Chapter Text
The day that Anthony Crowley first encountered a tumbleweed, it was his 37th birthday. While he’d never exactly been big on birthdays—kind of hated them, actually—he found himself wishing for candles on a cake and a party hat instead of a glimpse through a grimy train window at the notorious tangle of wayward weeds. At least with candles he could have set himself on fire and avoided the experience entirely.
He’d never been on a steam train either, so the day was chock-full of firsts. Unfortunately, any possible excitement or joy from these encounters was quickly deflated by the sheer volume of cologne the snoring man seated across from him seemed to be wearing. No self-immolation via birthday candle, but maybe asphyxiation via lack of oxygen? Crowley chuckled darkly to himself. If he showed up dead upon arrival, the law firm would just charge his nonexistent estate legal fees for dealing with his corpse, and who knows if they’d tell Beez. Not that Beez would care, probably. They’d just light a candle in the vestry of Trinity church and move on. Crowley sighed and looked down at the well-thumbed letter tucked inside the copy of Gulliver’s Travels that he’d half-heartedly intended to read and hadn’t cracked open even once since he’d boarded the steam train two days ago. The edges of the letter were soft from repeated handling, and he didn’t need to look at it to know what it said:
April 28th, 1901
Dear Mr. Crowley,
We have received your request for promotion, and will deliver our decision as soon as possible. Thank you for your interest.
In the meantime, we are elated to inform you of a special assignment, for which the client has requested your services specifically: you are to execute the Last Will and Testament of one Agnes Nutter, of Starfall Ranch in Eden Springs, Texas. The details and address are below. A per diem and one-way train ticket are included in this letter, and a return ticket will be reimbursed upon your completion of the abovementioned assignment and return to the Boston offices.
We look forward to your success.
Sincerely,
Marcus, Naster, Crowley, & Co
Manifest Capital Attorney Services
Crowley was regrettably not the Crowley mentioned in his law firm's titles, and was treated accordingly. For instance, his per diem only covered an economy train ticket. Which normally he wouldn’t have minded, but sharing a sleeping compartment with Cartier’s foremost failed parfumier was not his idea of economy, let alone luxury. There was a very real possibility he would need the legal services of his own firm after murdering his coachmate. And who better to represent him than Boston’s leading criminal defense attorneys? Mobsters, murderers, and psychopaths walked free after Gregor Marcus, Edward Naster, Geronimo Crowley (no relation) had their moment on the courtroom floor, all for the low low price of a king’s ransom and your eternal soul. The whole thing made Crowley a bit green in the ethical gills, but money was money, and Lord knew he needed a lot of it. Turns out the whole bootstrapping mentality of the American Dream wasn’t really built for orphans of dubious origin and even more questionable attitude.
Hence, the random assignment to the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, Texas to execute the will of some dame he’d literally never met in his life. Crowley didn’t know who Agnes Nutter was, and he didn’t particularly care. In his head, she was an eccentric old woman with wrinkles and fake teeth that squelched when she talked, and the sooner he read her will and distributed her motheaten Turkish rugs and never-used wedding china to the grieving hicks of Eden Springs, the better.
However, the dustier, nastier Texas witch had Crowley imagined in his head offered no explanation for how she knew who he was, and neither did the letter from the firm. Crowley didn’t like not knowing things, and hated the way it made the skin between his fingers itch.
The man across from him grunted in his sleep, partially inhaling the classifieds section of the newspaper draped across his face. Crowley watched in horrified fascination as a gray corner of the flimsy paper fluttered in and out of his mouth, occasionally brushing the gray hairs of an admittedly impressive mustache. Crowley rubbed his jaw. Would he look good with a mustache? Maybe not. Too much work to maintain. Not that he was bad-looking, by any means. Dark red wavy hair, light amber eyes, slim build, left canine chipped from getting slammed into a brick wall by Bobby Furfur in school for looking at his mole too long. In short, handsome, if you squinted.
He probably should have felt bad for wishing the smelly, snoring man interrupting his quiet would choke on advertisements for hired help, but he really, really didn't.
