Chapter Text
More than the loss of the skin—which was enough of a problem to be getting on with, thank you—the problem was, Aziraphale had done the wrong thing.
If he could say to Gabriel that he'd simply seen a creature in distress and decided to help, he might not be forgiven, but he probably wouldn't be cast out. But, knowingly saving a human from drowning was beyond the pale. He was meant to be spying on them, not helping them.
Unfortunately—for his future in the pod and, it would be argued, the safety of his kind—when he saw the small figure slip on the jutting rocks and fall into the dark sea, he hadn't hesitated to change course. And once committed to the act, he wasn't going to leave the bedraggled child to succumb to either shock or exposure on the damp rocks in the cold shore wind. That would rather defeat the purpose of fetching him from the water in the first place. So it naturally followed that he would lend his seal skin, magically warm, to the poor thing while they waited on an outcropping on the opposite end of the shore to see what help the boy's friends might be able to fetch from further inland.
Perhaps that, he thought with a martyr's stoicism, was the true root of the issue: Despite the secret cold war his kind viewed themselves to be embroiled in with humanity, he rather liked humans. After centuries of spying and intelligence gathering, not only did he think the stories of the danger they posed to his people a little overblown—or at least not statistically significant—he also didn't think they were so different from selkie folk, really. In the immediate aftermath of the boy's tumble, the others had been frantic, but by the time Aziraphale had surfaced with the boy a safe distance away, they'd organized. Two had raced further inland while one remained to keep watch, still calling a name snatched away by the whipping wind. And now there was a veritable frenzy of humans on what passed for a beach, torchlights bobbing and flashing like a frantic school of lantern fish, as they looked after the injured member of their pod.
However, when he got right down to it—was really, truly honest with himself—the problem wasn't saving the child or even lending the cloak. He'd performed rather ill-advised acts of kindness toward humans before when away from the watchful eyes of his pod. By all rights, he should have been able to fetch back his skin at the first sign of returning torchlights and slipped back into the sea with no human the wiser of his exploits.
"You see, Gabriel," he muttered to himself as he watched the last of the humans retreat further inland with the boy, their torches, and his precious skin, "it's all down to a bit of algae."
The combination of the high wind, dark night, and his attention being split between the half-drowned child in his temporary care and the other one across the shore, meant he'd been startled by the first alarmingly bright sweeps of torchlight on the rocks when help finally did arrive. One instinctive flinch and he had tumbled into the water with a yelp before he'd been able to snatch his skin back.
Since Gabriel hadn't set foot on dry land more than three times in his millenia-long existence, Aziraphale didn't think he'd appreciate the irony of him succumbing to a variation of a slapstick routine he'd first seen in a comedy reel entitled "By the Sea."
"Come on, Aziraphale," he chided himself, "buck up."
There was still a way to save this, and Gabriel and the rest of the pod would never have to know. They weren't really expecting him back for roughly seven weeks. So long as he could find his skin within a reasonable amount of time, it should all be absolutely tickety-boo. After all, while it wasn't as though he made a habit of losing his skin, there had been a few close calls in the past, and he'd never had an issue convincing the human who had stumbled upon it to give it back.
True, he'd never lost his skin quite so quickly before; in the handful of times it had been discovered, it was only after he'd become relaxed enough to trust that whatever temporary friend he'd made wasn't the sort who'd go stealing someone's precious things anyway.
Working in his favor was the knowledge that most stories of his kind had gentled from wary lore to wistful fantasy, at least from what he'd gathered during his last few visits to land. No one should be looking at a seal skin and automatically thinking "selkie!"
Hopefully.
In any case, if he made the recovery quickly enough, there shouldn't be enough time for anyone to go drawing strange conclusions. Beyond wondering why an apparently middle-aged man who'd been swimming in the ocean in the dead of night might want a seal skin, of course.
Oh, good lord.
No, he shouldn't go borrowing trouble. Surely, the boy lived in a local village and this would all be over quickly. This stretch of shore felt a bit spooky to him—in fact, he'd been intending to swim several more miles to find a likely coastal town to visit for his bicentennial investigation and report—but where there were humans, there was human civilization.
Honestly, the only thing he should be worrying about, he told himself sternly, was that the hunt for his skin would downgrade the visit to a proper investigation instead of a holiday where he made idle notes on technological progress in between reading new books, sampling human cuisine, and taking in a bit of theater.
Well, he would just have to make do.
