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georges-left-ear · 2 months ago

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But Pestilence Is Retired

This was originally going to just be a little post about a kind of sad little headcanon that I had about Aziraphale, but boy howdy it got away from me and over 3K words later, it turned into a full blown one shot fanfic!

CW: original character death, mentions of AIDS related death, grief. All mentions of these content warnings are below the Keep Reading break!

The main narrative of this fic follows the book timeline with the averted apocalypse occuring in 1990. The frame narrative is present day, however.

SUMMARY:

Aziraphale and Crowley have a favorite waiter at The Ritz, they always ask to be served by him not just for his impeccable service, but because the man reminds Aziraphale of a young student, who he grew rather fond, and used to come by the Bookshop for tea who died of AIDS in the early 1990's.

NOTE:

Good Omens was originally published in 1990, during the height of the HIV/AIDS crisis, despite Pestilence’s supposed retirement. I've posted this on the first day of PRIDE Month in honor of the thousands of potential queer people and people of color who never got to be Good Omens fans because of AIDS, and for the fans that we have lost to HIV/AIDS and hate related violence in the past 30 years since Aziraphale and Crowley did an absolutely incompetent job averting the apocalypse. This is for those who never got to see our ineffable husbands kiss on screen, who never got to see them hold hands, or gaze into each others eyes, who never got to be apart of this fandom. Remember that PRIDE is a protest. It started as a riot. We must stick together now as much as ever to ensure our rights and lives are respected and protected.

But Pestilence Is Retired

Presently, Aziraphale and Crowley have a favorite waiter at The Ritz. Although Aziraphale never asks to be seated in his section, never wanting to seem like a bother , Crowley nevertheless sneaks the host a tenner every time to make sure that it happens. Aziraphale pretends not to notice. Their waiter is a slim, effeminate young man with kind eyes and a bright smile. And, more sentimentally, he reminds Aziraphale of a young man he briefly knew in the years just after the averted apocalypse in the early 1990s.

In the winter of 1992, on a fiercely cold misty day — one where the wet icy wind relentlessly tore through every bundled layer of clothing and the humidity stuck to the faces and necks of anyone who was unlucky enough to have to trudge through it — a young man hurriedly pushed through the door of A.Z Fell and Co. He let out a short sigh and sniffled as he surveyed the antique curved entryway of the rarely open bookshop, unwrapping the hand knit scarf from his neck and removing his gloves.

Aziraphale tilted his head back with a groan before standing from his desk toward the back of the shop. He opened the shop that day with the firm expectation that he would receive no customers due to the dismal weather. But alas, here was one intrepid — and… uhg …damp — little human come to disturb his peace.

The man was about the same height as Aziraphale, slender, and wore thin wire rim glasses, which were slightly fogged from the mist and humidity, and a dark grey knee length trench coat. He had eyes the glossy hue of salted caramel, and a soft, youthful face dusted with a constellation of light brown freckles. A couple unruly locks of strawberry blonde hair peaked out from underneath the bucket hat he wore.

Aziraphale greeted the man with a stiff smile and a polite “How do you do?” To which the man replied,

“Oh! Good Afternoon, Sir! I’m so glad I caught you open! I was in the area on another errand and happened to glance and saw you were open! So I just had to drop in, wretched weather be damned! I’ve tried to visit a few times, but you were always closed. That’s how I know this is a good spot! The best vintage book stores always keep odd hours!”

Oh no… Aziraphale bemoaned to himself … an eager one…

“Do you mind if I take a look around?” The man asked, “This place is incredible! It looks more like a well loved Edwardian library than a bookshop!”

Off by a hundred years, but I suppose it rather is… the angel thought.

“Well…” Aziraphale muttered and wrung his hands together in front of him, actually slightly flattered by the complement, “Yes, of course. As you please, but I do close soon.”

“I understand, thank you Mr?”

“Fell, yes.”

The man smiled and pointed outside, rolling his eyes at his own silliness.

“Of course! Thank you Mr. Fell. I won’t take long.”

Aziraphale walked back to his desk and watched the man wander around out of the corner of his eye. He stepped carefully with his hands behind his back, peering at the aged volumes with a soft smile like he was walking around a museum or an antique library. Every once in a while his eyes would widen and he would gently caress the spine of a book with one careful finger. The man seemed to show real reverence for the impressive collection of books and Aziraphale found himself letting the young man snoop around for a little longer than he expected. At last, the man found himself in the section of Aziraphale’s rare first editions.

“Oh my God!” The man gasped.

He eagerly reached toward the dusty bookshelf, his fingers hesitating over the spines for a moment before his excitement got the best of him and he pulled two books into his hands.

“ From Earth To The Moon AND All Around The Moon by Jules Verne! Oh, in the original French!” He flipped to the first page and gasped again. “Mr. Fell, are these first editions!?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile, endeared by the man’s enthusiasm.

