Chapter Text
As the unofficial leader of the loosely organized Tumbledown Garden Club, Anthony Crowley had always taken it upon himself to be a kind of welcome ambassador to any new village arrivals. He liked to make sure everyone felt included in the lifestyle here in the place which had declared itself many years ago, with almost no justification whatsoever, as The Best Gardening Village in England.
But the latest addition to Tumbledown, one Aziraphale Fell, was not making his task easy.
The obviously custom-made wooden sign on the front door of the fellow’s cottage should have been a big, fat clue. I’M NOT AN INTROVERT. I JUST DON’T LIKE PEOPLE. Crowley, however, was an eternal optimist, and he refused to believe that anyone in their right mind would object to a gesture of friendliness, especially when it was accompanied by the box of freshly baked raspberry scones he’d picked up at the village bakery that morning.
So he ignored the sign and knocked. It was half past nine, a safe enough time to greet someone, right? A bright, sunny May morning, in fact, when sensible people should be up and about enjoying the day. The roses were starting to bloom in Fell’s front garden, there were sparrows chittering in the hedgerow along his herbaceous border, and all was right with the world. Well, at least, this little part of it, here in the South Downs.
The knock went unanswered. Crowley hesitated. Should he try again? The man appeared to be home, judging by the car in the driveway. It was an extraordinary vehicle. He had paused to look it over before heading for the front porch, because he’d never seen an antique Bentley before. The car was in pristine condition and had obviously had a paint job, judging by that amazing shade of yellow. He was extremely curious to know more about the person who owned such a prize, but all he had so far was the man’s name, thanks to the local estate agent who had sold the cottage.
Maybe Fell was a night owl, still asleep. But then Crowley thought he heard movement inside, so he opted to try knocking just one more time.
Aziraphale Fell was definitely up, but apparently not in a bright or sunny mood. The front door creaked open a few inches, showing a dark interior. Crowley barely made out a bleary-eyed man with unruly blond hair who was wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown. The man grunted. “Go away, please.”
Well, at least he was polite with his grumpiness. “Sorry.” Crowley held out the bakery box. “I brought you a Welcome to the Village gift. Raspberry scones. They’re still warm.” It was probably too much to hope for an invitation to come inside to share them over morning tea or coffee, but you never knew, so he added a beaming smile. “I’m Anthony Crowley from the garden club. We’re all dead keen on gardening here, as you no doubt know. You’ve got a great one, thanks to the previous owner. These roses used to win blue ribbons every year at our summer garden festival.” He paused, waiting for a sign of sociability. When all Fell did was stare at him, and then rub a hand over his eyes with a yawn, Crowley decided to just plough right on with his usual speech to new villagers.
“So, yeah. Anyway, we’re a friendly bunch on the whole. Best way to get to know everybody is to pop into The Spade and Trowel pub. It opens at eleven, and the food and drink are fabulous. Always some of the locals about pretty much anytime, though evenings are the most lively. The Garden Club meets there every Thursday starting at seven.” He tried another warm smile. “Welcome to Tumbledown!”
Fell grunted again. “I am not in the visiting mood today. Go away.” Then he shut the door.
Of all the rude—
And then the door suddenly swung open. Fell reached for the bakery box, snatched it close to his chest, and then slammed the door shut again.
Crowley gaped. What the bloody hell? He felt like kicking the door, but managed to restrain that urge. Instead he simply said, “Bollocks to you, too!” Only he didn’t say it that loudly, and doubted Fell heard it.
As he strode off down the path to the road, he had a number of unkind thoughts about the village’s newest inhabitant. Of all the ruddy nerve! Who, exactly, did Mr. Aziraphale Fell — and what kind of name was that anyway — bloody well think he was?!?
Well, one thing he was, as far as Crowley was concerned, was a challenge.
Nobody snubbed his amiable, heartfelt overtures and got away with it. Nobody got to move to his charming, cozy village without making friends with everyone who frequented the pub. He was damned well going to make sure Mister I Don’t Like People joined in the fun of their convivial village life, as well as their gardening mania, whether he wanted to or not.
And that was all there was to that.