He might have to get creative about sending in his progress reports, but…
With any luck, he'd be reunited with his skin in a matter of days, and it wouldn't matter!
Of course, that was when the skies opened up and lightning forked across the sky.
"Last night's storm was something else, now, wasn't it?" the woman remarked with the mingled relish and vague horror of benign gossips everywhere. "Emergency was all over—I don't think those poor dears got a wink of sleep. I heard at least three summer families are having to pack up early and head to the city, and that's just in Tadfield!"
Aziraphale fought to keep his look of polite concern from slipping into alarmed devastation. The woman sharing the cafe counter with him—Tracy—caught something of his true feelings anyway. She gave his arm a motherly pat and clucked her tongue.
"No need to worry, duckie. I haven't gotten all the gossip yet, but if something truly terrible had happened, you can bet it would be all over town by now. We're not as big a tourist draw as Evesdale, so we have to take our excitement where we can."
Aziraphale clutched his mug of tea a little tighter and tried not to fret too visibly. After retrieving his waterproof travel bag (luckily it had not drifted too far from where he'd dropped it rescuing the boy), donning his land clothes and accessories, and waiting until a reasonable hour of the morning to approach the village, the place had been as stirred up as an excited shoal of silverfish.
"In fact," Tracy went on, clearly trying to cheer him up, "I'll bet the unexpected clearout will turn out in your favor. I heard Mr. Sanderson grumbling that his summer help has to go fill in for someone else who lost their summer help. If you hurry, you might be able to snap up the opening before he has a chance to put up the 'help wanted' sign."
Oh, well, that was a bit of good news. Securing temporary lodgings and a reason to hang about whatever village he was in was always top of his to-do list when he made landfall. A job of some sort was usually the least suspicious way to blend in and exchange his old-fashioned currency for new.
"What sort of shop does Mr. Sanderson have?"
"A bookshop."
"How marvelous!" His spirits lifted even further.
Tracy preened. "There we are, then. And if you can't find a decent room at one of the inns, you come round my bungalow. I have a guest room I sometimes let on AirBnB, and I have no issue negotiating a lower rate in exchange for a bit of help around the cottage, if you're keen."
Even more of the tension in his shoulders eased. Humans really were such lovely creatures. Sometimes he had to do a bit of wandering before he could find a place to play professional tourist, but just as often he found a kind soul or community willing to lend him a bit of space, however temporary.
"My dear lady, I just might take you up on that kind offer."
She gave him a knowing look. "I've been where you are before."
Oh, he highly doubted that, but he gave her a politely inquisitive look anyway.
"Wandering into a new town on foot, your nice clothes a little out of fashion, money looking like it's spent some time rolled up in a sock drawer." He received another motherly pat to the arm. "You're looking for a clean start, to maybe lie low for a bit, hmm? Well, I'd be the last to judge you, duckie, and I won't go prying into your secrets either—unless you want a strictly confidential ear to bend, mind."
Aziraphale blinked and blushed. She had… rather the wrong end of things, but while he couldn't say he was delighted by the implications, he also wasn't going to turn his nose up at a readymade cover story. He was rather awful at lying under pressure. Telling the truth in a very particular way, however...
"You are a gift, Madame Tracy," he said solemnly. "And you're right, I am… here under a bit of unusual circumstances and, well, looking to find a bit of myself, one might say."
She raised an artfully painted eyebrow at him. "Aren't we all?"
Crowley stalked the main street of Tadfield and surveyed his domain with eyes narrowed behind the veil of dark sunglasses. It was a full day past the summer squall that had upset the beehive of his town, and as its self-appointed keeper he was annoyed to see there was still so much agitation apparent.
Sure, he'd allowed that one bolt of lightning to slip through his influence and strike Old Johnson's dilapidated barn. The Johnsons, had they been present, likely would have whooped for joy at the calamity insurance claim they'd be able to file and then rolled back over in bed. But Crowley... may have forgotten Missus Johnson had dragged the pair of them off to sunnier climes for the summer and had rented the main house to a young family that wasn't made of near as stern of stuff. They'd hightailed it back to… wherever. He typically didn't make a point of learning the tourists' backstories until they'd turned up at least three or four seasons in a row.
Between that, the roof leak in the Smythe guest cottage, and the accident with Adam Young, there were quite a few tourists who'd decided to cut their summer plans short by a day or week. The loss of income wouldn't be too troublesome, but it certainly threw a wrench in a lot of people's plans, and for a sleepy village like Tadfield, even a little upset had an outsized impact.
