Chapter Text
Tadfield was very nice, because, frankly, of course it was. Crowley had only been a vague accessory to the Dowlings’ relocation plans, but the family had been consumed with such decisions as square footage and commuting distances for nearly an entire year. His favorite had been the week Mr. Dowling was obsessed with deciding which of their possible new homes was in the best school district. Warlock wouldn’t even be going to those schools. That was the point of Crowley, and he’d already agreed to move with them by then.
He’d wanted to get out of the city. It probably wasn’t a move he’d have ever actually taken on his own, but now, walking down a quiet street of houses with gardens and trees taller than the buildings, he couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was wrong with him. This was what he’d always pictured for himself. In various shapes and colors, but he’d never planned to spend his whole life in the city.
The Dowlings’ new house was out towards the edge of the village, just barely within walking distance of the three or four streets that qualified as a town center. It meant the house was huge, and had a lot of empty land someone was going to have to figure out how to take care of, and Mr. Dowling could still get excited by the prospect of his son biking into town the way he probably never actually had when he was a kid. Crowley had decided to test that theory out. Besides, he’d finished moving into his new set of rooms the day before. Warlock and his parents would be showing up sometime after lunch with the last of the furniture and boxes. He had just a little bit of time to explore his new home by himself.
The houses got noticeably more quaint three blocks or so from the Dowlings’ house. Not that there were really blocks out that way, to begin with. The houses were all too big. But most of Tadfield lived in cottages and houses of reasonable size, once he passed the outliers.
A few blocks in, an enthusiastic ringing of bicycle bells made him turn. A pair of preteens flew past, one speeding ahead while the other craned her head to squint at him as she went by. Crowley raised a hand in greeting, one eyebrow quirking behind his sunglasses. Small town. He’d forgotten how that could be. Probably every kid in a mile radius would know there was someone new in town within the hour.
He also made note of the direction the kids were coming from. They looked to be Warlock’s age. It would be good to be able to tell him there were kids he could try to make friends with living nearby.
There were other people out as well. It was a Sunday morning, and just far enough into spring that the more daring were starting to go out without a jacket. Crowley wasn’t one of them—he wore a leather jacket like it was a breastplate, defending him against preconceptions of nannyhood—but even he had to admit that as long as he was in the sun he’d probably be more comfortable in a T-shirt. He might have to restructure his dresser organization. He hadn’t expected to be craving his sundresses so soon.
Nearly all of Tadfield was strictly residential, minus the handful of tiny businesses that ran out of their owners’ homes. It was going to be an adjustment. No more 2am chip runs. No more window shopping or taking a different underground route to work on a whim. That was part of why he wanted to scope out the place early. He had to know what his options were.
And there was something infuriatingly refreshing about not having to think about the bus route he wouldn’t take. London was huge, and he’d still always felt like he had to go out of his way to avoid a particular neighborhood he never wanted to step foot in again. There was only one neighborhood in Tadfield. And it could be all his. No memories attached.
The weather and the irresistible hope of a fresh start put a spring in his step as he made it to the first building actually dedicated to doing business. It was a New Age trinket shop, of all things. One window was full of tarot decks and books on constellations. The other had a placard announcing a weekly LGBTQ book club (all welcome; books available for lending) and a biweekly tea tasting club (tea leaf reading NOT practiced). Crowley snorted at that. There was a story there, and he was almost curious enough to investigate. But the ringing of bicycle bells ahead caught his attention, and he looked up to see the pair of riders who had passed him before swing widely around a bend and pull up to a corner just as another boy raced down another street to meet them. A moment later, a fourth pedaled—much more serenely—to meet the others, and after a very brief discussion, they all took off together.
He was going to have to look into how to teach someone to ride a bike. Thad would buy Warlock one in a heartbeat, but he was much too busy at work to take the time to teach his son how to use it.
“Hello?”
