Chapter Text
Sigh no more, no more
One foot in sea, one on shore
My heart was never pure
You know me
You know me
—Sigh No More, Mumford & Sons
It is strange, to return to Whickber Street. When he stepped into the elevator so long ago, he thought that it would be a permanent ascension. He was leaving Earth behind for good, and eventually the pain of that would surely fade.
Turns out that he was wrong on both accounts, terribly so.
The street looks both different and the same. Still bustling, still full of quaint shops, but the names have all changed. Give Me Cofffe or Give Me Death now seems to be some kind of juice bar; Maggie's record store has been replaced by a business selling custom furniture; Mutt's magic shop is now a designer clothing emporium.
And the book shop. Oh, the book shop. His name is gone from the front, the facade has been painted a vibrant pink, and though it is still selling books, the collection inside looks nothing like his own—only modern titles, many with a romantic bent. He doesn't cross the threshold, too afraid that he'll choke on the emotions swelling in his throat. He told Crowley that nothing lasts forever, but the shop remained sustained and immaculate in his mind, suspended in time, preserved in amber. To be confronted with actual proof of its impermanence….
Well.
He supposes the fault is his own.
A woman is exiting, clutching a bag of her purchases and Aziraphale steps into her path, forcing his mouth into a welcoming, reassuring smile. He watches her take in his attire and her eyebrows disappear beneath the thick curtain of her bangs in quiet disbelief.
"Excuse me, madam," he says, which only seems to shock her further. "Can I ask you for the current date?"
"Are you cosplaying as a time-traveler or something?" she asks.
He hasn't the faintest idea what she means by cosplaying, so he makes his gaze more beseeching. "Please."
She sighs and checks her phone. "It's the 10th of July, 2039."
2039. Two-thousand-and-thirty-nine. Good Lord, it's been sixteen years.
He's not sure why that shocks him. Time moves differently in Heaven than down on Earth and he never intended to return in the first place. Perhaps, he preserved everything else in amber, too, naively assuming that it would all somehow be just as he left it. His shop would be here, untouched, and Crowley would be waiting across the street, scowling as he leaned against the Bentley like some surly rock star.
But the shop is gone and he cannot sense Crowley anywhere, not even faint traces of him.
"Thank you," he tells the woman and she shakes her head as she hurries away from him, no doubt worrying he might have gone round the bend.
He sucks in a steadying lungful of air that he technically doesn't need and tries to decide where, exactly, to begin. He wants to believe that Crowley is at least still in London. They've both orbited around the city for over two hundred years—why would Crowley leave, even if he's abandoned this particular neighborhood in Soho? Maybe he went back to Mayfair? With Shax becoming Grand Duke of Hell, surely Crowley would be given his flat back? Or simply taken it back?
But when he flickers over to Crowley's old address, he finds a human couple living there who vehemently close the door in his face.
Fine, he reasons against steadily rising panic. Perhaps, he's still living in the Bentley, just gone further afield. He also liked Kensington and Chelsea, was a fan of Earl's Court back in the 70s and 80s—despised Notting Hill, but Aziraphale checks there anyway. All of them are cold and empty, not a single spark of the brimstone of Crowley's demonic presence.
Aziraphale collapses onto a bench in St. Jame's Park and tries to quell the unusual tremor in his hands. Giving into his spiraling anxiety will help nothing, he simply needs to think.
Most of Whickber Street seems to have moved on—their shops closed—but perhaps not everyone is gone? The French cafe owner whose name he's regrettably forgotten, or Mrs. Sandwich. Oh, if anyone would know the gossip of the area, it would be Mrs. Sandwich, who always seemed to have eyes everywhere and dozens of little birds whispering in her ear.
With renewed hope, he teleports back to Whickber Street, uncaring of how many miracles he's technically expending moving about like this. It isn't as though Heaven is going to reprimand him. Not anymore.