What was troubling Crowley the most about the series of little misfortunes was that while it could be coincidence, just a bit of bad luck, it might instead be a sign of… meddling.
Crowley abhorred meddling—unless it was orchestrated by himself, of course. This was his territory; this was his village. Only he got to yank its pigtails, thank you very much.
And just this morning, he'd heard from Newt who'd had it from Shadwell who'd been "performing inspection" (spying) on Mr. Sanderson's bookshop that there was a stranger who'd apparently shown up the morning after the squall and was miraculously available to take over when Wensleydale had to return to the family business roost upon the Young's departure. Suspicious timing, that was. The storm had had his wards in a tizzy, which could have been cover for some other fay to skulk in under his nose, looking to make mischief on his territory.
So, here he was at the unreasonable hour of ten in the morning in the village square, bent on getting a proper look at this interloper and assessing the situation.
"Mr. Crowley," barked a voice from the front steps of the village town hall. "A word?"
He groaned softly and then turned a mildly feral smile on the self-appointed head of the Neighborhood Watch.
"Ronny, how are you this fine morning?"
R.P. Tyler's jaw clenched. "Now see here, young man, that is hardly the proper form of address for a member of the council and head of the Watch!"
Crowley couldn't help either his grin at the "young man" jibe or the loosening of his shoulders at the reprimand. If Tyler were truly pissed with Crowley or worried about something, he'd keep calm and carry on with whatever his "word" was instead of taking a moment to get shirty.
He affected an indulgent pout. "Is that your way of hinting I should take up the council seat dear old Dad left me?"
Once upon a time, when Tadfield was drafting its village charter, Antonius Janus Crowley The Second had convinced the founders to put in a clause allowing any person whose direct ancestor had held a council seat the choice of taking up that same seat upon the latter's passing. He'd painted a bucolic picture of Enduring Values and Tradition and a way to entice young folks who strayed afield to return to their home turf. Crowley didn't take up his guaranteed seat with every regeneration of his identity—politics in a small town was a surprising amount of work—but it was fun to lord the possibility over blowhards like Tyler.
"I think we have quite enough young blood on the council with that… American witch taking the Nutter seat, thank you." Crowley never failed to be delighted that Tyler packed so much more contempt into "American" than "witch" when he whinged about Anathema. "No, I wanted to know if you'd chanced upon the new visitor to our fine village yet."
Crowley stood straighter. "No, have you?"
Tyler's mustache bristled. "Hm, not yet. He's renting from Ms. Potts, and she was... monopolizing his time at the pub last evening. However, I know you take coffee with her regularly..."
Crowley hummed and turned his face back toward the bookshop at the end of the street. Knowing Tracy was not just shielding this new stranger from R.P. Tyler's busybody scorn but letting him into her home went a long way toward reassuring him there was nothing sinister going on. She joked that in her former lines of work she wouldn't be able to put food on the table if she wasn't able to judge someone's character in a few minute's chatting. If she was taking this new person under her wing, he was likely harmless.
Didn't hurt to check for himself, though.
"How about, I'll just pop in Mr. Sanderson's shop," he proposed. "I find I'm in need of a new coffee table book."
R.P. Tyler, the absolute berk, honest to goodness tapped his finger to the side of his nose. "Good man," he said on a gravely laugh.
Crowley grimaced a smile back and sauntered on his way with a brief, "Ciao."
"That is hardly the Queen's English!" spluttered Tyler, whatever favorable opinion he'd decided to bestow on Crowley immediately dashed.
Crowley grinned, feeling his eye teeth sharpen briefly in puckish glee.
When he breezed into Sanderson's Scrolls, the dramatic pause he took in the doorway served three purposes: to let his eyes adjust to the relative gloom of the shop, to attempt to spy the interloper's location, and to strike an insouciant pose that would set the proper tone for whatever conversation he was about to have, should said interloper be watching the door.
"Oh! Welcome!" said a voice threaded with the faintest hint of anxiety to his immediate right.
Crowley flinched and bit back a yelp, stumbling as he tried to pivot toward the source of the voice and step back at the same time. All he got was a blurred impression of creams and beiges before he overbalanced and his attention was overcome by the swoop in his gut as he started to fall and a flailing attempt to catch onto something.
A warm hand gripped him by the wrist and pulled him back upright. He closed his hand instinctively back over the other's forearm and stumbled forward a step as he regained his balance. It put him in abrupt and overwhelming proximity to the stranger. The smear of colors resolved into a cherubic face with storm-sea eyes, whitecap hair, and a seashell pink mouth parted in startled surprise.
