Chapter Text
art by Moon
He came to the obvious conclusion little by little. The signs were there, but Aziraphale had never been a person to discredit science in favour of superstition.
If Gabriel fell off a perfectly sturdy chair that was in tip-top condition, it was because he’d broken it, not because of ethereal foul play. If all his books had been reorganised into spelling rude words with the first letters of their titles, it just had to be some prankster customer’s work, even if clients were few and far between. If there was a penis drawn on the fog of his bathroom mirror when he walked out of the shower that day, he must not have been as thorough with his cleaning as he had thought.
But even he, a man of reason, could not deny the evidence that came with a teacup floating before his eyes.
FIVE MONTHS EARLIER
The real estate agent twirled around the open space. The prancing was something Aziraphale had gotten used to ignoring after months of hunting down the perfect space with him. However, he could see the boredom and annoyance behind the agent’s faux grin, which had tinted his demeanor ever since Aziraphale had turned down a perfectly good flat because it was ‘too modern’ and another property because ‘it was too draughty’. After all, Aziraphale had standards.
“What do you think?” the man asked in an American accent. A small glint bounced on his perfect gold name tag, where it read “Gabriel” instead of “Mr Archer” as a ridiculous way to encourage closeness with his clients. Gabriel gestured around, insistent. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
Aziraphale ignored him. Instead, he took the time to look at the built-in bookshelves, running his hand over the wooden bannister of the stairs.
For the first time in all the months since he had started looking for a place of his own, and after having visited and turned down dozens of properties, Aziraphale could picture it. His fern by that window. His desk over there. Books filling every shelf, covering every wall. The kettle steaming in the kitchen. Reading a book on a chair in that area where the sun was coming in. Maybe a picture frame somewhere? And of course, his art supplies in the upstairs room on the left, right by his bedroom.
Aziraphale imagined the life he could have there. It was big enough that he could build a family in such a place at some point. A partner. 1.5 kids. Maybe even a dog, the kind that children love. But not the kind that yap a lot. The images were vivid, a beige blur of anonymous people he would love and cherish.
He smiled as he deposited his scarf on the reading nook by the window and said firmly through the incessant white noise of a chattering Gabriel, “I'll take it.”
The stunned silence in the room was a stark contrast to the realtor's incessant ramblings. Gabriel had apparently been interrupted mid-sentence. “You'll take it?”
Aziraphale turned around and curtailed his smile into mild politeness. “I like it here. It’s cozy. Please, send me the paperwork.”
And that was that. One month later, a moving truck filled to the brim arrived outside Aziraphale’s new home. That morning, the soon-to-be bookshop was covered in boxes upon boxes of books. Aziraphale walked in, took a deep breath, and began to work on making his new place a home.
It would take him a whole week to reorganise his belongings in a way that made sense to him, and that had any sort of capacity to actually be functional. After week three, his walls were covered in books, his desk gathered knicknacks, and tea cups littered his kitchen sink. It was perfect.
Opening the bookshop was a different ordeal. Everything he could sell that hadn’t fit on the shelves was in piles, covering every surface available. He had his name hung on the front of the building and painted on the shop windows by the best professionals he could afford. When all was ready, he bought a few cases of good wine, invited over the shopkeepers nearby, and hosted a small gathering with food and dance that everyone enjoyed. A man with a moustache kept pestering him with questions through the night, and after clever use of passive-aggressive politeness, he forced Aziraphale to sign a form to join the Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Street Traders Association, whatever monstrosity that was.
Another man, dressed in yellow, hung around him that night, obviously wanting to say something but not daring to. The entire event had passed before, amid goodbyes, he asked Aziraphale for a word.
Mr Mutt (his name tag read) wrung his hands. “Mr Fell, I believe I should warn you.”
“Warn me?” Aziraphale regarded him with a curious expression. Was he about to be threatened, this late in the evening? As per the rules Mr Brown had presented to him in a flyer, he would probably have to report it, and that’d bring paperwork, so he surely hoped not.
“You have bought a haunted house.”
Well. That was not what he had been expecting at all. Aziraphale pursed his lips to try and hide an amused smile. “My dear fellow, I’m sorry but... I don’t think I—”
“Mr Fell, you have to believe me.” The man wrung his hands together, eyebrows furrowed in concern. If Aziraphale wagered all of his money — which frankly didn’t amount to all that much after his big move, but the point remained — he would have pinned Mr Mutt as worried.
“Ghosts aren’t real,” Aziraphale tried to reason.
Mr Mutt smiled ruefully. “Oh, but they are. And your new home confirms it.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“If you don’t yet, you will soon. Here’s my card, in case you ever need help.” He handed Aziraphale a business card that read ‘Benedict Mutt, Purveyor of the Occult’, and left to answer his spouse’s beckoning. Aziraphale stood in silence for a full minute before remembering his hosting duties and bidding the other shopkeepers goodbye. The business card weighed heavy in the front pocket of his shirt. At the end of the day, he would leave it in his nightstand drawer and shut that matter off completely.
Or so he thought.
Aziraphale was not fussy when it came to order, but he was about cleanliness. Having been brought up in a house in the countryside, he didn’t dare leave food where bugs and mice might encounter it. Tea cups and glasses of water were a different matter, forgotten everywhere through the course of the day, but at night, he would sweep the shop and hunt down every stray piece of glassware he had abandoned. It was a game of ‘what is the oddest place I can look for this mug’, and sometimes he surprised even himself.
One night after a long shift, though, he found himself with a fever, and decided to leave his game for the following day. It would be okay, not much to worry about. He would rather rest, let his flu symptoms fade into the nothingness of sleep. But overnight, slithering noises and footsteps filled his dreams. They went close and far, up and down the stairs, like someone roaming the shop and clunking and clattering their way around the shop. He woke up with the peculiar sensation of having been watched.
He went down to find a glass of water, knowing full well he might need to hunt one down. Instead, he found his cups and glasses all washed and left to dry in the rack. He frowned at them, puzzled. As he rubbed his eyes, he wondered just how high a fever he had had to sleepwalk around the house with this task in mind, and promptly forget about it.
His symptoms eventually improved, and with his recovered energy, he regained his nightly routine, making up his mind not to let the shop revert to being a cemetery of mugs again. He tried to clean after himself as he went, to gather dishes and cutlery too. It was tough not to slip back to old ways, but he was resolved. It would last as long as it did, but apparently he was getting quite good at it: whenever he thought he missed one, in the morning it’d be in the rack right by the others.
What he did mind, however, were the nightly noises of the old bones of the house. Footsteps resounded as if they were inside his home. Insomnia was a difficult thing to deal with, but he didn’t do much other than offer an off-handed comment to his neighbours, who in turn promised they weren’t to blame. Aziraphale accepted their excuses with a polite smile and a nod. Still, he hoped it would get better now that he had mentioned it.
But it didn’t. The slithering continued, the footsteps lingered, echoing along the old floors and walls. One night, they grew so loud that Aziraphale got up and, with a huff, put on his clothes and shoes. He turned on the light in the shop and, as he was about to storm down the stairs, he realised the only footsteps falling were his own. He stopped, puzzled, and waited. No more noises came. Confused, wondering if his dreams were filtering into reality and resolving to ask a doctor about his sleeping issues, he went back to bed and willed himself to be swept to Morpheus’ reign once more.