thick red hair and a determined expression, and a blond man around Crowley’s age wearing a very old-fashioned three-piece suit with a bow tie, of all things. He looked annoyed, and was trying to pull the woman away.
“Now, now, let me talk to him,” she said as she brushed away the man’s hand on her arm. “You need to meet him sometime, my dear.”
Then she swept up to Crowley. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” She stuck out a hand. “Agnes Nutter. Bride’s side. I’m a witch.”
The man beside her groaned. “For heaven’s sake—”
Crowley gaped. “Um…okaaaay.” He stared at her hand, and then shook it as briefly as possible. “Anthony Crowley. Groom’s side. Why are you looking for me?”
“She isn’t.” The blond fellow—a rather handsome man with kind eyes—tried to steer her away. “A little too much champagne, I’m afraid—”
“Nonsense. Stop that.” She peered at Crowley with a penetrating gaze. “Yes, definitely right. This is my nephew, Aziraphale Fell. He is also your future husband.”
“Aunt Agnes! Please!”
Crowley’s eyebrows shot upward. Azira-whatsit blushed furiously. Poor bloke. What a wacky relative to be lumbered with. He cleared his throat. “Nice to meet you,” he said in his placate-the-crazy-person tone. “But I have a boyfriend.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Who I need to go find now. Ta.”
As he started to turn away, he felt strong fingers on his arm, turning him back. “Your friend is going to disappoint you, I’m afraid.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at—”
“The future is not a game!” She shook a finger at him. “I can see the future, and the prophecy is unmistakable. A black bird with red hair, at a nuptial gathering fair, shall meet thy sister’s son, and bed and wed him anon!”
The nephew groaned, covered his red face with both hands, and fled off to a corner, where a group of tall potted plants stood. Clearly the fellow was embarrassed beyond endurance.
“Right.” Crowley downed the rest of his drink. “I’m just going to leave now, if you don’t mind. With my boyfriend. Who I’m in a serious relationship with. Okay?” What a weird day this was turning out to be.
Before he could walk off, Agatha Nutball—or whatever her name was—said forcefully, “Go! Find him! But be warned—Luke is not your destiny, and you shall soon discover the truth!”
“Yeah, yeah, lady—” And then he stared at her. He hadn’t mentioned Luke’s name. And she said she was with the bride’s side—why would she even know him? “How did you know his name? Did you talk to him or something?”
“Never met the man. But I know him.” She smiled. “Go and look for him in the garden.” Then she turned and strode out.
Crowley rolled his eyes. Luke didn’t give a rat’s arse about gardens or nature or even being outside at all—it was the one thing about him that irritated Crowley, but otherwise, they were good. It was fine.
He walked over to the corner with the plants. The nephew with the odd name still stood there, trying hard to hide behind a very tall philodendron.
“Hey. You.” Crowley pulled aside a large leaf. “What’s up with your barmy aunt?”
“I am so, so sorry.”
“Get out of there.” Crowley stepped back as the fellow came out from behind the plant. “Look, you seem like a decent chap, but your aunt Agatha—”
“Agnes, actually.”
“Yeah, whatever. Did she get let out of the home for the day or something?”
The fellow cleared his throat. “My sincere apologies, Mr. Crowley. My Aunt Agnes has been making a nuisance of herself with her prophecies for decades, and she means well, and it’s mostly harmless. I had no idea she planned to spring this on me—well, and you—today, or I would never have come.”
“Okay. Good. Because I’m not going to marry you.” Crowley smiled. “Never, ever, ever. Got that?”
“Of course you aren’t! And I have no intention of bedding—I mean—oh, dear. Sorry. I’m a bit flustered. I think I need more champagne.”
“Good call. Have at it. I’m going to leave now, and I am never going to see you again, right?” He paused. “You don’t happen to live in London, by any chance?”
“No. I live right here in Tadfield.”
Whew. No need to worry about accidentally stumbling into the man in the city, then. “Great. I have no reason to ever come back here, so this is goodbye, Asherfell—um—sorry, I’m not good with names.”
“Aziraphale Fell.”
Crowley blinked. “Huh. That’s different.”
“I was named after a lesser known angel. It’s sort of a ‘thing’ in my family.”
“My condolences.” Though it did suit the man, who looked rather angelic, all in all. “I won’t be seeing you around, then.” He smiled, turned, and walked away.
Ten minutes later, having scoured the ballroom to no avail, Crowley went out to the garden, where he heard unusual noises coming from the summer house.