Oh well. Hell sounded more fun anyway.
A loud, brassy voice cut through Crowley’s morality musings as a steward made his way through the car announcing their next destination.
“Next stop Don Marcha! Next stop Don Marcha in teeeeeen minutes!”
The steward’s announcement repeated twice more, each time getting more muffled as he traversed the length of the train. Crowley quickly gathered his things—a leather overnight bag, a briefcase, a coat, a hat—and sat them all next to him on the seat, ready to get out as soon as the train stopped moving. Picking up Gulliver’s Travels , he flipped through the unread pages until he found his ticket tucked two-thirds of the way through. Boston to Don Marcha. Crowley groaned as he remembered that Don Marcha was not, in fact, his final destination, but merely the town closest to Eden Springs large enough to actually have a train station. Supposedly, someone named Shadwell was going to come meet him and take him to the local hotel in Eden Springs, about an hour away by coach. He groaned again and pressed his temple to the cool glass of the train window. A tumbleweed wobbled past the dry, cactus-speckled expanse of brown rocks, just a blink in the blur and so fast he nearly missed it. They were much less… weedy than Crowley expected. More like someone had taken Jesus’ crucifixion crown, multiplied it by six, and crafted a big, uneven ball. Perfect for wandering the desert for forty years, he supposed.
Then the train whistle blew and rattled the glass window and Crowley’s temples, and the migraine that had been lurking in the shadows of his skull since early that morning decided to be brave and show its face.
As the train chugged away from him in a great gray cloud of industry, Crowley hefted his valise and briefcase and took a look around. Don Marcha was pretty standard as far as towns went. All three B’s seemed to be accounted for— bordellos, business, and booze—so perhaps he wouldn’t be stranded quite as badly as he’d anticipated after being deposited in the allegedly wild west. Drops of sweat slid down his back and soaked his trousers at the small of his back, and he hefted his luggage from two hands to one, using the free hand to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. With the sun beating down on him (and it was only about two in the afternoon), Crowley could barely see, and the whites of his eyes felt gritty with dust and hot, dry air. Feeling unbalanced and surprisingly moist, he was glad to find the little roundabout around the corner from the platform, where it seemed travelers were to wait to be retrieved. Only three other people had gotten off at the Don Marcha stop with him, a mother and her young daughter, and an older gentleman with perhaps the most gravity-defying handlebar mustache Crowley had ever witnessed. Silently, he mentally saluted the elder gentleman for his dedication.
After five minutes, a small open wagon drawn by a single horse pulled into the roundabout, and a good-looking man in his forties or so jumped down, wearing what Crowley could only describe as a “cowboy outfit,” complete with jeans, flannel, boots, and a hat that asserted more authority than any bowler hat ever had. The man grinned widely around the pipe clenched in his teeth, running up to the young woman and the girl. He kissed the young woman soundly on the mouth and spun the girl through the air as she laughed, before bundling both womenfolk and luggage into the wagon and driving off again.
After ten minutes, a dark, gleaming (impressively clean) forest-green carriage rumbled into the roundabout. The older gentleman twitched his whiskers and smoothed the lapels of his suit before nodding to the driver and climbing into a richly upholstered, red-wine interior. The driver—who couldn’t have been more than seventeen, at most—jumped down and collected the multiple steamer trunks left behind on the platform. Crowley watched, face impassive, as the kid struggled with the first trunk, but eventually managed to wrestle it up on top of the coach and strap it in. When he returned for the second, face red and flushed, Crowley silently went over and took the other end of the trunk and lifted. The kid’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak, but Crowley just shook his head and jerked his chin at the open window of the carriage. Together, they hefted the remaining two trunks from the platform up on top of the carriage.
“Rawlins, what the hell is the hold up?”
“Nothing, sir. On our way now, sir,” the kid, Rawlins, called back. Silently he mouthed at Crowley, back on the platform, “Thank you!”
Crowley saluted and winked at the kid as he drove off, wondering when the last time he’d been properly tipped. Eventually, it too disappeared off in the distance, trailing a cloud of dust.