It takes him a few precious moments to remember the address of Mrs. Sandwich's establishment, located on the far end of the street, near a busier intersection. She answers her door on the second buzz, dressed in a fuzzy robe and slippers. Apart from some new wrinkles lurking in the corners of her eyes and mouth and a few streaks of gray not yet vanished with dye, she looks remarkably the same, right down to the bright lipstick she still clearly favors. Her eyes widen at the sight of him on her stoop, face paling as though she's gazing at a ghost.
"Mr. Fell," she says, and then seems to be at a loss for any further words.
"Hello," Aziraphale says and forgoes a smile, knowing it would feel too awkward on his face at the moment. And Mrs. Sandwich doesn't look like she would appreciate the gesture. "You're looking well, my dear."
She huffs, leaning against the doorframe. "Bloody property investors keep circling like vultures, but they ain't buying my establishment, oh no."
"Is that what happened to everyone else?" Aziraphale ventures, a fresh pang of sadness in his chest.
"Pretty much," Mrs. Sandwich replies with a shrug. "Folks retired, like Maggie and Nina—"
"Oh! They got together, then?"
"Married, ten years back." Mrs. Sandwich flaps a hand to indicate old news, but the sadness eases a few degrees. Not everything was lost, it seems. "Moved out of London to be close to Maggie's mum a couple years ago. She's been poorly."
"I see."
"Mutt and his spouse sold out. Bought a house in Surrey." Her voice drips with disdain and Aziraphale stifles a smile, picturing them in some quaint town—in a house with a garden, perhaps.
But as pleased as he is to know the fates of old friends, there is one in particular he's growing more and more desperate to find. Heart in his throat, he asks. "And … and Crowley? Do you know what happened to him?"
"Oh, he was a right mess for awhile," Mrs. Sandwich says with a sigh. "I think you broke his heart, the poor lad."
Aziraphale winces and doesn't bother to defend himself, not when he suspects she's right.
"Then one day, it was the strangest thing," Mrs. Sandwich continues. "Must have been … oh six months after you left? He shows up at my door, acting all jumpy. Wouldn't say why, just asked me to look after that old car of his. Paid me with a suitcase of cash—like a bloody spy film!"
Azirphale's heart makes a valiant attempt to climb right out of his mouth and shatter on the floor. "The Bentley?" He asks weakly. "He paid you to look after the Bentley?"
A nod. "And I have! Kept it in a mate's garage, expecting that he'd come back for it, but it's been sixteen goddamned years and I haven't seen him since. Had a mind to finally sell it, then you turn up. Suspect he'd want you to have it."
Sixteen years—Crowley most likely hasn't been back to London, at least not to Soho, since just after Aziraphale returned to Heaven. He doesn't know what that means, but it can't be anything good. Did Hell take the opportunity to finally sink their claws in and drag him back?
"Yes," he says weakly to Mrs. Sandwich's expectant look. "I would very much like to have it. I—I can pay…." It won't be hard to miracle up whatever amount Mrs. Sandwich would like.
To his surprise she sighs and shakes her head. "That idiot lad already paid me more than enough, just take the bloody thing. I'll find the keys."
She disappears inside and he listens numbly to the sound of her rummaging, muttering curses under her breath. Eventually, there is a telling rattle of metal and she returns triumphant, extending the keys to him.
"Mate's garage is over in Hammersmith. You got a phone? I can put in the address."
"Ah, no," Aziraphale admits, sheepish.
She rolls her eyes and vanishes again. Desk drawers open and shut, a pen clicks. She shuffles back into view with a slip of paper extended, the address scrawled on it in a chicken scratch hand.
"Here."
"Thank you," Aziraphale says. "Thank you so much for all your help."
"Eh, I did it for him," Mrs. Sandwich says. "He was a good lad. Hope you find him, Mr. Fell."
"Me too," Aziraphale murmurs and prepares to transport himself to Hammersmith.
