Chapter Text
Crowley’s bed was shaking.
He woke in a panic, his limbs flailing as he wondered whether his apartment would crack in two, and he would roll over and peer into the very core of the Earth. His duvet had twisted around him in a cocoon, and the morning rushed at him with a force that made his head pound with a sickening throb.
As his eyes began to adjust to the light of a new day, the scattered remains of his previous night lay in front of him; a laptop with ‘Are You Still Watching?’ flashed over the face of Blanche Devereaux, a bottle of half-drunk red wine on his bedside table, and a pair of sunglasses that had fallen off his face to nestle beneath the pillow. His skin stuck to his sweatpants and t-shirt with stale three day old sweat, and his hair fanned out in a greasy mane.
Fuck.
The vibration stopped; his phone must have slipped under the covers. He wrestled himself free, unwinding his limbs until he landed panting and breathless holding a phone with 3 missed calls flashing on the front.
Who the Hell was calling him at - he looked at his watch - 9.37am? Surely the one solace in unemployment was getting to sleep in; often he didn’t rise until the streetlights flickered over the streets of Mayfair. There was, he thought, no rest for the wicked.
The silence - because it could not exactly be called peace - was yet again disrupted by the angry buzzing. Crowley groaned, burying his head into the pillow. For Satan’s sake, could a man not stew in his misery in peace? The phone paused, offering brief relief—until it started again. Agitation rising, he jabbed a finger at the screen and stuck it to his ear.
“Wot?”
“Mr. Crowley, excellent that we’ve caught you early.” The shrill voice pounded into his skull.
“Too early,” he muttered, “Who is this?”
“Ms. Shax, I’m the lawyer handling your aunt’s estate.”
“Huh?”
“Your aunt, Ms. Nutter?”
“Auntie Nutter.” He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His aunt had passed away years ago—a heart attack in the middle of a cleansing ritual. Beez had found her slumped in her cauldron on the lawn. She probably wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. A wave of nostalgia hit him; he could almost smell the waft of sage hitting him in the face. She’d been his favourite family member, though that wasn’t saying much. It unsettled him to hear her name spoken by a stranger.
He’d spent a chunk of his teenage years stomping around in her cottage in a sleepy village in the South East where he was dumped after yet another one of his many misdemeanours. He hated it at first, the country air, the fact everything seemed to have that hint of manure, but there were good bits - the stars, the trees, huh, he hadn’t thought about that in years.
He rolled out of bed, craving caffeine to deal with the headache teasing at his temples.
“But that was all tied up years ago,” he said, shuffling to the espresso machine and nearly knocking over a pile of unopened letters balancing over the countertop. He glared at them.
He clung to his daily ritual—the only structure left in his life. The bitter aroma wafted through the air as he sat on a stool, the phone pressed against his greasy, slicked-back red hair.
“Yes, but some new documents have come to light.”
“Right.”
“Your aunt left you something in her Will.”
“Left me something? Money?” Crowley’s eyes lingered on the bills before he downed the expresso, and set about making another.
“Something like that. There is a bit of a problem.”
And all he thought was of course, there always was.
That was his life. He could see the Book of his Life: Anthony J. Crowley, gold-embossed and tied with a red ribbon. Inside, every page, the word: "but..."
He could have his flat in London, but he couldn’t afford it. He could find his dream job, but he’d get fired. He could fall in love—or at least think he had—but... A sharp pain shot through his chest, nausea rising before he pushed it back down.
"But" had been seared onto him since the day he was born.
Crowley stared at the strips of daylight peeking through the window, and the jeans crumpled on the floor. He had planned another carefully curated day of misery: reality TV, wine, sleep, repeat. This routine dulled the pain that sat in his chest like a fire that would never be extinguished.
Inside, the four walls held him close and safe, keeping the blaze at bay. But even he knew his ability to keep the flat was dwindling, what with the extortionate bills and sky-high rent in one of London’s most expensive neighbourhoods. It had seemed such a good idea to buy here when he was at the top of his game. He hadn’t anticipated the fall.
Yesterday he’d sloped back to the cornershop under the judgemental eyes of the shopkeeper who must have noticed the uptick in Shiraz sales over the past few weeks. Crowley bought two bottles, and a tub of ice-cream.
Two bottles of wine, he decided, seemed like the kind of thing someone with a partner or a friend might buy. Three is too much, and one is suspicious. One screams: 'I am home alone and filling my days with alcohol and sleeping'. Two gave the air of someone who might be sharing their life with someone; not that he wanted to do that again.
