Chapter Text
“I don’t know why Bella is making such a fuss! She’s usually ever so good.”
Anthony Crowley managed to hold his tongue in light of Mrs Bellows' declaration. Bella definitely didn’t do the same, hissing at Anthony as he tried to carefully manhandle her on the stainless-steel surface of the consultation table. Shrouding his disbelief with a practised smile, he decided it was probably better not to explain that, however pleasant a cat’s usual demeanour, they tended to be a bit annoyed when a vet was prodding them in the face. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
“Hmm,” Anthony murmured, carefully examining the cat’s swollen nictating membrane, drawing a very annoyed “mwraoh!” from Bella. The pool of void was glaring at him (out of her one good eye) with the power of a thousand burning suns. “I know, sweetheart,” he consoled her, “but let’s get you sorted out quickly, yeah?”
A little while later, a furious black ball of fluff was bundled up in her carrier, hoisted aloft by a grateful Mrs Bellows. In her other hand she held some antibiotic drops to help calm Bella’s eye infection. Anthony waved her off with a reminder. “Come back in three days if it hasn’t cleared up!”
Glancing up over the rim of his glasses at the exam room wall clock, he pushed out a long sigh as he ran his fingers through the tangle of his red hair. It was getting a bit long, almost down to his shoulders now; he really needed to pop into the barbers for a trim soon, but he just never found the time.
Well, except when he seemed to have an abundance stretching on before him. Only another hour to go and, Christ, it was dragging. Not that he should complain, really. Working in a mixed practice had its benefits: a lot of variety, for starters. One day he might be down a pasture trying to work out why a sheep kept getting itself wedged in hedgerows (in Anthony’s experience, the answer usually was that sheep were, by nature, not very good at self-preservation). On another, he might be helping birth a calf on The Youngs’ farm.
He straightened his back, winced at the ache, but took a perverse pleasure in the cracking sound his 43-year-old spine made. Then there were days like today, where he was covering the domestic animal appointments at the practice. Those days he found to be the most exhausting. For one, being stuck in a small room with buzzing overhead lights for 8+ hours made his eyes ache. It didn’t help he was the only one available given Dr Arnold had called in sick and he’d been rushed off his feet for hours.
But, glancing through the small window letting in a sliver of natural light, he smiled at the overcast hills and fields flowing outside. There were still more good points than bad to his job. After all, striding through that lush countryside, feeling the earth beneath his feet? That was where he felt most at home, most himself. Growing up in a city, he’d enjoyed some bits of that life, but it’d always felt a little claustrophobic. Finding a rural job had been the right call, and a—well, he hesitated to call it a blessing. A stroke of luck that an old teacher at the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons had remembered Anthony fondly and contacted him when he’d decided to retire from his practice, wondering if he might be interested in taking over.
He hadn’t paused in uprooting himself to do so. Why would he? Nothing but a cramped, damp flat and a string of failed relationships to tie him to London. Unless you counted empty takeaway boxes as possessions, there wasn’t much to move, either.
Yeah, quite a stroke of luck indeed. Dr Davison hadn’t needed to twist Anthony’s arm, but he’d emphasised the delights of the local area nonetheless. Anthony grinned to himself; even his former lecturer’s ringing endorsement hadn’t done justice to how idyllic the place really was. Friendly locals, and a fair mix of them. Perfect weather, all year round. Mild winters, but always snow in December; glorious summers, but no worrying heatwaves. Even now, he was still astounded when he looked up while walking about the country village of Tadfield. He could never get over just how much sky there was.
Removing his gloves, he blinked and reminded himself there wasn’t much of that glorious vista in this dingy, suffocating room. Time for a quick break before—
“There you are!” Maggie, the practice manager, beamed at him. Her smile rivalled the glow of the strip lighting. “Thought you might have darted off before I got a chance to ask you about the pub quiz!”
Holding back a groan, he hummed non-committally instead. He turned to the computer, typing out Bella’s notes. “You have asked. Five times.”
“Oh, come on, Anthony!” Maggie implored. Even with his back to her, he could feel the gleeful warmth radiating from his colleague. “Who else are we going to get for the film round?”
“Someone whose knowledge of cinema extends past James Bond,” he grumbled, tapping away at the keyboard.
“Don’t be such a grump,” Maggie chuckled, then added, “besides, maybe you’ll meet our new neighbour!” This, plus the playfulness in her voice, drew his attention back to her. She was grinning sweetly, like butter wouldn’t melt, although Anthony knew better. She was up to something. Again.