“A fan of science fiction, I see,” He said. “Yes, I have a few of Verne’s first editions. Quite a fantastical imagination he had.”

“I can’t believe it!” The man said, gently flipping the pages. “I loved reading Verne as a kid. You know, these books inspired the very first narrative motion picture! Georges Méliès, A Trip To The Moon! We watched it in school when I was a teenager. Most of us thought it was boring but I was hypnotized! Looking back, it is obviously a bit… colonial–-” The man cringed,

“But, I've been hooked on science fiction ever since. I found an English translation of these when I was a bit older and after that, I just knew I wanted to be a writer myself. And look what we have now! Without these books, movies might not have been the same! I mean, imagine a world without Star Trek!” The man laughed.

“You don’t sell these books do you?! These are museum pieces, surely!”

Aziraphale smiled fondly, charmed by the gleaming sparkle in the man’s eye as he spoke of the stories he clearly adored, even if the last reference went over his head. He remembered attending a screening of A Trip To The Moon ninety years ago with Crowley in Paris by direct invitation from the accomplished magician, Méliès, himself. Crowley loved the film — endlessly impressed by those clever humans to put stage plays onto motion picture film to be watched over and over. He believed Crowley still had an original print of the film in the vault hidden behind the Mona Lisa in his flat.

“Yes, I did know that,” He said, gently reaching to take the delicate books from the man before he found the letter from Méliès tucked in the back cover.

“And no, no these are not for sale. This is my private collection.”

“Of course, of course,” the man smiled, “Well, I’ll be off then. I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for letting me look around!”

“You’re very welcome, dear boy,” Aziraphale said as he walked the young man to the door. And funny enough, he meant it. There was something delightful about the little human who strolled into his shop just to admire his collection and leave.

“Be safe now,” He said. “Ta-ta.”

The next week the man returned, just as bright eyed and excited as the last time.

“Mr. Fell!” He said, shaking Aziraphale’s hand. “I was wondering if you might help me with something.”

He explained to Aziraphale that he was a creative writing student at Kings College and wanted to start researching for a manuscript for his own science fiction novel that he wanted to write after he graduated in the spring. He said that he had a feeling that Mr. Fell had some old rare books about UFOs or alien abduction from the 50’s or 60’s that he could read on his train ride home for Christmas for inspiration.

Aziraphale cringed, yes, he did in fact have a collection of pulp novels about flying saucers, Venetians, and beings from Alpha Centauri. The popular fascination with visitations of aliens from outer space had greatly amused Aziraphale back then, considering that the existence of such beings was actually utter hogwash and seemed to be another joke that scientists just hadn’t gotten yet. But admitting that would mean that he would have to part with one or two of them.

The man chuckled, “Let me guess, in your private collection?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale sighed, “yes, they are.”

“You have a hard time parting with them, don’t you? How much of this place is your private collection?”

The book- seller blushed.

“This place isn’t a front for some kind of secret criminal network is it?” The man whispered conspiratorially.

The soles of Aziraphale’s feet itched as they stood on the aged round carpet concealing an arcane magic circle painted on the floor.

“What?! No! No! Not at all, nothing of the sort!”

The man grinned like a fox, “I’m just kidding, Mr. Fell. I know an eclectic collector when I see one,” he said.

Crowley would like this young man, the angel thought.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Airaphale, “I’ll… I’ll let you borrow one. It is Christmas after all…”

The man lit up, his eyes twinkling like the string lights across Whickber street.

“You’ve got a deal! And look, I’ll even leave some collateral.” The man reached under his shirt and removed a silver pendant and handed it to Aziraphale.

“Saint Sebastian!” Aziraphale said, “Patron Saint of archers, and plague sufferers...”

“Yeah, my mum gave it to me for protection because… well, anyway. It means a lot to me, so you know I’ll be back for it!”

In the end, the young man left with three books. He was back the first week of January having read all three of them cover to cover.

Over the next few months the young man frequently visited the bookshop, often stopping by just for tea and a chat. He told Aziraphale all about the of the novel he wanted to write that was inspired by his fascination with American UFO encounters of the ‘50’s and ‘60’s. Stories like the abduction of Betty and Barney Hill, the Mothman of Point Pleasant, West Virginia, Indrid Cold, Ufonaughts, the Men in Black, and even Joe Simonton’s space pancake — all of which Aziraphale humored in good fun, knowing that oftentimes these “sightings” were just the clumsy bumblings of unfamiliar angels or demons who didn’t know how to talk to humans with any sort of common sense. Or more recently, the manifestations of the reality altering imagination of a young anti-christ. And, that the minds of twentieth century humans were in such denial about everything resembling anything even slightly divine or infernal that they would rather come up with preposterous theories of beings from outer space to explain the blunders –- Nevertheless, while these topics in a nonfiction sense were not something Aziraphale typically kept in his shop, he agreed to help the young man by using his skills at tracking down hard to find books to source information that documented these “phenomenons.” The young man had already read The Mothman Prophecies by John Keel, and Jacques Vallee’s Passport to Magonia , but he wanted to find the really obscure stuff. UFO history that would really ground his novel in a potential reality.

