Chapter Text
“Please,” he whispered, flicking the switch up and down, “please, Lord, let there be light.”
The room remained dark, however, which was an answer in itself. A sign, perhaps, of something which he had been ignoring for too long.
The move had been a mistake.
He'd known it before they'd left. He'd known it before they'd begun to pack. He'd known it when he'd first been asked, but his wife had been so very insistent. Positive that the move would be good. For her career, for their son, and for their marriage.
He'd known better, yet he had put their little flat up for sale. He had gone to the school to initiate a transfer. He had done all the research required to get himself and her the papers governments required for ex-pats to travel for what could potentially be a permanent move. He’d done all the fiddly little things she had always found beneath her, and he’d boarded a plane with their child to fly across the ocean to live in a land he frankly had no respect for.
Now, he was standing in the doorway of the narrow brick home his wife had cheated on him within. He’d expected her to be gone, had stayed in a hotel with their son for a full week to facilitate that move, but he hadn’t expected her to be vindictive enough to have the electricity turned off. Rent in his name, utilities in hers - it had seemed wise in the moment, but now…
“Papa?”
Now he couldn’t crumble. He had to stay sturdy for the boy. Stiff upper lip, as they said. “Yes?”
“Why aren’t the lights working?”
One shouldn’t poison a child against their own parent, but he was a wretched liar who was doing his very best to teach his son that honesty was indeed the best policy. “Well… We’re either dealing with a broken light bulb or the power has been shut off.”
Suspicious eyes narrowed, and Aziraphale managed a true smile. He didn’t know where his son had gotten this wary streak, but the sweet devil was a clever one. And his eyes were such handsome things, too. More hazel than his own, which tended towards ocean tones, but they shared a rather rare star-shaped pupil. What he'd gotten from his mother had been his hair - straight and dark, though she painstakingly coloured and curled her own. He hadn't known that until after their son’s birth, the babe born with a thatch of such dark hair that he'd blinked in surprise when he'd been alert enough for the babe to safely be laid on his chest. He'd been exhausted and still recovering, but not stupid.
He just wished she hadn't been contacted at all. He wished she hadn't been there that first meeting to tell him how ugly strenuous work made him. She wouldn't even take a photograph of him and the newborn. One of the nuns had, blessedly. It was one of Aziraphale’s prized possessions.
“Careful with that face of yours, my dear. You’ll end up with wrinkles before your next birthday if you furrow that brow of yours too often.”
Now suspicious eyes rolled. “That’s an old omegas’ tale,” the boy accused, and he sounded so old. Heaven above, that newborn baby was going to be eleven in four months. How on earth had that happened?
“It may be, but wrinkles don’t just appear from nowhere either.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with the lights.”
“I know.” Aziraphale hoped she hadn’t taken the candles they’d purchased when a storm had taken their power earlier that year. Retrieving the phone he barely knew how to use from the pocket of an old velvet waistcoat, he painstakingly searched for the torch feature and lit up the foyer. “Go on upstairs. I’ll see if I can’t solve this little problem.”
“What if you can’t? I bet the electric company closes on Saturdays.”
Very little seemed to close on the weekends. Oddly enough, quite a few businesses seemed to close Mondays. “We don’t know that I’ll need to telephone the electric company. But if I can’t fix this tonight, we’ll make do.”
“Yuck.”
Aziraphale couldn’t say he blamed the boy for his opinion, watching his torchlight bob as he raced halfway up the narrow steps. Everything was narrow, he thought bitterly. A row of narrow brick homes on a narrow, unevenly paved street in a narrow-minded city with narrow-minded wives who-
“Papa?”
Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes?”
“Is mum coming back?”
Not if Aziraphale could help it. “Not tonight.”
“Okay. Good.”
He raced up the rest of the steps, trainers squeaking on the wooden floors, and Aziraphale turned away to trudge into the tiny kitchen to find an empty drawer where candles had been. For some absurd reason, that was the final straw. Aziraphale sank to the tiled floor, back against the cabinets and tears streaming down his face.
His marriage was over. He’d finally failed.
The interview process was daunting. He drove the full hour and a half with hands tight on the wheel, grateful to already be an early riser and to have a son he could trust to board a school bus. The building itself was… quaint, though clearly in the process of being painted. The trim was half red, half white, and the panelling on the sides were a pale beige which was chipping in places. The front was a rich, dark grey that looked rather nice with the bold red. Paint buckets were on the ground, ladders leaned against the building. There were no painters to be seen, however, and ten o’clock in the morning seemed a bit early for a lunch break.