After 25 minutes, Crowley set down his luggage and sat on a nearby bench.
After 45 minutes, he loosened his tie and took off his jacket, kicking himself for not taking it off 30 minutes earlier.
After a full hour, Crowley had begun talking to himself, reciting stubborn memorized passages of law books that even fifteen years later refused to leave him in peace. As a result, when a gruff voice coming from behind him asked “Are you Anthony Crowley?” his tongue was so desiccated and firmly attached to the roof of his mouth that he nearly couldn’t respond.
After a couple dry and scratchy false starts, he replied, “Technically, yes. I go by Crowley.”
“Anthony Crowley?” the voice asked again. When Crowley turned around, he saw it belonged to a baffling assortment of flannels and sheepskin of middling height that eyed him warily. “I’m supposed to meet an Anthony Crowley.”
“I am Anthony Crowley, I just go by—nevermind. I’m Anthony Crowley,” Crowley sighed. Sometimes it just wasn’t worth it. “I’m guessing you’re Shadwell?”
The pile of suspicious upright fabrics huffed in affirmation, before turning abruptly around and waving at him to follow without another word. As Crowley picked up his luggage, a vein under his left eye throbbed. With any luck, Eden Springs would have ice and a double of bourbon waiting for him in a cool, dark room.
“I was expecting you over an hour ago,” he called up ahead.
“And I’m expecting the second coming of Christ. I’m here, aren’t I?” Shadwell had pulled himself up onto a rickety wagon harnessed to a horse munching happily away at some scrub. Crowley’s stomach rumbled as he remembered the last time he’d eaten was the stale muffin from the little trolley on the train this morning. Horses hadn’t liked him for as long as he could remember, and he didn’t particularly like them either. Eyes too intelligent, and too big to be comfortable around. It was easy enough to avoid them back in Boston, but he really hadn’t thought through just how many horses there were going to be out here.
“Come on, already, we ain’t got all day. She don’t bite,” yelled Shadwell.
Crowley didn’t take his eyes off the horse, but warily took two steps closer to the wagon.
“She’s the sweetest mare ya ever seen, wouldn’t hurt a fly. Now come on, get up here, ya great coward. I don’t bite neither.”
At that, Crowley glared balefully at Shadwell. There was no way in hell this man hadn’t bitten at least one other human in his lifetime. Shadwell threw his head back and cackled.
“Ok fine, I don’t bite much . Listen, do you want a ride to Eden Springs or not?”
Inch by inch, Crowley moved around the horse and climbed warily up onto the bench with Shadwell. Up close, the man smelled of tobacco and warm earth, which were far too comforting scents to accompany the mildly worrying grin the man now brandished close-range at Crowley.
“See? Not so bad. Daisy’s as sweet as they get.”
“Sure.”
“You’ll come ‘round. And I promise I’ll only bite if you ask nicely.”
“Ngkkk…”
Crowley’s stomach plummeted. He was trapped on this wagon for the next hour . Before he could protest and demand whatever god was listening that they send some sort of desert Pegasus instead of whatever hell this was, Shadwell winked at him and yelled, “Hee-YAW” and flicked the reins. With that, they were off toward whatever it was that waited for him in the town of Eden Springs.
Happy fucking birthday to him.
**********
Aziraphale Zebediah Fell didn’t usually consider deals with the devil, but today, he was certainly mighty tempted. Not that he believed much in such things—not anymore—but on days like today, where his back ached and his patience ran threadbare, he craved supernatural abilities so badly that he was willing to consider making an exception.
“C’mon girl, I won’t hurt you, I just need to get this bridle over your neck, and then I promise I have a sack of oats for you. That’s it, nearly th—damn it!”