//
The garage, it turns out, is attached to an auto repair business, and the mate is an ex-boyfriend—a gruff man of few words who points Aziraphale in the direction of the tarp-covered car and grumbles about finally getting the space back. Beneath the tarp, the Bentley is nearly as pristine as Crowley always kept it, just a light layer of dust coating the interior that Aziraphale miracles away with a discreet flick of his fingers.
The sight of it brings a tangle of emotions to the surface, a terrible swelling in his throat to accompany the fresh, eternal ache in his chest. He manages to thank the garage owner, receiving a grunt and a nod in return, and carefully slides into the driver's seat. He expected the car to smell of Crowley—the spice of his cologne and that faint trace of smoke that always lingered underneath—but the scent of him is long gone, replaced by sterile cleaner and a hint of must. Placing his hands on the steering wheel feels both wrong and like a homecoming, a jagged missing piece slotting into place, even if it doesn't fit perfectly yet.
"Hello, old friend," he murmurs. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
For a terrible minute, he hopes for Crowley's voice to crackle through the radio—irate or happy or anything at all. Instead, the silence presses in, heavy and thick in the stale air. Aziraphale blinks back the intrusive burn of tears and throws the Bentley into drive, easing out of the garage.
He has no way of contacting Hell, doesn't even know who the current representative to Earth is since they've clearly moved flats. If Crowley is there, he is probably beyond reach, but. Well, on a slim chance that he's still on Earth somewhere, humans are the best at finding things, and Aziraphale doesn't know anyone quite as human as Adam Young.
//
Adam Young is thirty-one years old now and taller than Aziraphale when he opens the door of his parent's house in Tadfield. He wears his blonde hair long, pulled back from his face, and he's lost most of the baby fat in his cheeks, transforming from a mischievous boy into a handsome young man.
"You," he says, voice deep enough to startle Aziraphale. "I remember you."
"Hello, Adam," Aziraphale says, masking his shock with a smile. "It really has been quite some time, hasn't it?"
"Twenty years," Adam agrees, leaning against the doorframe. "I would invite you in, but you seem to be in a hurry."
Ah, in some ways Adam hasn't changed, it seems. That's a relief.
"Yes, ah, I'm sorry to just drop in like this, but I need your help finding someone. Crowley, actually. I need your help finding Crowley."
"The demon," Adam recalls with a nod. "With the glasses, I remember. You've lost him?"
"I'm afraid I have."
Adam steps out of the house and inclines his head in the direction of the garden, which has only grown in size since Aziraphale last drove past this house, what seems like two centuries ago rather than two measly decades. A table has been set up beneath the shade of a great oak tree and he settles in across Adam on one of the iron chairs.
"How are you?" He finds himself asking, unable to stop himself from making polite small talk after so many years in British society. "Your parents? Your friends?"
"I'm good," Adam says with a crooked grin. It brightens his face, shows a glimpse of the child he once was. "I work at an environmental nonprofit in London now, but I'm home for a couple weeks to help around the house. Dad was an idiot and twisted his ankle. Pepper's one of the directors at my work. Wensleydale's an accountant, also in London, and Brian stayed in Tadfield. Became a plumber."
Aziraphale smiles at the memory of the four spitfire children who took on the four horseman and won. It's a relief to know that they've all made it to adulthood and are out there living, thriving—another small crack in his heart mending.
"I'm glad," he says.
"You're not fine, though," Adam points out in the same blunt tone he had at eleven. "You're all wrong inside."
"Ah," Aziraphale flounders for an explanation that won't be too exposing. "It's been a … trying few years."
"And you've lost Crowley."
"Yes."
Adam hums and closes his eyes, drumming his fingers in an odd rhythm on the table top. Aziraphale waits, wishing foolishly for a cup of tea to occupy his hands with, soothe the anxiety thrumming in his nerves. He has the most ridiculous urge to fidget and he grips the arms of the chair to stop himself from giving in.
"He's south," Adam says eventually, and Aziraphale doesn't bother to ask how he knows, just lets out a shuddering exhale at the revelation that Crowley wasn't taken back to Hell. He's somewhere Aziraphale can reach him.