Those bottles were riding around in his stomach this morning like a waltzer he wished he could get off.
Crowley pushed the receiver back up to his ear. “Wot something? Wot problem?” His head was too foggy for this today.
“I suggest you come in, Mr. Crowley.”
“He will see you now,” Michael stepped aside, allowing Aziraphale into the office all Whickber Parish Council members were supposed to share.
On the walls, the faces of former Council members stared back down at him. Aziraphale swallowed hard as he caught the angry glare of his grandfather painted in oil, his eyes following him.
“Aziraphale, take a seat.” Gabriel’s teeth gleamed at him, as he gestured to a small plastic chair that seemed incapable of holding its own weight let alone Aziraphale. He lowered himself wincing as it creaked, praying that he would leave this ordeal with some dignity.
Gabriel’s desk was empty apart from a golden plague that read: Gabriel Archer, Council Leader, Whickber Parish Council.
“Tea is it? That’s what you English enjoy, right?” Gabriel waved a hand at Michael, whose job as Clerk appeared to have slowly morphed into Gabriel’s secretary. She huffed, and after a few minutes brought Aziraphale a cup of brown unappetising water in a mug that said: World’s Best Grandma. He opened his mouth to thank her, but she’d already turned away.
Aziraphale wondered how an American was the Chair of the Whickber Parish Council. He seemed popular with the locals: mostly farmers, and a smattering of middle-class families who had escaped London. This gave him a modicum of status and power in this sleepy village. People appreciated his brashness, his no-nonsense attitude, and the fact that he was willing to get things done. At least, that is what Gabriel had told Aziraphale.
He wasn’t sure if any of that was true; he would never say that out loud. There were very few things he would say out loud to Gabriel.
The Parish Council met four times a year to discuss Council matters, which was ample as far as Aziraphale was concerned. In Aziraphale’s time as Councilor, he had sat around as they discussed bins, parking, whether Mrs. Sandwich’s wall was in fact encroaching on Mr. Brown’s property (the less said about what happened behind that wall the better), the Christmas lights…
However, he tried to avoid interactions with Gabriel outside of those times. Today being the exception.
“Er… hello. Nice day isn’t it?” Aziraphale shifted nervously in front of the desk.
“You know Aziraphale. I’ve felt you and me, we work well together, don’t we?”
“Mmm hm. Absolutely.” Aziraphale pulled the tightest smile he could, and nodded.
“You see. We have been having a problem, and I thought, who is the man for the job? Of course, Aziraphale.”
“Right, yes, me? I’m honoured.”
Aziraphale’s mind wandered to the comfy seat in his bookshop that he had placed in the exact spot where customers would not be able to see him.
“This work,” Gabriel picked up a brochure in front of him, “is extremely important for Whickber, very profitable for the whole village. I’d hate to see it be waylaid by anyone.”
On front of the glossy white brochure in Gabriel's hand was a photo of a large white office, with a team of people looking positively angelic on the front. In big cursive letters it read: Eden Developments. Heaven truly is a place on Earth.
It looked ghastly; all white angles, generic art on the walls, empty, soulless. Aziraphale took it and flipped through the pages. He thought of his stacked bookshelves, the slight musty damp smell that pervaded the shop, the antiques he had meticulously collected over the years, he imagined stuffing all of that into a space like this. How would his dusty misprinted Bibles look up against those stark white walls? He shuddered.
“Well, quite,” he righted himself again, placing the brochure back onto Gabriel’s desk.
“I knew you’d understand, Aziraphale. You’ve always done such great work for the Council and I know that your grandfather would be so pleased.” Aziraphale tried not to catch the painting’s eyes behind his as a gnawing feeling clawed at him. “That’s why I thought you would be the best man to oversee this project.”
“Oh.”
“Settle any disputes that may be in the way.”
“Right of course, yes well you know me. Very erm… settled.”
“I would hate for anything to get in the way of such Plans.”
“Indubitably.” He stared down at the vacant white offices in front of him.
Gabriel grinned. “Well, that is all. I’ll be keeping my eye on you Aziraphale.” He winked. The smile Aziraphale had planted on his lips was beginning to cause him jaw pain. The dentist had told him he needed to stop clenching his teeth quite so much.
It was fine, he could go along with this. He would be absolutely tickety-boo, great, wonderful. Brilliant. He allowed himself to grimace as Gabriel turned away. He was doing good, he said over and over in his head. The jaw pain increased. This was going to be a long few months.
