Chapter Text
The dusty quiet of Aziraphale’s bookshop, set against the muffled backdrop of London’s traffic, was split by tinkle of a bell. From his position seated behind the till, reading, he looked up. The bell heralded the arrival of a visitor, usually Crowley—except Crowley was in the backroom, perusing an newly-acquired Victorian copy of Doctor Faustus.
Instead, it was a woman that stepped through the door.
She was regal, poised, and supremely self-confident. Dark, lustrous hair. Stylish clothing. Aziraphale wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was a little intimidated and didn’t say a word, though he distantly felt that he should recognise her; in return, she didn’t spare as much as a glance in his direction.
She spent a few minutes browsing the shelves directly opposite the front door. They were old, leather-bound volumes—not Aziraphale’s most treasured, which were carefully tucked away in a separate room, but precious nonetheless. At one point, she pulled a book out and idly flipped through it.
That was enough to kick Aziraphale’s brain into gear. “Can I help you?”
She turned, fixing him with a piercing stare. “No.”
How rude.
His umbrage was short-lived. Looking at her face-to-face, Aziraphale though he detected something strange, something supernatural, about her. A witch, perhaps. No, it had to be more than that—the presence of a witch wasn’t discomforting in the way that this woman’s was.
“Excuse me. Have we met?” he enquired, still unsettled. “I can’t help feeling that you look familiar.”
The woman flicked her eyes up and down, surveying him. “No. We haven’t.”
“In that case, might I ask your name?”
“No,” she said flatly. “Besides, who are you?”
“This is my bookshop!” Aziraphale said, indignant. He shot to his feet. “I-”
“Ah.” Crowley said, emerging from the back room, summoned by Aziraphale’s raised voice. He immediately registered the woman’s presence. “Wonderful.”
His tone suggested that the occurrence was not, in fact, wonderful; it was the kind of voice one used when attempting to deal with a persistently annoying child without losing one’s temper.
Aziraphale whipped his head around. “Crowley, do you know…” he began. He didn’t finish the sentence, inhibited by his characteristic awkwardness.
“Yes, angel, I do,” Crowley replied, just short of a sigh. He leant against the till counter, gesturing vaguely in the woman’s direction. “Aziraphale, this is Lilith. Or Madam Satan, depending on what day of the week it is.”
“Enchanté,” Aziraphale managed. He flopped back onto his stool. “May I ask what you’re doing in my bookshop?”
Lilith ignored him. Instead, she directed her next words to Crowley. “I see you’ve gotten attached. Is that why you’ve been keeping your distance?”
He rolled his eyes. “Hell’s depressing. That’s why I keep my distance.”
A tilt of the head, a raise of one eyebrow. Minorly offended. “Depressing?”
“The hellfire and brimstone. Gets a bit much, after a while,” Crowley replied. “Anyway, I hear you’ve become quite attached to a certain coven of witches in America. Greendale, is it?”
Lilith’s eyes narrowed. “Your absence has been noted,” she said coolly. “It reflects poorly on you. On all of us.”
“Glass houses, Madam, glass houses.” Crowley deliberately drew out his esses, giving the sentence a menacing edge.
Naturally, Lilith was unthreatened. “Careful, Crawly.”
His face grew stony at the use of the name, his hate for it undiminished by the intervening millenia. “Surely you’ve not come all this way to scold me.”
Her jaw tightened. Whatever her business was, it was galling her.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, tossing her hair. “I haven’t. I require your assistance.”
Although Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, he knew the demon was rolling his eyes. He laughed darkly. “I doubt that. Why would the Mother of Demons needs help from me?”
Lilith bristled. It was clear that it had cost her pride to admit it, let alone reiterate it. “You’re ‘Hell’s most approachable demon’, are you not?”
“That’s usually an insult coming from your mouth,” he said bitterly, recalling the day she’d minted the epithet, centuries ago.
“Desperate times, desperate measures.” Her voice had returned to its even keel. “There’s a girl—a witch. Sabrina Spellman. She’s having doubts.”
He played dumb, just to see the fury glitter in her eyes. “About what?”
She visibly suppressed a hiss. “Signing the Book of the Beast.”
“She’s a witch. Witches don’t have to draw their power directly from the Dark Lord. Many don’t.”
“The Spellman’s are part of the Greendale coven, part of the Church of Night. They have to sign. That’s their deal.” Lilith said. “Besides, He requires it. My presence in Greendale is not a holiday.”
“He requires one specific witch to sign it?” Crowley raised both eyebrows, exaggeratedly expressing his shock. “Must be a special person.”
“That’s irrelevant. You just need to convince her. As a more… benign representative of Hell.”
He considered it for a long moment, tapping one finger against his chin. He was only an arm-length away from Aziraphale, who wanted to reach out and tell him to refuse—not just because of his heavenly duties. He simply didn’t trust Lilith. Even without her formidable reputation, her threatening aura was enough. Malevolence radiated from her.
After a moment of deliberation, his response was decisive. “No.”
She blinked rapidly, a movement that was accentuated by her dark eyelashes. Slowly, dangerously, she asked, "Excuse me?"
Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets. "No."
Her mouth twisted. Expectantly, she waited.
Her silence had the intended effect: it pushed Crowley into talking. "That's not my job. Witches, recruitment, that's not my shtick."
"You're a demon," Lilith said, enunciating every word. She looked at him like he was utterly dense; to be fair, he wasn't doing much to prove otherwise. "Of course it's your job."