Crowley jumped. The door to the occult shop behind him had opened, and a young woman in a profoundly practical blouse and rolled up overalls was leaning out. He blinked, then was embarrassed for it. His whole schtick was upending what people expected of a nanny. He shouldn’t have been caught off guard to find the owner of a witchy shop didn’t wear all velvet and dark Victorian skirts.
“Er. Hi,” he said.
She looked him up and down briskly, then tilted her head. “The tea, or the book club?”
“…sorry?”
“You were staring at the sign.”
“Oh. I mean, that is the point of it, right? To catch attention?” As ever, as soon as he’d let his mouth run, his brain caught up and recognized the sharpness in her tone. “Ngk. Shit. It was the tea. The no leaf reading thing. Queer as they come, me, don’t worry.”
The sharpness in the young woman’s eyes didn’t disappear, only stopped aiming directly at him. “Want a flyer?”
Crowley’s nose scrunched up. “No thanks. Not a tea person.”
“I didn’t think so. You just moved into that huge new house on Oak Street, right?”
“Well… sort of. Yeah. It’s not mine, though.”
She looked him up and down again, more thoroughly. “My name’s Anathema. I meant a book club flyer. I think you should come.”
“Ah.” Crowley tried not to squirm, which was a lot harder than it should have been under Anathema’s gaze. “Not a great reader, me. Probably couldn’t keep up.”
Anathema shrugged. “To be frank, half the group usually hasn’t read up to the goal most weeks. No pressure, but, you know, we won’t be assholes about it, if you’re behind. Good time to try it out, too, if you want, we’ve got another two weeks of this book before we start the next one. You could get a head start, if you wanted.”
And, despite the squirming embarrassment that he’d always known things like bookclubs weren’t for him, and the fact he’d known this woman for all of two minutes and had no reason to believe she wasn’t just trying to sell him something later, there was a distinct pull yanking him gently towards the idea. He hadn’t really had a group of friends since his second shot at university. And even then, he’d spent half his time working and the other half frantically studying, with things like socializing a distant third.
Fuck it, he decided. New starts. And if Warlock, budding goth supreme, could make his Goal For The Move be making friends, so could Crowley.
“Yeah, I—sure, I guess. When do you meet?”
“Thursdays, mostly. Sometimes we do a Sunday afternoon just to shake things up.”
“I usually work weekends.” Technically he didn’t, but his contract with the Dowlings included abundantly fair bonuses for babysitting during times he was technically off, as long as they gave him enough notice. He almost never had anything he’d prefer to do over spending a little time with Warlock.
“That’s fine. We take votes before moving anything. You can show up before we change books if you want to meet everyone.”
“Might do.”
“Cool.”
A car pulled into a parking spot in front of the shop, and a woman with a very large handbag got out, waving to Anathema with all the yoo-hoo spirit possible in a gesture. Anathema waved back, stepping aside to let her into the shop. “Hi, Mrs. Tyler. I’ll be with you in one moment. Yes, he’s good, weather has been nice, how are you?” It took very little perception skill to see the change in Anathema’s expression as soon as an actual customer—or one of this particular type, at least—was the object of it. Crowley immediately felt a little better about the whole thing. This was clearly Anathema’s customer service persona. That meant he’d been getting something at least a little more real.
“One sec.” She ducked inside to rummage around in a box attached to the inside wall, and popped back out with a bright teal flyer. “It’s got my email on if you have any questions. You can just show up, or not, no bother.”
“Got it. Thanks, er, Anathema.”
She threw him a preemptively tired sort of salute, and turned inside to face Mrs. Tyler.
Crowley considered the flyer. Despite the color of the paper, it was a very calm, orderly poster. Date, time, location, a list of the next few months’ planned reading. In a little box in one corner was a suggestion to “buy (or lend) local!” with a list of shops that carried the books as well as the address of the local library. Another thing he’d have to look into, he supposed. Might be a good place to take Warlock, when he had schoolwork to do.
There was only one address among the bookshops that he recognized. Blossom Street was another block or two up, he was pretty sure. He’d already planned to take a look at a hair salon up that way. Might as well pick up the book club’s next book, if he really was going to take a stab at getting ahead on it.