The lawyer’s office was a shambles, it looked like Crowley felt. Filing cabinets spewed out documents, the desks were covered in coffee stains, and stains he could not and did not want to place. A man with wild hair glared at Crowley from behind his computer that looked like it had come from the wrong side of the 90s, he was amazed it wasn’t run on steam power.
Crowley nudged his sunglasses further up his nose, and landed hard on the chair, throwing his legs over the side. Ms. Shax raised an eyebrow at him but said no more. She was in a long red dress, far too extravagant for her surroundings. Of course, these would be the lawyers that his aunt would pick.
“Okay, what the Hell is going on?” Crowley said.
“Ms. Shax,” She extended a hand, and Crowley took it. “As you aware your aunt sadly passed away -”
“As I am aware,” he scoffed, “I am very aware.”
“It appears that in all that time we were unable to find a Will, that was until yesterday when it appeared rather miraculously I may add.”
“And?”
“You, Mr. Crowley, are the sole beneficiary of her property in Whickber.”
“Me?” Crowley’s stomach lurched. “Apple Tree Cottage?” He leaned forward to the document they were holding to see an address, and his name in looped cursive. He read through it, despite four obvious spelling mistakes, it seemed legitimate. “But what about the others? Beez, Hastur, Ligur?”
“It appears you were left in charge of this.”
“Fuck.” Crowley leaned back, and placed his fingers up against his temple, “I stayed there as a kid.” It had been a long time since he’d thought about that summer in Whickber.
“Hm yes,” Ms. Shax was clearly not interested in reminiscing with Crowley about long forgotten childhood memories.
“Now let’s talk about the problem,” she ruffled some papers in front of him. Crowley assumed this was for dramatic effect.
Crowley peered at her over his dark glasses, the fluorescent lights in this place doing nothing to improve his pounding head.
“Hit me.”
“They want to knock it down to build a business park, it seems. Quite a lot of money is being thrown at it and unfortunately if that happens you will be unable to claim the full inheritance and neither will any of your cousins. The inheritance is on the condition that Apple Tree Cottage remains standing.”
She pulled out a sheet of paper, and pointed to a number that made Crowley’s head spin. With that he could keep the flat, and then some. Enough to tide him over until he found another job. But wait, what was that about demolition?
“Can they do that?” Crowley felt a stab at his chest, and a slight fear of what his cousins would do if they didn’t receive their inheritance. It would be enough to keep them all happy without working for a few years, more even. He didn’t realise his Aunt had been so wealthy.
“If you see here,” she handed him a sheet of paper with the Whickber Parish Council letterhead on it.
We, the Parish Council of Whickber herby put in place orders for Apple Tree Cottage to be demolished to make way for the new Eden Development. After a public consultation, we believe we have sufficient public backing to do this.
Signed,
Gabriel Archer
Head of Parish Council, Whickber
“But, I'm the owner. I wasn’t consulted.”
“Yes, I’m afraid they didn’t know you were the owner when this was put forward. In fact we only found that out because of this order. Your cousin, Beatrice, is it? They found the Will trying to clear it out before the demolition happened.”
“Fuck.” Crowley felt a bit sick, looking at the paper in his hands. “And they can do this?”
“You will have to take that up with the relevant authorities. Until then, if you sign here and here, then it's all yours. For now at least.”
Crowley left with a bunch of keys burning in his pocket, and his head swimming. He was the proud owner of Apple Tree Cottage in the village of Whickber.
He never thought he’d go back. It was odd, to remember it now. Turning up on his Aunt’s doorstep dumped by his parents after that mess at school. It took a while for Crowley to thaw after that, but when he did, it became one of the best summers he had ever had; a soothing balm on the disaster of before.
It was there he fell in love with gardening; the long summer nights he lazed among the plants. The way he mercilessly teased the rose bush until it produced the reddest flowers he had ever seen, and now, it was all his. How strange.
He was a very different person to that fifteen year boy. London was his home. Now the cottage was a ticket back to this life. His life here. He would get his inheritance, get a new job, and everything would be okay, and if the cottage was still standing at the end, then so be it.
He ran his thumb along the ridge of the key.
They were trying to knock it down.
“Well fuck that,” he said out loud to noone in particular. He pulled the letter out of his pocket, and scanned down. There under the name was a number. He took out his phone and started dialling.
