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“Are you sure this is going to work?” Jim muttered under his breath, slouching down a little in his seat as pedestrians hurried down the busy Soho street.
In the driver’s seat, John scoffed. “Of course I’m sure,” he said. “I told you, I’ve been watching this place for ages. There’s tons of valuables in there, and the bloke who owns it is a complete pushover. Don’t even think he has a mobile to call the police.”
Jim hummed thoughtfully. “Still,” he said. “I still want to case the joint.”
“I know,” John replied irritably. He glanced at his watch. “It’s already almost eleven in the morning, I don’t know why he hasn’t opened up yet. Christ, what kind of business is this guy running?”
“Not a very good one,” Jim muttered bitterly. He rubbed at his tired eyes. “Look, I’m gonna get a coffee, I’ll be back in half an hour.”
He went to unbuckle his seatbelt, but John caught his wrist. “I’m warning you, if he opens I’m going in. It’s a nightmare, trying to get into that place.”
“Right, right,” Jim muttered. “Fine.”
“Get me one too!” John called after him as Jim got out of the car.
Jim grunted and slammed the car door shut, stalking down the street in search of a coffee shop. After a wrong turn or two he found a small cafe just a block down from where the car was parked, and let himself in with a glare at the cheerful little bell above the door. There was a short queue at the register, and Jim stuffed his hands in his coat pockets as he got in line behind a lanky redhead fiddling around on his phone.
At the register, an older woman was taking about ten years to order herself a damn pastry, and Jim tapped his toe and sighed loudly with impatience. John would never let him hear the end of it if he missed getting into the shop they were trying to case because he was out getting coffee. In front of him, the redhead shoved his phone into the pocket of his ridiculously tight skinny jeans, shrugged off his black jacket, and slung it over his arm. Jim thought he heard a small sound, like the snapping of fingers, and then the old woman was walking away with her pastry in hand and a frown on her face.
The harried employee working the register looked up, and then to Jim’s surprise smiled brightly. “Hello, Anthony, haven’t seen you in a bit.”
The redhead in front of Jim swaggered forward, resting one hand on the counter as he grinned sharply. “I’d been out of the country. Very important business.”
“And how’s Ezra?” the clerk asked, already typing in an order. Jim rolled his eyes. Apparently ‘Anthony’ was enough of a regular for the staff to have his order down. Hopefully he wasn’t enough of a regular to make ten years of conversation, too.
“He’s alright,” Anthony replied, leaning over the glass case of pastries and peering inside. “Hm, he’d probably like one of those croissants. And maybe a muffin, too.”
“Of course,” the clerk said with a smile, quickly putting the pastries in a bag and ringing him up. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” Anthony drawled, leaning against the counter again as he wiggled a wallet out of his pocket.
“Give Ezra my best,” the clerk said as Anthony finished paying. “Oh, and tell him his advice worked, me and Millie are doing great.”
Anthony nodded, picked up the pastries and a to-go cup of coffee that had appeared on the counter at some point, and left with a spring in his step.
Scowling, Jim shuffled up to the counter. “Two black coffees, make it snappy,” he ordered before the clerk could say a word, and waited impatiently as she slowly filled his order with a neutral expression.
Jim glanced at his watch again as he left the cafe, and sped up his pace. It was just past eleven, and John had been watching the bookstore enough to know that, more often than not, if it was going to open it would do so by eleven. Or so he claimed. But this was important enough that Jim didn’t think he’d lie.
Sure enough, as Jim reached where he had left John sitting in the car, his partner in crime was already out of his seat and halfway across the street. “Oi!” Jim called, and accidentally sloshed hot coffee over his hand. Cursing furiously, he narrowly missed getting hit by a car as he rushed across the street to catch up with John.
“Hurry, he just opened,” John hissed, wordlessly taking his coffee, and then opened the door to A. Z. Fell and Co’s Bookshop.
Jim followed John into the shop and then nearly spilled more of his coffee when the other man stopped short. “What the hell?” Jim hissed, and stepped around his business partner and out of the doorway before he also froze in his tracks.
The bookshop was significantly larger on the inside than it had appeared on the outside, with rows and rows of shelves stretching into musty dimness despite the morning sunlight outside. Light filtered down from a skylight above and little motes of dust drifted through the air. The whole shop had an undisturbed, almost sacred ambiance, like an empty church or vacant museum.
At first glance the bookshop appeared to be empty, but a movement just out of the corner of his eye caught Jim’s attention. Lounging in a cushioned chair with an ugly yellow pattern was the redhead from the cafe (Anthony, wasn’t it?), sipping his coffee as he paged through a newspaper. For some reason, despite the dim lighting of the bookshop, he was wearing sunglasses indoors.
John stepped forward and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said politely, fixing his attention on Anthony and smiling. “Are you the owner?”
