Chapter Text
Aziraphale stared pensively out the window. He was not brooding; the Fell children had not been raised to brood. It was beneath their station to appear melancholy, or so Father had informed them when they were younger. Father was not there any longer, but the lesson lingered. Aziraphale was not brooding. He was simply observing.
What he was observing were the grounds of Havensgate, the family estate, and he was observing them from an upstairs window of his own small rectory, from which he could not see the family house – which he had grown up in, and only recently been forced to vacate – but which offered a decent view of some of the smaller, less impressive gardens that made up the edges of the property. There were no fountains out this far, no elaborate hedge trimmings, but the flowers that bloomed were just as beautiful as the ones adorning the more elaborate gardens, designed for guests and dinner parties.
Just as beautiful was the man currently on his knees, wrist deep in the dirt as he weeded the flowerbeds, his plain clothes streaked with mud and his fiery hair burning in the vivid sunlight, and this, if Aziraphale were ever to be fully honest with himself – and he rarely was, even in the privacy of his own mind – was what he was truly observing. Not the gardens, but the gardener.
He had been with the Fell family since he was a small boy, of an age with Aziraphale, when his father had been head of the groundskeeping staff. When his father passed, years later, the son, now a man of strength and fine feature, had taken the job. Aziraphale had watched the change from the windows of the family estate. He disliked the outdoors, and the outdoor staff were not allowed inside, so Aziraphale had observed from afar and admired. He had admired a boy becoming a man, growing strong, growing fierce, growing more beautiful with each passing day. Aziraphale had gained none of these qualities as he had grown, but he could not bring himself to envy them in others, and in this other in particular. And yet, in over twenty years of service, Aziraphale had never learned his name.
The gardener looked up, and Aziraphale turned quickly away from the window, heart thundering in his ears. He took two breaths, calm and steadying, and slowly turned his head back. The gardener’s eyes were fixed on the ground again. Aziraphale breathed relief and didn’t quite know why.
He left behind the window and the view of the estate and went downstairs. Aziraphale should have liked to be a man of leisure – he was raised with the notion, after all – but as the youngest son of three it could not be the case. Aziraphale did not dislike the church, which through the patronage of his own family provided his living, his small house, and his position as a clergyman, but it had to be said that Aziraphale was not the epitome of anyone’s ideal priest. He was well-read and always had been, from the moment he had been taught his letters, but he had a tendency to get caught up in the fanciful notions of literature, the likes of which were not always approved by the church. And he detested speaking publicly. But Aziraphale had few alternatives, and his joining the church had been all but his mother’s dying wish, and so he had gone, a dutiful son to the last. His studies at university, at least, had been fascinating. The reality of life, less so.
Aziraphale’s study, which doubled as a personal library, was currently littered with open books, as it so frequently was. Many of them were religious texts, exposing pages full of examples on which he drew, or more often cited word for word, when giving his sermons. He brushed his fingers over a few lines of text, appropriately reverent to the holy words, and then turned his attention to a more important book, closed but given a place of honour at the head of his writing desk, shabby from use and with torn bits of cloth and paper – whatever he’d had on hand at the moment – sticking out to mark passages he particularly enjoyed. He had read it many times, and it was the book in his collection that he worshiped most, though it would have been sacrilegious to say so. It was his copy of an English translation of the Iliad. Aziraphale had whole shelves dedicated to ancient writing, fiction and poetry and plays. He had copies of Plato’s Symposium, the few remaining fragments of Aeschylus’s The Myrmidons, collections of Sapho and Catullus, and even Petronius’s Satyricon. He loved them all, but particularly the epic greatness of the Iliad, the harrowing adventures and the heroism so different from Aziraphale’s life of ease. It was not that he wanted adventure, per se. But it was pleasing to read about regardless, and Aziraphale was of the opinion that the old authors wrote it best.
He ought to be preparing his sermon for the upcoming Sunday, only two days away and still untouched. And there was an approaching council meeting he would have to be ready for, loathe as he was to participate. At the very least, it would be wise to visit the Youngs, given Mrs. Young’s advancing pregnancy, to ensure the family was still hale and whole. He ought to, but Aziraphale did none of these things. Instead, he picked up the Iliad, made himself comfortable in his favourite armchair, licked his thumb and opened the book to his favourite passage. He put up his feet and settled in for a pleasant afternoon of reading.