The “girl” in question, a beautiful chestnut-brown wild mare who had wandered into the far edges of Starfall’s property, was running away from Aziraphale at full tilt, matted mane flying behind her, the whites of her eyes betraying her fear. Aziraphale sighed and pressed the blunt of his heel into Gawain’s flank, urging him forward in pursuit. True to his auspicious namesake, the dappled cream stallion surged forward and Aziraphale kept the familiar loop of his lariat loose and controlled in his hand, and his eyes focused firmly on the fleeing horse ahead. Normally, he wouldn’t make such a fuss over a wild horse—Lord knew there were plenty of them around here, too many to tame them all, at the very least—but most wild horses weren’t quite so intent on relentlessly disturbing his cattle. They also weren’t usually quite so pregnant . Which normally wouldn’t make a difference either—horses typically birthed their young on their own—but this one had an odd gait, something off that nudged the accumulated detritus in the vault of Aziraphale’s twenty-odd years of ranching knowledge. The horse skittered around nervously, favoring her right leg over her left, and when she looked at Aziraphale the whites of her eyes were more irritated and red than he’dve liked. He’d ignored his gut before, and hoped that now, a year shy of 35, he’d avoid making the same mistakes twice. Whether this mother-to-be wanted it or not, she was getting a helping hand.
Unfortunately for Aziraphale, the wild mare did not agree with his assessment.
After the rope fell short once again, Aziraphale let her run off a little ways—never too far, always within a moment’s reach—and kept speaking in low, gravelly, and hopefully calming drone at the scared, nameless horse. He pressed the bare heel of his boot gently against his own horse, Gawain, urging the enormous gray stallion forward, and adjusted his grip along the base of the loop, twirling it low to the ground in steady circles. Gawain was as steady and patient as his rider, and kept moving steadily forward, grounding Aziraphale and the unnamed horse.
Of the four Fell siblings, he had been the only one to take to country life. The other three preferred to stay in town near “civilized society,” where they could lord over the Fell pew at the front of Saint Peter’s Serenity Church in full view of the rest of the town. When Aziraphale was seven years old, he’d asked their neighbor, a respected rancher in his own right, to teach him how to use a lariat—a lasso—first on tree branches, and later horses and cattle. The rest, as they say, was history. In a well-dressed but disinterested family of false piety and political aspiration, roping offered an escape and hyperfocus that a baby black sheep like Aziraphale took to immediately. The shelves of his childhood bedroom housed a quilt of medals and ribbons from town games and rodeos from neighboring fairs, all hanging above and next to and between as many books as the pine shelves could hold without snapping. After one particularly ill-fated day where a teenaged Aziraphale lost his temper and roped his oldest brother Gabriel in a tight, admittedly satisfying noose, his siblings left him alone to his dust and his horses and his books with nary more than an upturned nose. He hadn’t intended to alienate his family, but has thus far been perfectly happy with his small circle of mixed company—horses didn’t talk back.
With a muscle-memory twitch of his wrist, the rope arced over Aziraphale’s head and fell neatly around the horse’s neck. She startled and whinnied in alarm, but she was in Aziraphale’s territory now—a very kind one, but territory that brooked no opposition. The horse struggled, but the rope held true, and little by little Gawain and Aziraphale led their expectant ranch guest home.
A deeply golden egg-yolk sun meandered behind mountain peaks that slowly turned the indigo of faded ink as dusk fell. The horse with no name, the horse with a knight’s name, and the quiet blond man returned home, agitated, calm, and satisfied, respectively. Satisfied, but very sore, at any rate. The horse with no name trailed along behind him, pulling back as much as she thought she could get away with. Which, under Aziraphale’s firm grip for the twenty-minute ride back to Starfall, was not much. Fortunately for him, the mare was too pregnant, and too underfed to resist much, and gave up within a short while. Aziraphale wasn’t a monster, obviously—every creature deserved a kind hand. He was, however, a pragmatist, and would take a firm tactical advantage when he could get it. No point in working yourself or your horse into a lather for no reason.
