Madame Tracy

Tadfield. 5:00 on a winter morning, dark and overcast, raining steadily. Crowley is dressed for London, and is preparing to depart when his phone gives a distinctive boink.

DeeDee. What's up.

Demon Crowley! You must come quickly. Madame Tracy is very sick.

I have to go to London. But Aziraphale can do healings. We'll leave now. See you in five minutes.

Crowley disconnects.

That was DeeDee. Madame Tracy is very ill.

I heard the part about healings. Let us be off, without delay.

Azirphale snaps his fingers, and his dressing gown and slippers transform into his favorite day wear slacks, Fair Isle vest and jacket. Plus a mackintosh.

The pair trot out of the door and toward the Bentley. Crowley, as usual, arrives completely dry without so much as a drop of rain splashing him. Opens the passenger door for Aziraphale, snapping his fingers as the angel gets in to dry the rain off the mackintosh. Then runs around to the driver's side and gets in.

Thank you, Crowley.

I don't understand why you bother with a raincoat. You can keep dry just as well as I can.

I wouldn't have allowed your leather seats to get wet.

I know that, Angel. I just don't understand why you do things the hard way.

Keeping up appearances, I suppose. Behaving as a human would.

Yeah. Well, there is that. I guess. Now that we have to hang around with them more or less constantly.

Moments later the Bentley rumbles up before Madame Tracy's cottage. Crowley vaults out, zips around to open the passenger door, and the pair hurry down the little path to where DeeDee is waiting at the door. Aziraphale drapes the once-again-rained-upon mackintosh over a coat peg, and they all bustle off toward Madame Tracy's bedroom.

Lying in her fluffy pink bed, she looks feverish and frail. Eyes flutter open as they enter the room, but she can't manage to speak. Aziraphale pulls up a dainty boudoir chair from before the dressing table and parks alongside the bed. Feels her forehead, lays an ear upon her chest.

Pneumonia. Her lungs are rattling. She's burning up with fever.

The angel flutters his hands over her as he breathes softly into her face. Madame Tracy visibly revives, opening her eyes wide as she takes a deep breath, her normal color returning.

Oh. Thank you, Mr. Fell. It doesn't hurt when I breathe now.

I think we had better get you to hospital.

Oh no! Such a frightening place. I feel much better now. Really I do.

I believe you should be examined by a physician. They may require an overnight stay just to be sure you are strong enough to continue your recovery at home.

DeeDee pipes up:

I'll stay with you, Madame Tracy. You won't be all alone.

Angel, I have to get to London. Why don't you stay here. Call Pickersgill to take you three to hospital. He might even be up now. Doesn't he have to pray matins or some such thing?

I left my phone at the shop, Crowley.

Giving Aziraphale a Look, Crowley snaps his fingers and the angel's phone appears on the lamp table next to the bed.

Make the call, Angel.

Holding the slim little mobile phone in front of his face as if he's not quite sure which end is up, Aziraphale works through the facial recognition unlock and voice command, enunciates carefully to say "Call Pickersgill." Is chuffed when the call actually goes through.

Mr. Pickersgill, this is Mr. Fell. DeeDee summoned Crowley and me to Madame Tracy's side. She was seriously ill with pneumonia, but is better now. However, I think she should be taken to hospital. . . . No, her condition no longer warrants an ambulance. But I nonetheless think she should be checked by a physician. Crowley has an urgent appointment in London, and I do not drive. . . . Thank you so much, Mr. Pickersgill. We will have DeeDee pack a small bag just in case they keep Madame Tracy overnight. For observation, or whatever they call it. They will no doubt provide her with a recovery regimen, in any event. . . . DeeDee and I will be here with Madame Tracy, no need to fly out the door. Please drive carefully. It is dark and rainy outside. . . . Very good, Mr. Pickersgill. We await your arrival.

Aziraphale looks at his phone, then gazes questioningly at Crowley. The red disconnect button is not on the screen, and the angel isn't sure what to do next.

Press the sleep button, Angel.

Oh. Yes. There. Thank you.

Tadfield. Saturday morning breakfast at Madame Tracy's Tea Shop. The place is packed. However, the occupants of the choice table by the front window have fortuitously just cleared the moment Crowley and Aziraphale walk in to claim it. The two Erics are hustling about, dressed as French waiters in black trousers, vest, bowtie, white shirt and bistro half apron. Seeing Crowley, they make a beeline over. One buses the table, the other takes their order:

Mr. Crowley. What would you and Mr. Fell prefer this morning?

A full fry up each - extra sausage, skip the beans. Tea for Aziraphale. Cappuccino for me.

Right away, Mr. Crowley.

Their plates arrive promptly. A few minutes after they've started eating, Crowley's phone softly boings with DeeDee's ringtone.

I'm the cook! Is the food good?

Excellent, DeeDee. Good work.

Wensley's running the dishwasher. Ciao.

Crowley re-pockets his phone.

I say, Crowley, there seems to be an unusual number of giggling young women present this morning.

Crowley gazes around the room. He's in the seat that faces the counter. Madame Tracy, wearing a soft cardigan twinset and a cozy looking shawl about her shoulders, is settled in a high chair behind the register. Pepper is assisting her with orders. He catches Peppers' eye, nods his head toward the room and gives her a questioning look. The teen rolls her eyes, looks at one of the Erics and jerks her chin. Grimaces in disgust. Crowley grins.

Evidently my assistants are the attraction. School holiday's not over yet.

Mr. Pickersgill walks in. Crowley beckons him to join them.

Thank you, Mr. Crowley. Good morning, Mr. Fell. My word, I doubt I could have found a seat had you not been here.

An Eric zooms up.

Eric, may I introduce the vicar of St. Cecil's and All Angels, Mr. Pickersgill. Mr. Pickersgill, meet Eric, a Disposable Demon. His twin is also called Eric.

Eric shies and looks apprehensive, but after a commanding look from Crowley, he bows to Mr. Pickersgill, then swallows hard before saying:

And what might be your pleasure this morning, Mr. Pickersgill?

Bacon and two eggs, Eric. Toast, marmalade, and tea.

Aziraphale murmurs:

It would be a sin to not have one of these sausages, Mr. Pickersgill.

Very well. And a sausage, too, Eric. Thank you.

Eric's eyes widen. Crowley jerks his head, and the demon skips off. They see him conferring with his twin. The two turn and give the vicar a brief but intent look before resuming their work.

The vicar smiles at Crowley.

Concerned I might exorcise them, are they?

Their lot doesn't get Earth duty much. Doubtful they've ever experienced an exorcism. More likely they're surprised about being thanked, Mr. Pickersgill.

Ah. Yes. I suppose Hell doesn't stand much on such niceties.

To say the least of it.

"Disposable demons," you say?

They take care of the scut work in Hell. And get torched if they don't perform adequately.

My word. Was I being quaint or patronizing to say thank you?

Oh no. Thank 'em all you like. You're a human. Hell's protocols don't apply on Earth. Different story in the afterlife, of course.

The other Eric comes by with the vicar's pot of tea and cup.

Thank you, Eric.

The demon nods somberly and turns away. Only Crowley sees him give delighted thumb-up to his twin across the room.