Chapter Text
Aziraphale had always known that there must be something bigger, better in life, than celestial harmonies. He also knew that whatever was out there wasn’t meant for him. He was born and raised, here, in Eastgate, only son of the rector, destined to live exactly where he’d grown up, on the steps of the church.
He wasn’t meant for something greater. For adventure, or love. He was meant to stay in his place, respectful, obedient, and, he thought sometimes lying in his bed at night, alone.
He was fine with that. He could fill his life with books. And more importantly, he could fill it with music, even if it was only the hymns he directed in the church choir.
Even his two years at the conservatoire had not freed him from the fetters his written-in-advance life constricted him in. Not with the shadow of his father constantly looming over him, the den of the faculty calling him my boy and every authority figure keeping close tags on him. He’d come back home after his graduation, like an obedient puppy, and taken the job as Eastgate’s church organist, the youngest to ever occupy this position in a congregation of this importance, at the age of 22.
Settling down in this routine, he’d never expected anything to change. Until, a year later, the voice of an angel interrupted his study.
Aziraphale frowned, putting down his pen, and craned his neck towards the sound. Someone was playing the organ. Slow, hesitant notes being pushed with what the organist could tell was shaky hands, just from the sound. He sighed, rubbed the nape of his neck, and stood up, straightening his waistcoat carefully. He put his jacket on, grabbed the handle of his oil lantern, and resolutely went to the door leading back inside the church. It was late, and he was not in the mood to deal with misfits.
He wasn’t at the door just yet when a voice rose to accompany the timid music notes, making him freeze on the spot. Whoever was singing had the purest timbre he had ever heard. It was neither young nor old, both soft and clear, with a very perceivable concealed power in it, as if its owner was holding back.
Aziraphale carefully put the lantern down, and turned the doorknob, hoping to keep it as quiet as possible. The voice got even clearer in the interstice of the door, reaching him without barrier now. Chills running along his spine and raising the hairs on his arms, the organist pushed the door open and stepped into the church.
Of the man seated at the organ, he could only distinguish the form, slim and gawky, bent over the keys, and the beautiful flaming orange of his hair.
He took another step, hoping to get a glimpse at his face, only to have his hip hit against a bench in the darkness, the noise echoing into the empty church. The music stopped abruptly, the intruder jolting up and stumbling backwards like he’d been burnt.
“Wait!” Aziraphale called, rushing forwards, his hand reaching in front of him.
The man—he was barely a man, really, more like a lanky boy with the shadow of a stubble—stopped, warily looking behind him, in the direction of the exit. His pale skin was darkened by fresh bruises on his sharp cheekbones, and his bottom lip was split open.
Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat again, trying to regain his composure.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice barely shaking.
The young man pulled the lapels of his thin jacket around his torso. “I have nowhere to go,” he answered.
Aziraphale swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tightening. The night was cold, and the boy looked like he hadn’t had a proper meal in days. He bit his lower lip, his heart racing. His father was out of town for a few days, leaving him the sole decider in the church. And the whole point of church, after all, was to hold the hand of the poor and rejected, wasn’t it?
“I was about to put a kettle to boil,” he said. “Do you want tea? What’s your name?”
“Anthony,” the redhead replied, taking a cautious step closer. “Are you the vicar?”
Aziraphale frowned slightly. People who didn’t come to church here were few and scarce, so people usually knew who he was. He refrained a sigh and shook his head. The Lord’s house was open to every soul, believer or not.
“I’m Aziraphale. I work here,” he explained. “My father is the rector, don’t let him hear you call him a vicar.” The organist chuckled awkwardly before he cleared he throat and asked, “I take it you are not a parishioner?”
The young man shrugged. “Not really. We just moved in. My father’s come here for work. To the factory?”
Aziraphale nodded. He’d heard of new comers getting settled lately. As they spoke, Anthony had come closer and was now actually following him to his study.