The Parish Council phone was ringing; Aziraphale stared at it.
Aziraphale had followed in his family footsteps into the Parish Council because he had decided it would be good to give back to his community. It gave him a sense of righteousness, goodness, pride
However, he tried to avoid most of the front facing parts of the role. He preferred to take a back seat when it came to Council matters, and he especially preferred to be absolutely nowhere near the telephone when it started ringing.
Unfortunately, since his meeting with Gabriel, he had reluctantly agreed to be on hand if anything did arise. Now the blasted mobile phone was ringing, and he had a strong desire to throw it straight out of the window.
He continued to stare at it in hopes it would stop. It did and he breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever it was could wait until tomorrow, it couldn’t be that urgent.
The buzzing started again. Okay, he would not be able to deal with that all day. Aziraphale breathed deeply. He could do this, it surely wouldn’t be too big of an issue. He picked up the receiver.
“Good day, Whickber Parish Council.” Aziraphale said, putting on his politest voice that he hoped gave enough of an air of leave me alone.
“‘ello? Is this…” a sharp voice started on the other end of the line. “Gabriel? I'm looking for a Gabriel.”
“I'm terribly sorry Gabriel isn't available right now. Maybe you could try later? Much later perhaps?”
“And this is?”
“Aziraphale.”
“Okay Mr. Aziraphale.” This was not a voice Aziraphale recognised. It was posh-ish, English definitely, a slight sarcastic lilt bounced off the tongue, playful; it was, he had to admit, quite a nice voice.
“Aziraphale is my first name.”
“Right, and your surname is?”
“Fell.”
“Aziraphale Fell, right.”
“Mmmmm hm.”
“Okay, look whoever you are. I have a letter here saying you're going to be knocking down my aunt’s,” the quite nice voice paused, and with a heavy sigh said, “My property.”
If Aziraphale didn’t know any better, he would say the man sounded quite upset. While he tried to uphold a level of aloofness, it bothered him. This meant he had to tell a real life person they wanted to knock down his house. He turned over the Eden development brochure to stop the office workers staring back at him with their empty eyes. “You must mean Apple Tree Cottage?”
“That'sss it.” The slight hiss in the voice made the hairs on Aziraphale’s back stand on end.
“I'm afraid so, yes. That has been the decision of the Parish Council.” He swallowed a lump forming in his throat.
“Well fuck that.”
“Pardon me.”
“I mean, oh how terribly awful.” The voice mirrored his lilting cadence, and Aziraphale’s fingers gripped the phone tighter. How dare he.
“Excuse me, let me just.” He was beginning to regret not drowning the phone in his cup of tea. He walked over to the filing cabinet in the corner of the office and flicked through a stack of papers. “Aha. Here it is. Subsection C of the Eden Property Development. Apple Tree Cottage has remained unoccupied for at least three years and therefore it is within the rights of the Council to go ahead with plans for demolition.”
“Unoccupied?”
“Well, yes the property has been vacant for quite some time.”
“And what would happen if it was occupied?”
“I erm… I don't know.”
“Hmmm… and this thing, wot is it?”
“A business park,” he managed through gritted teeth.
"You happy about that being built?”
“My personal preferences are not important here. I do my duty and follow along with the rules, Mr?”
“Just Crowley.”
“Crowley. It is not up to me to let my own personal ideas get in the way of,” he gave an even longer pause and sighed loudly, “progress.”
“Aha, you don't want it.”
“I didn't say that. I merely stated that my own preferences are of no importance in this matter.” Aziraphale’s heart thumped in his chest.
“Hm, sounds to me like your own preferences are loud and clear.”
“I will have you know that I take my role of Parish Councillor extremely seriously, and if decisions are made that I do not necessarily agree with. I don’t believe I should be saying anything at all. That is not my duty.”
“Sounds great fun.”
“It’s not supposed to be fun.”
“Look, let's get back to this cottage. So if this property, say, happened to be occupied in the next week or so. Then plans would surely have to change?”
“Perhaps,” Aziraphale’s voice was strained, and he could feel a mild headache making its way from his neck into his forehead.
“Okay then, thanks for your help. Az-ira-phale.” Crowley sounded pleased at remembering his name, rolling it off his tongue. Aziraphale felt a jolt in his gut. “Maybe I'll be seeing you around.”
“But I didn't…”
Click.
Aziraphale stared at the phone in his hand, he slammed it down on the table.
“Bugger,” he said to his empty bookshop.