*
“No, Mother, I am perfectly fine.” Aziraphale sat at his dining table, the mobile on speaker so he could sip his tea and munch on a raspberry scone. “And I am not losing my mental faculties, either.”
“I am not convinced,” she replied. “Sane people do not simply leave London for an out-of-the-way village no one has ever heard of. What were you thinking?”
“As I have explained before—” He nearly added, "if you had bothered to pay attention,” but stopped himself in time. He cleared his throat. “As I said, I cannot live in the same city as that man any longer, and he was quite clearly staying put. Thus, my relocation.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. People move on from relationships without moving away. You broke up over a year ago, and you stayed put all this time. Why leave now? So what if he’s in the same city? It’s a huge city!”
“Yes, however, we move in the same circles. We kept crossing paths at book events of one sort or another, and it simply became too much. I stood it as long as I could, but I have reached my breaking point. I simply cannot tolerate the idea of ever laying eyes on that traitorous cheating bastard again.” Goodness, this scone was positively scrumptious.
“But why go so far away? And to such a tiny place? You don’t know anyone there!”
Which is precisely the point. Then Aziraphale looked at the bakery box. “That isn’t true. I know someone from the garden club. Anthony Crowley.” She didn’t need to know that they had met only a short while ago, or that he had been quite rude to the fellow. In his defense, it was too early for visitors. He had not slept well the night before, and had not had his tea yet. Possibly he ought to apologize to the man. On the other hand, he had come here to get away from people. He really didn’t need to start being chummy with anyone, no matter how attractive they were.
“Oh,” his mother said. “Well, I suppose that’s something. But how long do you plan to hide out there wallowing in self-pity, my dear?”
“I am not wallowing,” he replied firmly. It was more like a prolonged sulk. “And I happen to have bought this cottage. I may very well retire here.”
“Retire! Don’t be absurd. You’re only forty-two!”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, even though they weren’t on a video call and she couldn’t see it. “I am forty-three, Mother.”
“Are you? Oh, my. Well, regardless, people your age do not retire. And writers never really do that anyway, do they?”
“This writer hasn’t written anything in ages. So they certainly can do that.”
“Pish tosh. Every author has a bit of writer’s block from time to time. You’ll get past it.”
“It has been over a year.” His inability to write had begun, not uncoincidentally, just about the same time his relationship fell apart so dramatically. “And I don’t care if I write another silly romance novel again. I hate them. Nothing but a load of soppy, implausible twaddle.”
“You’re only saying that because of Julian.”
Aziraphale gritted his teeth at the sound of that detested name. “Do not speak of him, Mother.”
“Oh, honestly. You’re being unreasonable. People break up, and then they find someone else. You can find someone better.”
“I don’t want to find anyone, thank you very much. I am finished with romance!” He popped the last bite of the scone into his mouth and chewed with great pleasure. Mmm. He looked into his tea cup to find it empty. Then he looked at the bakery box, and the other raspberry scones sitting there, calling to him. “I need to ring off now, Mother. Something’s come up.”
“Very well, my dear. I still think you need to have your head examined.”
“Thank you, I shall bear it in mind. Good day, Mother.”
As soon as he ended the call, Aziraphale rose to make a fresh pot of tea to go with the second scone he planned to eat. And maybe even a third…they were utterly divine.
Who did Anthony Crowley think he was, tempting him with such tasty treats? It ought not to be allowed.
But he wasn’t one to look a gift scone in the mouth. With a little smile, he sat down to wait for the kettle to come to a boil.
*
“Aziraphale Fell is an author,” Nina said.
“Yeah?” Crowley had stopped in at the coffee shop after his failed attempt to welcome their newest inhabitant. He told both Nina and Maggie, the owners, all about the encounter over a large mocha while he stood at the counter, the better to chat as they worked filling orders. “Did you google him?” He should have thought of that.
“She did,” Maggie put in. “He’s from London. He writes gay romance novels!”
“Get out.” Crowley wondered if he’d actually read any. It was his favorite genre, and he gobbled them up quickly, and didn’t always pay much attention to the author’s name unless it became a particular favorite. “Huh. How many books? Are they popular?”
“About twenty or so, I think,” Nina put in. “Seems to churn out one or two every year, anyway. They must be popular, ‘cause I read he lived in Mayfair.”