It was a knock on the door that disturbed him, well into the evening, after the candles had been lit and a cosy glow had descended over the house. Aziraphale stood up with some reluctance, answering the door with his spectacles still set against his nose. A young boy stood there, apparently out of breath from running, sweat beading from his brow. “Letter for you, sir,” he panted, and held it out. Aziraphale paid him and sent him away with a tight smile, closing the door behind him and leaning against it as he turned the parchment over. If the handwritten address had not given it away, the wax seal would have, large and ornate and stamped firmly with the family crest. Aziraphale broke it, cracking the wings in half, and unfolded the letter.
My dear brother, it was addressed, we are neighbours, and yet I feel as though in recent years you have become a stranger. As it has been months since we last spoke properly, I would be gratified if you would join my wife and I for dinner tomorrow evening. We anticipate your arrival with much happiness. Gabriel
The letter was short, but Aziraphale was more than capable of reading between the lines. This was not an invitation. It was a summons, one which he was not permitted to refuse. Aziraphale sighed heavily, resisting his urge for anger. It was the frivolity of the whole affair that bothered him. They lived next door to one another, and they were brothers. Gabriel could have come to call himself, to extend the invitation without the need for pomp and circumstance. But he would rather waste the money and the paper, would rather make an awe-filled errand boy run, fetching Aziraphale like a wayward dog, than invest any time in a personal relationship. It had always been such; Gabriel, the eldest and brightest. Gabriel, the child who would inherit, the man who could do no wrong. The gap between them was large – much larger than between Aziraphale and the middle child, Michael, Aziraphale’s elder by two years. Gabriel had nearly fifteen years seniority. It might as well have been fifty, for all they spoke to one another. Aziraphale did not particularly like Gabriel, did not particularly wish to be more involved with his brother’s affairs, but that did not mean he appreciated being treated as another one of Gabriel’s hounds, to be summoned and sent away at his master’s leisure.
Still. He could not refuse to go. He did not bother to write a reply, nor endure the hassle of finding someone to send it at such an hour. Gabriel would neither need nor expect one. He would assume, correctly, that Aziraphale would come, and so Aziraphale would. Evening, he decided, meant perhaps five or six, so that was when he would go. For the time being, he left the letter by the front door and extinguished the candles in his study with a sigh. He was no longer in the mood to read, and so went to bed.
Morning brought with it fresh dread and questions. Gabriel so rarely sought Aziraphale out that it was unlikely an invitation would be a purely social call. Gabriel would want something, surely, but Aziraphale could not think what.
He spent the early morning preparing his sermon over breakfast and reviewed his notes for the council meeting over lunch. Difficult tasks, he’d found, were best accomplished over a pleasant meal. He hoped dinner with Gabriel would be no different, although his past experience had never drawn that conclusion before. Following lunch, he paid a visit to the Youngs, as he ought to have done the day before.
Mrs. Young greeted him cheerfully. She was a cheerful woman by nature, a natural motherly sort. This was to be her second child, the eldest a girl she had delivered some years ago, before Aziraphale had even left for university, much less inherited his living. Time had been kind to her; neither her beauty or her good humour had been diminished with age. She was pleasant enough to speak to, and she told him with much satisfaction that this pregnancy was progressing as smoothly as the last, and she looked forward to his performing services for the baby once it was born. Aziraphale thanked her and wished her well, and told her to give his regards to her husband as well. Aziraphale was less fond of Mr. Young than he was of the man’s wife, but Mr. Young did truly care for his family, and that was the most important thing in Aziraphale’s eyes, even if his overly stiff manner could be a bit off-putting. Aziraphale could never be sure if there was something he’d done to earn the man’s censure, or if Mr. Young simply considered the whole world with a slightly wary eye. He was, at any rate, far from the most unpleasant member of the parish.
Very high on the list of unpleasant members were Aziraphale’s dinner companions, and he turned then in that direction with a weary sigh. The sun, in full summer glory, had yet to sink beneath the horizon, but had begun to meander lazily in that direction, as if considering sleep with a fond, if not rushed, attention. Motes of dust swirled in the light, kicked up from the dirt road Aziraphale followed to reach the entrance of the estate. Far from the rest of the parish, Aziraphale was near out of breath before he’d even gotten halfway. He was not built for walking, but he did not own a horse, and he was unwilling to borrow one from a neighbour, either to ride – Aziraphale disliked riding even more than he liked walking – or to hitch to the little gig he owned in order to be transported. Besides, the neighbour it would be most appropriate to borrow a horse from was Gabriel, which rather defeated the purpose.
By the time he reached the gates, he looked a fright, his sweat-damp clothes clinging to him unflatteringly, his white-blond curls matted to his dust-stained brow. He glanced at his reflection in the fountain before the front door; hardly the look of a high society man, but there was nothing to do about it now.