"He's by the sea, I think," Adam says. "His presence is … really faint."
The anxiety quickly floods back. "What does that mean?"
Adam shrugs. "He doesn't feel much like himself, but I don't know why."
"How does he normally feel?" Aziraphale asks, curious.
"Like stardust," Adam says. "And smoke. But right now it's just a tiny flicker."
"Do you know where south?" Aziraphale presses, also deciding not to dwell on Adam's cryptic statements—they're not helping the Worry. "Where by the sea?"
Adam hums, closing his eyes again. His brow furrows and his fingers tap faster. "Dorset. I think."
Dorset. A coastal town in Dorset, known for its rather large stretch of coastline. Aziraphale's grip on the chair turns white-knuckled and he exhales slowly through his nose. Getting upset at Adam also won't help anything, he reminds himself, and this is still more of a lead than he had a few hours ago.
"You can't narrow it down?" he still asks with weak hope.
It isn't a surprise when Adam shakes his head. "No, sorry."
Once again, Aziraphale forces a smile onto his face. He suspects they're getting less believable with each attempt, especially considering the look of open pity Adam is answering with. Best to ignore it, not let it pry open the already widening cracks in his armor even further.
"Well," he says, rising to his feet.
Adam stands with him, tall and lanky and all grown up. Strange, without Dog at his side, hands stuffed into the pockets of jeans that don't have any tears or stains but still too much knowing in his blue, blue eyes. Like he is peeling Aziraphale apart layer by blood layer—here is the grief; here is the shame; here is the sorrow; here, in the depths, is the burning, seething anger of wasted years; and here, beneath it all, is the love. As helpless as it's been for millennia, raw and terrifying and impossible.
"You'll find him," is all that Adam Young says, speaking with all the certainty of a prophet. Or maybe a boy who used to be (and still sort of is) the Antichrist.
As always, Azriaphale wants to believe him.
"Thank you for your help," he is all he says in response and leaves Adam Young in his parent's garden amongst trees heavy with fruit.
//
Aziraphale drives, winding his way south through green fields and rolling hills. He coaxes the Bentley down narrow country lanes and through quaint villages, slumped over the wheel and barely listening to the strains of Bach, then Beethoven, then Mozart trickling through the speakers as though the car is trying to soothe him. Once he reaches the coast of Dorset, his search becomes more methodical. He stops in each town, village, and hamlet and wanders, hoping desperately for a flicker of a presence he used to know better than breathing.
Smoke and stardust, Adam had said, and Aziraphale supposes that he was right. Crowley's aura used to feel heavy, layered—an abyss, an expanse of space, a curl of fire and woodsmoke, a hint of sulfur—but Aziraphale liked the weight of it. It served as a strange anchor, a reminder that he wasn't completely alone on this lonely side he'd chosen, and the current absence of it is a wound.
Well … another wound. Aziraphale really needs to stop counting them.
It is the fourth day of his search when he reaches Haddon, cradled in a shallow valley between long stretches of towering, sandstone cliffs. (Sandstone, Jurassic clay, and Cretaceous chalk, actually, according to the guidebook a kind stranger gave him about six towns ago.) Its downtown is mostly a cobblestone high street of cute little shops that reminds him of Soho and he's also seen about a dozen times now along this same stretch of coast. The high street leads to a small harbor full of fishing boats and a wide, sandy beach while the houses fan out into the hills and clifftops before miles of brilliant green pasture and forest takes over.
It is entirely unremarkable, but Azirphale remembers that he also hasn't technically eaten in over sixteen years and he would like the ritual of lunch. He spots a cafe near the beach end of the high street—a hand-written signboard outside promising a large selection of sandwiches —and quickly decides that will do. A bell chimes as he pushes open the glass door and a woman looks up from behind the pale blue counter. She's middle-aged, with brown hair and kind eyes, the sort of gentle, unassuming face that probably lowers walls, inspires confidences. In some ways, she reminds him painfully of Maggie.
Her handwritten name tag, pinned to the front of a black apron, declares her name to be Monica.