“Wild. Wonder why he moved here?”
“Ooh,” Maggie said, “we think we found that out, too. But you can’t say anything to him about it. Promise?”
“Why? Is it naughty?” Crowley perked up. “Dish!”
“Not for him. I mean, he wasn’t the one caught out. It was his partner.”
“Bastard cheated on him,” Nina added. “About a year ago, by the photo date. It was in a tabloid. Someone snapped a pic of Fell’s partner at a club having a very non-platonic snog with the poor guy’s literary agent.”
“Damn.” No wonder the man had that sign on his door. Crowley would probably feel pretty down on humanity after a stunt like that. “What a wanker.”
“Yeah, and I'll bet it hit extra hard for an author of romance books.”
“Good point.” Crowley wondered if Fell’s enthusiasm for writing had taken a nosedive. “Thanks for the gossip. I was going to make another effort, but maybe I should just leave the man alone.”
“Oh, no, you have to keep trying!” Maggie said. “It’s been a year since the poor fellow’s breakup. And he’s left all his friends in London! He has to be ever so lonely.”
“Uh huh. And that advice has, I suppose, nothing at all to do with you and Nina’s matchmaking attempts?”
For ever since his own last relationship ended — now a good two years in the past — Maggie and Nina had been diligently trying to “introduce” him to various friends or friends of friends or in one case, a total stranger who just “seemed right” for Crowley. None of these dates had clicked, and he had grown both weary and wary.
“Never crossed my mind,” Nina insisted.
Maggie laughed. “Silly.” She patted Crowley’s arm. “It totally crossed her mind. Mine, too. Mr. Fell is just one year older than you, and he’s a very handsome man.”
“Is he?” It had been hard to tell, between the gloomy interior of the cottage, the obvious tiredness, and the bedhead hair.
Maggie instantly pulled out her mobile, and poked at the screen. Moments later she held it up. “That’s his author photo.”
Crowley stared intently at the picture. Hell. The man wasn’t just handsome. He was gorgeous. Blonder than blond, the hair tamed into angelic curls, beautiful and expressive eyes that seemed to bore right into his soul with kindness and gentleness. A classic nose that turned up just enough at the end to be truly adorable, and that mouth…those were the most perfect lips he had ever seen. The photo was from the waist up, and Fell was wearing a waistcoat and sporting a tartan bow tie, of all things.
“Huh. He cleans up nicely.”
Maggie gave Nina a playful jab in the side. “See? Told you so.”
“Stop it,” Crowley said. “I’m not going to chat the man up. He obviously isn’t ready yet to try making new…well, friends.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Nina said. “He has to start sometime. Pop over to his cottage later in the afternoon, and invite him to the pub.”
“I already did that.”
“Fine. It’s Tuesday. It’s trivia night. Ask him to join your team! Aren’t you short a member right now?”
“Yeah, Bee left on Sunday for that month-long holiday in Australia.”
“That’s perfect,” Maggie said. “Go on, do it! What have you got to lose?”
Crowley sighed. They were definitely in matchmaking mode again. He wasn’t about to encourage that nonsense, but then, he did need a temporary replacement for Bee on his trivia team. No need to make things complicated. He wasn’t looking for romance. It would just be a simple, pragmatic invitation, with no hidden agenda or ulterior motive of any kind.
Nope, he was absolutely not going to ask Aziraphale Fell to the pub tonight because the man was utterly gorgeous. Or because he wrote gay romance novels, either. Not thinking about any of that at all. No, no, no.
He finished his coffee and stretched. “Gotta get to work. Thanks for the chat.”
“‘Course,” Nina said with a grin.
“Anytime,” Maggie added with a wide smile.
Crowley frowned. They both looked far too confident about something. “Whatever you’re thinking, you can stop right now. Okay?”
They both giggled in unison.
Ngk.
*
The cottage did have a lovely garden, and though the roses were only beginning to show a few blooms, Aziraphale found those most promising.
After finishing his third scone, he got dressed and went outside to wander about the paths between the flower beds, sipping his third cup of tea. The salvia was in bloom, as well as a few geraniums, and a mixed patch of irises and carnations formed colorful rings around the base of an apple tree.
