Chapter Text
It started with the chocolates.
First just a few individually wrapped morsels of pure joy. Aziraphale could get behind that, even if they seemed to turn up at random- behind a book, inside a mug of tea he swore he hadn’t made, in the case he kept his reading glasses in.
When he spotted the first one gleaming at him from under a cushion, he could do nothing but stare. The little chocolate hadn’t done anything wrong- it was just there. And that was the problem- they certainly weren’t his doing. He had nothing against chocolates! No, they were perfectly fine- he had had his fair share of penchants for a good bonbon in his day. No, it wasn’t that.
It was just- if his subconscious was miracling up chocolates for some inane reason, it could certainly do better than Quality Street. Really, he had standards , and mass-produced toffees could hardly cut it.
Still, he might as well not let them go to waste, perpetually sticky fingers and garish wrapping be damned. He had thoroughly investigated them (investigations consisting of poking one gingerly and staring at it unblinkingly for a few minutes to make sure it didn’t move), and they didn’t seem to show any signs of Heavenly interference.
Perhaps it was just a little bit of serendipity- She was manifesting her satisfaction with him via cheap sweet treats (not that he was complaining!). Satisfaction about what , he didn’t know. He had been thoroughly blacklisted from Heaven just a few months prior, and had likely thrown an angelic wrench in Her Ineffable plans.
Whoops.
In any case, these seemed to be morphing from a bit of good fortune to more of a cruel and twisted punishment.
The angel swore under his breath as he opened yet another drawer stuffed to the brim with sweets, all just slightly melted. He waved them away with a sigh, knowing that the sticky caramel could never truly be removed from his antique desk.
Were assortments of chocolates one of ours, or theirs?
Seemed like something him and Crowley could have a rousing debate about.
Speaking of, the demon had been conspicuously absent for the past few days. In fact, he stopped coming round to the bookshop, wine and dessert in tow, around when the toffees had started appearing.
Hm.
No, he likely had nothing to do with it. He was probably taking a nap, or gotten so busy messing around with the Interwebs, starting inconsequential fires here and there, he’d completely lost track of time. Wouldn’t be the first time the demon had disappeared for a bit, only to blearily wander into the bookshop, a few more fights on Twitter under his belt.
Aziraphale would simply take the opportunity to enjoy some peace and quiet, before Crowley inevitably came crashing back into his life, in that boomerang way of his.
He always did.
The angel’s eyes crinkled, fond smile playing on his lips. He couldn’t help it, thinking about the demon just had that kind of effect on him.
He sat down, and the fond smile instantly slipped off his face, much like the chocolate currently running down the back of his pants. He looked down, and sure enough, another pile of sweets that had not been there a moment before. He waved them away with a bitten-off growl, changing his slacks at the same time.
God help him.
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Next came the balloons, which were honestly a nice change of pace. At least they didn’t get all over his precious coat (it was vintage, thank you very much!). They appeared one night, tied fast to the banister, held secure under a window pane, or simply bobbing about near the ceiling. They weren’t masterful works of art, or anything of that sort, but they were rather… cute.
The bright red hearts somehow brightened up his day whenever a new one appeared out of thin air. They varied in size and make, from a small rubber thing, to a massive 10-balloon monstrosity that hung in the center of the bookshop, somehow never running out of air or bobbing the slightest bit lower.
Some of them, however, didn’t seem to have gotten the memo on the theme- there were a couple emblazoned with well-meaning birthday wishes, or an “It’s a boy!”. One particularly memorable “Gone but not forgotten”, complete with depressing dove motif, received the place of honour next to his office table. It was funny, in a morbid sort of way.
Aziraphale still hadn’t the foggiest notion where these things were coming from, and he didn’t want to risk jinxing anything by questioning it. They were seemingly harmless, and he was just grateful that the toffees had finally stopped turning up (one had appeared inside his right shoe) .
Gift horses and all that.
He would simply take the gifts as they came- who cares what their origins were? They were somewhat amusing (at least when they weren’t downright irritating), and served as entertainment while his demon remained…wherever he had gone off to.
It was getting mildly concerning- but the angel was still testing the waters, feeling out for whatever “us” defined. It was a messy thing for just two letters, but hey- they were messy beings.