He strolled inside to find Luke and Graham, clothes shed, engaged in sweaty copulation of a particularly loud and vigorous nature.
“Oh, fuck!” he said.
It was a rather literal remark.
*
Aziraphale had drunk two glasses of champagne—one right after another, far too quickly—after Aunt Agnes thoroughly embarrassed him in front of that very attractive fellow who he was never going to see again.
He sighed as he collapsed onto a padded bench against the wall of the reception room. Most of the guests were leaving, with a few stragglers still dancing in the ballroom, or nibbling the last of the food on the buffet table.
His aunt had gone home—she also lived in the village. He really ought to go home, too, but the champagne made him feel slightly fuzzy, so he sat down to have a rest first. He closed his eyes with a sigh.
He was vaguely aware of rapid footsteps, and then he felt a weight beside him on the bench, and heard a ragged groan.
He opened his eyes to see Anthony Crowley sitting right there, legs splayed out, and he was holding an opened bottle of champagne. He took a drink straight from it, and then burped.
“Um…hello?” Aziraphale adjusted his bow tie—a nervous habit. “Anything the matter, Mr. Crowley?”
“Mmph. Ngk.” He took another swig, and then smacked his lips. “Just Crowley.”
“Sorry?”
“No ‘mister’. Don’t like my given name. So just call me ‘Crowley’.”
“Very good. You may call me ‘Aziraphale’. Except we aren’t supposed to be meeting again. Ever. You said so. Not much more than twenty minutes ago.”
“Have a drink, Aziraphale.” He handed over the bottle. “You’re going to want it.”
“I am?”
“Yup.”
He took the champagne. “Any particular reason?”
“I just broke up with my boyfriend.”
Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open, but no words came out.
“We are finished. Kaput. No more. Done and dusted. The bastard.”
“I’m sincerely sorry to hear that.” He felt another flush forming on his cheeks. “But that hardly means my aunt’s prophecy had the slightest truth to it, my dear fellow. You don’t even live near here. As you said, we have absolutely no reason to ever meet again.”
Crowley sighed. “I just accepted the job of gardener for this manor.”
“You did WHAT?!”
“The owner offered me the job of gardener here. With the use of a cottage on the grounds. I start a week from Monday.”
Aziraphale looked at him, and then he looked at the champagne. “Oh, fuck,” he said less than eloquently, before tipping the neck of he bottle into his mouth.
*
An hour or two later—he had sort of lost track of time there—Aziraphale had an arm around Anthony Crowley’s waist as he guided him along the lanes of Tadfield towards his bookshop.
“Not much farther now…” He swerved a little, none too steady himself, though nowhere as inebriated as his companion. He was making definite progress in the right direction. “Just up this way…that’s good…no, no, no, keep away from the lamppost!”
“Nice lamppost.” Crowley paused to stroke it. “Nice and sturdy postal lamp thingy….”
“Come here.” He pulled at the man, who staggered against his side, and then draped an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You’re sweet.” He poked a long finger in the general direction of his face. “Lookit your cute little nose.” The finger landed on Aziraphale’s chin. “Whoopsy. Missed.”
“Stop that.” He brushed Crowley’s hand away. “We need to get to my shop. It’s just ahead and across the street. Now, please, make your feet move properly.”
“Am not proper. Am a bastard.”
“Of course you are.” Aziraphale ignored the fellow’s blathering. He steered them down the street a ways, and then veered across it. Luckily, there was little traffic in Tadfield, particularly on a Sunday.
He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and wove a path to his bookshop. He propped Crowley against the wall while he dug out his keys, and managed, after several faltering attempts, to unlock the door.
Crowley had slid partway down, but Aziraphale hauled the skinny fellow up rather easily. Soon they were inside, and he somehow got them safely through the narrow bookcases to the back of the shop, where he had a desk, chair, and small sofa. He deposited Crowley on the sofa. “There. Sit. Stay.”
“Urph.” Crowley’s limbs seemed to go every which way as he sank against the cushions. “Nice sofa. ‘S pretty.” He burped. “Just like you.”
Oh, honestly. A pair of double wooden sliding doors separated the shop from his living space, all on the same floor—he had a small sitting room, bedroom, full bath, and a kitchen back there. He slid the doors open, and went into his kitchen to make a pot of very strong tea.