He knocked. The servant who answered was not the first member of staff Aziraphale had seen, as a few of those who tended to the extensive grounds had been visible in the distance as he approached (although none bore the flaming red locks he had surreptitiously searched for), but she was the first he recognized. Dagon, she was called, if memory served correct. She was a woman of middling age and fair ginger hair, who had come from France along with Gabriel’s wife roughly five years prior. There was something about her that always made Aziraphale nervous. Something to do with her teeth, he thought. When she smiled, he always faced the irrational fear that she was preparing to eat him. She smiled often.
“Mr. Fell,” she said, and let him in. “The master is expecting you.”
“Yes, thank you.” Aziraphale smiled back weakly. “I’ll just go in, then. No need to announce me.” He left her behind him, standing by the front door, and hoped he was imagining the way she licked her lips.
He found Gabriel and his wife in the drawing room, and both stood when he entered. Gabriel strode across the room, broad-shouldered frame hulking closer until he was able to pull Aziraphale into a crushing hug, slapping his back hard enough to knock out what little breath Aziraphale had managed to regain. “Aziraphale,” Gabriel greeted him, voice booming. “It’s been too long. I’m glad you could make it.” As always, Gabriel did not have a hair out of place, immaculate from his dark locks and sculpted jaw down to the tips of his polished boots. He brushed some of Aziraphale’s dirt from the front of his suit as if it offended him, and turned back to his wife. “Darling, Aziraphale came. Isn’t that wonderful?”
She approached slower, and Aziraphale’s weak smile returned. Belle made him even more uncomfortable than Dagon. It wasn’t her thick French accent, or the eccentric, insect-like hats she wore. Nor was it her preference for dresses with more masculine bodies – often including a full waistcoat - which Aziraphale thought remarkably modern of her. It was the way she looked at him, with slightly narrowed, glittering black eyes. She frequently wore a veil, to hide an unfortunate skin condition that rendered her cheeks dry and patchy yellow, but even through the mesh her eyes shone darkly, as if she were spider and Aziraphale a most unfortunate fly.
She extended a gloved hand to him, and Aziraphale took it between his own and squeezed gently. “Aziraphale,” she said, her accent buzzing. “It is a pleasure, as always.”
“The, ah, pleasure is all mine,” Aziraphale managed. He released her hand and folded his own behind his back. “You look lovely. Is that, er, a new hat?”
She blinked slowly at him. He swallowed hard.
Gabriel appeared immune. Or, perhaps, he was aware, and simply enjoyed Aziraphale’s discomfort. Either way, he clapped Aziraphale on the back again. “Why don’t you go upstairs, rinse some of that dirt off? Don’t want you making a mess of the whole house. We’ll meet you in the dining room when you’re done, alright?”
“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and fled the room. In the first bathroom upstairs, there was already a basin of water laid out, along with fresh linens and a new set of clothes. Aziraphale washed gratefully, wincing as the clear water turned brown, and then towelled off his hair and face. The change of clothes pinched at him as he pulled them on; they had been his, once, when he was younger and thinner. Aziraphale suspected his brother, athletic and fit, kept them precisely for instances like this, and not entirely out of kindness.
It was as he was drying his hands a final time that a flash beyond the window caught Aziraphale’s eye. He peered out, and felt his heart rise into his throat. He pressed a hand to the glass and leaned closer. Distorted by the distance and the barrier between them, but no less clear of colour, Aziraphale watched as flaming hair bobbed in the sunlight, its owner’s head thrown back, laughing at something a fellow servant had called over. Aziraphale had no talent for the arts, but in that moment he had never wished more fervently for skill with a brush.
A knock on the door made him jerk back, tripping over his discarded clothes and landing with an inelegant thud in a sprawl on the floor. “The master wants to know why you’re taking so long,” Dagon drawled from the other side of the door. “Something wrong with the clothes?”
“Er, no!” Aziraphale called back, forcing mock cheerfulness into his voice. “Everything’s perfectly fine. I’ll be out in just a tick.” He sat up, wincing as the trousers pinched at him, and rubbed the back of his head where he’d hit it on the floor. He closed his eyes. A few hours, and then he would be home again, not in the mansion he’d grown up in but truly home, in his cosy little house with his library and his books. Yes, just a few hours to endure, and he would be alright.
He stood up and opened the door, withholding a yelp as he came face to face with Dagon on the other side, leaning against the doorframe with a bored expression. She lifted an eyebrow at him, but said nothing, and watched him scurry down the stairs.
