Chapter Text
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“Aziraphale Fell, at your service.” The tall blonde gentleman with the blushing-apple cheeks performed a sweeping bow. He never quite seemed to stop smiling. This made R. P. Tyler, Neighborhood Watch, very uncomfortable. But in truth, most things made him uncomfortable.
“I’ve been asked to be your... guide to the community, as it were.” Tyler put a lot of emphasis on guide. Putting lots of emphasis on certain words was a tried-and-true method in the arsenal with which he faced the great war of Keeping Things in Order, As They Were. Long pauses apparently imbued with subtle meanings tended to give others the impression he knew something they didn’t, a reputation which he preferred to cultivate at all times. ‘Never let the enemy have the upper hand’, was his motto, even (and perhaps especially) if the enemy was Linda from the Community Tea.
“Much obliged, I’m sure!” Aziraphale pulled out a carpet bag and a wheelie suitcase from the moving lorry. His actions were watched by an unseemly amount of pigeons.
Tyler gave the birds a skeptical appraisal. “These your birds, young man?” Pigeons! he groaned inwardly. Of all the unfortunate pets! Almost as bad as... his pets. He shuddered, preferring not to think of the Man Who Shan’t Be Named. Pigeons liked to chatter incessantly and crap on one’s car and generally spread Filth and Pestilence. Schutzi, the poor dull thing, finally noticed the birds and began yapping her little head off. They fluttered and cooed in alarm.
“That they are.” He grinned. It was awfully uncouth to go around baring one’s teeth like that all the time. Fell was dressed like an old-fashioned country heir, from the riding coat to the spats over his shoes. Ordinarily, Tyler would have license to complain about the wayward fashions of the youth, with their bright colors and utter ignorance of proper haberdashery. But to see a man of ‘Mr. Zeeror Fell’s’ age dressed so old was somehow more unsettling. It was unexpected, and there was nothing Ronald Peterson Tyler loathed more than the unexpected. “I’m a pigeon enthusiast, sir, what you might call a fancier."
“Hmph.” He crossed his arms to suggest to Aziraphale that he did not fancy the idea of a ‘fancier’ in his village, at all.
Aziraphale paid no mind to his host’s mood, if he even noticed it. He strode into his new cottage, addressing Tyler over his shoulder. “So, what might one do around here for fun?”
“Respectable things,” said Tyler, drawing out the ‘r’ in a stately roll of the tongue. “Gardening. Reading. Leisurely conversation. Church. You consider yourself a church man, Mr. Fell?"
“Pious as the day is long,” the man winked. Tyler had no idea how to take that. “So where, precisely, was it that a person such as myself may find some of that lively conversation?"
“Well... the pub,” he admitted with great reluctance. Not that a pint of Ale now and again was entirely un-Christian, but some sorts of people just didn’t know how to restrain themselves and behave in a sensible manner. And something about this Fell fellow struck him as being on the side of decadence.
Then there was that Pulsifer boy. Tyler liked young Newt as little as he liked anyone else in the village. He was perpetually anxious. Plus, his hands always shook. A career-ending trait for a bartender, in Tyler’s humble opinion.
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Eventually, Aziraphale was able to beg off old busybody Tyler by impressing upon him just how many boxes he still had to unpack.
But unluckily for him, there were more uninvited guests making their way towards him, as he dove into the rather crumpled cardboard cubes that covered every square centimeter of his cozy new cottage.
There were a few things about the village of Tadfield that Aziraphale Zephyr Fell (yes, his parents had named him that on purpose) might have appreciated knowing as he unpacked the first item in his brand-new home—the most important of which being that the residents of Tadfield were the nosy kind.
New neighbors were the hottest gossip in the village, and the townspeople fought to be the first to greet any newcomer. In general, the older residents of Tadfield were quite concerned with ideas of respectability, and enjoyed judging whether or not the newcomer was the “right sort”. Which was why R.P. Tyler typically pounced on new neighbors just as they had begun to unpack their moving lorries.
Every time a FOR SALE sign was taken down to be replaced with SOLD, the senior members of town established a betting pool regarding how long the newcomer would last in the village before they either became bored of its quaintness or were forcibly run out. Not that any member of the town would willingly admit to having purposely run someone out, of course. Even the most respectable citizen had to face the laws of polite society. You couldn’t just say you didn’t like someone. But you could certainly make them feel it.
Michael Godwin, proud president of the parent-teacher’s association at the primary school, had won every single betting pool over the last ten years. Except for one. No one had won that pool, yet. Newton Pulsifer owned the only surviving bet, not that anyone remembered that he had even placed one. Mr. Pulsifer was very forgettable.
This information would have been helpful to Aziraphale because, as he turned on his kettle to have his first cup of tea in his new home, he might have known to prepare more than one cup.
The doorbell rang. As Aziraphale opened it he was greeted by the guarded smiles of a handful of the village’s nosiest locals. The Tadfield Inquisition, as they were covertly known, greatly enjoyed startling newcomers. Gabriel said their reactions gave him insight into whether they were 'worthy of the town.'