The little stove in the isle leading to Aziraphale’s study (a crammed room with a tiny desk and an oil lamp he used to study his music when the limited light from the window just wasn’t enough) did little to soothe the sting of the late December evening. Aziraphale was used to it—finding comfort in his multiple layers of clothing, a wide collection of woollen articles to keep him warm.
Anthony was the exact opposite. A dark grey shirt and a thin jacket that wasn’t even buttoned up was all that covered his lean torso. The boy shivered, wrapping his arms around him. With a soft tut, Aziraphale opened the stove’s door, wincing at the hot blast of air. He shifted the coal with a long poker and then added some more, just to be safe. His father would probably have words to say about it but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Or, well, couldn’t hurt him yet.
Rubbing his freezing fingers for a moment before he closed the door and pushed himself up, Aziraphale forced a smile on his face. Anthony was terrified; twitching and wincing at every sudden movement, his eyes widening at the random voices coming from outside. The organist didn’t have to spare more than a few seconds looking at him to see the ghosts that had been haunting him, the terrors weighing down his bony shoulders.
“How do you take your tea?” Aziraphale asked, aching to power through the unnerving silence that had fallen.
Anthony merely grumbled something sounding vaguely close to ‘I don’t know’ with a fluid but nervous shrug.
“I rather like a drop of milk in mine,” the organist leaned closer to whisper, “I know we’re not supposed to—but if no one is looking, I sneak a second spoonful of sugar in it, too.”
The hint of a chuckle blew out of the boy’s nose, and Aziraphale’s chest burst with pride.
“That sounds good,” Anthony finally agreed, settling into one of Aziraphale’s armchairs.
The cushions seemed to swallow him whole, somehow making him look leaner and weaker. The soft glow of the oil lantern flickered against his pale cheeks, and Aziraphale had to keep tight hold of his expressions not to wince at the angry bruise blooming in one of them. The injuries—physical and mental, no doubt—would have to wait. The priority at this moment was to get the poor boy warmed up and comfortable.
“I-I also have a bit of leftovers from supper,” Aziraphale offered as he settled two cups of steaming tea on the desk. “It’s not much, but the lady that helps run the church seems rather confident I’m incapable of caring for myself and insists on feeding me way too much.”
He was actually saving that for a snack later in the evening for when he usually grew hungry again, but he could not, in good conscience, let the stranger unfed. He was raised better than that; Love thy neighbour, and whatnot.
“‘m not hungry,” Anthony muttered, but Aziraphale didn’t miss the way his bright, molten gold eyes tracked the plate of food, or the way his tongue rushed out to brush over his bloodied lip.
The organist ignored the blatant lie and set about warming the food. “You can go wash up, if you’d like. There’s a basin just outside.”
With another shrug that should have dislodged his shoulder entirely, Anthony stood back up and dragged his feet outside. Aziraphale could hear him shuffling about the narrow hallway until he located the little basin with a triumphant ‘ah’. Soon, the sounds of muffled hisses and sloshing water made it nearly impossible for Aziraphale not to rush to him and offer assistance, but he just gritted his teeth and kept stirring the rice in the pot.
By the time Anthony walked back in, cheeks bright red from the cold water but lips significantly less bloody, his food was warmed and plated. The boy’s face seemed to flush further when he noticed, but that could just be the remnants of the biting cold.
Even so, his eyes flickered up to Aziraphale for a brief moment before resting the plate on his knees and bringing the first forkful to his mouth.
“Thanks,” he said, and Aziraphale’s smile widened.
He didn’t so much eat as he inhaled the food, and in less than five minutes, the plate was empty and thoroughly cleaned. Aziraphale almost regretted he didn’t have a spare slice of bread to make sure the last drop of gravy was gone.
He watched him put the plate to the side and take his cup of tea, bringing it to his mouth.
“Is it still warm?” he asked.
Anthony nodded, taking a careful sip that made him wince, licking his split lip as he put the cup back.