In the dining room, Gabriel sat at the head of the table, with Belle beside him. Hesitantly, Aziraphale took the other seat, trying to ignore the length of the table behind him, stretching clear across the room and set for twenty. Another elaborate trifle of Gabriel’s. They could have eaten in any number of smaller, more appropriate rooms. But Gabriel enjoyed showing off. The chair made a thunderous, creaking scratch as Aziraphale dragged it in, and he winced, then folded his hands in his lap.
“I really am glad you could come,” Gabriel told him, signalling another servant to bring out the first course. “I know I sent the invitation a little last minute but—” he laughed “—I figured you’d probably come anyway.”
“How could I refuse?” Aziraphale’s smile was false, but so was Gabriel’s sentiment. Aziraphale might have been a clergyman, but he wasn’t a saint.
Gabriel laughed again. Belle let out a sound that might have been an amused chuckle or might have been a hacking cough. “It’s good you’re here, though,” Gabriel said. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Oh dear. The first course wasn’t even out yet. Aziraphale steeled himself and did his best to keep his voice pleasant. “Oh?”
“It’s just, Belle and I were talking, weren’t we dear, and it occurred to me that we’ve been together five years.” He grinned. “Isn’t that amazing? Time really does fly.”
“Amazing,” Aziraphale repeated faintly. He had a sickening idea of where this was going.
“It is, isn’t it.” Gabriel’s grin widened, and he leaned forward over the table, steepling his fingers together. “And even though they live in London, of course, everyone knows that Michael and Uriel have had two blissful years already.”
“And my felicitations to them as well, of course,” Aziraphale said. His stomach had dropped and was cowering somewhere beneath his chair.
“And then there’s you,” Gabriel said. His features suddenly seemed more angular. Aziraphale was sure that to brush against him would cut. “Baby brother. We’re just so proud of you, joining the church like you did.”
“Yes, well, I-“
“And it just seems such a shame,” Gabriel interrupted, “that the leader of our little parish, who gets to marry all these happy couples, shouldn’t be married himself.”
And there it was. Servants bustled back into the room, setting the first course in front of them, but Aziraphale couldn’t even look at his plate. He felt ill, and briefly wondered if swooning into a faint would enable him to avoid continuing such a wretched conversation. Somehow, he doubted it. “Gabriel,” he said slowly, his voice very soft, “I appreciate the concern; however, it is unwarranted. I’m not even thirty yet, and it’s not unusual-“
“You’re not at Cambridge anymore, little brother. You’ve got better things to do with your time than bury your nose in all those dusty books.” Gabriel chortled.
“It is unusual—" Belle’s fork disappeared behind her veil and reappeared again “—why a man of the cloth should not take a wife.”
“Exactly,” Gabriel said. He gave his wife a besotted smile before turning back to Aziraphale. “Without you married, who will your congregation look to for a favourable example of matrimony?”
“Well, you, I imagine,” Aziraphale stammered. “The parishioners-“
“You flatter us,” Gabriel laughed. He reached for Belle’s hand. She allowed him to cover it with his own. “We are happy, I’ll grant you that. Overwhelmingly, perfectly happy.”
“Yes,” Belle intoned.
“But it’s not our job, Aziraphale,” Gabriel continued. His tone had shifted. There was less joviality in it, more command. “It’s yours.”
“Gabriel, I-“
“I’d hate to see what people would say about our family, Aziraphale. If things didn’t change.” He lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, and two beats of echoing silence rang out across the room.
Aziraphale sighed and slumped in his chair. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
He did. Gabriel controlled his living, his income. Their family had favour with a great many people above even their own station. Should Aziraphale refuse, there were things Gabriel could do, strings he could pull, and Aziraphale would not be able to stop him. He would have nothing.
“I do,” he said. The words tasted acrid, burning his tongue. “I must admit, I had been thinking of taking a wife soon. It’s just a shame there are so few eligible ladies around.”
“Nonsense,” Gabriel crowed. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll throw a ball. Won’t that be fun? We’ll host it here, even. Once word gets out that the leader of our little parish is seeking a wife, you won’t be able to stop them from coming!”
Aziraphale didn’t doubt it. He wasn’t well-liked, but money was money, and he had a steady income and a family name. For many people, that was plenty. “I defer to your judgement,” he mumbled bitterly.
“Excellent.” Gabriel finally sat back, and tucked into his own meal. He jabbed his fork towards Aziraphale’s plate. “Skipping the first course, Aziraphale? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn down food.”
Aziraphale pushed his plate away. “I’m afraid I’m not very hungry tonight.”
“Ah, well,” Gabriel grinned. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “It’s probably for the best. That shirt is looking a little tight anyway.”
Aziraphale grit his teeth in a passable smile and said nothing.
