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It is a well-known fact that Aziraphale is a collector of books.
He likes to say that he picked up the first ever written word and has hoarded every word since.
Most people think he is joking, but really, he believes it to be true.
Hidden in a trunk above the bookstore, Aziraphale has stored one of his most prized possessions. He knows, of course, that angels shouldn’t be prideful, especially of materiel objects, but there are quite a few things he does these days that angels “don’t” do, so he doesn’t dwell on it.
Aziraphale never takes it out to look at. Though it is carved in clay, he fears the day it turns to dust. He doesn’t need to anyway; he’s had it memorized for the last 5000 years. He’s even duplicated it to display in his various places of residence. Always in its original language, for, he feels, any translation would be a poor facsimile.
The only other person who knows how to read it these days is Crowley. Aziraphale had seen him stare at his recreations in the 1800s for quite some time before smiling softly and offering to take the angel to lunch. Aziraphale had wanted to discuss with his friend his thoughts on the writing, but Crowley had changed the subject and Aziraphale can be easily distracted when there is food present.
--
One of the first books Aziraphale had ever owned was a series of poems by an unknown author. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to keep them due to some flooding that destroyed (almost) all of his earthly collections.
That loss haunts him frequently. It was the first poetry, he thought, in the history of the universe, and he had allowed its destruction. Sometimes, when he is reading his favorite poetry, he feels like he can almost remember some of the verses.
--
The early years Before Christ had been, in Aziraphale’s opinion, rough. The humans were progressing, but there were few comforts in those days. He spent most of his time tending to the diseased and war torn in between prayers of forgiveness and mercy. He tried his best to influence those in power to the ways of the Lord, and sometimes he had even been successful.
He had seen Crowley a lot in those days. Obviously, he was very active, not hampered by the need to stop and save every human he saw. He would check in on Aziraphale every so often to see how he was doing, which annoyed the angel to no end. The angel looks back on these times with indignance, though he can’t quite stay mad at Crowley. It was on one of these occasions that Crowley had accidentally left behind a small scroll.
It was made from papyrus, the Egyptians first attempt at paper, and though Aziraphale had not yet taken the time to learn to read hieroglyphics, (he was very busy, you see, and it had not been a priority), he stored it away for safe keeping. He had always meant to give it back to Crowley at some point, but the chance never seemed to present itself, so Aziraphale held onto it until he could find the time to read it.
--
When parchment began to take hold, there seemed to be a cultural shift around the world. Aziraphale couldn’t quite grasp it initially, change was happening quickly, and he had always been a little slow to catch up. (That papyrus scroll sat unread amongst his things, the angel still hadn’t had time to learn the hieroglyphics and it had mostly gone out of style by this point. He thought maybe he should give it to someone who would appreciate it, but Aziraphale was loath to part with it.)
He didn’t really take to book collecting until the humans started burning them. Sure, some of the subject matter he didn’t agree with and he rather they didn’t read some of them (Aziraphale suspected Crowley to have scribed a number of these himself), but they were also burning good books. Books Aziraphale had loved and now would never see again.
He remembers when the Library of Alexandria had burned to nothing. Aziraphale had never known true mourning until that moment.
After that, Aziraphale kept a closer eye on his favorite writings. He squirreled them all away in a monastery in Austria, taking great care with his collection of poetry, committing many of them to memory.
Sometimes he’ll recite them to Crowley to get him to smile. He loves to make Crowley smile.
--
After the crucifixion of Christ, things really started to get moving. Aziraphale and Crowley ended up in the same places more often than not, and Aziraphale’s book collection was growing rapidly. The release of the New Testament led to such an increase in storage necessity, the angel had to consider either moving them or getting rid of some.
It took Aziraphale so much time to go through all of his books and writings, Crowley had come to look for him. The black plague had been good fun and all, but it did get monotonous when he was the only one putting in the work.
The demon laughed when he saw his friend buried with his books, pouring over poetry so beautiful it made him cry. It wasn’t that he thought the angel’s tears were funny, just that the subject matter had moved him to do so. Love and all that. So human, so boring.
His reaction didn’t offend the angel, in fact it only made Aziraphale more passionate and determined for the demon to appreciate it. They spent hours on the floor with the angel reading poetry to Crowley, who stayed only because he liked the sound of Aziraphale’s voice. It had been entirely too long since he had heard it last.