Anathema’s street was still vaguely residential, other than another two small shops and a pizza place, but the next street up was clearly the town center. From the corner Crowley could see signs for the post office, two pubs, and a whole menagerie of quaint little stores. Also, there was a sign. Someone was very intent that outsiders like him know that, despite the houses crowding in on all sides and the flats over nearly every storefront, this was the place where people came to do business.
And walk dogs, of course. And go for strolls and sit on pleasant looking benches near a little square of greenspace just up the road. Crowley couldn’t help staring at the tiny park for a moment. Back home, that would be considered an exorbitant amount of plant life. Here, surrounded by trees and grassy yards all of two blocks away, it seemed exorbitantly funny.
He nodded politely to the people sitting on the benches, though. Most of them nodded back. Two or three smiled, and it made him feel like smiling to himself, too. He’d never actually liked the casual rudeness he put on so easily in the city. It was what he had to be to get through the day. It was part of why he liked kids, he thought; they were so much more willing to react to what he was actually doing, and not the gap between it and what they expected. Here, though. He had no plans on being chipper, or even really cheery, but to be seen as nice would be… nice. Kind. He’d like kind, if he could manage it.
He crossed paths with the four bicycle riders again as he crossed over to Blossom Street. One of the boys, on a battered blue bike that clearly had not been painted professionally, was in the lead, directing the others through the maze of streets. The girl who’d noticed Crowley on the first pass was keeping a close second, occasionally zipping forward ahead of the others, but always circling back, despite rolled eyes and complaints to come on, already. On one of these circle backs, she spotted Crowley again, and gave him another good squint. He waved again, trying not to laugh. One of the boys noticed his friend staring and turned too, and then in a clatter of near-missed bicycle wheels all four were looking at him.
The boy who’d been at the front waved back. Crowley resisted the urge to wave yet again. He shoved his hands in his pockets instead. In the time that took him, a rapid argument was had across the street, and a moment later the kids were off again back down the road past him.
“Hi!” the one in the lead called as they passed him by. “I like your coat!”
By the time Crowley had looked down to remember what jacket he was wearing, they were all gone around the corner of the post office, bike bells and laughter the only things left behind.
Probably not a bad kid to introduce to Warlock, that one. Decent sense of fashion, if nothing else.
The hair salon looked pretty standard. It was hard to get a read on whether they’d be weird about a man coming in with long hair like his, but he’d have to try eventually.
He was half way up the rest of the block to the appealing little building that housed the bookshop when he realized, actually, he might not. Anathema would probably be able to tell him where people would be chill about his gender choices. She’d probably like to, even.
He was a bit absorbed in the frank weirdness that was discovering he could rely on someone for something like that, and wasn’t paying full attention as he climbed the few steps to the bookshop door. A bell tinkled cheerily as he went in. There were big picture windows to each side of the door, one of which was displaying books to the sidewalk and the other of which was simply letting in lots of sunlight. Crowley couldn’t help looking in the sun patch on the sill to see if there was a cat. He’d always liked the idea of bookshop cats. Not that it had ever been an option, he was allergic as could be, but this wasn’t that bookshop. This one could have a cat. This one could have him, wandering the shelves, not burdened by memories or what ifs creeping over his shoulder.
Unless there was a cat. One or the other. His choice would be the cat, if it were up to him.
The place seemed to be organized with the new books at the front and used ones past the first few shelves, according to friendly looking signs posted on the sides of shelves. Right up by the front counter was a small table draped in patchy tie dye that, upon closer inspection, was a sort of gentle rainbow. Crowley’s suspicions were confirmed by the stack of teal flyers in one corner, weighed down with a polished bit of purple crystal. Anathema was not entirely anathema to her expected aesthetic, it seemed.