The man didn’t even bother to glance up from his newspaper. “Nope,” he said in a bored voice, popping the ‘p.’
John frowned, and then with clear effort forced the smile back into his face. “Oh, so you work here, then?”
Jim glanced around the shop, taking note of the doors and windows, and of the lack of any clear kind of alarm system. He looked back over as Anthony snorted. “Absolutely not.” Even with the sunglasses, Jim could tell he was rolling his eyes dramatically.
John glanced back at Jim for just a moment, and Jim could see the irritation in his eyes. “We’re just going to browse, then,” he said quickly, before John got too snappish. Anthony shrugged, slouching more in his chair and bringing the newspaper up so it covered his face.
“Come on!” Jim hissed, grabbing John’s arm and tugging him into the narrow corridor between two shelves. “I want to look around, see what we can find.” John’s jaw was clenched, but he just nodded wordlessly.
“No canoodling in the stacks!” Anthony shouted after them, and Jim had to keep an extra-strong grip on John’s shoulder to prevent him from storming out to the entrance again.
“Just look for anything valuable,” he ordered. “You said you’d seen some good stuff last time. We’ll get a look at the register later.” John nodded.
The two men split up, each walking through the stacks as they poked at the books on the shelves. Jim sipped his coffee as he surreptitiously researched the worth of a few books he stumbled across, staggered by the high price tags. £50,000 for a mouldering old tome forgotten on a dusty shelf in an out-of-the-way bookshop? Insane. He and John were going to be fabulously wealthy.
Somehow, they both managed to wander through the labyrinthine passages of the bookstore back towards the entrance. Anthony was still sprawled in his armchair rustling through his newspaper, but he had been joined by a middle-aged man in a bowtie and waistcoat, of all things. The man was picking through a brown paper bag that Jim recognized from the cafe with a smile on his face, but looked up as they emerged from among the shelves.
“Oh, hello,” he said a little absently, and then zeroed in on the takeaway cup still clutched in Jim’s hand. “I’m afraid you can’t have drinks in here,” he said with a disapproving frown. “Many of my books are quite valuable.”
Jim tried not to light up at that. “I’m sorry, Mr…” He trailed off meaningfully, and looked around for a bin.
“Fell,” the man said, and his frown didn’t ease.
John cleared his throat, stepping up beside Jim. He was also still holding his coffee cup, although Jim was reasonably sure it was empty. “He’s got a drink,” John pointed out, jerking his chin in Anthony’s direction.
Anthony took an obnoxious slurp of coffee. “See,” he said. “But the difference between you and me, is that I’m sleeping with the owner of this shop, and you’re most certainly not.”
Mr. Fell turned his frown on Anthony. “Crowley, darling, there’s no need to be crude,” he said disapprovingly, and then handed him the brown paper bag. “Be a dear and put that in the back room for later, would you?”
Anthony took the bag and stood, casually pressing a kiss to Mr. Fell’s cheek before swaggering into the back of the bookshop.
John and Jim exchanged looks, and then John cleared his throat and said, “Well, Mr. Fell, we’d—“
“Your coffee cups,” Mr. Fell reminded him, a tad impatiently. “There’s a bin behind you.”
Jim turned to find a trash bin where there had most certainly not been a trash bin before, and dropped his coffee cup in. John followed suit, and then plucked a book off a shelf at random and said, “Mr. Fell, how much would you want for this book?”
Mr. Fell’s expression shuttered. “I’m afraid that’s not for sale,” he said, bustling forward and prying the book out of John’s hands. “It needs some restoration work, I ought to just put it in the back.”
“How about this one?” Jim asked, picking up another book. “Oh, Oscar Wilde, I’ve heard of him.”
Mr. Fell pressed his lips together. “That’s also not for sale,” he said firmly, reaching for the book.
Jim stepped back a bit. “But if it was,” he pressed. “What would you ask for it?”
Mr. Fell’s eyes flashed. “Seventy five thousand pounds,” he said, and then added testily, “So unless you have that kind of money on your person, I don’t think you have any business in my shop this morning.”
Jim reluctantly surrendered the book, making a concentrated effort not to make eye contact with John. “Right, we’ll be going, then,” he said, turning to the door.
“Have a lovely afternoon,” Mr. Fell said, and sounded much more cheerful now that they seemed to be leaving.
Jim and John left, both trying their very best not to grin giddily. Jim noted as they left that the front door’s lock looked ridiculously easy to pick. “Holy fuck,” John whispered as the door closed behind them. “We’re going to be so bloody rich.”
***
About fourteen hours later, when the streets had begun to quiet and the moon had dipped behind a bank of clouds, a car pulled up quietly to the curb outside A. Z. Fell and Co’s Bookshop. Two men got out, black ski masks over their heads, large empty backpacks slung over their shoulders, and nervous smiles on their hidden faces.