Starfall Ranch was nestled beneath blue mountains in the way cathedrals were crowned upon hills—a jewel in an otherwise empty landscape, made more precious by those who regarded the place as a sanctuary. It certainly had been that for Aziraphale, as it had been for Agnes before him, and Muriel as well. He would be the first to admit it wasn’t the most architecturally sound or aesthetically appealing property. The gardens were overgrown with scrub, the paint on the barns was peeling, and something was always askew or nearly broken. Muriel had said once that the ranch reminded her of Ms. Havisham, the faded and cobwebby bride from Great Expectations , and Aziraphale was inclined to agree. Despite its imperfections, wildflowers poked their many-colored heads out of every flower pot and pavement crack, the wrought-iron lanterns hung on hooks by the doors pooled golden light and gave moths and fireflies a gentle home, and every fourth fencepost boasted heart-bound initials that spanned the width of the alphabet twice over. Starfall Ranch was a place aged and worn by love, and for someone who grew up with very little of that intangible commodity, it was held by Aziraphale with more reverence than any place of worship.
Out of habit, Aziraphale ran his hands over the stamped letters of the mailbox at the outside gate. Painted on its side, it read “Starfall, home of Agnes Nutter”. The envelopes he pulled from inside were warm to the touch, having sat in their own sun-warmed box for most of the day. He ran a fond hand over the metal, and smiled sadly. Agnes had re-painted this mailbox just last summer, when she decided that she was tired of lavender and wanted buttercup yellow instead.
“Aziraphale! Minnie had her kittens today!”
A fifteen year old blur tackled his moment of reverie in a tight hug. He wrapped his arms around the lump and sent a quick word of thanks to whoever might be listening that his cousin still wanted hugs at this age.
“Did she, now? Good girl. Who’s your favorite?” he asked, smiling.
Muriel pulled her head back, affronted.
“I don’t have a favorite! They’re all my favorites!”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure they’re all perfect. But I also know you, and I would bet my hat that you’ve had a favorite since the moment they were all born.”
Muriel bit her lip sheepishly, before bursting out into a laugh. She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the main barn.
“Alright fine, I do. But when you see him you’ll see that he’s perfect !”
Laughing, he let her drag him.
“Kittens can wait until after dinner, you two!” a voice shouted from the house. “Wash up and get inside before it all goes cold.” Maggie, a plump blonde woman with a face used to smiling, stood on the front porch with hands on her hips. Although her brows were knit together in a frown, Aziraphale and Muriel glanced at one another conspiratorially. Maggie was never cross, not really. As they meandered over to the water pump and the front of the big house to wash off the dust of the day, her frown easily gave way to well-worn smile lines that cradled dimples in her cheeks.
“Get a move on then, the potatoes aren’t going to eat themselves.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Maggie,” Aziraphale said, winking over the pump at Muriel. She giggled, and raised a dripping wet hand to cover it, which only made both of them laugh harder.
“You go on ahead, I’ll be just a moment,” he said. Muriel dried her hands on her apron, and followedMaggie inside while Aziraphale paused to look over Starfall Ranch, his run-down paradise nestled under a sunset the color and texture of indigo-dyed wool and fresh apricots. The cattle lowed sleepily in the pasture nearby.
Inside, everything was just as it was two weeks ago. Faded blue and white embroidered tablecloth hanging over oak table legs, mismatched chairs pushed beneath, yellow glass candlesticks so covered in wax you couldn’t tell they’d once been translucent. The same pictures on the walls, the same stains on the hardwood floors, the same oft-repaired cushions on the settee. Two weeks ago, the evening dregs of sunlight filtering through the lace curtains were golden and warm, and Agnes’s laugh, even brittle with age, echoed richly through the halls and sank into the fibers and woodgrains of the rooms. Today, the evening light was less saturated, and the only echo in the room was the empty chair at the head of the table. Aziraphale’s chest constricted uncomfortably as he sat down. Agnes Nutter had been the closest thing to a mother Muriel had even had, and damn near the same for him as well.
For now however, Maggie’s famous scalloped potatoes beckoned, and Aziraphale made a point of never turning down a potato of any kind.
“What do you think he’ll be like, Aziraphale?” Muriel asked as he finally settled at the dining table.
“Sorry—would you mind repeating yourself, my dear? I’m afraid I wasn’t quite paying attention.” The little cloud of gathered wool that he usually retreated to dissipated with a little poof.