"Hello," she says in a soft voice, pairing it with a warm, welcoming smile. "You're a new face."
"Ah," Aziraphale says. "Yes. I'm just … passing through."
Monica gives him a further once over. "Love the bow tie."
He touches it, pleased and hearing Crowley in his head, complaining about tartan. "Oh. Thank you."
"What can I get you?"
The large chalk menu behind her is rather overwhelming, as is the pastry display at the front of the counter. "I'll, um—just browse for a moment."
"Of course."
The bell chimes again and Monica looks over his shoulder, her smile shifting from polite to something a little crooked, more familiar. "You're early," she says in a teasing tone.
Aziraphale freezes, mind blanking, as a faint trace of smoke brushes his own aura and a dear, familiar voice says, "I had to get away."
He spins around, Crowley's name on his lips, and stops again at the sight that greets him. The thin, lanky frame is the same, all sharp angles and endless legs, as are the planes of the face he knows every centimeter of, but there the similarities stop. The hair is reddish brown, much more auburn than the fiery color that Aziraphale is accustomed to, and mostly unstyled, left to brush Crowley's forehead in a haphazard way he normally never would have allowed. (And that's not even mentioning the beard, unlike any Crowley has sported before.) The skin is more freckled, weathered, almost ruddy—touched by sun and salt and sea wind. And the eyes…
Oh.
Aziraphale last saw those eyes amongst newly-birthed stars, lit by the glow of nebulae. Aziraphale last saw that gentle brown in an angel's face and the wrongness of it in this cafe is a scream lodged in the back of his throat. He watches, stunned, as they regard him without a drop of recognition, blinking in confusion at whatever horrible expression must be on his face.
The moment holds, awkward and tense, while Aziraphale casts about for something, anything to say that isn't a desperate whisper of Crowley's name. (For surely this must be him—what other explanation is there?) It seems, though, that his voice has abandoned him and he's saved by Monica's laughter from behind the counter.
"Who was it this time?" she asks, drawing Crowley's attention away.
"Edith," Crowley sighs, shoulders slumping. "She wanted another bouquet but after about thirty minutes of explaining the meaning of just about every bloody flower in the shop, I lost it."
"You know her memory isn't what it used to be," Monica says, though she sounds amused.
Crowley rakes a hand through his hair. Now that Aziraphale is getting over the shock of his changed eyes, he notices the attire. Straight-leg jeans, practical work boots, a soft green cardigan to combat the chill that still comes in on the ocean air, even though it's nearly June—none of which the Crowley that Aziraphale knows would be caught dead in. It's all so normal.
"Of course I know," Crowley is saying, still frustrated. "I do this with her every bloody week, don't I?"
"How did you escape this time?"
"I started lying to her about flower meanings—she won't remember, anyway."
Monica laughs, shaking her head, and Aziraphale wants to gape. It's clear that these two know each other, would probably be considered friends, and that isn't something Crowley has ever done. Not with humans. Not really with anyone but him.
It is impossible to define the sudden tangle of emotion in his chest.
"The usual?" Monica asks and Crowley swings his gaze back to Azirphale, who has to suppress a violent flinch at the sudden renewed attention.
"I believe this chap was first." He does the same scan of Aziraphale's person that Monica performed, eyebrows arching.
Your eyes are wrong, Aziraphale manages not to say. Instead, what comes out is a breathtakingly elegant, "Oh! I-um-I-I'm still deciding. Please-go-go ahead."
The eyebrows climb even higher, but Crowley nods. "The usual, then."
Monica sets about preparing what seems to be a sandwich that is mostly vegetable, humming quietly to herself, while Crowley fishes his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. As long fingers tap the screen, he glances up at Aziraphale.
"You're a new face," he notes, tone mild.
"Quite," Aziraphale says. "I'm, um, down from London. Actually, looking for a place to get away for a spell."
Monica looks over at that declaration, clearly remembering his earlier just passing through, but mercifully says nothing.