“Can I ask what happened to you?”
The boy darted his amber eyes on Aziraphale and shrugged. “Got into a fight.”
“That much I had figured,” the organist replied.
Anthony looked away, pouting. “Why d’you care? They got the worst of it.”
When Aziraphale didn’t answer, highly doubting he was hearing the truth, the redhead looked back at him with a smirk.
“Seriously. I’m sure I landed at least one hit.”
A warm chuckle forced its way to the organist’s lips, making his chest shake, and Anthony’s lopsided smile widened, revealing his teeth, a crooked canine pressing down on his lower lip. Aziraphale felt something hot linger in his chest at that sight, a sensation he quickly attributed to the hot tea he’d just been drinking.
For a minute, they stayed quiet, in a silence that was surprisingly pleasant. At last, Aziraphale broke it, his curiosity taking over.
“I heard you singing earlier—”
“Yeah, sorry I disturbed you.”
“No, no you didn’t. But your voice, it— I have to ask, where did you learn to sing?”
Anthony’s face folded into a confused frown. “Didn’t.”
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. “What do you mean you didn’t?” he replied, a bit annoyed by the laconic response.
The boy shrugged again. “I never learned to sing,” he insisted. “I just do. Sometimes. Not often. Why?”
Could it really be so? The sound had seemed so careful, the notes perfectly under control, and that without the slightest training? Without any vocal technique? Aziraphale straightened up from his seated position—not that he wasn’t sitting straight, but he could always achieve higher levels of straightness—and as a result, Anthony shrunk in his.
The organist schooled his excitement at this sight. Maybe tonight, barely half an hour after meeting the man, wasn’t a good time to bring forward the fact that he was desperately looking for a voice like his. So Aziraphale just shook his head.
“No reason. You have a beautiful voice.”
Anthony’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “Do you—”
This time, Aziraphale couldn’t contain his enthusiasm. “I’m the church’s organist.”
“What’s that?”
“I play the organ, for the church.”
“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”
“I also direct the choir and I— Well, I help around with a lot of things, really. My work here is supposed to be only about music, but there are a thousand things to do every day, and my father and old Madam Tracy can’t exactly cover everything. The altar boys could help, of course, but they spend half their time playing rugby and the other half thinking about it so…” Aziraphale took in a big gulp of air, realising he had not breathed at all. “Sorry. I’m babbling. My father says I talk too much.”
The smile that had vacated Anthony’s lips came back. “No,” he said. “‘s alright. I don’t talk much, so you can…”
“Fill in the gaps,” Aziraphale finished where the boy trailed off, making him chuckle and nod his head.
Silence came back, until the young man rubbed his palms of the armrests of his chair and started to shuffle. “I should go,” he murmured, unfolding his long silhouette. “It’s late, I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’re not!” Aziraphale protested, almost jumping to his feet. “Besides, you told me you had nowhere to go, didn’t you?”
“Hm. Dad kicked me out.”
The organist felt his nostrils flare under the sharp, furious inhale he took. “Well, you’re not sleeping outside in the middle of winter, dear boy. We have a spare room and a bed in the rectory. It’s nothing much, but at least you won’t freeze to death.”
Anthony bit his lower lip, his tongue always coming back to the split. “You sure?”
He wasn’t. But what other choice did he have? Housing a stranger in need was the right thing to do. Besides, he was quite certain he could tackle the lanky boy to the ground if he turned out to be a thief or anything of the sort.
“Yes,” he answered. “Let me show you.”
Come morning, Aziraphale had almost forgotten the events of the previous night. Anthony had dragged his feet after him and into the huge house, keeping his hands shoved in tight pockets. He had barely uttered a word besides “thanks” when Aziraphale offered him one of his old shirts to sleep in and a “g’d night” just before the lights flickered off and he left him to his own devices in the spare bedroom.