"No, it's - look, I don't even report to you!" Crowley exclaimed, flustered. It was a lame excuse and they all knew it.
"If you can deign to follow Hastur and Ligur's orders," she said, disdain dripping from every syllable. "You can damn well obey me."
There was nothing much Crowley could think of to say to that, a fact that was infinitely clear in the way he started shifting from one foot to the other. Seeing his discomfort, Aziraphale's intrinsic empathy began to kick in.
"Hang on," he said, doing his best to intervene. He was still sitting behind the counter, a position that felt mildly ridiculous, so he pushed himself to his feet. "Crowley's right. Witches aren't his thing. Anyway, if he says 'no', then it's a 'no'. It's as simple as that."
Lilith looked between them with a new understanding—or so it seemed. Aziraphale wasn't quite sure what understanding she’d come to, nor did he particularly care in that moment, but she certainly seemed to be looked at the pair of them differently. It was as if she were toying with them, a cat with a ball of wool.
“Alternatively,” she said, voice taking on a dangerously saccarchine twist. “You do me a favour—all in His name, of course—and I turn a blind eye to your… arrangement.”
There was no doubt over what she was referring to, but Crowley, instinctively afraid of the potential ramifications, tried to act innocent. “What ‘arrangement’?”
“Don’t try that with me, dear, it’s crystal clear. You’re practically cohabiting.” She spat the last word out with no small measure of contempt. There was no hiding, then.
“Fine,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. “But that’s it. I’ll talk to the witch. Nothing else.”
“No, that will do. Just get it done and don’t beat around the bush.”
Crowley didn’t reply, leaving a loaded silence.
Eventually, he spoke. “Unless there’s anything else, you may as well leave. This isn’t a social call.”
She crossed her arms, tutting. “Such poor manners. I expect better from a demon.”
“You heard him,” Aziraphale said suddenly, even surprising himself. “Please leave.”
She regarded him with derision. “Angels. I’d forgotten how much I hated them,” she mused aloud.
Aziraphale’s cheeks grew hot. He opened his mouth to respond, but Crowley beat him to it. “That’s enough.”
For the first time since she’d walked into the shop, she smiled, all teeth and scarlet lipstick. It conjured unsavoury images of fangs and venom. “I suppose you’re right. I really ought to be going.”
She pulled a folded piece of paper from a pocket, holding it out to Crowley. Reluctantly, he took it.
“It was wonderful to see you,” she said, voice laden with sarcasm. “I’m so glad that we could come to a compromise.”
With that, she vanished.
In her wake, there was an odd lull—like a marionette with its strings cut. Indeed, they both released tense breaths, shoulders slumping.
Aziraphale moved from behind the counter. “I think that’s quite enough for one day,” he said, turning the sign on the door to ‘closed’. “She really was horrible.”
Crowley visibly marshalled himself. “That’s just who she is.”
“Yes, but you’re a demon and you’re nowhere near as-” he floundered, searching for a word, while Crowley watched him with growing amusement. “-awful.”
“Makes you glad that you’ve got me, doesn’t it?”
He'd never admit the flutter that gave him. “Mm-hm.”
"Does she normally order you around like that?"
"Only a couple of times per millenium," he replied flippantly. "It's not just me. She likes to remind us all who's boss."
"I see."
To Crowley's ears, there was something a bit off in that response. If he had to hazard a guess, Aziraphale seemed almost… jealous. Crowley removed his glasses. “Are you alright, angel?”
“I need a drink,” Aziraphale exhaled. “A dram of single malt, I think.”
Crowley looked mildly alarmed. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Oh, what does that matter? What’s the point in being able to snap your fingers and get rid of a hangover if you never get hungover in the first place?”
Crowley had to admit that he had a point. In silence, he followed Aziraphale into the back room, a cozy space lined with cupboards and bookshelves and housing an assortment of tables, chairs, and sofas.
Crouching, Aziraphale pulled open a small cupboard, extracting two snifters and a dark bottle. With a mutter, he cleared the glass of dust—it was clear that the cupboard hadn’t been opened in a long while.
Crowley tilted his head. “What is that stuff?”
“Macallan 1926.”
“Why don’t we drink that more often? Puts your Chiantis and your Cabernets to shame.”
He deposited his paraphernalia on a table. “The whisky doesn’t seem very angelic, somehow. Besides, it’s rather expensive.”
Watching as he set about opening the bottle and pouring it, Crowley wrinkled his nose. “That’s not exactly a problem when you’re an angel, is it? Or a demon.”
“Magically replicating it just isn’t the same, trust me.”
“Look, can we just get on with drinking it?”
“Yes, indeed.” Aziraphale handed him a snifter. “To ineffability.”
“To ineffability,” Crowley echoed, clinking their glasses together.
Crowley awoke with a start, largely due to the painful crick in his neck. He found himself slumped in an armchair; opposite him, Aziraphale was stretched out on a sofa. To one side was a table, with the now half-empty bottle of whisky standing on it.
He dismissed his hangover and started properly scraping his mind together. He heaved himself up, casting a fond look at his still-snoring friend, and made his way through to the shop. It was a Thursday morning, but it was still early—the light was still gentle, softly illuminating the room.
A flash of colour caught his eye, jolting him out of his drowsiness. On the counter was a crisp, white envelope. It was written in sharp, angular handwriting:
Sabrina Spellman
Spellman Sisters' Mortuary
Greendale
United States of America
Nothing that Crowley couldn’t have found out himself. Lilith had left it there purposely. It was supposed to serve as a reminder.
He sighed. This is not going to be fun.