"Are you?" Crowley asks, accepting the sandwich that Monica hands over while simultaneously fishing around for his wallet.
"On the house," Monica says.
Crowley grimaces at her. "Oh, don't do that."
"You helped me with the garden last week."
"Because I owed you for picking Grace up."
"And I owed you before that for the package you delivered," Monica says primly. "Are we going to stand here and recite our entire history to each other or are you going to accept the food?"
This is obviously a well-trodden argument and Crowley's mouth is twitching as his shakes his head in defeat. "Fine."
"Good." Monica nods, firm.
Crowley turns back to Aziraphale. "Sorry, I meant to say that you're in luck. I manage some guest cottages—part of a big estate up on the cliffs—and we have one open. Want to book it?"
"Oh! Yes, that would be lovely," Aziraphale says, trying not to read this as some kind of fate.
Fate, as it were, has never been kind to either of them.
"Right, good," Crowley says, seemingly taken aback by the enthusiasm. "Well, order your lunch and then I'll take you to the shop to get everything set up."
"You have a shop?" Aziraphale asks, though he had been considering it a possibility based on Edith and her flowers. It's just hard to imagine Crowley actually dealing with customers.
"Garden shop, just up the road," Crowley says. "Ten minute walk."
"Excellent." Aziraphale approaches the counter, giving up on deciding himself. "What do you recommend for lunch?"
Which is how he ends up with a turkey sandwich, a packet of crisps, and a few pastries to go. The wind whistles as he follows Crowley out of the cafe, clouds stacking up over the ocean.
"Gonna rain later," Crowley murmurs, mostly to himself.
Alone on the street, Aziraphale is half expecting him to drop whatever this act is and demand to know why he's here—isn't he supposed to be running things in Heaven? But Crowley just inclines his head towards a narrow side street branching off the main thoroughfare and says, "this way."
Aziraphale follows, clutching his paper bag and wishing he knew what to say. "Uh … do I know you," he ventures carefully, "from somewhere? You seem familiar."
"You don't," Crowley says, blunt and blasé, and oh look, yet another wound. He's really accumulating quite the collection. "Sorry, you must have me confused with someone else." He pauses to extend a hand to Aziraphale. "Anthony Crowley."
Aziraphale has to swallow back his actual name, rummaging frantically in the recesses of his memory for the moniker he used most recently while on Earth. "Aza Fell. Aza with a zed, that is."
"Nice to meet you," Crowley says with a crooked smile. "Aza with a zed. C'mon."
He starts walking again, long legs covering an annoying amount of ground with each stride. This gait holds none of Crowley's old swagger—the way his body would sway, almost serpent-like, its own mesmerizing rhythm. It's still a little angry, a little rushed, but otherwise painfully normal, like everything about this new iteration.
(Should he start thinking of him as Anthony? Would that be easier? A demarcation drawn through his mind—do not cross this boundary into Before, there lies grief enough to drown you.)
Crowley—Anthony—guides Aziraphale down a few more winding streets to the edge of Haddon's central town. There, between cobblestone, old buildings, pasture, and beach, sits a shop. It has a dark green facade—the color of coniferous forest—with ivy clinging to it and gold lettering declaring the shop to be The Garden. Attached to the shop itself is a large, fenced in yard that contains both a greenhouse and rows of outdoor plants beneath the protection of a sprawling trellis.
"Oh!" Aziraphale exclaims. "It's lovely."
Anthony blinks at him, perhaps taken aback by the enthusiasm. "Thanks. It's not much, but we get by."
As they get closer, Aziraphale notices a sign hung in one of the large front windows, handwritten. Gone to lunch, it proclaims. Come bother me later. Anthony produces keys from the pocket of his jeans.
"I don't know why I bother," he mutters. "This town barely even has petty crime. The last exciting thing to happen was someone siphoned gas from a farmer's tractor last month. Guess old habits die hard."