The young boy seemed frightened, tired and—worst of all—haunted. He couldn’t imagine what it was like, being kicked to the curb in such a young age, his own father not sparing a thought for the blood dripping down his shirt.
For a quick, blood-boiling moment, Aziraphale thought perhaps it was his own father that put the bruises there to begin with. Anthony had said he got into a fight, even went as far as to claim he had managed to hit back, but—
No. Aziraphale shook his head firmly. The tie around his neck was a little tighter than he would have liked, his fingers pulling abruptly as he slammed the breaks on his train or thought. He had no proof, no reason to believe his father had— had—
It was no good, anyway. It’s not as if Anthony would ever admit it, from the looks of it. There had been moments—mere seconds—that Aziraphale thought he would manage to get through to the boy, show him he was a safe person to talk to, try and help. But then at the first clattering sound, or a particularly strong burst of wind rattling the windows, or if Aziraphale straightened his back too much, Anthony would clam up again and lower his eyes, shoulders coming up to his ears.
Maybe today, after he’d had the chance to get some rest, he would be more open.
Aziraphale finished getting ready and headed down the stairs, following the unexpected sounds from the kitchen. Perhaps Anthony had woken up before him and got hungry.
With a relieved and hopeful smile, he rounded the corner, a warm greeting already at the corner of his lips.
“Good mor— Father!”
Eyes wide as saucers, Aziraphale could only stare as he felt the blood drain from his cheeks, watching his father prepare a cup of tea like it was any other morning. Maybe he had dreamt the whole thing.
“Aziraphale,” his father greeted with the exact same amount of warmth he usually directed at him (as in, barely enough to make it through).
“Y-You’re here!”
A deep crease formed between his father’s brows before he raised an eyebrow. “Of course I’m here. This is the rectory, is it not? And I’m still rector?”
“O-Of course, yes, silly me, I just—” Aziraphale mustered all his strength not to glance up the stairs, praying that Anthony would hear the commotion and stay locked in his room. “I didn’t expect you until tonight. Forgive me, I was just startled.”
The man stared at him from a few more chilling seconds until he sighed and aimed his attention at the demanding kettle.
“Yes, well, I caught an earlier train.”
“How lovely. Did you have a nice trip?”
Aziraphale hummed and nodded along to the retelling of his travels, well practised expressions he barely put any thought into. His mind was on the bedroom just upstairs, ears open to catch any noises. As soon as his father retreated to his office to get caught up in the work he missed, Aziraphale all but clambered up the stairs, thankful for the thick carpet muting his footfalls.
“Anthony?” he whispered breathlessly, rapping at the door. “Anthony, are you awake? Anthony!”
He pushed the door open, apology at the ready in case he startled the poor boy, but stopped in his tracks at the sight of the empty (but rumpled) bed. He cast a look around, then back at the hall before glancing back inside the bedroom. A quick check confirmed that the bathroom was empty as well, just like his own room. His father’s bedroom mercifully was kept locked every time he was away, so there was no chance he managed to creep in there.
Heart rattling in his chest, Aziraphale sent a silent prayer that Anthony had managed to sneak out before his father ever knew he was here, but not without getting some much needed rest. He would have to ask Tracy later; if there was one person that knew everything about the comings and goings of people in Eastgate, then that was the honourary lady of the house.
He managed to go on about his day, more or less, without worrying too much. If his father had spotted Anthony, he would have already reacted by now. The only thing left to wonder about was whether or not the freckled boy was alright. After his chores were done, Aziraphale decided to take a little walk around town, both for the fresh air and for the potential information he would be able to gather.
He answered the numerous salutations from parishioners with amiable smiles and nods, stopped by the bakery just to smell the delicious scent of warm bread and pastries and have a quick chat with the baker, and then took a longer detour through the fields bordering the town. From the distance, he could see the smoke escaping the steel factory. The place had brought many newcomers in Eastgate, and led to the creation of entire neighbourhoods, almost a town inside the town. Anthony probably lived here, but Aziraphale couldn’t let his curiosity lead him there. They were dangerous quarters, and, even if he dressed humble and held his head down, he knew it was obvious he came from wealth. He’d be the easiest target there, and for what? The chances to find the redhead amongst the crowd of workers were thin.