Aziraphale searched for months. He subscribed to paranormal magazines in both Britain and America, ordered the bizarre video tapes from the advertisements in the back of them, he would check out the obscure libraries of the cities he would travel to with Crowley simply because they could now. Whenever he found something he thought the young man might find helpful, he would hold it safe in his bookshop for the next time the man came by for tea.

However, as the spring sun slowly emerged from the darkness, swapping snow for leaves and luring the nightingales back to Berkeley Square, the man’s visits became fewer and fewer. Each time he visited, the man seemed more worn down than the last. Aziraphale figured that he must be preparing for his final examinations and thus did not have as much spare time or energy. He had become quite fond of the promising young writer, feeling rather like he had found a sort of kindred spirit. He made the unprecedented decision to gift his first edition copies of From The Earth To The Moon and its sequel, All Around The Moon, to the young man to celebrate his graduation. While, the idea of giving away not one but two of his books would normally make him shrink in horror, if he was being honest, he had not opened those books in decades, and he figured this young man would enjoy and appreciate them far more than he did anymore, and not just hoard them like a greedy dragon.

“Oh, No, Mr. Fell. I cannot accept these!” The man exclaimed, after reading the accompanying card that was slid between them and the perfectly tied crimson ribbon.

“Of course you can!” the angel said.

“Really, sir, you don’t understand! I - I’m very touched by the thought, but I’m afraid I just can’t…”

The man handed the books back to Aziraphale and turned away, betrayed by tears welling in his sunken eyes. He pulled out a handkerchief and coughed several times. The man really did not look well. Aziraphale had observed him gingerly getting out of a cab when he arrived instead of walking like he usually did. He was rather thinner than usual, having obviously lost a considerable amount of weight in the past few weeks. He moved slowly and carefully, for every word he spoke seemed to exhaust him. And, it was a warm spring day yet, the man wore a knit hat and scarf with long sleeves and trousers.

“My dear boy, please sit. Here, have some tea.”

Aziraphale led the man to the sofa, poured him a cup and sat opposite him in his armchair. The man sipped the tea, which seemed to at least put some color back in his cheeks.

“Now,” Aziraphale continued, placing the books on the sofa next to the man. “I’ve rather enjoyed your visits. It’s nice to talk to someone who enjoys stories as much as I do, even if we disagree on the best genres —”

The man chuckled.

“ — And, you’ve achieved a great accomplishment! And for that, I want you to have these. You deserve them! I dare say much more than I do. I wouldn’t offer them if I wasn’t sure they would be in worthy hands.”

The man gazed at the angel he had no idea was in front of him for a long moment. Eventually he conceded.

“Alright. Thank you, Mr. Fell. I truly have no words. This is an exceptionally kind gift.”

“No need to thank me,” said Aziraphale. “Oh! I’ve also finally tracked down a copy of a book I think will really help you for your manuscript! It’s called The Silver Bridge , by a man named Gray Barker! It seems similar to The Mothman Prophecies , but apparently this Barker is from West Virginia and was one of the first to investigate the phenomena of those Men In Black. A U-F-Ologist he called himself…”

The man smiled, “Yes, I’ve heard of Barker. I um…” He paused, coughing wretchedly.

“My goodness, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked.

“I’ll be fine,” the man said weakly, “just getting over a bit of… pneumonia.”

“I see, well, let me call you a taxi. We don’t want you having a relapse. I’m still waiting for the book to ship from America. Hopefully it will arrive before your next visit.”

He led the man out the door, waved to the traffic and a cab miraculously pulled up to the curb.

“Mind how you go, lad,” Aziraphale said, helping him into the back seat.

“Thank you,” the man said softly. He looked at Aziraphale before he shut the door, and with watery eyes and a weak voice said, “Goodbye, Mr. Fell.”

The Silver Bridge arrived two weeks later. But, a month went by with no visit from the man, then two months, then three, and Aziraphale was starting to feel a little worried. So, he decided to phone the young man, using the number he had given Aziraphale once he agreed to help source rare books for him. However, the call went to voicemail. Crowley suggested that he probably just went on a long summer holiday.

Yes… Yes, probably right . Aziraphale thought to himself and tried not to feel too anxious.