The door swings open, the tinkle of a bell. How strange it is, to be stepping into Crowley's (Anthony, Anthony) shop when he spent over two centuries welcoming the demon into his, summoned by the bell to find him lingering in the doorway with sunglasses and a smirk and often a bottle of alcohol. The inside of Anthony's shop smells of earth and growing things, the air cloying and warm in spite of the chill outside.
The walls are lined with pots, various gardening supplies and plants, so many plants. They hang from the ceiling, overflow from display tables, cluster on the floor, nearly subsuming even the register. Anthony weaves through the organized chaos with practiced ease, prompting Aziraphale to continue following.
"Right," he says, booting up a fancy computer the likes of which Aziraphale stubbornly refused to procure for his bookshop, preferring to keep records on paper long after the practice went out of style.
Aziraphale watches, chest tight, as he picks up a pair of glasses from the counter and sets them on his face, squinting a little at the screen. They suit him, Aziraphale thinks. Even like this—practically a stranger—he's so handsome.
Heaven, Azirphale has missed him.
Keys clack and Anthony looks over at him. "One of the cottages is open," he says. "Like I mentioned. One bedroom, got a fully functioning kitchen, even a bit of a sea view. You'll be on the grounds of an estate, but you can come and go as you please. Just don't enter the main house—that's off limits."
"That sounds perfect," Aziraphale says. "Is the estate yours?"
Anthony barks out a sharp laugh. "God, no. I just manage the landscaping and somehow the owner roped me into managing the cottages, as well. She's … persistent." He sounds slightly haunted as he says that and Aziraphale decides not to pry.
"I'll take it."
More clacking. "For how long?"
"Is it available for the whole summer?"
That earns him a wide-eyed stare. "The whole summer?"
Aziraphale shuffles self-consciously, trying not to wring his hands. "Yes, if that's possible."
"Sure, it's possible. It just—it isn't cheap."
"I have the money," Aziraphale promises.
"I guess you would," Anthony says with a shake of his head. "Dressed like you stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. What do you do in London?"
"I collect rare and antique books," Aziraphale says and Anthony laughs again in disbelief.
"Of course you do," he says, sounding amused and perhaps even a little fond, though that could be Aziraphale's imagination. "And you're running away for the whole summer?"
"There are a lot of ghosts in the city," Aziraphale admits, more honest than he means to be. "I wanted a break. And you know what they always say in the books—come to the sea."
"Mmm," Anthony hums, "that they do. This place is gorgeous, though it clogs up with bloody annoying tourists in the summer."
"How long have you been here?" Aziraphale asks, hoping for more pieces to this bizarre puzzle.
Because just how did Crowley end up here, in a small coastal town miles from London, with wrong eyes and apparently no memory of being a demon? Did he tuck his essence away somewhere, like Gabriel did? Is he hiding from Hell?
Is he hiding from Aziraphale?
"Shit," Anthony says, "almost six years now. Too long. I've become part of the landscape—never thought that would happen."
Six years, which means ten are still missing. "Where were you before that?"
"London." Anthony's fingers paused on the keyboard. "But like you said—come to the sea. Right, can I have your home address?"
Aziraphale rattles off the address for the bookshop.
"Soho," Anthony notes. "Fancy. And your mobile number?"
"I-ah-don't have one," Aziraphale admits, thinking that he should probably change that now that he doesn't have a landline.
Another incredulous look. "You don't carry a mobile?"
"No. I've never liked them."
"Huh," Anthony says. "Guess that tracks with the fashion sense."
Aziraphale runs his hands over his vest. "There's nothing wrong with vintage," he says primly and Anthony smirks at him, teasing.
"No, course not." He swings the monitor around for Aziraphale to see. Displayed is a very official looking form with his name, address, and selected dates—today until the end of August. A number sits in bold on the bottom that Aziraphale guesses is probably exorbitant but he's never had a good sense of human currency. "This look good?"
"Yes, perfect," he replies. It's easy enough to press a hand to his pocket and miracle up a wallet with a working credit card, which he passes over and watches Anthony run through a little machine on the counter.