Aziraphale finished his stroll just in time to freshen up a bit before choir. The group he was leading was an eclectic one, with a wide variety of voices, but none that stuck out enough to be an obvious leading choice.
The choir at Saint Cecil was one of the biggest of the area, and a steady source of income for the church. Its renown brought visitors all the way from Canterbury on Easter or Christmas, and this was the legacy Aziraphale had been trusted to carry on. Except that with the retirement of the previous organist, some of the best singers had left too, leaving him to work with an underwhelming group.
After a year of work, Aziraphale had managed to find a harmony that worked well enough, but it lacked something. It lacked the spark that turned a decent choir into something flirting with the divine. And to have touched, maybe, that something, only to have it fly away through the window, was to say the least frustrating.
That evening, like most, Aziraphale dined alone with Madam Tracy, his father still locked up in his office. She was the church’s little bit of everything; cleaning, cooking, taking care of the garden. Aziraphale tried his best to help, and in return, well, she liked to spoil him. She had seen him grow from infancy, almost raising him after his mother had passed away. With her, Aziraphale felt safe and loved, more than with anyone in the world.
He also knew she had somewhat of a fling with a man who happened to live in the worker’s neighbourhood.
“Have you seen Mister Shadwell, lately?” he asked casually over his plate of peas.
She answered with a cheeky smile and a thin eyebrow raising up on her forehead. “When did you become curious?”
“I’m just wondering. You’ve been working an awful lot lately.”
“So have you, dearie, with the Christmas concert. Which, you’ll hear me say again, was lovely.”
Aziraphale winced. It had not been the best concert of his life. It had not been bad, but certainly not up to the standards he held himself and his choir to. Admittedly, the congratulations from the parishioners and visitors had been warm, but from his father, the most important man in Saint Cecil, not a word.
“Let’s hope we’ll do even better this year,” he answered. “You didn’t answer,” he added with a corner smile.
She chuckled goodheartedly. “Well, if you must know, I will abandon you on Sunday evening. The Sergeant invited me to dinner. Don’t tell your dad.”
Aziraphale brought his index to his lips as a promise of his discretion. “I, um, I don’t like the idea of you going alone there,” he said after a short moment of silence. “Would you mind if I walked you there? Just to be sure you are in good hands.”
“And who will make sure you are in good hands, dear?”
Aziraphale frowned, forcing an overly concentrated face and making her chuckle. Then, he pointed up.
“Maybe if I ask Him nicely?”
The weekend came under a haze of errands, Aziraphale’s hands full with the organisation of their quarterly fundraiser. He had been tasked with overseeing the whole affair, but also preparing a short appearance of the choir, as was customary.
Everything went through him; there were people offering baked goods to sell, old clothes their kids had grown out of, handcrafted delicacies aplenty. It all had to be perfectly set up, so that the intoxicating scents from the food isles didn’t mix unpleasantly, but also Mrs— no, Ms Hoffman, as of one month, wasn’t placed within throwing distance from her now ex-husband. The town had barely had time to settle after the kerfuffle of their divorce.
Even with all his responsibilities biting their way around Aziraphale’s cuticles—a habit he’d yet to break, no matter how many tricks he had tried—his thoughts kept running back to the scrawny young boy. His memory always lingered in a corner of Aziraphale’s mind; it was there when he prepared his breakfast, wondering if Anthony had managed to get some rest. There when he went over the songs with the choir, the voices in his head transforming into the little singing voice he’d overheard almost a week prior, fitting into the ensemble like a long-lost missing piece of a puzzle. It was there when Aziraphale drew the curtains shut each night, gaze fixed on the melting snow, hoping Anthony had managed to find some place safe and warm, even if that wasn’t under his care.