--
The centuries turned to millennia’s and Aziraphale finally broke down and just got a bookshop. Crowley had made fun of him mercilessly about it. What, of his beloved collection, was Aziraphale actually going to sell? Aziraphale had not seen the irony in the notion, and did not let the demon damper his excitement. Besides, Crowley had brought him his favorite chocolates from Paris on the day he opened, so he didn’t really feel like any offense had been meant.
Of course, Aziraphale wasn’t that stupid, he didn’t put anything in the bookshop he wasn’t physically able to part with. The best bits were upstairs, the only other person who knew about them were Crowley, who thought it all ridiculous, if not a little funny.
The angel thought this silly, as Crowley had given him a number of them. The papyrus scroll, the original Old Testament in Hebrew, a series of essays written in Rome around 44 AD, a letter the demon had written him in 1601 attached to a (signed!) copy of Hamlet, and a notebook of unknown origin, presumably from the mid 1700’s, filled with some of Aziraphale’s favorite French poetry.
--
After the incident in 1863 with the Holy Water, Aziraphale adamantly avoided Crowley. He had been so upset by his friends request he buried himself in his work. One can only assume the demon did the same as neither set eyes on the other for decades. This had been a dark time for Aziraphale and he hated admitting, even to himself, that he missed Crowley. It was during this time (between the first and second world wars), that Aziraphale discovered a new poet that simply went by the name of A.J.
Aziraphale loved A.J.’s poetry. The way the poet described his torment and heartbreak spoke directly to the angel. He could have written them himself (had he had any time or talent for it). He kept a copy of his favorite in his breast pocket for the moments where he felt especially weak:
Forgive me, my angel
Forgive me my sins
Forgive my transgressions
Forgive my sharp sting
Your light has gone from me
I cannot breathe
The darkness is so close
There is nowhere to flee
Come home to me, my angel
Send your light back to me
Forgive me, forgive me, my angel
Come home and set me free
It was quite a surprise for him then, when Crowley came hopping into a church one night, saving him (and his books!) once again. Crowley had given him a ride home that night in the demons new Bentley. Aziraphale didn’t love cars, but it seemed to make Crowley happy so he didn’t complain, much.
Crowley made idle conversation on the way back, and it seemed like the pair had gotten over their argument. In fact, Aziraphale had completely forgotten about it. All he could think about was his friend, the earthly manifestation of evil, saving his books.
Something had changed in the angel, he felt it as he stepped into his bookshop[ that night. As he put his books away and headed to the backroom, he caught a glimpse of a copy of the first written words he had hanging on the wall and stopped.
Many had asked him to translate it through the years, mostly he feigned ignorance, the language was so old, who even knew its meaning anymore? But the angel did, and it was a little silly he kept it to himself, but he liked knowing there was something on this earth that only Crowley and himself could truly appreciate.
Crowley.
The angel inhaled deeply and resolved, he would keep the demon safe, no matter what.
--
In the 2 weeks since the world had not ended Aziraphale had become an angel possessed.
He had heard that there were lost pages of A.J.’s poetry found recently and he needed them.
Aziraphale and Crowley had been dancing around something for too long and the angel knew it was his fault. He had thought the demon moved too fast. But now he see’s he had been much too slow. He needed to set this right.
But he needed the poetry.
Crowley allowed his angel to drag him around England, watching amusedly as the angel tried to sweet talk, manipulate, demand, and threaten his way to finding the pages. Crowley was patient, he knew this was important to him. The trials and failed executions had been incredibly difficult on Aziraphale, so whatever he wanted, Crowley would give him.
It took another 3 weeks before they found the pages. Aziraphale nearly cried as he read the first poems to himself. Crowley watched him carefully as he reached the last page. The angel startled and looked up at Crowley in surprise. The demon watched him expectantly, and finally the angel read aloud,
For My Aziraphale
My lover is an angel
So perfectly divine
I spend my days in worship
Kneeling before his shrine
My lover is an angel
His lips I long to trace
I’d give my all to serve him
And be worthy of his grace
My lover is an angel
And for this blasphemy I crawl
Yet I surely cannot conceive of
Any sweeter way to fall
-A.J. Crowley
--
Later, when everything has settled, the demon walked his angel through 5000 years of his writing, (almost) all of it meticulously saved and cared for by its unknowing subject.