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It took Aziraphale approximately thirty minutes to decide that he was not a fan of family road trips.
The mysterious B showed up at the bookshop in the morning - way earlier than a day should start, as far as Aziraphale was concerned (he preferred not to be out and about until at least noon). They were short, grumpy, dressed in dark, and drove a tiny grey car. Aziraphale didn’t dare ask about the origins of the name, but he believed it was Bee after all, since insects seemed to be a sort of a running theme for them - their car was called a Beetle, and their hat looked oddly like a fly’s head.
They packed into the car - with some difficulty, since it was clearly not designed to accommodate more than two adults or people of Jim’s height - and set off. Bee drove with furious focus, ignoring both Buddy Holly blaring from the speakers and Aziraphale’s polite hints about the possibility of turning off the music or at least turning on the radio. Jim in the front seat was exclaiming over every view and every cow they drove by, as if he’d never been out of the city before. (To be fair, that was probably the case, since the Gabriel phase of his life was spent in London and other metropolises.) In the back seat, Aziraphale munched on travel sweets he had the foresight to pack and counted minutes until they would reach their destination. A small parking lot just past the Eden Orchards, Crowley’s text said.
“Next stop, Jasmine Farm!” Crowley announced, herding his guests to the hand-washing station.
They’ve spent a lovely hour exploring the Young’s farm under Crowley’s guidance. Jim cooed over every single animal he saw, from the rabbits and ducklings (bow-free) to the goat kids that were perfectly happy to climb into his lap (Aziraphale stifled a pang of jealousy) to the small scrappy mutt that was supposedly the farm dog but spent most of the time inquiring after the possibility of treats. Bee watched the proceedings impassively, occasionally stepping away to explore small holes in the ground (“ground waspz’ nestz”, they commented curtly when asked) or a spider in the corner of the barn.
Aziraphale himself divided his attention between the animals and their tour guide. After all, he already met most of the critters, and Crowley was so much more fascinating than them. He could easily spend hours listening to Crowley talk animatedly about everything around them, watching him pick up ducklings and give goats fond scritches, and daydreaming about one day him showering Aziraphale with just as much care as he gave to the bunnies…
And now it looked like Crowley had more critters in store for them.
Anathema turned out to be a lovely young woman dressed in a vaguely Victorian style (pointy toe lace-up boots that looked impractical for a farm, a coat with big sleeves and nipped-in waist, and was it lace peeking out from under her coat sleeves?) and giving vaguely witchy vibes. In fact, she introduced herself as an occultist, claiming that the farm was just a hobby, and half of the stock in the gift shop at the front was crystals, candles, herbs, and Tarot cards.
And the animals in her care were alpacas. A dozen or so were spread across two large padlocks, idly grazing or napping, and several were already headed towards the visitors.
“The past owner had a bit of a religious theme going on, so the alpacas are named after angels,” Anathema told them as she distributed small bags of pellets. “This big boy is Gabriel,” the animal's coat was the exact shade of grey that Jim favoured in his corporate days, “and the girls are Michael, Uriel and Muriel,” a big grey alpaca was followed by two smaller chocolate-brown ones.
Aziraphale looked around to find Crowley and realised that here, unlike at the Youngs’ farm, he was hanging back, not getting too close to the alpacas.
“Some of those cuties are spitters,” he explained when he noticed Aziraphale’s questioning look. “Don’t care to be part of their target practice today.”
“They do not spit at you!” Anathema defended her pets fiercely. “They spit at each other when they compete for food, humans just get in the way sometimes!”
“So I shouldn't take it personally, got it,” Crowley nodded sarcastically, “I’ll still sit this one out, thanks.”
Aziraphale turned back to the alpacas somewhat reluctantly. Jim was already offering a handful of pellets to Michael, and Uriel was nosing at his hand, trying to push the taller alpaca away and get to the food herself. Muriel took a different approach: she knelt next to the fence, squeezed her head on a long neck through the gap under the fence, and was plucking blades of grass outside of their enclosure, looking up at humans with sad eyes and occasionally emitting pitiful noises. Aziraphale couldn’t resist; he crouched down and offered some pellets to Muriel, who scooped them from his palm happily, not inconvenienced by her awkward pose in the slightest. Aziraphale laughed at how warm and wet her lips were, and petted the soft neck with his empty hand, burrowing a little into the cosy fleece.
He fed Muriel another palmful of pellets and stood up. Jim was still happily bonding with the other two female alpacas, and Gabriel was standing alone in his padlock, unable to reach Jim’s offerings, looking forlorn. Aziraphale felt he should make more of an effort to distribute the joy of pellets, so he stepped up to the taller alpaca and offered him some. Gabriel looked at him scornfully and lowered his head to the proffered hand. Aziraphale reached out to pet him too when he felt sudden pain. Yelping, he withdrew his hand and was startled to see blood on it.
“Did he bite me?” he gasped, feeling betrayed. “And I was feeding him too!”
Anathema looked chagrined, and Crowley - murderous. He hissed something unintelligible at the alpacas owner, grabbed Aziraphale’s other hand, and dragged him to the gift shop.
Having Crowley take care of him felt just as good as Aziraphale imagined earlier, even though he would prefer this happen in a more benign context. Crowley found the first aid kit quickly (apparently, all farm owners in the area were familiar with the layout of each other’s places). Carefully cleaned up, the bite didn’t look bad - two shallow incisions. (“Bloody herbivorous vampire,” Crowley swore upon examining his hand, and Aziraphale snorted at how unexpectedly accurate the description was.)
“I’m sorry for how this turned out, angel,” Crowley said after putting a band-aid on the bite and taking them back outside. He looked dejected. “I didn’t know the alpacas could bite, just wanted you to meet more cute critters. And now I can’t take you to meet Creepy and Crawly, snakes can smell blood, and that’s not the first impression you want to make on them.”
“I could meet them the next time,” Aziraphale offered, trying to cheer up both Crowley and himself. “It is a bit of a drive, though…”
“I could pick you up some time,” Crowley perked up immediately. “Could make it a vacation, explore the area more? There is a bed-and-breakfast nearby, Madame Tracy’s, she’s a retired medium married to a farmer so it’s quirky, I think at some point she offered goat yoga classes and seances?..”
“That sounds wonderful, my dear boy,” Aziraphale smiled warmly. And didn’t it just?
Aziraphale returns to Tadfield, of course. He stays at Madame Tracy’s, plays with her goats and moans over the breakfast of farm-fresh eggs in the mornings, and takes drives and explores the neighbouring villages with Crowley in the afternoons (he skips the goat yoga, though). He even has his fortunes read one of the evenings. Madame Tracy, having watched the pair of them for days, predicts her guest’s fortune with uncanny accuracy: The threads of fate have woven a delicate tapestry, and within it, you’ve already brushed against the love of your life. But heed this: destiny is a coy artist, and it doesn’t paint your story. It gives you the canvas and the brushes, and it is up to you to choose the paints and put them on the canvas.
The next time Aziraphale comes to Tadfield after that, he stays at the Eden Orchards. But that is a whole different story.