He didn’t know what it was about the boy that had awoken such a protective instinct within him. Aziraphale always loved caring for those around him. Every human, child or adult, dogs, cats, even the snails on his path, he always treated with the same degree of respect and love—all God’s creatures, after all. And what was he if not a mere servant of the church, offering shelter to those in need?
But there was something about Anthony… It made his skin thrum, his fingers itch to find the most delicious of treats and the softest blanket and keep the tentative smile he’d only caught hints of permanently on his face.
By Sunday afternoon, Aziraphale was so jittery Madame Tracy’s eyebrow seemed stuck hoisted up by an invisible hook. The church, empty at last after this morning’s sermon, was filled with the sounds of unusually tripped notes, huffed complaints and furious scribbling. At the sound of sheets of paper scattering down to the floor—for the second time in an hour—Tracy stomped her thin heels over to him, arms crossed in front of her chest.
“Out with it,” she demanded, the invisible hook pulling higher.
“Wh-what are you—”
“Don’t you dare play coy with me young man, I practically birthed you. Something’s got you all out of sorts and the sooner you tell me what that is the sooner we can both go about our days.”
“I-I-I’m fine,” he tried, attempting to gather his music from the floor in spite of her pointy, bright red shoe stubbornly in the way. “If you could please— I cannot write this again, my good woman, the rehearsal is tomorrow.”
Unbothered by his pleading, Madame Tracy just sighed. “Aziraphale… If you don’t want me going by the Sergeant’s tonight you should just say so.”
At that, his head shot up, the papers crinkling under his grip. “What-what makes you say that?!”
“You’ve been an anxious mess ever since I told you about it! I know this is all you’ve ever known, dearie, but they’re really just people like us, trying to make it through day by day.”
“I-I know that… It’s just father always said—”
“Oh, don’t get me started on what your father has been saying about their neck of the woods.” At last, she stepped away from the sheet music, only leaving behind a faint footprint and minor smudges Aziraphale could easily correct. “May the Lord keep him well but sometimes his head is too thick for his own good.”
Madame Tracy was the only person Aziraphale had ever seen talk back to his father. Rector Gabriel’s name reached at least three towns over, his influence strong even without his daily presence. People looked up to him, soaked up his sermons like dried up sponges every week, a stick finding its way around their spines every time he glanced at them. And yet Tracy, Aziraphale was stunned to note, barely batted an eye at it all.
“I’ve handled men ten times worse than your daddy,” she would tell him with a wink every time Gabriel, cheeks red and the wiggly vein in his forehead threatening to pop, bit his tongue and stomped back to his office.
It always left Aziraphale speechless, an imaginary cloud parting before the Madame’s head, letting the sun peek through. No matter the effect his father had on everyone else—including Aziraphale himself—he knew that as long as Madame Tracy was around, he was safe.
Which is why it hurt him so much to force a placating smile and lie to her face.
“You’re probably right,” he said, hands folded tightly behind his back. “I just think that it will help, if I’m to see it with my own eyes.”
He couldn’t tell if she was convinced or not, but her smile did soften. “Lucky me, prancing about town in the arm of such a handsome young man.”
He couldn’t help it, the silly compliment turned his own smile far more genuine, and he rolled his eyes, gladly playing her game.
“I’m the lucky one,” he said. “All the men in town will want to steal you away from me, but I shan’t let them.”
“You’ll have to let one of them,” Madam Tracy retorted with a lopsided smile and a twinkle in her eyes.
He took a step closer to her and leaned over to take her hand and kiss it gentlemanly.
“Over my dead body,” he replied lightly. “Now let me work, good woman, and I’ll make sure you reach your Sergeant promptly.”