Directly behind him was the courthouse, which was handy. Aziraphale’s next interview was there, so he wouldn't have to search for it. Heaven above, he'd never had an interview before. What sort of man in his thirties had never had a job interview?
The sign he walked under was nothing more than a banner stretched across two columns. There were four holding up a second floor balcony, Aziraphale finding it all rather charming and easier to focus on than his own nerves. Better than the city by far, though that wasn't altogether saying much.
Shoulders squared, he walked into The Nice & Accurate Law Firm. The reception area was immediate, a short desk littered with papers and a telephone with an intimidating amount of buttons. The woman behind it wasn't someone anyone would call intimidating, however, and it quickly put him at ease. She wouldn't have looked out of place in the 1950s, her blouse navy blue with bright pink polka dots. Blonde hair was pulled up and surrounded in a kerchief the same shade as pink as the polka dots and her nails.
He could see scent patches on her throat, and was quietly relieved he'd thought to wear a set. He was also relieved said set wouldn't be out of place. “Hello,” he greeted when she smiled at him. “I’m- My name is Aziraphale Bellator. I'm here for an interview for the file clerk position.”
“Oh! Yes, sir. You're early!” She was as perky as a receptionist ought to be, but at least she didn't instantly comment on his accent. “Tracy’s not back from her ten minute break yet. She likes to walk around the building. Says it helps her knees.” She giggled, though Aziraphale couldn't imagine what the joke was. “If you'll just take a seat, she’ll be in really soon.”
“Thank you,” he replied quietly, glad to know this office allowed its people to have breaks. He'd heard many a horror story about American employers and their distaste for breaks and such, but knew the owner was also an ex-pat. He'd done as much research as one could prior to his interview. He took a spot in one of the four chairs against the wall she gestured towards, sitting as straight as training - both etiquette and military - had impressed upon him.
There were plants in another corner, pots of greenery he couldn't have named under threat and duress. They were lovely things, though. One of them had four long leaves, spiralling skyward. Another had thick, rounded leaves that spilled around almost haphazardly. The last of the three pots was the smallest but the brightest, yellow blooms reaching for the window. Very pretty.
There was also art on the walls, landscapes depicting just the sorts of mountains he'd had to drive all along just to get there. Mountains and rivers, both painted and photographed and all beautifully bland. Typical enough for a professional waiting area.
What wasn't were the children's toys in this small waiting space. Two bead mazes with little wooden pieces of all colours sat on a tiny table, a simple wooden puzzle with animals on another, and he could see a set of worn blocks in a chest in the corner. The other toys which may have been in it were lost to him when another woman entered.
She did not have scent blockers, the space instantly filled with a jasmine so lush it nearly made him blush. Her hair was such a sharp shade of orange, it could only have come from a bottle, lips as pink as bubblegum, and her eye-shadow was bluer than Aziraphale’s eyes. She sashayed up to reception, leaned against the counter, and Aziraphale was utterly shocked when the young lady gestured towards him, “Your ten o’clock is here, Tracy. Right on time.”
The older woman turned, eyes alighting upon him. She looked at him, from the fluffy riot of white curls atop his head to the no-nonsense brown brogues on his feet, and smiled brightly. “Well, don't you look like a man out of time?” she said, offering her hand. “Legally, the name’s Marjorie Potts, but everyone just calls me Tracy.”
He rose to shake, feeling like the sort of judgmental fool his parents had raised him to be. He was generally so much better than that, so quietly scolded himself even while he smiled. “It’s lovely to meet you, Ms. Tracy. I, ah, I have been accused of being old-fashioned a time or two, but I wouldn't say out of time.” Not yet. He wasn't quite so hopeless.
“No, and I suppose you're right on time today.” Their hands met and she immediately noticed the lack of callouses and that the hold was firm but not in any way an attempt at a power struggle. Scent patches might have hidden a scent but there were other ways of determining a designation. “Let’s get you to our little conference room. I'll grab my notes, and we can get started.”
She led him behind to a door immediately behind the front desk. Inside was a long table surrounded by a handful of plush chairs, a large flat-screen television hung on one wall, with another door along the opposite wall. It wasn't a particularly large room, really, the table and chairs barely fitting with enough room to pull them out, though the walls were still decorated in tastefully inoffensive art with another green plant in a pot in one corner. A small basket on the table held a variety of small bags of chips and other snacks along side a few bottles of water.
“Sit anywhere you like, the door in the back is a toilet, and the water and nibbles on the table are for you if you need them.”
