Chapter Text
Gabriel’s first thought, as he pulled up the winding driveway, was that the building before him really didn’t make any kind of architectural sense.
In truth, this was actually Gabriel’s third thought. His first thought, before the house had even come into view, was that he was grateful to the powers that be that he’d managed to make the drive before the rain on the horizon made good on its threats. Gabriel could put up with the metric system, the extra ‘u’s that barged their way into words they didn’t belong in, and even the aberration that is the correct pronunciation of Worcestershire. The rain in this country, however, really could put a dent in his otherwise pleasant and tolerant nature.
Gabriel’s second thought was that the house was atrocious.
It wasn’t symmetrical, for one thing. Spires with missing tiles jutted from the old roof seemingly at random: a large, pointed one near the front, a scattered handful of squared-off towers along a back corner. The sections of the house were arranged piecemeal, as if someone had taken components of far more interesting and cohesive homes and stuck them together with nothing but a hope and a dream and several million pounds of engineering, construction expertise, and poor taste.
His face wrinkled in mild disgust as he noticed several stone gargoyles looming in various positions along the roof and upper windows. There was something inscrutable about the British inclination to lean into their architectural history. In his opinion, a home should consist of four walls filled with smaller rooms consisting of four more walls. Buildings were meant to be torn down, rebuilt, and remodeled as progress and efficiency marched on, not celebrated for something as ridiculous and inefficient as separate hot and cold water taps for the sake of history.
Gabriel sighed and switched the ignition off, opening the door of a sleek silver coupe that tended to be owned by men in a particular age and financial bracket. As if his amethyst-studded cufflinks (Italian), polished leather shoes (Italian), and silk scarf (French, but purchased in Italy) weren’t enough to broadcast to the world at large that Gabriel not only considered himself to be in that financial bracket, but the very model of it.
Leaves and gravel crunched under heel as he walked across the driveway and up the shallow stone steps that led to the covered porch. A large wooden door with wrought iron hinges that looked like they’d seen better days occupied half of the entryway. It would be imposing, if Gabriel were a man who could be imposed upon. He confidently rapped upon the door with his knuckles.
A moment passed. And then another. He looked around the immediate area, as if instructions might be posted somewhere hidden - under the stone bench off to the side or in the trailing vines that covered the exterior wall. He didn’t bother checking his invitation to see if he’d gotten the time right; he’d always been a perfectly respectable guest, and as such had arrived a very punctual thirty minutes early. He decided a more direct approach was needed, and graduated from using just his knuckles to his whole fist. When still no answer came, he had begun to contemplate adding a foot into the mix for good measure when, blessedly, the door swung open.
A man with gangling limbs and a narrow frame stood in the doorway, wearing a nervous expression and an ill-fitting tuxedo. A good tailor wasn’t hard to find if you knew where to look and could afford it, and given the size of the house, surely this man’s master could afford to give his front-facing staff some illusion of propriety.
Gabriel was so distracted by the man's white cuff sleeves sticking a full two inches past his black jacket, that it took him several moments to realize that the man still hadn’t greeted him. He squinted his eyes, huffed, squared his shoulders, and then plastered on the “dealing-with-someone-clearly-unhelpful-at-best-and-stupid-at-worst” smile he used every time he had to do a bit of shopping himself.
“My name is Gabriel Messenger. I received an invitation to a dinner party here tonight, and I’ve been standing out here for several minutes–”
“There is a doorbell.”
Gabriel blinked. “Excuse me?”
The man leaned out the door and pointed to an ornate doorbell with a pull chain that looked several minutes away from being culturally classified as a relic.
“Sorry, it’s just--the doorbell. It rings through the whole house.”
The man seemed to realize he was being rude and smiled in a way that was intended to be welcoming but actually came off as wide-eyed and unhinged. “Newton Pulsifer. Newt. Please come in, you are expected. First one here, actually. I think everyone else should be here soon - you are a bit early.”
“They say cleanliness is next to godliness, but I’ve always considered timeliness a close second,” Gabriel replied and chuckled to himself as he crossed the threshold. He turned back to Newton anticipating the quiet laugh one would expect in polite company, but the man’s expression was as dazed as it had been their entire brief and unfortunate interaction.
Once again, Gabriel marveled at his inner strength and patience as he schooled his expression into one less exasperated. “Is there somewhere I can hang my coat?”
“Right!” Newton extended his hand, and Gabriel shrugged off his overcoat, looking around the large, open entry hall.