It was well after dark by the time Aziraphale managed to excuse himself, waving off Gabriel’s encouragement to stay with the explanation that tomorrow was Sunday, and he really ought to be at home to prepare for church. Even subtle hints of robbers and bandits did not dissuade him; Aziraphale felt sure the walk home would be safe, and anyway he could use the path through the grounds, leading from the estate to his rectory. He bid his brother and sister-in-law goodnight and slipped out into the twilight.
There was little light. The moon was nearly new, and even the twinkling stars provided little assistance as Aziraphale stumbled his way along the path. His clothes still pinched, from his shirt to his shoes, and were he not a man of God he might have cursed aloud as he nearly tripped a third time. A hand caught his, steadying him, and Aziraphale yelped in fright.
“Easy,” a low voice soothed. Aziraphale turned. He could barely make out his sudden companion, just a mass in the darkness, voice drawling and masculine, hands strong and calloused from physical labour. Aziraphale’s heart sped, and his suspicion was confirmed as the tiny sliver of moon peered out from behind a cloud, stroking red curls with its dim light. The gardener’s face was cast in shadow, but that would have told Aziraphale very little, having only ever seen him from a distance. “Are you alright?” he asked, and his voice was smooth as honey, glossy as the book pages Aziraphale loved to stroke. Aziraphale wanted to stroke that voice, nonsensical as it was, wanted to pet it until it purred like a kitten and curled up in his lap.
He pushed the thought away. “I’m alright, thank you. Just returning home. I should have brought a lantern…” He paused. “Do you usually make your way around without one? It’s very dark out here.”
That earned him a laugh, and his heart fluttered. “I have pretty good eyesight,” the gardener said. “Even in the dark. I’ll guide you home, Mr. Fell.”
“Aziraphale, please,” Aziraphale said, propriety be damned. He would confess later, but in this moment, in the dark, he could be a little bolder. He could pretend to be brave. “I’m afraid I don’t know…”
“Raphael.”
Like the angel…for the second time that night, Aziraphale faintly wondered if he might swoon. He did not. “A pleasure to meet you. You’ve worked for my family so long, it seems a wonder we were never introduced.”
“It is a wonder,” Raphael returned. Aziraphale caught a flash of glinting teeth, a hint of a smile. “An unfortunate one.” His hand was still on Aziraphale’s arm. He did not remove it. “Would you like me to guide you home?”
“Oh, yes, please,” Aziraphale said, and was glad of the darkness as he blushed. He sounded too eager, he knew, but Raphael made no comment. He simply steered Aziraphale back onto the path, his pace leisurely.
“I’ve seen you at church,” he said casually.
“Really?” Another bit of nonsense. Of course, Raphael would have seen him at church. “I haven’t seen you.”
“Yes, well, I stand in the back, don’t I?” Raphael sounded amused. “You don’t seem entirely happy up there, I’ve noticed.”
Aziraphale sighed. “I do my best. It isn’t always easy.”
“What isn’t?”
“Speaking to people. Inspiring them.”
“I think you’re plenty inspirational.”
“You do?”
“Of course. Listening to you…you might not always look happy, but your voice…”
Aziraphale looked at him, struggling in vain to make out his expression in the darkness. The moon had disappeared again, leaving nothing in its wake. “My voice?” he asked.
The vague outline of a nod. “It’s nice. Good voice for a clergyman to have. When I was young, before we came here, the priest at our old church could put me right to sleep with his droning. But you…I don’t think I could fall asleep listening to you. I hang on to every word. Even the ones I’ve heard before.”
Aziraphale’s blush deepened. “That’s…that’s very gratifying. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They lapsed into silence. Aziraphale tried desperately to think of something to say, but before he could latch onto anything, Raphael stopped. “We’re here.”
“What? Oh…” They had arrived at the edge of the grounds, where a small path in the hedges led onto Aziraphale’s property. Aziraphale turned to Raphael. “I suppose this is where I leave you, then. Thank you. I don’t think I would have made it without you.”
“It was my pleasure,” Raphael said. “I couldn’t leave you alone in the dark. Who would be at church tomorrow if I did?”
“I’m sure-“ Aziraphale began, and then stopped. He blushed under cover of night and smiled reluctantly. “I shall see you there.”
“Probably not,” Raphael said. “But I’ll see you.” There was a rustle as he passed back through the hedges, and then he was gone. Aziraphale stared after him, as if that would help in the darkness, as if this time he would see. His vision remained unchanged. His heart remained fluttering. He knew why, even if he did not permit himself to think it. Aziraphale turned his back on the hedgerows, on the estate that had once been his home, and walked away.