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“Angel, why don’t you want anyone to buy your books?”
Aziraphale grins into his floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, careful not to let Crowley see the smile on his face. Crowley, especially while regressed, has a tendency to think Aziraphale is laughing at him. And to be quite far, Aziraphale does have a bad habit of chuckling a little too much in the tiny demon’s presence, but how else is he supposed to react when everything Crowley does is utterly adorable?
Aziraphale continues shelving the books in his arms, and answers patiently. “Because I’ve worked very hard on my collection, dear.”
Over his shoulder, he hears flopping, meaning that his squirmy, fidgety demon baby has shifted from one impossibly uncomfortable looking pose to another. Aziraphale still doesn’t know how he manages that. “But you own a bookshop! How do you make money?”
“I sell some books.” Aziraphale answers, gesturing toward the shelf in the corner where he keeps his spares. Unsigned first editions, second printings, the rarest he could find for the moment. Those are the ones he actively encourages people to peruse, and it sits at the front of the shop, right where anyone could see.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need them anymore.” Aziraphale puts away the last of the books in his arms and rolls his shoulders, as if to shake off the weight. One day he’ll learn that he can take more than one trip to the bookshelf, but not any time soon.
“Why?”
After a moment of consideration, Aziraphale plucks his book of choice, a rather worn and unimpressive anthology of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and moves it from the back shelf to the main table. Just as he suspected, Crowley lies sprawled over the couch, like he’s trying to take up as much space as humanly possible. As if the one patron currently skulking too close to Aziraphale’s first editions is planning to sidle up beside him on the musty couch of an equally musty bookstore.
“Well, usually because I have a better copy elsewhere.” Aziraphale takes a few moments fussing with the front display until it’s back to his liking.
Crowley tilts his head, silently encouraging Aziraphale to continue.
“See, if the rarest copy I could find of Frankenstein is an unsigned first edition, but later I do find a signed first edition, the unsigned version would go with the spares.”
“Ohh.” Satisfied, Crowley turns his attention back to his fidget cube. It’s probably one of his favorite new toyss, since even regressed he curls his lip at cute things. There’s also the added bonus of it making just enough noise to be a minor nuisance to everyone around him.
Click, click, click. The only patron in the shop is too far away to hear the noise, so it’s meant only for Aziraphale.
He rolls his eyes. “Is it really that fun to spend so much of your day trying to get a rise out of me?”
“Only if it works.”
Aziraphale closes the space between them, poking a threatening finger into Crowley’s midriff. “I’m warning you, dear.”
“Too late!” Nothing good comes from those words, especially when they’re coming from Crowley. Aziraphale expects chaos, or at the very least, a mild mischief. What he doesn’t expect is for Crowley to throw his arms around Aziraphale’s waist for a childish, sloppy hug. “You fell for my trap!” Crowley says, voice muffed in Aziraphale’s suit jacket.
While regressed, Aziraphale is shy. Crowley feels no such shame. Humans always assume the most mundane of people. If he acts childishly, people just assume he’s childish. And they’re right, but that’s beside the point.
To the outside observer, Crowley is just Aziraphale’s half-drunk, outwardly affectionate boyfriend, and his confidence in that fact is what makes it so.
“Yes, dear boy, I most certainly have.” Aziraphale returns the hug, ruffling Crowley’s hair in that way that makes him whine and pull back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a few more books to shelve.”
Crowley flops dramatically back against the couch, rolling over so his sunglasses fall halfway off his face. He knows how Aziraphale struggles when it comes to resisting his sad eyes. “Why?”
“Because I must resume my work.”
“Why?”
“Well, these books very well won’t place themselves, will they?”
Crowley grins. He’s making a game of it. “Why?”
“To make nosy demons ask silly questions.”
Crowley’s jaw drops. “Angel. I didn’t know you had it in you!”
Aziraphale can’t help the smug grin coming to his face. They both know he doesn’t really mean it. He loves answering questions, no matter how mundane, no matter how silly, no matter how ridiculous.