It wasn’t as bad as his first impression led him to believe. Still a bit too dark and extraneous for his taste, but the dark wood paneling on the walls, the parquet and marble floor, and the large pastoral paintings and old world furniture all added cohesion to the space that belied the exterior. Even the dominating staircase that led to the second floor and the numerous rooms that attached themselves to the main floor didn’t detract from the fact that the space was almost… cozy. Not that Gabriel put stock in that sort of thing.
His own preferences always leaned towards clean, simple lines, but he knew the signs of wealth when he saw them. The tension in his shoulders relaxed as he realized that the space actually looked similar to some of the houses that belonged to the parents of his old college buddies who grew up in New England. He didn’t quite know the difference between English and New English, but whatever was new had to be better.
“Would you like to wait in the library until the other guests arrive?”
The butler’s voice broke his reverie, and Gabriel looked back at the man who stood there awkwardly; he was beginning to assume it was the boy’s default state.
“Who else is attending?”
Newton glanced off to the side, as if waiting to be prompted by a line. “Oh, uh. You’ll meet them when they arrive. Library? We have an assortment of alcohol available while you wait. Whisky, brandy, wine–oh, unless you don’t drink? I don’t like to assume. I have a cousin who–”
Gabriel cut him off before he could launch into what he was sure was a very long story about a teetotaling relative.
“What sort of wine do you have?”
“Red.”
God help him.
“How about I just take a look for myself.”
Newton led him to a small private library off to the right of the hall where a woman in a deep blue, flowing dress and a shock of bobbed orange hair was arranging glassware on a table in the corner. She turned around at the intrusion and smiled genuinely at them both.
“Our first guest!” she exclaimed. “Newton, you didn’t tell me we would be having such handsome visitors.” She winked at Gabriel, and he didn’t know whether to preen or cringe.
“Gabriel Messenger.”
“Mr. Messenger,” she sighed in a breathy voice. “Welcome. I am Madame Tracy. I do hope you enjoy the evening.”
“I’d enjoy it more if I knew who sent me the invitation–”
The front doorbell rang and a smaller bell near the library doors rang as well. Gabriel could hear similar chimes throughout the rest of the house, and he turned towards the door.
“That will be another guest,” Newton said. “Excuse me.”
Gabriel turned back to Madame Tracy with a sardonic smile. “I’d really love to know who the host is. When will I meet him?”
Madame Tracy responded with a pitying, placating smile and patted his forearm. He wrinkled his nose and tried to shake off the overfamiliar gesture. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll be along soon. Now, can I get you any refreshments?”
“Yes, I wanted to look at the wine selection.”
“Ah, yes! We have a lovely vintage this evening, just a moment.”
She fetched a bottle from the drinks cart and brought it to him for inspection. He considered the label, which was in French. Gabriel, being a proud American, did not speak French, but he knew that the French knew their wine. He turned the bottle around, taking just long enough to look at the label to give the impression to anyone watching that he might speak French, then nodded and handed the bottle back to her so she could start to pour him a glass.
“Here we are–”
A sudden crash of thunder and a torrent of rain boomed outside, and Madame Tracy shrieked, the wine splashing over Gabriel’s suit as she jumped in alarm.
“Hey!” he shouted. Honestly, these people. His impression of his host and the way he ran his household was dropping by the minute. If the stakes weren’t so dire, he would have turned around the minute he drove past the entry gates and saw this damned house looming in the distance.
Madame Tracy rushed back to the drinks cart to wet a napkin with seltzer.
“Terribly sorry, Mr. Messenger. All that clamour outside. I’m a mite jumpier as I get on in my years.”
She returned to him and dabbed at the dark red spot on his lapel, then rubbed it harder as her other hand came up to steady herself on his chest. She smiled up at him apologetically.
“It’s fine. Leave it.” He added two more items to his mental list of grievances to bring up with his absent host.
“Oh, well if you’re sure.” She removed her hands reluctantly.
Newton entered the room again, and Gabriel was almost happy for the sight of him for at least breaking the uncomfortable tension that had settled in the room. The woman that accompanied him seemed like the sort to hand out pamphlets outside the supermarket. Worse than that, she looked like an organizer who would take the polite wave one gives when they really just need to grab the carrots they forgot for their Sunday roast as a personal challenge. Gabriel still hadn’t figured out how to stop the flyers from that bi-weekly animal rights newsletter that arrived in his mailbox.
Newton cleared his throat. “This is Ms. Anathema Device. Ms. Device, Gabriel Messenger, Madame Tracy.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, adjusting the leather satchel slung across her body.
She looked over at Gabriel, and he was suddenly struck by the oddest sense that she was actually looking through him. She held her fixed gaze entirely too long before meeting his eyes and giving him a curt nod with a tight-lipped smile. He realized at that moment that the entire night was going to be filled with weirdos. He took a deep drink from his cup to fortify his strength.