When he brought the silver tea service tray out and set it on the coffee table, Crowley let out a little laugh. “Oh, that’s twee, Azzyfell…Azurepale. Angel. Whatever.” He sat up straighter, and leaned over to finger the sugar bowl, and then he picked up the little silver tongs beside it. “Posh. Look at you, all Downton Abbey.”
He picked up a sugar cube with the tongs, and tried to add it to one of the tea cups, but his aim was decidedly affected by champagne. “Oops. Where’d it go?”
“On the floor.” Aziraphale drew his desk chair over to the coffee table. He bent to retrieve the cube. “Oh, well.” He tossed it at the waste can under his desk, and somehow made the shot perfectly.
“Nice one,” Crowley said. “Can I have a go?” He picked up another cube.
“NO!” Aziraphale snatched the tongs from him, and dropped the sugar into a cup. “Do you want cream? It’s Earl Grey, by the way.”
“Nope. No cream. Too dangerous.”
“I would be happy to assist.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay.”
Aziraphale added cream to both cups, and then poured out the tea. “There you are. Drink that. And then another. You need to sober up. And so do I.” He felt pleasantly tipsy, though not drunk, but he definitely needed to not be tipsy any more. For one thing, he had a total stranger on his sofa, who was drunk, and he didn’t really want the man to stay there, but thinking of a way to extricate him required less alcohol in his system.
He sipped his tea and pondered. What was he supposed to do with Anthony Crowley—a man who his Aunt claimed he was destined to marry?
Her prophecies had never proved wrong yet, at least not the ones he knew about, which were the ones she had predicted for him over the years. Agnes had known he would break his left leg at age eight, falling out of an apple tree. She had accurately predicted that his first date—with a neighbor’s daughter—would prove disastrous, and when he was older, she had steered him unerringly towards his first male lover, a classmate at Oxford.
She had also warned him in advance when that relationship would fail, as well as others—rather few and far between, alas. “You won’t find true love until you are forty-three, my dear,” Agnes predicted. “And you will deny it at first. But the stars do not lie.”
He had studied literature and library science, and upon graduating, had landed a job as a librarian at the Bodleian. What he desired, however, was to someday own his own bookshop in Tadfield, where he had grown up, and which he adored. Aunt Agnes told him to invest his savings, and exactly which funds to put them into—and it was miraculous, the way those investments rose and rose in spectacular fashion over the years. By the time he turned thirty-five, Aziraphale had enough money to quit his employment, and to buy this place outright, with plenty left over.
It was a comfortable, quiet life. He hadn’t had a relationship in a very long time, though, and it was also a rather lonely existence. His friendships had been formed in Oxford, and though not that far away, it was far enough, and those friends—never terribly close—had gradually faded into occasional emails or Christmas cards.
He didn’t mind. He had his books. Customers were few, and that was fine, too—he didn’t really need the income from sales, and didn’t actually enjoy selling anything from his collection.
His one indulgence was food—Aziraphale loved to cook, and bake, and to eat out—and there were few options in the village for the latter, so he would splurge from time to time on a trip into Oxford, or sometimes even London, just for a meal at a fine restaurant. He also loved music—classical, for the most part—and would make a weekend event of those visits, with fine dining and concerts.
All by himself.
He didn’t need anyone else. And he certainly didn’t need a gardener named Crowley who looked—going by the all-black clothing—like someone who sauntered about at nightclubs or rock concerts for fun. Who on Earth wore black to a wedding? Most likely, only someone who didn’t have anything else in their wardrobe.
He cleared his throat. “How are you feeling now?”
Crowley belched. “Blurry.” He had finished the first cup in three long gulps.
Aziraphale refilled it. “Drink up.”
“Thanks. And please stop weaving around over there.”
“I am sitting perfectly still.”
“Oh.”
“Drink the tea.”
“Got it. Sorry.”
Aziraphale took out his pocket watch. It was just after six, and he was feeling peckish. “I’m going to fix myself some dinner. Keep drinking that tea, and try not to spill it.”
He rose to go off to his kitchen.
“Hey!”
“Yes? What is it?”
“Um…er…Ashira…Azzer…”
“A-zir-a-phale.”
Crowley smiled. “Aziraphale. I’m not going to marry you.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh, but not at the idiot. Only at the idea. “Of course you aren’t. It’s ridiculous.” He smiled back. “Don’t fret over my aunt’s prophetic visions—no one can be infallible. I promise not to propose to you, or to accept your proposal—not under any circumstances whatsoever—not even if the world were coming to an end. You have my word.”