“Stop matchmaking,” Anthony murmured. “Would’ve thought you’d learned your lesson after Brown.”
Maggie pouted. “That wasn’t my fault. He seemed so nice.”
Narrowing his eyes, Anthony bit out, “Two. Hours. Talking. About. Carpets. Unless someone’s giving a bloody keynote at a carpet conference, no one should be able to talk for that long about it. D’you know there are still parts of my brain now forever imprinted with the advantages and disadvantages of certain fibres? S’probably overwritten important facts about…about gorillas, or something. Unrecoverable.” Shaking his head, he continued, “So thank you, but no thank you. Christ alive, I don’t even know the man’s name but I know you, Maggie Wright,”—he paused to glare meaningfully at her—“and I’ve told you I’m very happy on my own.”
It was only a little lie. After his last relationship had imploded with the force of a supernova but with absolutely none of the beauty, Anthony had lost any appetite for putting himself through all the rigmarole again. So maybe it wasn’t about happiness, maybe it was more about safety, so what? It was a sensible decision.
Most days, Anthony nearly believed that.
“Ooh, I know his name!” Maggie squealed and Anthony finally gave up trying to avoid the conversation. Despite his irritation, a lop-sided smile pinned itself to his face at her enthusiasm. Her personality was as bright as her blonde hair and he’d realised some time ago that her light could never be dimmed by his curmudgeonly ways.
With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he gave in. “OK, what is it?”
Joy dancing in her eyes, Maggie proudly intoned, “Aziraphale Eastgate.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What kind of name is ‘Aziraphale’?”
Tutting, Maggie informed him, “One as good as Anthony Ja—”
“Alright, alright,” Anthony interjected, holding up his hands defensively. “Point made.” Crossing his arms, he asked, “So you’ve met him?” For all Anthony didn’t want to be set up on another disastrous date, he also couldn’t help the streak of curiosity that ran through his nature; one which had, more often than not, dragged him into trouble.
“He’s ever so lovely,” Maggie supplied, her fists bunching up in excitement. “Apparently he’s moved up from London.”
Anthony snorted. “Oh fabulous, another one.”
“Don’t start,” Maggie groaned. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that you’re not exactly local-grown yourself.”
“‘S’different,” Anthony sniffed, saving his notes and logging off the computer. “I came here to work, to make a life. Put in the effort. These rich bloody out-of-towners just swan in and buy a little country pile so they can roleplay as Lord of the Manor.” He scoffed, thinking of the growing number of houses in the area owned by people who were never there. “No sodding interest in actually being part of the community.”
Maggie laughed kindly. “Said by the man who rarely socialises with anyone besides his own shadow.”
“What can I say,” Anthony grinned, deflecting from Maggie’s oddly well-aimed skewering, “he’s a very attractive bloke.”
He stepped towards the back room, hoping to flee the conversation and take that well-earned break. Maggie, as persistent as ever, trotted after him.
“I’m just saying, might be good to meet with another ex-Londoner,” she explained. “Anyway, being a local doesn’t automatically make you a better person, you know.” With a rueful grin, she added, “Talking of, that reminds me: Nina said she’d heard Gabriel went ahead after all. Got the racing horses in a few weeks ago. She’s not sure he took your advice on board, though.”
Anthony grimaced, opening his locker and grabbing an energy drink. “Fat load of good that talk did.” Sighing, he tried to let the frustration bleed away. Gabriel bloody Messenger, local rich boy gone richer, now some CEO in a tech company providing unnecessary services for people with more money than they could spend. That kind of success seemed immune to common sense and he should have known better when Gabriel had asked his opinion a couple of months ago on welfare and care. “I told him he’d need qualified staff, more modern facilities, But I’m not sure was really listening. And he straight up glazed over when I told him about the cost and getting a licence.” He glanced at Maggie from the corner of his eye, spying an opportunity to change the subject. “Bit worried he’s just chucking money at a problem without actually thinking things through.”
Maggie pursed her lips with a nod. “Oh, you know rich people. You can tell them ‘til you’re blue in the face, but unless what you’re saying is ‘yes’, they’re not going to hear you.”
Anthony knew this was especially the case with Gabriel, a man known in the area and in his professional capacity for wanting to get things done, regardless of reality’s constraints or the impact on others. Gabriel’s careless attitude towards people didn’t exactly fill Anthony with massive confidence that he’d look after animals any better. Suddenly, the exhaustion of the day caught up with him and he just wanted to sleep. Not that he didn’t love Maggie to pieces (she’d been his first real friend when he’d moved to the area), but he was too tired to talk anymore. He tried to rally himself. He could do this. No more appointments scheduled, just tidying up, avoiding Maggie’s attempts at trying to pair him off—
So of course that was the moment the phone on the office table next to them rang. They both looked at each other.