Aziraphale knew, deep down, that just because people were poor, it didn’t mean they were dangerous. Living in need didn’t make one a thief, but it was one thing to know it, and another completely to shake off the discourse he’d heard his whole life. Behind all his speeches about the virtues of poverty, all his sermons and his affected compassion, Aziraphale’s father’s actual views on the poor weren’t— Well let just say he liked Poverty way more than he liked the poor. It had taken Madame Tracy’s wisdom, and a couple of years away from home for the organist to open his eyes and fight against his upbringing, and even now, as he bid her goodbye on the doorstep of her beau’s house, it was with an uneasy feeling tightening his throat.
“I’ll have Sergeant Shadwell take me back home, dearie, don’t worry about me,” said the woman as a farewell. “Get home safe now.”
Aziraphale walked away, hoping to promptly make it to the main avenue, were the electric lights were brightening the path. It wasn’t late, but in the heart of winter, the evening was dark, and the moon hidden behind thick clouds. The sound of his footsteps muffled by the snow, the organist had almost reached the powered part of the neighbourhood when a sound behind him made his heart rattle. He quickened his pace, aiming to get away from the darkest alleys as fast as possible.
“Oi, Mister!” came a voice behind him. Young, masculine.
That was all Aziraphale heard, and he didn’t want to know more. He almost bolted forward, the fastest he could without running.
“Mister, wait!”
He heard the footsteps behind him get closer, faster and— Oh, dang it with appearances. Aziraphale made a run for it. He was just a couple of streets away from the relative safety of the street lights now.
One last turn. One last turn and—
BANG!
Whomever he collapsed head first with gripped his arms in a flourish of expletives that would have made him blush had he been paying attention, and prevented him from ending straight on his bottoms in the snow.
“Aziraphale? Why’re you running like the bloody devil’s chasing you?”
Confused, out of breath, Aziraphale gripped back, holding on to the man like he was his saviour.
Wait— How did he know his name?
“How do you know my— Anthony?”
His eyes had finally managed to focus on the angular face and the golden brown eyes looking down at him. The boy’s expression was something halfway between surprised and delighted, his freckled nose reddened by the cold. The brown cap he was wearing concealed his bright orange hair, hence why Aziraphale had not recognised him straight away.
“Someone’s trying to rob me,” he managed to say, still gripping the boy’s arms like his life depended on it.
“Who? Henry, here?”
Aziraphale looked behind him, finding his pursuer to be no older than fifteen, a blond boy with both hands on his knees, completely out of breath.
“Jesus Mister, I swear, ya run like there’s a tax collector after ya!” he said in a chuckle. “Ya let this fall,” he added once he’d regained possession of his lungs.
Aziraphale finally let go of Anthony and carefully took back the handkerchief Henry was holding out for him.
“Thank you,” he breathed, cheeks burning with shame.
“I figured ya’d want to keep it, since it has initials on it an’ all.”
“That’s-that’s very kind of you.”
“Sorry I gave ya a fright.”
The heat on Aziraphale’s cheeks crept to his neck and he chuckled dismissively. “You didn’t. I, ah… I was in a hurry.”
“Oh! I won’t hold ya up then. Have a nice evenin’. Bye, Tony!”
With a jolly wave of his hand, Henry walked away, leaving Aziraphale alone in the alley with Anthony, who was smirking.
“Still in a hurry?” he asked.
“Well, I should be getting home, yes,” Aziraphale answered with a huff of annoyance.
The teasing smile on the boy’s face only widened.
“‘cause I can walk you home if you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared!”
“No, of course you’re not, but I’d hate for you to get robbed by the smallest lad in town while you bless us with your presence, m’lord.”
Aziraphale’s mouth opened on the widest, most outraged gape.
“I did not— It was an honest mistake, here in the dark!”
“Yeah, ‘cause we all robbers.”
Aziraphale didn’t know what hurt the most. That Anthony was right about his way of thinking, or that it was said with such a carefree tone, like it was the most normal thing in the world to be considered a criminal just because of one’s birth or status. He bit his lips, hoping the tears watering his eyes weren’t too obvious in the dark.