One of the men knelt at the door of the bookshop and pulled out a set of lock picks, carefully teasing the lock open. The door creaked as it was pushed inwards, and John hissed, “Be quiet!”
“I’m trying!” Jim whispered back, and then the two crept into the bookshop, mostly closing the front door behind them.
If the bookshop by day was like an empty church, by night it was like a crypt— still, dark, cramped, and smelling vaguely of mold. Jim pulled out a torch and flicked it on, quickly cupping one hand over the bulb to prevent any light from flashing out the windows.
“Get as much as you can,” John whispered, and then the two parted ways.
Jim made a beeline for the shelves he had browsed earlier, carefully and silently removing several books and stuffing them in his bag. A few shelves over he could hear John doing the same, and when Jim’s bag was full of valuable books he made his way over to his partner.
“What’s the holdup?” he whispered, standing over John.
John looked up from where he was crouching on the floor, two books in hand. “I can only fit one more, and I can’t figure out which one is more valuable,” he whispered back.
Jim rolled his eyes and crouched beside him, squinting in the dark to try to look. “It doesn’t really matter,” he said. “Just pick one to steal, we're going to be rich either way—”
“WHAT IN HEAVEN DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”
Jim toppled over in surprise at the booming voice behind them, and John landed on his ass.
At the end of the row, Mr. Fell stood with his hands at his hips, fury in his eyes. A shaft of moonlight shone from the skylight above, making his halo of curly hair almost seem to glow. Mr. Fell stalked forward and oh god oh god it wasn’t the moonlight, he was glowing.
“PUT THOSE BOOKS BACK ON THE SHELF,” Mr. Fell ordered, and his voice wasn’t just booming it was deafening and all encompassing and nowhere and everywhere and GOD THERE WERE TOO MANY EYES
Jim became aware that he was screaming, screaming, screaming, his voice hoarse, his throat sore, and he felt like his mind was melting because the man in front of him wasn’t a man anymore was too everywhere and too nowhere, and beside him John was scrabbling to get away as Mr. Fell approached— and it wasn’t, it wasn’t Mr. Fell, not the harmless-looking bookshop owner, this was something else, something horrible, something with too many eyes and too many wings and a bloody fucking flaming sword that he was raising above his head—
LEAVE, Mr. Fell said, his lips not moving as his voice shook Jim’s eardrums, and Jim clambered to his feet and ran as fast as he could, books abandoned.
John followed at his heels and they ran and ran and ran, car forgotten, any thought of riches left in the dust.
They ran until Soho was no more than a memory behind them.
***
“‘Ziraphale,” a voice mumbled from the stairwell, and a moment later Crowley stumbled down the stairs, rubbing at his eyes. His hair was rumpled, cheek creased from his pillow, and he scratched absently at the collar of his silk pajamas as he blinked sleepily.
Aziraphale turned to face him and very carefully reigned in his divine rage, tucking his wings away and blinking shut most of his eyes. The flames of his sword sputtered out, and Aziraphale vanished it with a quick miracle before stepping towards his husband. “I’m sorry, Crowley, did I wake you?”
Crowley yawned into his palm before running the fingers of one hand through his shoulder-length hair. “Kinda hard to miss, the whole building was shaking,” he said with a wry grin. “I think you put out the power for at least a block.”
“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said fretfully. He glanced over his shoulder at the two backpacks of books the men had been trying to steal.
“Come on, come back to bed, angel,” Crowley pouted.
Aziraphale hesitated and then nodded, snapping his fingers. The almost-stolen books found themselves neatly piled on his desk to be reshelved tomorrow. “Of course, dear,” he said, making his way to the stairs. He took Crowley’s hand and they walked back upstairs to their flat, climbing into bed.
Before they had been so rudely interrupted, they had been sleeping together— truly sleeping, that was, curled up and dozing in each other’s arms. Crowley reclaimed his position from before wrapped around Aziraphale, and snuggled against him. Aziraphale sighed and hugged him close.
“I’m sorry, my dear, I’m still a little tense,” he whispered when Crowley gently rubbed his tense shoulder.
“I understand,” Crowley murmured in reply. “Remember what I did when that bloody fool tried to steal my Bentley?”
“Rats,” Aziraphale whispered, and shuddered teasingly. “So many rats.”
Crowley grinned, his teeth glinting a little in the dim light. “Damn right.” He leaned in, gave Aziraphale a soft kiss. “Kind of nice, actually, seeing you go all avenging-angel. It’s been a while.”
Aziraphale smiled a little reluctantly. “It has been a while since I’ve stretched my wings quite so much,” he admitted, and Crowley laughed.
“You bastard,” he said affectionately. “Well, I’m sure you won’t have any more trouble from those two, at least, they’ll never come back.”
“Not if they know what’s good for them,” Aziraphale replied darkly, but a kind of vindictive amusement danced in his eyes.
Crowley just laughed again. “That’ll teach people to try to rob your shop.”