There weren’t a lot of books on the table; probably the tiny village queer book club didn’t get new members awfully often. But there was a gently used copy of the novel labeled on the flyer as the next read. He flipped through it a little. When he did choose to read, it was almost never novels. Not adult ones, at least. And, strictly speaking, the kids’ books he read for work weren’t really his choice, either. Lifting his sunglasses up, he squinted at the text and sighed. Small and tightly packed, as ever. For the upteenth time in his life, he wished he had the attention span for audiobooks. It would make his life so much easier.
A door closed at the back of the shop. “Be with you in one moment,” a voice called.
“No rush,” Crowley called back. There was a little nook with a loveseat and a pair of stools squeezed into the corner between the window and the front counter. He plopped down, peering out at the picturesque sidewalk and the various new neighbors strolling along it. This might be a nice place to take Warlock, too. If they bought a book or two every so often, the owner might let them hang around and do work, as long as the shop wasn’t too busy. It seemed like the kind of town where that was a thing. Seemed like the kind of place where people trusted—
“Ah, hello th—”
There was a loud thump, and a strangled sound. Crowley looked up to find a stack of hardbacks scattered on the floor. Then he looked farther up and made a strangled sound of his own.
“Aziraphale?”
The bookseller—he was always meant to be a fucking bookseller, it was what he was— made another wordless noise, now a bit closer to scandalized than sheer shock. His cheeks were turning completely red under the reading glasses perched on his nose.
His hair was shorter. It had always been just on the edge of curls, just on the edge of mess. Now it was a shock of white fluff kept out of his face by its own anti-gravitational preferences.
It looked good on him, and that made Crowley furious.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
“What—what am I? This is my shop! I live here!”
“But this is Tadfield!”
“And this is A.Z. Fell’s Used Books. My place.”
Fuck. He hadn’t even looked at the sign. The flyer had just said “local used bookstore.” He wanted to kill Anathema for not being more specific, and that wasn’t fair, and that made it worse.
“Can’t go to one fucking bookstore,” he muttered.
Aziraphale stiffened. “So it would seem. Can I help you, or are you simply here to ruin my morning?”
Crowley resisted the urge to grit his teeth. His dentist had warned him about that. He held up the book in his hand. “Just getting this. Thank you.”
Motions measured, Aziraphale picked up the books he had dropped and stacked them fussily on the counter before going around to the till. He took off his glasses, letting them hang from the chain around his neck, because of fucking course they did. Crowley put the book on the counter and then shoved both hands in his pockets, where he could let them go white knuckled in peace. Aziraphale’s spine was so straight as he checked Crowley out he could have been on a scarecrow’s pole.
“Not your usual thing, if I remember,” he deigned to point out as he put the receipt inside the front cover.
“It’s been a long time,” Crowley snapped back.
“Only a comment.”
“Save it. Things change. I’m joining a damn book club.”
Aziraphale froze, hand still on the book. His spine had been straight. Now it was positively skyward. “A bookclub.”
“Yes.”
“This one?” He pointed accusingly at the rainbow covered table.
“Yes.”
“You’re staying?”
He sounded absolutely dismayed. It was as encouraging as it was ruinous. “Moved in yesterday.”
“Of course you did. I can never be anywhere for long before you show up.”
“Hey, I was in Soho way before you got there.”
“And I was in Tadfield first!”
“Well you’re stuck with me now. Sorry to ruin more than your morning.” Yanking the book out from under Aziraphale’s hand, he stormed to the door. “Goodbye, Aziraphale.”
“Good bye.”
The bell over the door was a lot less cheerful when it was followed by the door slamming.
Crowley stood on the sidewalk for a minute, then realized he was still in front of the windows and hurried off, not paying any attention to where he was going, just needing to be out of Aziraphale’s potential eyeshot so he could have a fucking breakdown in peace. The sidewalk was suddenly too crowded, which was impossible given his standards were London, but he desperately wanted two seconds on his own.
His feet took him back towards the residential streets. Backtracking under auto-pilot, he had very nearly reached an empty, quiet block, when he turned a corner and found himself faced with a ladder in his path.