And it had all changed so fast- practically overnight ! They were enjoying their newfound freedom, finally able to do as they pleased without their respective Head Offices breathing down their necks at every turn, but they were still locked in that tightly-defined dance.
One step, two steps, avoid that iceberg of a topic, turn, oh dear, is that an elephant.
It was a 6000 year old dance, and old habits die hard. It would take time before Aziraphale could do something as risky as turning up outside the demon’s flat. Just thinking about it made him break out into a cold sweat, decorative heart beating out a samba.
It was WRONG to visit the demon’s (the enemy’s!) house. Someone could SEE. There was probably still someone tailing them, waiting for the slightest thing they could report- never mind how Crowley could saunter into his bookshop without a care in the world!
Crowley was likely fine. He had slept away an entire century that one time- he had a tendency to up and disappear.
Aziraphale would just sit with his balloons and remaining Quality Street chocolates, and wait. It would be a topic to laugh about, once he came back.
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The balloons really were a respite from the odder gifts- but they were a brief one.
Are balloons meant to move?
Not up and down, but…forwards. And it isn’t stopping.
The angel watched from his armchair, the safest vantage point he could come up with (really, he tried very hard). The balloon bobbed ever closer, slowly making its way around the maze of haphazardly-arranged furniture.
The gap between the garish pink Mylar and the angel shrunk, while his eyes grew wider.
It was silent. And likely deadly.
Aziraphale glared at the balloon, craning his neck to follow its path. Maybe if he looked sufficiently angry, letting a bit of that Guardian of the Eastern Gate leak through, it would simply pop out of fear.
Oh well. He could dream.
He wasn’t afraid of the balloon, per se. It couldn’t harm him (probably). Truth be told, the angel was more afraid that this behaviour was contagious- it wouldn’t do if all the balloons hanging about the shop came for him at once. Think about the mess it could make!
As the balloon approached, he idly contemplated whether it was worth the effort of getting up and walking a few steps away. He really was ever so comfortable- the fire was warm, and his blanket was soft. Maybe this wasn’t a rubber sleeper agent. Maybe it was one of those new “Candygram” things- would it sing for him? Pop open in a shower of confetti and even more Quality Street?
He would take the sleeper agent over that.
Finally, the balloon stalled. It bobbed at him, as if mocking him. Perhaps it was writing rude words at him in the air, bobbing in its own strange language.
Take a closer look. Come on, I won’t bite.
With a sigh and a groan, Aziraphale heaved himself out of his extremely soft armchair, and pattered around a table he really should have planned the placement of better.
And stopped. And blinked.
And blinked again.
“Quack,” Quacked the duck.
There was a duck. In his bookshop. With a balloon tied around its middle. Its fuzzy little middle.
A duck that looked rather miffed, to say the least.
“Quack,” The duck quacked again, this time louder.
Hello. Do you have ears? I really do need to check, it’s for a friend, sorry for the bother, the angel thought, a little bit hysterically.
There was a duck in his bookshop.
Why was there a duck in his bookshop?
The duck cocked its head, beady eyes managing to convey a world of contempt. Clearly irritated with the lack of attention, it turned around and waddled to a corner, plopping down as if to emphasise the point.
Meanwhile, the angel stared, utterly dumbfounded.
What happened to praising all creatures, great and small? Aziraphale shook himself out of his daze, and slowly made his way to the duck.
“ Hello. I’m Aziraphale. I don’t know why you’re here, but you probably don’t know why either. It’s no bother! Make yourself at home,” The angel said, as warmly as he could.
A lesser creature would have melted under his voice, angelic grace blanketing them softly, like the warmest, heaviest sweater they’d ever known.
The duck, however, was made of stronger stuff. It had never worn sweaters, and had no need for them.
“Quack.” It quacked, clearly unimpressed. It fixed his gaze, extremely pointedly, at an extremely boring spot on the wall.
Aziraphale stopped.
His left eye may or may not have been twitching slightly- and he would never admit it to anyone.
The chocolates were one thing.
The balloons were another.
But the duck, the practically pissy duck- now that could only be the work of one very specific being.
It was time he finally paid a visit to a certain Mayfair flat.