Towering foxgloves were budding out, as were mounds of hollyhock and delphinium. Come June they should all be in bloom. There were herb beds, too, and he could tell that the lavender would be especially lush, and that throughout the summer he would be able to use the oregano, rosemary, thyme, and basil in his cooking.
The Best Gardening Village in England. How serendipitous. He did enjoy gardening, but he hadn’t moved here because of that rather dubious claim. No, he had chosen his new home completely by chance. It had happened on Valentine’s Day. He had been feeling terribly lonely and unloved, even though he’d had over a year to get past the betrayal. After moping around his flat all morning, unwilling to venture out in case he saw too many happy couples or too much romantic decor in the shops, Aziraphale opened his laptop to try working on the new novel idea he’d come up with — a distinct departure from lighthearted comedic love stories.
The Darkness and the Shadows was the tentative title. The main character was an author of romance novels whose partner cheated on him, causing him to spiral into madness and despair.
That fateful Valentine’s Day, Aziraphale had opened the draft document and had stared at the last paragraph he’d written.
Raphael walked along the dolorous alley, beset on all sides by haunted phantasmic specters hatched within his own tenebrous mind. Doomed! Forever doomed to love no more! Wretched, wretched world!
He had stared at the words, and thought, Faugh.
This was utterly dreadful stuff.
He had closed the document, and then noticed his email had a new message from Ana, his good friend who was also his favored editor at Rainbow House, the publishers of his books.
I'm so sorry to have to give you the bad news. I want you to know up front that I have made it clear that I will NOT be working with That Man. And I also made it clear how I felt about the House acquiring the MS. But I’m not a senior editor, and couldn’t stop the deal.
They’re going to publish Julian’s novel. No need to guess who the agent involved was. Damn, I’m sorry. Call me if you want to, anytime of day or night.
Aziraphale felt a wrench in his gut. Fuck.
He had been attracted to Julian Phillips for many reasons. He was a beautiful man, son of an English father and an Italian mother. He was also an aspiring author, and their mutual love of writing had drawn them together as well. As their relationship developed, Aziraphale had offered critiques, and believed he was being kind and helpful to someone who did have some talent, but had, at least as far as he was concerned, a long way to go to be publishable. Julian was a fan of the noir crime genre. His stories featured a gay detective who seemed to spend more time in bed having long, explicitly detailed sex with every suspect and witness he met than in actually solving anything.
So Aziraphale gave useful advice, which Julian seemed to be grateful for, though in hindsight, there were a lot more questions from him about how the publishing world worked, and how to approach agents and editors at conferences, and how to pitch a novel effectively, than there were about the craft of writing itself.
And after Aziraphale introduced Julian to his own agent, he should have spotted the signs a lot earlier that he was being used. Julian never let a chance for tagging along to Aziraphale’s meetings with his agent slip by, using one creative plea after another. And though he promised to just sit quietly, somehow the two wound up chatting away every single time.
And then the requests stopped. That should have been a red flag, too, but Aziraphale simply chalked it up to Julian’s often mercurial moods and let it go. Until that horrid day when the photo came out in that tabloid, exposing his foolish naivete to the whole world. It turned out that not only had his agent and Julian been seeing each other on the side for months, but the traitorous bastard had been signed on as a client! It was very clear that Aziraphale had been nothing but a handy tool to getting Julian what he wanted – a path towards a book deal.
Which he had finally gotten, with Aziraphale’s own publishing house.
That Valentine’s Day, after getting this news, he rose, went to the window to look out over London, and thought, I can’t handle this. I cannot stay here and hear about his book coming out, hear about the signings and readings, or risk seeing him at a literary event. I am DONE.
Not having any idea where to go, for all of his family and friends lived in London, Aziraphale had simply gone to his bookshelves, pulled out an oversized atlas of Britain, and opened it to a double-paged spread at the front showing the whole of England. He set in on the dining table, picked up a pencil, closed his eyes, and jabbed it down.
The point landed on a Hampshire village called Tumbledown.
It had taken a few months to find a home there, and make the transition. But now here he was, with a cottage, a garden, and a new life. As he strolled between the flower beds, Aziraphale had just one burning question.