He’d made it back to Anathema’s shop. She was up the ladder now, repainting the wooden sign over the door, but when she saw him she put down the paintbrush and folded her arms on the top of the ladder, looking down at him.
She stared for a moment. Crowley stared back, not really capable of anything more at the moment. “I’ve got coffee, but it’s just decaf,” she finally said.
“…is that an offer?” Crowley managed.
“Of decaf coffee, yes. And a chat. I don’t read coffee grounds, either, don’t get started.”
“Why? The—not the coffee grounds, the coffee. Me. You’re working.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. And I’ll be frank, that’s the kind of thing my business relies on.”
“Ghosts?” Crowley was feeling more lightheaded and turned around with every word. With Anathema up the ladder, Crowley felt oddly like he was in a courtroom, being looked down at from above by the judge.
“Yeah. Ghosts are great. Also, I’m worried you’re not going to make it home without keeling over.”
“You’ve known me for all of twenty minutes total.”
“And you are currently the second palest man I have ever met, when you were maybe tenth this morning. Come in. I need to talk to somebody who’s not a Mrs. Tyler type, anyway.”
By the time Crowley had decided a little sit down wouldn’t be a bad idea, Anathema had already put the ladder and paints away. She left them unattended on the sidewalk while she led Crowley inside.
“I can’t stay too long. Family’s going to be here soon, and I told Warlock I’d help him unpack.”
“That’s fine. It’s instant coffee anyway.”
Crowley couldn’t even find it in him to be dismayed by that. “Wasn’t a ghost, either. In case you’re hoping for a haunting.”
“It usually isn’t. Here.”
She had led him to a little sitting nook in the back of the main shop. It was still in the same room, but a tapestry and a bit of creative furniture placement gave it the illusion of cozy privacy. There was a kettle and a single-cup coffee maker, as well as a plate of wrapped biscuits and another sign reminding customers that there was NO tea leaf reading offered.
The armchair he fell into was surprisingly comfy, despite the duct tape he could see holding one leg together. “My fucking ex is here,” he burst out. Then he took his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose and said again, “My goddamn fucking ex.”
“Ah,” Anathema said, already handing him a cup. It almost seemed like she must have had the coffee ready in advance, but he was too worked up to think on it too hard.
“How many tiny little villages are there in this country?”
“A lot.”
“And how many fucking exes do I have?”
Anathema raised an eyebrow over her tea mug.
Crowley collapsed backward, letting his breath whoosh out of him. “One. Exactly one man in the world I would like to not see again, and where does he live?”
“You didn’t know he was here?”
“Nope.” He sipped his coffee. It wasn’t terrible, and that didn’t change his mood. “Figured he’d still be gathering dust in that rickety shop in Soho.” He laughed bitterly. “Didn’t think he’d ever actually leave.”
“Ran into him in the street?”
“Worse. Waltzed right into his shop. Got this, though.” He held up the book club book. “That pissed him off, I think.”
“Wait. Is this Aziraphale?”
Crowley squinted at her. “Yeah. What?”
Anathema’s head tilted. “Huh.”
Crowley opened his mouth to interrogate that, but a clock in the shop chimed, and when he checked his watch he realized he only had an hour until the Dowlings were supposed to arrive. He needed to get back to the house. He felt he needed a good scream, and that was easier to explain when the house was empty.
He put his half full coffee down on the table. “I have to go. See you, I guess.”
“Yeah. Feel free to come to the book club meeting this week. Don’t worry about the reading.”
Crowley paused at the door. “Does he—you know, does Aziraphale? Come to it?”
Anathema’s eyes took on a new flavor of sharpness. “Not usually. Sundays, sometimes, but rarely on Thursdays.”
“Got it. Cool. Yep.”
“See you later, Crowley.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
Outside, Tadfield was well on its way from a pretty Sunday morning to a lazy afternoon. Crowley stomped home, hoping he’d have enough time for a shower on top of his scream.
The sun felt much too hot, now.