Chapter Text
The sun cast beams of light through the slightly-warped windows, catching on the floating dust particles like sparkles as it traveled to illuminate the tall, sturdy bookshelves. These looming shelves were made all the more intimidating by their nearly-empty nature. The rarest, most ancient tomes had been relocated into the shelves in the upstairs flat, out of sight and out of the official stock of the shop.
The floor of the shop did not have the luxury of free space. Instead, it was littered with cardboard boxes filled with more contemporary works. Where the flat's off-limits books were collected and passed down for centuries before being inherited, these relatively new books were purchased from several libraries looking to thin out the inventory. They were already sorted in their boxes so the only thing left to do was shelve them and record the titles for future reference.
That daunting task fell squarely upon the shoulders of the bookshop's new owner, Aziraphale Fell. He was not particularly looking forward to the task, as his middle-aged body already felt the strain of carrying the inherited books up that narrow staircase over the past few days, but he was determined to make his shop open for business within a fortnight of the day he moved in, a deadline that would be upon him when the weekend concluded.
As he looked over the cluttered shop, his gaze fell on a dusty, old photograph in a dusty, old frame. His lips pressed into a fine line, his nose twitched disapprovingly, and he carefully stepped over a box of trashy romance novels, awful things where 'love at first sight' won out over reason and often led to rather steamy situations, in order to get to it. He pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his waistcoat and used it to wipe the glass of the frame, making the photograph, the memory, a bit clearer.
A family stared back at him from within the frame. A mother, a father, and a young boy with white-blond hair that never would quite stay down, no matter how often his mother fussed over it. A mother and a father who could only be identified as such by the father's cold blue eyes reflected in the boy's own, the slight upwards tilt of the mother's nose, and the knowledge a child generally belongs to the adults he is photographed with. There was no connection between adult and child, however. There was no affectionate hand on his shoulder, no lap offered for him to sit upon. No guarantee of love.
That photograph, Aziraphale remembered, had been taken when he was four years old. It had, in fact, been taken in the very flat that he now called his. He had also called it his back then, he supposed, as much as anything truly belonged to a four-year-old. The photograph had been taken to be a last farewell before they had moved away into the countryside. They had kept the building, of course; it had been in the family for generations and they did not need the money from selling or renting it out.
The family visited the city so very little that Aziraphale had completely forgotten about the shop until the solicitor had called him with the news that his parents had passed and that he had inherited it in their will. It had shocked him, quite frankly, that he had never been officially disinherited, after--
"No, no, that is quite enough of that," Aziraphale told himself, shutting the picture neatly in the drawer of the front desk. "You have plenty to occupy yourself with instead of working yourself into a fuss."
Determined to take control of his shop -- his, now, not their -- Aziraphale rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, cuffing them neatly at his elbows, straightened his bowtie, and got to work. Trashy romance novels weren't going to shelve themselves, now, were they.
~~
By some miracle, the books were all shelved and catalogued by the time Monday morning came around. Aziraphale had flattened all the boxes and placed them in a neat stack by the fireplace in the back room for extra kindling, leaving the floor of the shop clear for customers to mill about as they pleased.
Customers were admittedly few and far between after the initial rush of curious shoppers died down. As expected, the newer books sold better than the older ones, for which Aziraphale was secretly grateful. Where so many of his own memories pained him to think about, the memories contained within the old books intrigued him. He often wanted to disappear within the covers, live in the worlds of old and fiction, and while he could theoretically bear to part with the books he'd left on the shelves, he'd much rather not.
He had immersed himself so fully in one such book that he did not look up at the tinkling of the bell as it was disturbed by the opening of the door. What did cause him to pay attention was the whimpering cry that began shortly after the door closed again. Aziraphale quickly set his book down and looked up, but he found no obvious source of the crying.
"Hello?" He stood up and peered over the edge of his desk. When his gaze fell upon a very small, very young, very distressed little boy, his tone quickly softened. He hurried out from behind the desk and knelt before the little boy, who really could not yet have reached three years of age. He offered the boy a gentle hand, which was immediately accepted and clung to with both of the boy's own. "Are you lost, little one?"
"Lost," the boy repeated, voice thick with tears. His tear-streaked red face was framed by a chin-length bob of dark hair, and he wore a child-leash with a monkey on the front. The end, instead of being attached to the wrist of the boy's caretaker, trailed sadly on the floor.
Before Aziraphale could do or say anything else, however, the door to the shop burst open, the bell drowned out by the loud bang as it hit the doorstop. A man rushed in, red hair falling out of what must have once been a neat bun, and scooped the boy into his arms.
"Warlock, you scared me half to death!" the man panted as he held the boy tightly to his chest. He turned away from Aziraphale for now, clearly needing to calm his own panic before he could deal with anyone else. "You can't just run off like that! Especially not across the road! Are you hurt anywhere? Any owies?"
"No owies," the boy, Warlock, answered tearfully, pressing his face into the man's neck. The man let out a long breath through his nose as he pressed a kiss to Warlock's hair.
The man turned on his heel to face Aziraphale, who was watching the pair with a fondly curious expression. The man shifted Warlock in his arms so he could extend one hand to Aziraphale, who gave it a warm shake. "Thanks for looking after him. He's only just started running, and I thought the leash would stop it, but you can see how well that worked."
"It's quite alright, although I certainly don't condone running across a busy road if one is only knee-high, no matter how much one wants a second-hand book," Aziraphale smiled, giving Warlock a teasing wink. "As it is, and at risk of encouraging future behavior, I believe I have a nice copy of Curious George that I could easily part with if you're interested, Mr…?"
"Crowley," the man answered, one side of his mouth lifting into a crooked smile. "And we'd love that, Mr…?"
"Fell, but you can call me Aziraphale. Let me just find it, and would you like a cup of tea?" Aziraphale offered, his cheeks turning slightly pink at his own forwardness.
"I'm afraid we really have to get going," Crowley answered, regret clear in his voice. "Perhaps you can bring the book to the little café up the road at two tomorrow, and then we can have tea. My treat."
"That sounds lovely," Aziraphale nodded, smiling in that bashful way that brings one's pink cheeks high enough to display the little wrinkles by one's eyes.
"See you then, angel."
It wasn't until Crowley was long gone that Aziraphale regained enough mental capacity to realize two things.
First, Crowley had called him 'angel.'
Second… Perhaps there was something to 'love at first sight' after all.