What in the world am I supposed to do with it?
He could retire. His books had sold very, very well, and three of them had been turned into successful TV series. Royalties had flowed in monthly, supporting a Mayfair flat, an expensive car, and plenty of fine dining. He had sold the flat for a massive profit, buying this cottage outright with plenty left over. He didn’t need to do anything at all, and need never write another novel. Especially one full of doom and gloom, like that atrocious piece of rubbish he’d started after the betrayal.
He paused to examine a bed with just a few green shoots poking up here and there. The former owner had put little plant ID sticks all over the garden, and Aziraphale bent down to read them. Ah. This was a vegetable plot. By midsummer he ought to have lettuces and potatoes and carrots and all sorts of things to enliven his kitchen. He loved to cook. So what if he didn’t know anyone in this village? He could easily spend his time tending to this large garden, and using its herbs and vegetables to create wonderful meals.
Which he would eat all by himself.
Botheration. Aziraphale sighed, and went back inside. The thing was, that silly sign he’d put on his front door was a lie. He did like people. He’d had plenty of friends in London to go out with to a restaurant or a pub, or to the theater or a concert or to a museum or art gallery. This whole recluse stint was starting to pall. Perhaps his mother had a point. Perhaps he had wallowed in self-pity overlong.
Even so, he had absolutely no interest in ever pursuing love again. The very thought still caused too much pain. That didn’t mean he couldn’t make new friends. He regretted his rudeness to that fellow Crowley this morning. He simply could not allow the shadow which had fallen over him in London to follow him here. The point had been to escape from the gloom and the doom. The point was to leave the reminders of his failed romance behind, and to find what happiness he could in a simpler, quieter kind of life.
“I shall go out,” he announced to the empty cottage. Yes. It was time to make his first foray into the village proper, to the shops on the high street.
After all, he needed to know where to replenish his supply of raspberry scones!
*
Crowley attacked a patch of couch grass with vigor. Die, weeds, die! Nothing was allowed to mar the perfect beauty of the Tumbledown Public Gardens. It was his job to see to that. This was his world, dammit.
After dispensing with the evil couch grass, he strolled along the herbaceous border, pulling his work cart behind him. He checked for any sign of the evil dandelions which liked to sprout up there. He found two, and added their corpses to his haul. Then he stopped to check on the two bird feeders hanging from a post close to the hawthorns which bordered the gardens on one side. They needed topping up, so he dug the mixed seed bag from the cart and refilled them.
Next he roamed over to the main flower beds to see what was coming up today. He loved his job in the Spring. New shoots, new buds, new life everywhere around him. Sure, it rained frequently at this time of year, but Crowley didn’t mind. Water cleansed the Earth, fed the plants, kept everything green and flourishing. And there were enough brilliantly sunny days like today to make up for the rest.
Several villagers wandered through the place while he worked, and every one of them paused to say hello, and some stopped for a longer chat. A couple of tourists turned up around eleven, and he enjoyed giving them a guided tour. Then things quieted, and when he sat down at one of the picnic tables to eat his lunch, it was just him and the sparrows.
Nice and peaceful and solitary. He often read during lunch, and had brought his e-reader as usual. As he flicked through the menu, Crowley wondered if he had read any of Aziraphale Fell’s books. The name didn’t sound that familiar. But when he checked the novels he’d saved, the name A.Z. Fell turned up. Aha. No wonder it hadn’t immediately struck a chord. He had saved four books, and though he didn’t remember them offhand because he downed romances like popcorn, Crowley did see the notes he’d added to each title. Very helpful. Sweet. Funny. Not explicit but sensual enough. Enjoyable lightweight romance with likeable characters.
As he ate, he skimmed through the novel he’d most recently saved, and read bits here and there. The story and characters slowly came back to him. Fell had a knack for capturing the spark and the banter and the teasing between the two romantic leads, who were definitely a case of opposites attract, with one being fiery, exuberant, and a bit of a loose cannon, while the other was calm, shy, and refined. He had enjoyed the way they bounced off one another as the affection between them grew.