“Thank you.” It felt like the first test. Aziraphale fidgeted with the strap of his satchel before hooking it on the back of a chair near the basket but not directly in front of it. He absolutely didn't try to sit at the head of the table. From his bag, he withdrew a notebook and capped fountain pen. “I dearly appreciate the opportunity to have this interview, Ms. Tracy. I realise how… lacking my resume is.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled with her smile. “I have seen plenty of resumes in my time and yours was just fine,” she assured him. “Now, let me go grab my notes and I'll be right back.”
“Of course, yes.” Aziraphale waited for the door to close before he stood to peek into the basket. If it truly was for him, he should be able to take something and he recognised a wrapped Moon Pie as something his son enjoyed. The banana flavoured dessert disappeared into his bag and he sat back down to doodle as he waited for her return. He hoped it might calm his nerves.
Tracy returned moments later with a clipboard, a pen with a peacock feather on the end, and a pair of red-rimmed glasses on her nose with an amber beaded lanyard attached to the arms. She took the seat across from him, not even looking at the basket. “Sorry about the wait. We’re a bit short staffed at the mo’ and the courts work slowly until they don’t.” She settled into the chair with a little shimmy of her shoulders. “Now, then, you’ve applied for the file clerk position, correct?”
“Yes.” He'd become well aware of the speed - or lack thereof - when it came to the court system. “I’m thoroughly organised and… intrigued by the American law system, so I thought it would suit now that I'm able to return to the workforce.”
According to his resume, that she had in front of her, he hadn’t worked in around ten years. “I do see you have this gap in employment. Can I ask why?”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together. He'd been warned against mentioning family in an American interview, but he was also a wretched liar. “My… spouse thought it would be best that I stay home and tend our son. He's old enough now that he doesn't want nor need his papa watching him all hours, and I dearly miss the independence and pride a career provided.”
Tracy nodded her head in understanding. “Children can definitely be a full-time job. I see here that before the gap you were in the British Navy?”
The Royal Navy. He didn't correct her. “Yes. I served for eight years,” he sighed. “I was discharged as a Lieutenant.”
“Ooohh, a Lieutenant,” Tracy cooed. “That’s a fancy rank. Your resume says you were a…” She adjusted her glasses and she peered down at the clipboard. “Writer Submariner? What is that?”
Writer (Submariner). “The easiest explanation is that, in addition to the typical duties aboard a submarine, I was in charge of HR Administration. There were 120 souls aboard, and I had to handle their legal matters, salaries, welfare, and their general career paperwork. I'm sure you can surmise the amount of confidentiality required to hold such a position.” He'd been relied on. He'd been respected. Being an omega hadn't mattered nearly as much aboard a submarine as it had on shore. “And the organisation. If an Admiral required a paper, it was always now.”
“That sounds very similar to the file room,” Tracy said as she scribbled something on her paper. “Did you like it?”
“Very much so.” He fidgeted with his pen. “I… I suppose that might seem odd. Enjoying the filings and organisation, but it was never dull for me. There were always others about to chat with, and I was happy to be relied on for something other than nappies and supper.”
Tracy looked up at him from over the top of her glasses. “Considering I’m the current clerk, I don’t think it’s odd at all.”
Oh. Aziraphale blinked at her. “Gosh! Then you and I would be working together?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been the sole file clerk for the last… oh, six years or so.”
“My dear lady!” he gasped. “How on earth are you to be expected to be accomplish your full duties properly all on your own? That's terrible.”
She laughed. “Well it wasn’t quite so bad as you might imagine at first, but we’ve grown a lot in the last two years and it has… become somewhat difficult to keep up. Especially at my age.”
“Your age? My dear, you can't possibly have reached forty.”
That had her throwing her head back on a laugh. “Oh! Mr. Bellator, you know how to make a lady’s day!”
He hadn't made anyone's day in a very long time. Ever, if he had to guess. “Ah… you're welcome?”
She dabbed at the corner of an eye with a sleeve. “Coo-ee, I haven't laughed like that in an age.” Tracy cleared her throat. “Now then, I see you also have two degrees. One in Business and the other in English Literature?”
“Ah. Yes. I was able to complete my schooling after my son was born. I attended King’s College for Business Management, where I also dabbled a bit in International Relations. Classical Studies in English was also acquired there, but that was purely for pleasure. I've always loved to read, and I think it's quite clear I'm partial to classics.”
“Very clear,” Tracy agreed. “You do realize that with that education you could get much better positions.”
He didn't want better. He just needed something. “It’s a bit… difficult to be hired as an ex-pat. There's quite a bit of extra paperwork as I'm not a citizen, so many places I've applied to have been intimidated by it all. I thought, well, the last place which might fear paperwork would be a law office.”
Tracy chuckled. “You also wouldn't be the only foreigner we have. One of our attorneys is also from England.”