“But I’ve nearly finished for the day!” Anthony complained, already knowing he’d lost.
“And the other vet is off sick,” Maggie reminded him, reaching for the phone receiver. Picking it up, she sweetly said, “Tadfield Veterinary Practice, how can we help you?”
She glanced over at him, a playful mirth in her eyes. “Oh yes, Dr Crowley will be right over. He always loves to see Trossy!”
Anthony closed his eyes and allowed his forehead to fall against his locker door. Getting out of the building was something, he supposed, but he couldn’t hold back his sigh. Not bloody Trossy.
Led by Arthur Young, the coal-black horse limped a few steps across the yard while Anthony kept his distance under the pretense of wanting to get a clear view of her stride. The reality was that, despite being an experienced and well-qualified large animal vet, there was a reason he hadn’t specialised solely as an equine vet.
That reason was that horses constantly acted up around him. It was probably the fact he was just a teeny bit terrified of them. One of his teachers had once said animals can sense fear, and Anthony knew he probably exuded it in waves. To him, that was a frankly reasonable response to nearly having had his block knocked off during his training, when one such beast had irritably kicked their hind leg back without warning. He’d managed to dodge it, falling backwards in an unfortunately less than well-swept stall. So, sure, he’d come away with his life, but also a (very rational) apprehension about horses, and a pair of trousers ruined by manure.
He also now never inspected a horse without a safety helmet, which he donned securely. Hands on his hips, he stalked over, trying to project confidence. Trossy whinnied, unconvinced.
“Right, well,” he began, addressing Arthur, “Does just seem to be her right hind leg. Let’s take a look, shall we? Keep her steady.” Approaching Trossy with caution, he held his hoof pick and gently positioned her leg so he could examine it.
He very much tried not to think of how close that hoof was to his face.
It didn’t take long to find the source of the problem. A cursory clean of the area with the pick quickly exposed the tell-tale foul sight and smell of fluid. “Yup,” he murmured, peering at the hoof, “it’s an abscess.”
At Trossy’s head, Arthur, a good man with an incredible commitment to making as little fuss as possible, sighed with relief. “That’s good news. Sorry for the late call, though. I hope you weren’t on your way home.”
Smiling softly, Anthony shook his head. “Was still on call. And it’s never a problem to get in contact. Anyway, it’ll be quick—it’s near the bottom of her hoof and I can drain that easily. Then we’ll sort out further treatment, OK?” Reaching for his medical bag, he grabbed a hoof knife and (very carefully) set about his work.
For once, Trossy was surprisingly cooperative. That lasted until Anthony had cleaned the area and placed her leg back down, and stood up, removing his helmet. This was when Trossy decided it was time to try and “playfully” eat Anthony’s hair.
“Oi!” he cried, ducking away from Trossy’s teeth while Arthur chuckled.
“Sorry about her too,” Arthur laughed, pulling her rein and patting her good-naturedly. “I think she likes you. Or the shampoo you use, I suppose.”
Anthony had received better and more welcome compliments about his crimson locks, but he grinned and bore it. At least this time she hadn’t nibbled on his jacket.
The next day wasn’t such a chore, at least. Arnold was still off sick, hopefully back the next day, but this time he had the newly qualified Pepper helping out with the pet appointments. Lounging in the back office as the time rolled closer towards 1 pm, he even allowed himself the luxury of considering a nice pub lunch from The Duck Inn two minutes’ walk down the road.
Maggie swiftly derailed those plans when her head popped round the door. At least she looked sympathetic as she announced, “Just had an emergency callout about a horse. The owner seems a bit, well…”
Her lips scrunched up as she seemed to try and find a polite description.
Anthony raised a curious eyebrow. “Concerned?”
“Panicky,” Maggie shrugged wryly.
“OK, whose is it? Can’t be Arthur again, surely?” If there was a word he’d use to describe Arthur Young, “panicky” was about as far as he could think from the staid and stoical farm owner.
At this, Maggie’s expression lit up like Blackpool Tower and Anthony was instantly suspicious.
“It’s the new owner of Eden House, Aziraphale Eastgate,” she beamed. “What a happy coincidence!”
He tried not to begrudge her obvious joy at the unseen cosmic forces guiding Anthony and Aziraphale to their first meeting. “Yeah,” he grumbled, rising from his chair and scouting around for his medical bag, “funny old world.”