“I was just telling Muriel—chew with your mouth closed, dearie—that some fancy city fella is coming in from Boston to execute Miss Agnes’s will,” Maggie said, dropping fresh rolls onto each of their plates. “He wrote a little while ago that he’d be comin’ round the ranch some time this week to take a look at everything before her will is read. Name’s Crawly, or Crooleigh or something like that.”
“Is that so?” Aziraphale punctured a spear of asparagus with a fork with such force that it rattled the ceramic plate. “She’s only been dead two weeks, and already the vultures are swooping in. Rather poor taste, if you ask me.”
“Well, nobody did ask you,” Maggie quipped, firmly but not unkindly, “So you might as well not worry overly much about it. Apparently, she’d told them at the bank—”
“Who?”
“How would I know? She asked someone at that bank, Manifest Capital or somesuch, last week to watch for her solicitor from Boston. Lord knows what business she had in Boston, but clearly she had some, because business will be on our doorstep by Monday, sure as rain in April. Miss Tracy told us so at church, isn't that right, Muriel?”
Muriel nodded, chewing fast so she could speak. Swallowing, she added, “She did! Said he’s sent a telegram ahead asking to reserve a room at Tracy’s. And when we went to the store to get flour n’ such, Miss Tracy said he was gonna come in on the three o’clock train today.”
Aziraphale grimaced. “I don’t need to be there during all this, do I?”
Maggie shot him a sympathetic but concerned glance. “Aziraphale, I know you’re still sore, but you know the place bettern’ anyone, and I don’t know if—”
“I can tell you everything you’d need to know,” he added quickly. “Please, my dear. It’s only been two weeks and I don’t think I can face…” Aziraphale dragged a hand over his tired face, feeling the skin pull taut as his fingers grazed the face more worn than he would care to admit. The thought of facing the man who held his fate—all of their fates, really—in the palm of his hand, was simply too much. Never mind the fact that it was in no way this mysterious Bostonian’s fault, he was simply doing his job. Unfortunately for the Bostonian, Aziraphale’s heart was just a little too tender to ponder any outcome other than shooting the messenger.
He felt a soft hand fall on his forearm, his fork hanging limply from his fingers, potato dangling off the edge.
“It’s okay, Uncle Aziraphale. I can show him around if I need to. Right, Maggie?”
Maggie and Aziraphale looked at each other. Of the three of them, it was no surprise to anyone that Agnes’s death had hit Aziraphale the hardest. Starfall had become just as much his as it had always been hers, and over the years they’d become close in a way he’d never been able to with his own by-blood kin. Over the course of twenty years, the routines and heartbeat of Starfall Ranch had settled in his bones, and as Briony’s body grew more brittle with age, he’d slowly taken over until he practically ran it all on his own. Ever since he’d struck out from his own family, since Agnes had taken him and his 3 year old niece, Starfall had been home. The fear now that someone would take it away from him—some stranger from a smoke-filled city of stone and mortar who couldn’t appreciate good soil if he slipped and fell in it face first, or how the crickets sang the fiercest lullabies once the sun crouched behind the hills—hung limp in the air resting at the bottom of his lungs.
Maggie, bless her, was kind enough to not say anything outright. She understood as well as anyone that giving the fear a voice was to give it substance—as good as calling a shot before blowing a target to bits. They both knew it was there though, a dense and heavy air that no deep breath could expel.
“That’s right, Muriel,” she finally replied, reaching over to squeeze Aziraphale’s other arm. “I reckon we can probably manage fine on our own. But if anything comes up, I’ll come grab you. I don’t know a blue ribbon steer from Adam, so don’t you disappear on me, you hear?”
“Thank you, my dears. I don’t deserve you.” Aziraphale sank back with relief, squeezing their hands in turn.
“Damn right, you don’t. Now, who wants pie?”
The rest of dinner—and dessert—passed uneventfully, if more emptily than years’ past. Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore reality forever, but for now, he could breath shallow breaths, and for that, he was grateful.