“I should really get home,” he murmured, turning on his heels to walk away.
“Aziraphale, wait!”
“No, I— I really… This was a mistake.”
“Aziraphale…”
Anthony’s footsteps crunched the snow right behind him, but thankfully the boy didn’t make any more attempts to catch him. He just followed him closely, muttering Aziraphale’s name and weak pleads for him to slow down.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” Aziraphale said, just as the familiar streets of his parts of town started coming into view.
“Why did you come here, then?”
Aziraphale’s steps stuttered, only for a moment. Though before Anthony could catch up, he shook his head and charged forward again.
“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
“Does, too! Aziraphale! Stop for a second, Jesus!” Anthony was panting, but managed a wince and a disarming smile at Aziraphale’s chastising glare. “Sorry. ‘s just— I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Well I was worried!” Aziraphale blurted out, then bit his tongue at the young man’s surprised blink. “I mean— A— A friend was visiting her… beau and… I didn’t want her coming here unaccompanied.” He could feel the flush reaching down to his throat, the skin under his thick scarf burning.
Anthony seemed better than he had when he’d crept in the church a week prior. His skin was bright red, the tear above his lip no more than a thin dark red line, the bruise around his eye a pale yellow. He had a long coat on that reached just below his knees, but from what Aziraphale could see, there was only a mere jumper underneath.
“You didn’t say goodbye,” Aziraphale added when Anthony seemed content just to stare back at him. He lowered his gaze to his own gloved fingers where they toyed with each other in front of his stomach.
“I— Yeah. ‘m not— great, at all that. I wanted to say thanks but…” Anthony buried a hand under his collar, rubbing the back of his neck.
“There’s no need to thank me. I was just… I thought we might…” He shook his head, letting a weak chuckle out. “Well, it’s probably for the best, really. My father returned home earlier than expected and it’s probably best he didn’t find you there.”
Anthony nodded, his hands now deep into warm pockets. Aziraphale didn’t miss how the knuckles where bright red, the cold weather leaving the skin dry and fragile.
“You should stop by the church,” he said, barely wincing at the young man’s shocked eyes widening. “I mean— the service is usually…” He made a grimace, as if to say it sucked, and Anthony chuckled. “But sometimes my choir sings at the end. It’s— quite nice, actually. I think you might like it.”
“Yeeeaah… Church is not… Not really my thing. I only came there the other night to hide from—” He cleared his throat, then aimed a smile at Aziraphale. “You could come here, though. I mean. If you want. We could… I dunno. Could show you around.” His smile turned sharper, one corner of his mouth lifting higher. “Maybe I’ll convince you we’re not all criminals.”
“I wasn’t— I don’t think—”
“I’m just teasing, Aziraphale, it’s okay. I know this place doesn’t have the best reputation.”
The blond took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders. “I don’t care about reputation,” he said decisively, trying not to grin too wide at the other’s relieved sigh. “I’d love to come back.”
Anthony nodded quickly, his mouth twitching with a much more sincere smile than he’d ever allowed himself in Aziraphale’s presence. “Right. Yes. Great. I’ll… Guess I’ll see you around?”
It was impossible not to beam at the tentative hopefulness. “I’m sure you will. Now, I really must get going before my father realises I’m gone.”
“You sure you don’t want me to walk with you?” The teasing from earlier had completely vanished, melted down in the snow. Anthony’s eyes were wide now, eyebrows slightly scrunched.
“Best not,” Aziraphale said, hating the words coming out of his mouth. “It was lovely seeing you.”
“Yeah. You too. And… Aziraphale?” Anthony called out to him before he had managed to take a step away. “‘t was nice of you. Worrying about your friend. She’s lucky to have you.”
Finding himself at a loss for words, Aziraphale could only nod, mouth agape before settling into a tight smile. “Good night, Anthony.”
“Night, Aziraphale.”