“Come in, love,” Madame Tracy cooed and swept forward. “I hope you didn’t get caught in the storm out there. Nearly gave me a heart attack. Would you like anything to drink?”
Anathema shook her head. “No, thank you. Just water. I think it’s important to keep a clear head tonight.”
Gabriel took another large sip of his wine in defiance. The correlation between alcohol consumption and drunkenness was a simple issue of mind over matter. He’d reached perfect control of his physical form through sheer determination and will; was it his fault the average person was incapable of doing the same?
(The incident at his second cousin’s wedding was an anomaly and shouldn’t count against his otherwise flawless record. The entire day was a disaster and by dinner, Gabriel let intemperance wash over him much like that tank of jellyfish had when Uncle Bill brought a gun to the aquarium and celebrated the nuptials in true American fashion.)
A flash of headlights shone through the window, and he glanced outside, desperately hoping everyone would arrive soon so he wouldn’t have to be here longer than necessary. Newton exited the room just as the doorbell rang and returned with a man drying his curly brown hair with a hand towel. He’d only just introduced himself as Adam Young (finally a normal name) when the doorbell rang again, and Newton dashed out.
Gabriel glared at the small bell in the corner of the room as it gently swung back and forth and came to a rest, and then frowned as he glanced between Adam and Anathema shaking hands and making small talk. Everyone here was so young, that lascivious housekeeper aside. Surely he wouldn’t be the oldest guest at this party. He was only in his forties - he wasn’t ready to be thought of as Old by any group of people.
Newton walked through the door with a man in a tailored navy suit, his hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders bunched up around his ears. The fact that he was clearly also in his early twenties had Gabriel reaching for the wine bottle, but when Newton announced his name was Warlock Dowling, he went ahead and topped his glass off to the rim.
“So how many more people are we waiting for?” Adam asked, glancing first at Warlock who shrugged noncommittally, and then at Newton. Gabriel prayed the answer was zero.
The butler appeared to do a quick head count and then checked the slim watch on his wrist.
“Just a couple more now.”
Crowley sat, the rain clattering staccato against the roof, and wondered how long he could stay in his car without it being rude and also if he particularly cared. Normally this kind of thing was right up his alley: secretive party at a big, fuck-off house that looked straight out of a Christie novel, an unknown cast of dramatis personae ready for mysteries to unfold. But there was a sense of unease that had been tightening in his chest since the morning, and it was only through sheer strength of will and the need to see things out that he was here in his Bentley, warring with himself and the weather on when he’d leave the car and make a dash for the door. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window.
He then immediately yelped and jumped back as a beige blur appeared inches from his face outside the car. The person knocked on the window and stooped down, gesturing to a large white umbrella held aloft. They mimed opening a car door with all the enthusiasm of someone who fancied themself quite skilled at charades, and Crowley rolled his eyes before cracking the door open, appreciative that they had the forethought to angle the umbrella so no water poured into the car.
Crowley looked up to see a man with a kind, soft face and sharp, intelligent eyes smiling down at him.
“You don’t look the sort to have an umbrella,” the man said, his sonorous voice lovely and with a lilting tease, just loud enough above the rain. “You also don’t look the sort who wants to get drenched.”
There were worse things, some likely to happen that very night, than getting cozy with a handsome man under an umbrella. Crowley grinned, lending his own teasing flirtation into his voice. “My hero,” he drawled. “Right on both counts. Mind if I–”
“Oh, of course.”
The man stepped back just enough for Crowley to dart out of the car and slip under the large umbrella. A guiding hand came to rest low on his back, and they ducked their heads, pressing close and half-running in the ridiculous way all people do when seeking shelter from rain.
They reached the covered porch, and Crowley knew he should move away, but he didn’t want to, and the other man hadn’t made a move to separate either. The hand at the small of Crowley’s back splayed wider, and he smirked as the other man quirked an eyebrow. They were still standing under the umbrella, an extra shield from the world around them.
“What’s your name?” Crowley asked, and the other man pursed his lips briefly as if to stifle a grin. There was a wicked expression in his eyes that Crowley couldn’t help but be drawn to.
“Aziraphale,” he replied.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. The sound of it felt at home in his mouth. “I’m Crowley.”
“Nice to meet you, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s thumb grazed gently across his lower back, and the tightening in his chest loosened. “Are you ready?”
Aziraphale nodded towards the door without looking away from him.
Heigh ho, thought Anthony Crowley, and rang the doorbell.