"My goodness, are you all right?" the man asked, eyebrows rolling up in distress. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was working on the window display for Mr. Sanderson, and I was so absorbed I didn't see you walk up. Oh, but this little nook here really is quite disguised from the door, isn't it? I'll have to keep that in mind in future." He closed his eyes and took a visibly calming breath. "My sincerest apologies," he settled on, tone aggrieved.
Crowley was absolutely bemused by the anxious deluge of words, but the rambling had also allowed him to have a bit of a moment of his own under relative cover, so he decided not to poke the man about it (this time).
"No harm done," he said.
A sudden squeeze on his wrist reminded him that they were still grasping each other. He looked down and noted strong hands with squared-off fingertips, a hint of gold on the pinky, before the other man gave a scandalized-sounding "ah" and yanked his hand back.
"Terribly sorry. I didn't mean to paw at you."
Crowley thought about letting the man stew, but he was looking so worked up he might bolt before Crowley could properly feel him out. So, social graces it was.
"Don't worry about it," he said and eased his posture to telegraph just how unbothered he was. "It would have been mutual pawing, anyway, wouldn't it? So, I should probably be saying sorry to you, and thanking you for saving me from a tumble." Probably should, yes, even though he wouldn't. The last thing he needed was to get tangled in a debt with this stranger.
"Oh, thank you for not minding my boorish behavior. It's my first day on the job, and I do wish for things to go smoothly." He fussed with the faded nap of his waistcoat and glanced around the shop as though he thought Sanderson might materialize to critique his customer service.
Crowley fought to keep his smile from growing too wide and pointed for human sensibilities at the perfect opening. "Not just on vacation, then? Sticking around for awhile?"
The other man seemed to remember himself and rolled his shoulders back. "Why, yes! I can't say for quite how long, but for a good while, probably. I'm Aziraphale, by the way." He thrust his hand out to shake.
"Crowley," he said as he took the offered hand.
There was a long beat before Aziraphale hastily pumped their clasped hands up and down exactly three times and dropped them again. Then he was back to fidgeting with his waistcoat and pinky ring. He flicked Crowley a wincing smile.
"I am gratified to make your acquaintance, Mr. Crowley."
Aziraphale, Crowley concluded, was odd—categorically so. The mannerisms, the clothes, even his looks were… odd. Crowley couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something that hovered around him that hinted at something more or less than human. It didn't have the right signature for another one of the fay, however, which was his primary concern. Maybe he just had a little otherworldly oomph in his bloodline, like Anathema. Or something haunting it, like Newt.
But now Aziraphale was leaning in slightly, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth between the lenses of Crowley's sunglasses, a little divot forming between his eyebrows. Ah, right, he'd put on a pair that wasn't quite as opaque as his usual.
Crowley leaned back and tapped the arms of the frames and rearranged his face into stoic lines. "Hereditary thing."
Aziraphale lost what little color he had in his face. "Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to stare."
"Don't worry about it." He spun on the ball of one foot and paced further into the shop. "What's new in? Sanderson usually has a list."
That redirected the other man firmly enough, if only because he had to return to the pay counter to retrieve the list. From there, it didn't take much to keep his attention focused on the job.
Crowley formed several further impressions about Aziraphale over the next ten minutes or so of conversation: that he was very intelligent, that his taste in literature was as dated as his clothes, and that, all things being equal, he'd probably say yes if Crowley asked him out for a coffee. There was a certain flutter to his lashes when he watched Crowley pick up and play with the small decorative globe Sanderson kept on the pay counter. Crowley, of course, took the interest as his due. He worked quite hard to cultivate a certain look, after all.
However, all things were decidedly not equal, because while Crowley was still trying to subtly taste the air and figure out just what it was that was out of the ordinary about Aziraphale, the other man seemed to be sizing him up in a similar manner. The way he occasionally narrowed his eyes when he met Crowley's gaze for too long, and seemed to be eyeing the air just around Crowley's body the way Anathema would when she was being particularly vexing, was pricking Crowley's finely honed self-preservation instincts. And, well, there was a reason he gave the witch a wide berth. So, he made some non-committal noises over a new astronomy book that had come in, wrapped up the chat, and saw himself out before any conclusions could be drawn on either side.
He was at least satisfied that this new addition to his village didn't appear to be an immediate threat.
Further investigation was warranted. But next time he'd wear his darker sunglasses. And maybe an aura dampener.