Should he tell the author he’d read them? He couldn’t see why not. It might have been iffier had the physical relationships been explicitly described. He wasn’t keen on complimenting porn. But Fell kept the steamier stuff behind closed doors, using suggestive phrases quite effectively instead. Crowley then remembered Nina or Maggie mentioning something like twenty books to the man’s credit. He poked around to find the ones he hadn’t read yet, and marked those for later.
Yes, he would compliment the author in person, if they did meet again under less abrasive circumstances.
He finished his lunch, and just as he was drinking the last of his ginger beer, none other than Aziraphale Fell ambled into this grassy glade at the center of the garden.
Their eyes met. Crowley nearly choked on his drink, but quickly recovered his composure. Remember, you’re supposed to invite him to trivia night. He coughed, capped the bottle, and stood up. “Hey, there. Fancy a tour?”
“Um…oh. Well, um. Yes, I suppose?” Fell came closer, looking faintly perplexed. And was that a blush on his cheeks?
He was wearing the most extraordinary outfit for a warm day in May. A complete three-piece suit in beige tones, the waistcoat a little darker. A lot like the one in that author photo, in fact. What looked like a watch chain hung from it. And then there were the old-fashioned brogues, and was that a tartan bow tie? The words charmingly eccentric popped into Crowley’s mind. Not to mention totally gorgeous with it.
He packed up the remains of his lunch. “I’m the gardener here.”
Fell brightened. “I see! Well, then, that would be most kind, if I am not interrupting your work, that is.”
“Nah. I show people around all the time.”
“Very well, then. Thank you. I was just looking over your village today, stopping in at the shops and such. Two lovely young women at the coffee establishment told me this was the highlight of the place. They said that I absolutely had to check it out.”
Crowley grimaced. Nina and Maggie up to their matchmaking tricks again. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, it is that. And I’m very proud of it. This place won best public garden for a village under five thousand population for Hampshire county in 1973.” Their one true claim to gardening fame.
Fell pursed his lips. “You weren't even alive then.”
“I bask in the reflected glory of my predecessors.” Crowley grinned.
Fell stared at him, and then laughed lightly. “Quite right. From what I can see already, this does look to be a splendid garden.”
“Yup. Come on, this way.”
Crowley led him around the extensive grounds, in and among the flower beds, through the rose trellises, and on to the special children’s area which had fanciful, colorful, and climbable sculptures of woodland animals. Then they walked about a section of more formal plantings enclosed by boxwood hedges, complete with grand Greek statues and a central fountain. On the other side was a little stream which cut the garden in half. They crossed over on a wooden footbridge to the other side, which featured a collection of Japanese maples, a small pond, and more picnic tables. At the far end from where they’d started stood a fenced section of private plots, granted to villagers who had no garden space of their own.
“We’ve also recently acquired that bit of grassy meadow to the left there. The village council is trying to figure out what to do with it. I’ve tossed out a few ideas, but nothing’s stuck yet. But we’ll find a good use for that space some day.”
“Well, everything I’ve seen is wonderful,” Aziraphale Fell said when the tour was done. “It’s much more extensive than I expected for a village this size.”
“We're all pretty garden crazy here. A bloke in the late 1800s started it. Local rich landowner who was nuts about flowers. He founded this garden and donated it to the village on the condition that the residents embrace anything and everything to do with gardening in their own homes and lives as much as possible. Pretty open-ended and unenforceable request, but he was extremely well liked and the villagers took to the idea with enthusiasm, and passed that down to the following generations until it became second nature. Pretty much every home here has a garden, and the shops all maintain flower baskets or boxes.”
“Yes, I noticed that when I ambled along the high street. It was quite pretty.”
“There’s also a summer festival focused on gardening, with the villagers vying for ribbons for both flowers, fruits, and veg. That’s in July. Most people open their gardens to visitors, and flocks of tourists turn up for that. There’s a lot of stuff going on around that time — talks by invited gardening experts, a bunch of workshops, and a high tea right here, with musical acts.”
“Goodness. I must do my part, too, then.”
“You like gardening?”
“Very much.”
Crowley turned to lead him back across the footbridge. “Is that why you moved here?”
Fell frowned. “Er, not exactly. There were…a number of reasons.”