“Oh?” Aziraphale perked up. “Which part?”
“London, I think. He talks about it and complains about the differences often enough.”
“There are quite a few of those,” Aziraphale sighed. “It would be lovely to make his acquaintance. Just to possibly have someone else to commiserate with.”
“Well…” Tracy trailed off, her smile not strained, not really. “I would say our AJ is an… acquired taste.”
“I’m afraid people tend to say the same of me,” Aziraphale admitted, then turned pink. That wasn't a wise thing to admit in an interview. “I-I do get along with most people very well, however. I tend to be agreeable.”
“You seem perfectly friendly to me,” she assured him. “Now, these next questions are going to be a bit more… scenario based. They’re not my preference but the firm owner has her standards. I’ll be writing down your answers so don’t mind if I ask extra questions or ask you to repeat yourself, I just don’t write all that quickly anymore.”
“That’s alright. I'm happy to write my answers as well if that helps.”
“Oh, no, I’ve got it.” She also didn’t want him to see that her only notes were ‘I like this one’. “Alright, let's see here… Can you describe a time where you were under a time constraint to finish a task and how you managed it?”
Aziraphale chuckled. “Goodness, I can think of several both personally and professionally. In military training, a large component we face is learning how to handle the pressure of an immediate deadline. Things do come up very suddenly, and the best thing one can do is move quickly and not overthink.” Pausing, he waited for her pen to finish. “Once, we had an admiral unexpectedly call on us while I was-” He didn't want to get too technical. “While I was steering the submarine. I needed to get us out of territory we’d been steered into unwittingly by damaged instruments and we had very little time to leave before our very presence could be seen as hostile. There are many working parts when it comes to navigating underwater, and without divulging military secrets, I'll say those working parts listened to my orders and we were able to deduce which instruments were wrong. I was able to use their malfunction to reverse engineer a quick exit strategy. War was not declared, so I'd say all worked out in the end.”
“Goodness me, yes. That sounds awfully more stressful than just assuring the attorney’s get their files on time.”
“Oh, I'm not so sure. Lives hang in the balance regardless. You deal with people here, just as I was then. The situations are important, regardless.”
Her smiled softened. “That is very true. Speaking of people, can you tell me about a time where you had difficulties with a coworker and how you resolved it?”
“Oh… ah… That one's a bit more difficult. Through my career, there were rather strict lines of hierarchy. If there tended to be disagreements, one deferred to rank and that was that. As for someone on my level…” Aziraphale hummed, reaching a hand up to absently rub at his shoulder. He didn't tend to do well with conflict, tending to shrink back and let whomever it was be wretched. And then he would wait for them to leave before doing exactly as he wanted anyway. “Unfortunately, issues which occurred within my own rank or amidst fellow Writers tended to come from alphas who refused to take a young omega seriously. The best way to deal with them was to put my head down and continue to do the job I was there to do.”
But it wasn't exactly an answer to her question, so Aziraphale tapped his pen to his paper and hummed consideringly. “There was one, however, who was more stubborn than others. It was during our initial training. I let many of his put-downs go as I wasn't there for him, nor interested in the drama his needless theatrics would cause. Admittedly, I was also horribly worried that any speaking up on my part would lead to my losing my spot entirely.” He'd been desperate for the escape, the freedom serving aboard a submarine would provide. “Eventually, I had had more than enough. I stood up to him. I told him - I apologise for being crass. I told him what was between my legs didn't control my intelligence nor ability to perform, and what was between his needed to stop doing both. I told him his focus on me was only distracting himself, and that if he didn't stop pestering me for existing, I was going to involve a higher authority. It seems he understood I was serious because that was that.”
Tracy couldn’t contain her giggles, hiding them behind her clipboard. It might not have been terribly professional, but she couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry for laughing, Mr. Bellator. I can see how such a situation would be difficult.”
“It’s alright. It's been nearly twenty years since I had to deal with him, and he never reached Lieutenant.” His smile shifted, wicked in its serenity. “As that's difficult to do when one fails to successfully complete training.”
“Oh-ho! Sounds to me like he got what he deserved!” She gave a firm nod. “And, luckily for us, the firm owner has a zero tolerance policy for such behavior. We have multiple designations working here and we all have to work together to keep the ship sailing in the right direction.”
He nodded. “Frankly, that’s quite the relief. One hears such terrible things about American working conditions for omegas, but I have no issues whatsoever with working with alphas, betas, or other omegas. I spent months at a time underwater with all sorts of people.”
“To be perfectly honest with you, I think, if I had to spend months in a cramped submarine with some of my coworkers, I would commit a crime.”