“Great.” Crowley grinned. “Glad that’s sorted.”
“Indeed. Now, then, do you like chicken parmesan, my dear fellow?”
“Yeah. But maybe later. I’m going to pass out now.”
And then the total stranger on his sofa set the tea cup down, tilted sideways in an ungainly slump onto an end pillow, and closed his eyes.
Oh dear.
*
Several thoughts ran through Crowley’s mind.
It’s too dark.
It’s too quiet.
This is not my bed.
Where the bloody hell am I?
OMG my head.
OMG I need to pee.
He slowly pushed himself up. Ouch. He knew that pain. That was a hangover, alright. Shit.
Then as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he spotted a thin sliver of light from under a door. Whose door? Where—oh. A memory rose, of a wedding…and a betrayal…and a lot of champagne.
And he remembered a man who looked like an angel, and who acted like one, too.
This was Azzyfell’s shop. No, that wasn’t quite right…oh, fuck it. He had to find a bathroom.
He stood, instantly regretting it. But nature was calling—no, nature was screaming at the top of its ruddy lungs. Holding a hand to his head to try keeping it steady, Crowley made his way towards the light.
It was a door, but the handle refused to be pulled or pushed, and it took him an agonizing few seconds to realize it went sideways. He slid the door open, and walked into a sitting room of some sort, with a table lamp on. It cast enough light to see the open doorway in the center of the wall off to his right. He went through that to a short hallway—a kitchen to one side, a dining room to the other. Then another open doorway. Through it was the rest of the hallway, with two doors on either side, both closed.
Bedroom and bathroom, probably.
He tried a door, opening it cautiously. He guessed wrong.
It was the bedroom, and the bed was full of his unexpected host, and he was stirring. Damn. Crowley quickly closed the door, opened the one across the hall, and dashed gratefully into the bathroom.
When he finished his business, and was washing up, he heard a light tapping on the door. “Are you alright in there?” came the voice of an angel.
Aziraphale.
Crowley felt chuffed that he actually remembered the fellow’s name. Then he felt awful as he remembered why he was in the man’s bathroom.
He slowly opened the door. “I’m an idiot,” he said.
Fell stood there, wearing a floral dressing gown over pajamas, his pale curls mussed. “Um…do you need a painkiller, by any chance?”
“Several.”
“Ah. Allow me.” He squeezed past Crowley, opened a drawer, and pulled out a bottle. He shook out two pills, filled a glass with water, and handed them over.
“Ta.” Crowley downed the painkillers. “And sorry. For, you know. Being here.”
“Perfectly understandable. You could hardly drive back to London in that condition.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t need to deal with my drunken nonsense.”
“You seem much more sober now.”
“Sadly.” He yawned. “What time is it?”
“Um…around midnight, I believe. Are you hungry? I could heat up the chicken—”
“No! Ow.” Crowley rubbed his forehead. “I mean, no, thanks. Go back to sleep. I’ll just make my way back to the manor and get in my car. I’m okay to drive now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your head hurts. And you’re tired. Would you like the bed? I can take the sofa—”
“Stop it.” He leaned against the door frame with a groan. “Stop being so nice to me. I don’t deserve it.”
“But…but…I can’t not be nice.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “And you haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I got drunk and passed out on your sofa.”
“Yes, you did do that. But only because you had a nasty breakup. I would have done the same, I’m quite certain.”
“Yeah?” Crowley raised one eyebrow. “Really? You ever done that?”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well, no. Usually after parting ways, I would go home, bake one dessert after another furiously for hours, and then eat far too much of them.” He let out a sigh. “I’m particularly fond of angel cake.”
Crowley laughed, and regretted it. “Damn.”
“You need to drink more water. Or coffee. Would you like me to fix you some—-”
“Fine. I’ll drink water. No coffee. I can do water all by myself.” He took hold of Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Go. Back. To. Bed. I promise not to sneak off if you’ll just behave.” He gently turned the fellow towards the other door. “That way. Off you go now. Please?” He gave him a light shove.
Aziraphale huffed. “Very well. But don’t you dare leave tomorrow morning without saying goodbye. It’s very poor manners, you know.”
“Uh huh. Got it. Goodnight, Angel.”
“Goodnight—” Aziraphale halted, and turned around, and smiled. “I like that.”
“You do? What?”
“The nickname.”
“Oh. Hasn’t anyone called you that before? It fits so well.”
“No. No one’s called me that.”