That done, Anthony opens a drawer and pulls out a key with a little honey bee chain. "This is yours," he says. "Cottage is pretty self-sustaining. No meal service, but if you'd like a cleaner to come by at any point, that's available for an extra fee." He plucks a business card from a little display and sets it next to the key. "You need anything, ring the shop—someone will answer during business hours. If it's urgent, there's a booklet in the cottage with all the important numbers."
Aziraphale nods dutifully, pocketing the key.
"Since you don't carry a mobile, I'll print directions for you," Anthony continues, all business now. "But it's pretty simple. Just follow the sea road out from the center of town and let it take you up to the cliffs. Turn left at the first crossroads and go for about three miles or so and you'll see the entrance to the estate. Follow the drive around the back to the woods and the cottages are all there."
More nodding—he feels a bit like a bobblehead display in a trinket shop. Anthony clicks the mouse and a printer whirs to life from the backroom. As Anthony disappears to the collect the directions, the bell above the door chimes again and a female voice calls, "dad!"
Aziraphale abruptly forgets to breathe, mind blanking, a slate wiped suddenly clean. This can't be, right? Surely—
"One sec!" Anthony calls back.
Carefully restarting his lungs, Aziraphale turns slowly to face the teenage girl that's just entered the shop. He's bad at human ages, but he'd place her anywhere from fifteen to eighteen, and immediately he knows that she has to be Anthony's daughter. She has his height, his lanky frame, and his warm brown eyes. Her hair is a lighter shade of red, closer to a strawberry blonde, and much wavier than his, brushing her shoulders, while her face is rounder with youth, but the similarity is uncanny.
Impossible, Aziraphale thinks, screams. Impossible. Angels and demons can't….
"Oh, hello," the girl says, blinking owlishly at him. "Nice outfit."
Anthony reappears, clutching several sheets of paper. "He's a customer, darling," he scolds, though his tone is fond. "Be polite."
"I was complimenting him!" The girl insists and Anthony shakes his head.
"Sorry," he says to Aziraphale. "This is my daughter, Grace. Grace, this is Mr. Fell. He's renting one of the cottages for the summer."
Grace looks baffled again. "The whole summer?"
Aziraphale miraculously locates his voice. "Yes. Haven't had a holiday in years. Getting away from the city for a spell." He does a little bow. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Grace."
"Sure," Grace says, mimicking him. "Likewise."
"Here are the directions," Anthony says, handing the printout over. "Enjoy your stay."
"I'm sure I will," Aziraphale says and practically flees the shop.
He gets slightly lost on his way back to the high street, but when he finally slides behind the wheel of the Bentley again, he lets out the stunned gasp that he's been swallowing down. Crowley has a daughter. Crowley has been living as a human for at least the past six years in this seaside town, doesn't remember him, and has a teenage daughter. Judging from her approximate age, she must have been born not long after Aziraphale returned to Heaven.
None of this makes a lick of sense, but one step at a time. He puts the Bentley in drive and carefully follows the printed instructions out of the village and towards the cliffs. The view from the top of them is breathtaking—an endless expanse of ocean and cloud-laden sky. The estate is breathtaking too. A sprawling manor house sits perched in the middle of extensive, perfectly manicured gardens, right on the edge of a glimmering lake. The willow-lined drive takes him through a small copse of forest and to a cluster of cottages, each with their own little fence and garden.
His has a matching bee on the door and sits at the far edge, with a view through the pines to the distant sea. The door groans on old hinges, a weary greeting, and Aziraphale finds himself immediately pleased with the interior. It is spotless and homely, with a timeless feel that reminds him of his bookshop—original wood floors and ceiling beams, careworn, comfortable furniture that could be from a number of different eras all arranged around a large stone fireplace, a kitchen with modern appliances set into old cupboards, a four poster bed with a quaint quilt draped over it, and a massive wardrobe occupying an entire wall of the small bedroom.
Yes, this will do. Seems like a perfectly respectable place to lose his mind.