However, there were a few things about their new neighbor that the Inquisition might have liked to know before they started their reign of terror. For one, Aziraphale was not a man who was easily startled. It took much more than a few nosy neighbors to unsettle a man who’d occasionally had genuine mobsters come to shake him down at his old bookstore in Soho.
For the second, he’d be damned if he were ever caught with his drawers down and guests at the door. Aziraphale was a master of the art of Hosting.
He beamed at the welcome wagon, much to the shock and bemusement of his new neighbors. “Oh, how wonderful!” he exclaimed. “It's lovely to meet you all. Do come in. I’ll make some more tea.”
Aziraphale herded all of his guests into his living room, which overflowed with boxes. They had to awkwardly squeeze themselves between the precariously stacked piles before settling onto the comfortable worn couches.
“Sorry for the mess, I haven’t been able to unpack… well, at all,” Aziraphale said, not looking the least bit sorry.
The people currently sitting in Aziraphale’s living room were the central members of town, and the best people with which to catch up on the latest gossip. Unsurprisingly, they were also the sort of people who most enjoyed getting into others’ business.
Seated on a dusty ottoman was the aforementioned Michael Godwin, who prided herself on winning the annual Christmas baking competition every year, and who hosted, in her opinion, the best town gatherings. Her charcoal-colored pencil skirt rode up just above her knees as she crossed her legs in a prim posture. She looked like a woman who was not to be trifled with.
Michael’s brother Gabriel was the local real estate agent—Aziraphale and Gabriel had met a few times already. Aziraphale had spent most of their (thankfully short) time together using his polished politeness to mask the fact that he thought Gabriel was a bit of a wanker. Gabriel was particularly proud of his immaculate garden, about which Aziraphale had been educated in great detail while Gabriel had shown Aziraphale his future house. Gabriel’s garden was so good, in fact, that it had won the annual Tadfield Gardening Showcase every year until… well... he came.
Next was Mr. Shadwell, a pensioner who immediately asked Aziraphale how many nipples he had. “Just two, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale said with perfect seriousness. Then he’d added cheerfully, “I knew a man in Morocco who only had one nipple, it was some kind of dreadful accident! But he made the most wonderful B’ssara.”
Aziraphale graciously ignored Mr. Shadwell’s mutter of “Great Southern pansy.”
Alongside Mr. Shadwell was the wonderful Madame Tracy, who Aziraphale took an immediate shine to. She was also retired, but read fortunes and held séances in her spare time. Aziraphale made a mental note to invite her over for tea soon. She was the only one of his visitors that didn’t seem to be treating this impromptu teatime as an interrogation.
After all, Aziraphale was determined to make friends in the village, even if some of the neighbors didn’t seem so keen on him. He’d lived most of his life in Soho, London running an antique bookshop. He never made many friends growing up. As an adult he’d pretended he was content being by himself. Until one day, as he had been sitting in the faded kitchen of the apartment over his bookshop, he realized that he was dreadfully lonely. A month later he packed up his entire shop and moved all his stock into an online store so he could sell books from anywhere in the world. He’d taken a few months off to travel before settling on Tadfield as his new home. It seemed like the perfect little village where he could meet people and make new friends.
“Who owns the house next door with the lovely garden?” Aziraphale asked his acquaintances.
The room went dead silent as each person exchanged knowing glances. Finally, Michael said, “Don’t bother with Mr. Crowley, he isn’t the right sort.”
“The right sort?” Aziraphale wondered. Judging from the way Mr. Tyler had looked down on his pigeons, and the general snobbiness of the people currently occupying his living room, Aziraphale thought that he might also not be considered the “right sort.” Which meant that he very much wanted to bother with Mr. Crowley. How could a man with such a gorgeous garden not make a good friend?
“He has a huge bloody snake he takes with him everywhere.”
“He drives far too fast through the village! He’s a menace.”
“He wears sunglasses at all hours, the flash bastard.”
“He’s just a bit... odd, dear.” Madame Tracy said apologetically.
“He’s not worth worrying about. He won’t be around for much longer.” Mr. Shadwell and Mr. Tyler exchanged a conspiratorial glance.
“How long has he lived here?” The comments were doing perhaps the opposite of what they were intended to, because Aziraphale felt himself becoming more and more fascinated by this Crowley fellow.
“Nearly five years.” Gabriel admitted with great reluctance.
“That seems like an awfully long time to spend somewhere just to leave. Especially considering all the love and labor that must have gone into that garden.” Aziraphale said offhandedly while taking a sip of his tea.
“Well!” Michael sputtered. “Why would someone like that want to live in Tadfield?"
“Have any of you asked him?”
Madame Tracy was the only one who had the decency to look guilty.
“He’s very unsociable,” Gabriel said, instead of answering Aziraphale’s question.
Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgment but let the topic drop. He was now certain that he would be befriending Mr. Crowley. It seemed he was in need of a true friend as much as Aziraphale was.
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