“Weird.” Crowley shook his head. “Unbelievable, in fact.” Then he smiled. “I’m still not going to marry you, though. I promise.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Good night, Crowley.” Then he went into the bedroom, and shut the door.
Crowley stared at the door for a while, and then he went to the kitchen for water, and then returned to the bookshop proper, drank the water, lay down on the sofa, and drifted off to sleep, to very pleasant dreams.
*
Aziraphale whipped up omelettes for breakfast, with smoked salmon, goat cheese, shallots and dill. He was pleased by the way Crowley—now recovered from his hangover—dug into it with relish.
They sat at his small dining table, where he had also offered more tea—English Breakfast this time—and toast with strawberry jam.
“This is amazing,” Crowley said between bites. “Can I take back my promise?”
“What promise? Oh, that promise.” Aziraphale blushed. “Really?”
Crowley grinned. “You’re kind. And handsome. And you can cook. What’s not to like?”
“Well, as flattering as that is, we don’t actually know each other.”
“Point taken.” Crowley took a piece of toast. “Though I’ve started relationships on less. Tend to go too fast.” He paused. “Probably explains why they’ve all blown up on me.” Then he sighed. “Oh, well.” He bit into the toast. “Mm. Good jam.”
“Homemade.”
“Get out. Don’t sit there and tell me you make your own jam.”
“My aunt grows strawberries and blueberries, and she also has a pear tree.”
“Well, then, that does it. Aziraphale, will you marry me?”
“Of course not.” He smiled at the twinkle of amusement in Crowley’s eyes. “You’re teasing me. Just how long am I going to have to put up that sort of nonsense, my dear fellow? I did apologize for my aunt’s intrusive behavior.”
“Yeah, you did.” Crowley took another bite of his omelette, and washed it down with tea. “But this is really, really good. I don’t usually eat this much, especially for breakfast. Thanks for making it.”
“You’re most welcome. Thank you for not doing a bunk.”
“Had to stay. I’m going to be living in Tadfield, remember? You’re the only person I know here. Well, other than your Aunt Agatha, and I’m not sure that I want to know her better.”
“Her name is Agnes. ”
“Oh. Right.”
Aziraphale savored a bite of his omelette, and let off a little sighing moan of pleasure. “Ah. Scrumptious. ” He looked up to see Crowley staring at him raptly. “What is it now, you fiend? No more proposing, please.”
“Nah…not doing that. Just…um…never mind.” He dropped his gaze and focused intently on his food.
They ate quietly for a while, and then Aziraphale asked, “Do you seriously intend to leave London to be the Tadfield Manor gardener? Have you considered that it may have been a rash decision, made in a moment of emotional distress? I’m sure Ms. Hodges would understand.”
Crowley drank some tea, and then shoved his empty plate aside. He leaned his elbows on the table. “I’ve thought about it since then. Mostly this morning, before you got up. It was rash, I’ll give you that. But the thing is, business hasn’t been good. I was making a decent living for a long time in London, lots of corporate customers—maintaining office landscapes and the like, and I had some private clients, too. Everything went to Hell when the pandemic hit. Nobody seemed to care what their plantings looked like, with hardly anyone using the buildings. Barely scraped by, and even when things eased up again, business never got back to where it had been before. I’ve been hustling for new clients, and hating it. I just want to be in a garden, not spending too much time marketing myself. That garden at the manor is amazing. And it’s a challenge I’d like to take on. And the free lodging won’t come amiss, either. So yeah, I’m serious. I can ditch the whole entrepreneur stuff that I don’t care for, and have just one, solid gig instead.”
“That does make a lot of sense.” Aziraphale had never had to worry about business matters, and doubted that he would like it. “I feel rather fortunate. My working life has always been quite easy.”
“When did you open this bookshop?”
“Let’s see…I was thirty-five, so that would be eight years ago. Before that, I worked as a librarian at the Bodleian, in the special collections department—I worked mainly with the medieval manuscripts.”
“Yeah? Huh. Can’t say I know much about that.”
“I think you might enjoy some of the herbals and the later botanical illustrations.”
“I would. How about if you give me a tour sometime?” Crowley smiled. “We could do a day trip to Oxford. Take me on a tour of the library, and I’ll buy you lunch.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Now we’re going on dates? You are a misbehaving miscreant of the first order.”
