Work Text:
Before the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, Lower Tadfield was the most perfect town in England, maybe in the world. After the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, it had competition.
Aumsley had been a perfectly normal little South Downs village of about a thousand people. There had been a chemist, a grocer, a bakery; all the little things that a village was supposed to have.
Afterwards, there was suddenly a sushi place with the freshest, most amazing fish outside of Japan, and a little creperie that made the most tender, delicate pastries to be found anywhere. There was a pub and bottle shop which kept an amazing array of red wines.
Afterwards, the sun shone softly on Aumsley, and rain fell gently, and exactly once a year it would snow a good solid foot, which would all be neatly melted away within the week.
Afterwards, babies were born at home, and people died quietly and peacefully in their beds, and in between they rarely had any problems more serious than a hangnail or a hangover.
Afterwards, there was a bookstore that everyone remembered being there forever which hadn’t been there the day before, and it was run by the most charming man, Mr. A. Fell, and his husband, Anthony Crowley, who was slightly less charming - or rather, who was charming in an entirely different, slightly dangerous, way. They owned a cottage outside of town, and Mr C raised prize-winning flowers in his riotous, chaotic, not very proper garden. He had won every year for the last five, except of course that he hadn’t been there yesterday either.