He giggled, unable to help it. “I suppose it’s a very good thing you know attorneys, Ms. Tracy.”
“Unfortunately some of them would be the victims.”
“Then you would be best served damaging the least effective of them.”
Tracy hummed, tapping her pen against her bottom lip for a moment before gasping and waving it in his direction. “No! No distractions! Think about who I would murder and get away with it later!”
He beamed at her. “My dear lady, I don’t believe anyone said a word about murder.”
“You, Mr. Bellator, are trouble,” she decided, scribbling ‘I really like this one’ on her copy of his resume. “Next question! The file room can often be a chaotic place but requires that chaos to be regularly tamed into organization. Can you describe a time where you had to organize or coordinate chaos?”
“I have a ten year old, Ms. Tracy. I coordinate chaos on a daily basis.” His smile softened as he relaxed, thinking of his precious bundle of chaos. “I also had to organise all of the paperwork to move my family to the States, which was no simple feat. There are also plenty of classified examples I could give you, but won’t for obvious reasons.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. This is something of a terrible answer, but I can assure you I have plenty of experience. I’ve been told I’m the calm in a storm.
“Oh! Goodness. This is silly, but it isn’t classified. I was training a new crewman. She was very… sweet and eager, but she forgot to lock a few of the cabinets we used for storage one evening very early in her stay. Six days were spent with her, the two of us entirely reorganising paperwork to ensure none of the crew ended up with someone else’s papers in their files. If we hadn’t managed it within a week, she would’ve faced quite severe discipline. I couldn’t let her muddle through alone.”
“Oh, that’s very important, that.” Tracy continued to at least pretend like she was writing this down even though she wasn’t. She’d already made up her mind about this one and was mostly just marking out the other questions she thought were a little ridiculous. “I have one more question for you and it’s an easy one. Do you have any questions for me? Anything about the position or the firm I could answer for you?”
That did seem like a very quick interview, Aziraphale quietly wondering what he’d done wrong. But he had prepared for this, so thought he may as well ask. He could pretend this wasn’t over. “I do have one or two, if that’s alright. The position is full time?”
“Yes. The office is open from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. Us clerks are expected to be available those hours, except for breaks and lunch.”
The word us went over his head. “Are breaks… flexible? My son doesn’t tend to do well on the school bus, so I would like to be able to pick him up in the afternoons. I-I’m looking into acquiring a sitter in the area, so I wouldn’t need long.”
“Oh, absolutely. So long as one of us is available we can take our breaks and lunch at any time.”
“Goodness, my dear, how on earth have you managed either all on your own?”
“To be entirely honest with you, by letting some of the… less time sensitive things fall by the wayside. I have eight hours a day and do what I can with that time. I’ve also been telling Ms. Nutter that we need another clerk for over a year now.”
He nodded, reaching out to give her hand a pat. “I hope you find someone suitable quickly, then, for your sake.” He asked her a few more simple questions, pay and benefits. He didn’t have to ask who Ms. Nutter was as he’d done research on the practice before applying. She owned it, though seemed to rarely take on cases based off the mixed reviews he’d found on the computer. “The last inquiry I have is what exactly my duties would be were this position to be offered.”
Tracy’s eyes nearly lit up. “Oh, that’s an easy one. File clerks handle the day-to-day paper management of the firm. When new paperwork for a case is printed, we put it away in the correct file, keep track of who has which files, deliver files to the paralegals and attorneys, manage one of the firms e-mail accounts, assign work-orders to the paralegals, and handle clients requesting their physical file. Some of those are more time sensitive than others, but it all falls under the purview of the file room.”
He nodded. It didn’t sound altogether complicated. It was almost (it was highly) disappointing that he’d done something to put her off as he was positive he would’ve been able to be of use. “That does sound overwhelming for one person to do alone, but certainly not for two. Ah… I do believe that’s all I have, as far as questions go. Have you anything else for me?”
“No, that’s all I’ve got and it was lovely meeting you, Mr. Bellator. We will be in touch before the end of the week, so don’t worry about having to wait long.”
“Thank you.” He rose when she did, working up a smile. “I’ll hear from you either way?”
“Oh, yes, Ms. Nutter doesn't like to keep people wondering.”
That was something at least. He nodded. “Alright. Thank you very much for your time today, Ms. Tracy. It’s been a pleasure.”
“The pleasure was all mine, luv.” She went to the door and held it open for him. “You have a wonderful rest of your day.”
“You as well,” he wished, head held high until he left the building. He still had a full hour before his interview at the courthouse, which would hopefully be enough time for him to lift the self-confidence which had taken yet another blow. Once again, he wasn’t enough. He was so very tired of not being enough.