“Yup. Got it in one, Angel.” Crowley returned his smile. “But honestly, this is a big change for me. It’s not like I have any close friends in London—more like acquaintances. Too busy working, or being in relationships and ignoring everybody else. I won’t miss anyone there. I’d like to have at least one person here, though, that I can talk to. That’s all I want, I swear. A mate. Someone to share a meal with. Like this one. Or you know, go to the pub for a pint. And not get drunk.”
There wasn’t a single reason Aziraphale could think of to disappoint the fellow by turning him down. He seemed decent enough, all in all. Though he could imagine, quite easily, precisely what Agnes would say when she heard. Fate. Kismet. Destiny. Predicted by her uncanny second sight.
He shook that notion off. Anthony Crowley was simply a man at loose ends, who had just had a dramatic breakup, and merely wanted a sympathetic ear. A friend.
And Aziraphale could use a friend. So he nodded. “If you swear that you will do everything in your power to avoid passing out on my sofa again, I shall take you on a tour of the Bodleian Old Library.”
“And go to the Tadfield pub sometimes.”
“Yes, that would be acceptable.”
“Good.”
“Well, then.” Aziraphale finished his tea. “Do you know the way back to the manor? You must have left your car there.”
“Oh, am I being dismissed already?” Crowley grinned. “Worn out my welcome?”
“I do have a bookshop to open in—-” He looked at the grandfather clock. “One hour.”
“Plenty of time for a walk to the manor, then. But I’ve no idea how to get back there.”
“Very well.” Aziraphale stood, and began clearing away the dishes. “I shall escort you.”
Crowley leapt from the table. “Let me help clean up.”
They jostled around then, getting things off the table and into the kitchen sink or dishwasher, bumping into each other, and being generally inept at staying out of each other’s way—and Aziraphale enjoyed every minute.
It was fun to have company.
And it was very companionable indeed.
Then they left the bookshop, and Aziraphale led the way to the manor, where he gasped at the stunning antique Bentley Crowley owned (“inherited it from a rich uncle, though it needed a lot of work”), and then he gave a friendly wave as Crowley drove off.
He was all the way back to his bookshop before it belatedly dawned upon Aziraphale that Crowley could have looked up the route to the manor on his mobile, and made his way there easily by himself.
But he hadn’t.
He went inside, crossed to his desk, and picked up the receiver of his old-fashioned rotary phone, and dialed a familiar number.
It was answered on the first ring. “Good morning, nephew.”
Aziraphale swallowed. “Aunt Agnes?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“I am NOT going to marry Anthony Crowley!”
“Not right away, no. The wedding won’t happen until next May. Possibly June. I’m afraid that the prophecy was a bit vague about that.”
“I meant not ever. It’s absurd!”
“But you like him. And he likes you.”
“That is immaterial. We are going to be friends. Not lovers. Not husbands. Friends.”
“Lovers and husbands are also friends. The best friends. You will see.”
Aziraphale groaned. Why was the man moving to Tadfield? This wasn’t fair. His fate had not been predetermined. He had control over his future, damn it. “I have free will,” he said firmly. “My life is not prewritten in your prophetic visions. I won’t stand for it. I am perfectly capable of making my own life choices!”
“Ahem.”
“What?”
“If I had let you make your own choices, you would still be working at the library with very little savings, my dear boy.”
Well, he had to give her that. Those stock market tips had certainly come in handy. “Thank you. But I still object to your running of my life. I want you to stop. Now. No more telling me what my future holds. I wish to be surprised for once.”
“I don’t usually recommend that,” she replied. “However, in your case, I am agreeable to your request.”
“You are?” That was unusual. “Why?” He felt a sudden anxiety. “Don’t I…does my future…run out or something? Too soon?”
“Oh, nothing that dire. You have a very long time on Earth to look forward to—as does your husband Anthony.”
“Stop that.”
“You will be very happy together. Nothing of any major importance happens after the wedding. So there is no need for me to give you any further predictions, you see.”
Aziraphale blew out a breath. Honestly. “I don’t understand anything. He’s moving here. And he wants to be my friend. And he went on a walk with me that he didn’t really need to go on.”
“I know. He’s a very good person. I’m happy for you.”
“I’m terribly confused.”
“Yes. But it will all work out in the end. You’ll see.”
“I promised not to propose to him. Ever. And he did the same thing. And then he broke it.”
“Try making some cocoa. It will help.”
“Yes, Aunt Agnes.”
“Take care, my dear.”
“I will.”
He rang off. Then he went into his kitchen to fix a mug of cocoa.
And oddly enough, it did help.
*