He was clearly uncomfortable about the subject. “Sorry, not my business. I’ll stick to gardening stuff.” He halted by the picnic table where he’d left his work tools and cart. “We have a garden club that meets regularly, and you’re welcome to join us. Mostly we just drink and chat about other things, but once in a while we actually discuss whatever issues we might be having with our own gardens.”
“Ah, yes, you mentioned that you were the leader of that club, didn’t you?” Fell looked down at his shoes. “This morning, that is. At my cottage.” Then he sighed and looked up. “When I was rude to you. There was really no excuse for it, and I beg you to accept my heartfelt apology.”
The tour had been going so smoothly that Crowley had put that incident from his mind. “Apology accepted. I’m good. I don’t care for unexpected visitors, either.”
“Oh, it wasn’t that…I simply hadn’t slept well, and was not prepared to be gregarious before my morning tea.”
“Yeah? Okay. Thanks. I appreciate it.” Then Crowley recalled his earlier decision, and added, “By the way, I like your books.”
Fell’s eyebrows shot up as he gasped. “Oh, no. No, you cannot possibly like my books!”
“But I do like them.” Crowley was puzzled. Didn’t authors adore hearing from fans? “I haven’t read all of them, but the ones I did were really fun.”
“They are no such thing! They are nothing but trite, formulaic nonsense. Do not waste your time on them, I beg you!”
Crowley just stood there, utterly at a loss. “But you wrote them.”
“I am aware of that unfortunate fact. And I sincerely wish that I had never put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard to produce all that execrable trash. I will never write another word about romance. Please do not talk about those ridiculous books again!”
“Okaaaay.” Weird. And then he abruptly recalled what those interfering women had told him at the coffee shop – about the horrible way Fell’s last relationship had ended. How his partner had cheated on him with his own agent. Oops. “Er…right. Sorry.” That catastrophe had obviously soured the man on writing romantic stories. Damn. Crowley knew better than to ask about it. He wasn’t that socially inept. So he opted to change course entirely. “Yeah, got it. Sorry again. Say, um, do you like trivia?”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“It’s Tuesday. We have trivia night at the pub on Tuesdays, and my team is temporarily short a member and I was just wondering if you’d like to join us? We start at seven, and usually meet there around six to eat dinner first. Very casual, very friendly, no-pressure way to meet some more of the locals. Be doing me a favor, too, so I’m happy to buy dinner or a drink or whatever you like.”
Fell stared at him for the longest time, pursed his lips a few times, bit his lips once, and then finally nodded. “Yes. I’ll be there.”
“Great.” Whew. “Good. Yeah. Okay, um, I need to get back to my work. Nice talking to you, Mr. Fell.”
The man’s expression softened. “Oh, please call me Aziraphale.”
“Yeah? Okay, sure. Thanks.”
“And thank you for showing me your lovely garden, Mr. Crowley.”
“Just Crowley.”
“Sorry?”
“I go by Crowley. Don’t like my given name much.”
“Ah. I see. Well, um, thank you, Crowley. I shall see you at the pub at six, then.”
“Perfect.”
Aziraphale Fell strode off rapidly, leaving him blessedly alone. Crowley sank onto the picnic bench. He had no idea what to make of the man. On the one hand, Fell had been polite and interested during the garden tour, but on the other hand, he’d nearly exploded at the idea of his books being enjoyed. He had also nicely apologized for his earlier behavior that morning. And accepted the invitation to join Crowley’s trivia team, though after some clear hesitation.
Well, he’d just have to see how things went this evening before passing any sort of judgment on the man’s character. Crowley got up and headed off to see if the azaleas needed any more cleaning up now that all their blooms had faded and fallen.
In his intense focus on his work the rest of that afternoon, he shoved all thoughts about Aziraphale Fell far to the back of his mind. And for the most part, they stayed there. But not entirely.
Because every once in a while, when he paused for a drink of water or a brief rest, the image of that handsome face pressed forward into his thoughts. Up close, in person, Aziraphale Fell was even more attractive than his author photo, and Crowley liked looking at him very much.
Which he really shouldn’t, because he had given up on romance.
Damn.
Maggie and Nina had a lot to answer for.
*