One sweltering day in late July however, a small parcel arrived at the bookshop. Aziraphale opened the box and was startled to find his first edition copies of From The Earth To The Moon and All Around The Moon , the ones he had gifted the young man a few months earlier. Dreadfully confused, Aziraphale picked up his telephone and called the number he had for the man again.

This time an unfamiliar male voice answered.

Aziraphale introduced himself and asked to speak to the young man.

“You’re calling about the books,” the voice said.

“Well, yes. I confess, I am quite concerned he sent them back. I also have another book to give him for his novel! But I haven’t heard from him in months.”

“I guess you wouldn’t have heard,” the voice sighed mournfully. “I’m sorry Mr. Fell. I sent those books back to you. He was my partner, you see. He asked me to send them back to you after… but I got side tracked and delayed it. And, well it was hard to let go of something that meant so much to him at the end.”

“I - I don’t understand,” Aziraphale said.

“He died, Mr. Fell, two months ago. I’m sorry it took me so long to return the books to you.”

Aziraphale stood there in shocked silence.

“Hello?” the voice asked.

Aziraphale gasped, “But, but they were a gift! — H-How? How d-did it happen? I mean — Oh my goodness, forgive me. I-I’m so sorry for your loss,” he finally said.

“Thank you. He uh,” the man cleared his throat. “He caught pneumonia, an opportunistic infection they called it, and he just couldn’t beat it.”

“But… but young people don’t just die of pneumonia anymore…” he whispered, more to himself than to the man’s partner, his clammy hand shook as he clutched the phone. Then it dawned on him and he shivered.

“Was it…”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“...The staff in the Broderip ward at Middlesex did the best they could. I’m sorry Mr. Fell, I have to go.”

“But— ” Aziraphale started, but the man’s partner hung up the phone.

God bless Diana. she should be a saint , he thought, still gripping the phone. A tear treasonously dripped down his cheek.

He had never known the man’s proclivities before that day. They never really talked about anything like that. But, of course he noticed the posters around the gay clubs advertising for safe sex practices as he walked around Soho. He could sense the insidious fear that permeated the unrelenting and courageous joy that radiated from the queer folks in his neighborhood. He saw the protests demanding for more research into a cure. So he knew what was going on and what a horrible shame it was, but AIDS always seemed so beyond him. Heaven seemed just as happy to ignore the problem as most governments were. And, it wasn’t like the old days when one had to step over the dead bodies in the streets, struck down by the black death, or cholera, or any other of the white horseman’s plagues. There was no ignoring it in those days. But these people just disappeared, mysteriously, and silently. And God helped him, even he barely noticed until now.

And, because after all,

“ —-Pestilence is retired…” He whispered into the dial tone.

That evening, for the first time in decades he felt the desire to watch A Trip To The Moon, in honor of his lost friend. Yes, he would call the young man a friend. He asked Crowley if he could borrow his old print for the evening and the two of them sat in the cozy evening light of the bookshop and watched the old classic on a miraculously functioning antique projector. Aziraphale tried to keep his composure as the film played, he tried to remember the sense of awe and excitement he and Crowley felt seeing the film back in Paris, and to imagine the young man’s similar childish wonder as he watched a story for the first time that would inspire him for the rest of his life. He tried to push down the heavy stone that sat in his throat and banish the intrusive thoughts that tore through his mind. Ones like: I could have saved him! He was clearly sick! If only I had paid attention! I could have healed him…

Crowley, noticing Aziraphale’s tight breaths and wringing hands, wrapped his arm around the angel’s shoulders.

“None of that, Angel,” he said, leaning his forehead against Aziraphale’s temple, “I can see you beating yourself up.”

With that, Aziraphale forgot himself, and he cried heavily into Crowley’s shoulder.

In the months and years after the young man died, Aziraphale spent much energy researching the AIDS crisis and what he could do to help in a meaningful way to stop the spread of this disastrous virus. He regularly donated money to the Broderip ward clinic for their continued work treating patients, and also anonymously funded the research and development of a preventative medication that would eventually become PrEP. He couldn’t save his friend, but he would do what he could to still be an angel and help others.

Now, every time Aziraphale and Crowley dine at the Ritz, they request to be served by the young man who bears a striking resemblance to Aziraphale’s old friend. The affection became mutual, when the young man noticed the red ribbons Aziraphale and Crowley wore to their lunch on World AIDS Day.

“Thank you for wearing those!” The waiter said humbly, “We’re not allowed to wear ribbons at work because of our uniforms. But, my uncle died of AIDS before I was born. My mum still talks about him all the time though, so I feel like I know him.”

“Of course, my dear boy! We’re so sorry to hear about your uncle. Too many good people have died so needlessly,” replied Aziraphale with a gentle smile.

After that, the young man refused to let anyone else come within ten feet of his favorite middle aged gay couple. Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley are HIS regulars and he would drop a table full of royals to wait on them.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66105529

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