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If anyone asked, Aziraphale would say that he and Crowley had handled The Apocalypse Situation rather spiffily: his bookshop had survived; The Antichrist really was a charming boy once one got to know him; and after his minor scuffle with Heavenly Powers and Upper Management, he had much more free time to pursue his own interests.
This was the reason he was in New York out of all Godforsaken Places*.
*Note: there are many. The most notable modern ones include: New York, New York; Seattle, Washington; and Las Vegas, Nevada. How does a place become Godforsaken? First imagine a globe, then imagine the globe spinning and spinning and spinning for a few millennia and you're on the right track. Now imagine an imaginary ‘x’ on every place that God decides to forsake. Angels rightly decide to stop visiting these places and even demons reasonably hesitate to sneak in as often.
Among other things, though New York remains a concrete wasteland of smog, human indecency, crime, and lechery, the real attraction remains in its cultural highlights. Or simply put, ever so often Aziraphale liked to brave the rabble to do some fine dining and putter around in antique shops and bookshops. To find rare first-editions and liberate them from poor storage conditions and less appreciative eyes* was one of his fondest pursuits. He hoped to find a few more Hemingways and Fitzgeralds on this trip.
*Aziraphale has thousands of eyes and all appreciate and attend to his books with equal amounts of affection.
Thus, though many would later describe his arrival to the exterior of Mooney’s Bookstore a minor miracle, it really was more of a minor accident. The shop happened to reside near a well-reviewed restaurant that Aziraphale had elected to attend. Feeling satisfied and satiated after such a scrummy meal, he found himself feeling up to a bit of shopping and so, doubled back to visit the shop he had noticed on his way to lunch.
‘Mooney’s’ was a small shop, with a welcoming entryway and a neat row of books displayed in the show window. A gleamy copy of this month’s bestseller perched on a display shelf. On one of the clean glass windows by the entryway the following was printed in careful script: Antiques, Collectibles, and Special Editions Available Upon Request. Aziraphale beamed.
The door opened with a cheery jingle. Aziraphale stepped inside, his eyes flickered over the titles on book spines. Less then a second passed; he blinked and flashed his gaze to the cashier who was flicking lazily through a vegan cooking magazine. Half a dozen brisk steps and Aziraphale stood in front of him. Aziraphale cleared his throat, and the man glanced up.
“Oh, hey, did not see you there, man.” He flipped the magazine shut and stood up a bit straighter. “Welcome to Mooney’s. What can I help you with today?”
“Ethan, is it?” Aziraphale’s eyes flashed to the nametag pinned to the front of a clean, dark apron.
“Yeah.”
“Excellent. Now, I saw the sign near the entrance, and I am terribly eager to look at what your shop has in the way of antiquities. Would you mind showing me the collection?”
“That, I can’t help you with that.” He scratched the back of his head. “Sorry, no can do. We store those books in the basement, and Joe likes to keep it locked. Customers aren’t allowed down there.
“Do you, perhaps, have a list of the titles. I could reserve today and then come back at a better time.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Sure. Ethan opened one of the desk drawers and started parsing through rolls of receipt paper and stacks of coupons. Rubber bands, sharpies and crumpled post-it notes wound up on the counter besides the register.
Aziraphale clasped his hands together, waiting with all the benevolence that only an angel mostly unconcerned with the passing of time can wait with.
“Huh.” Ethan said. “Actually, I guess we don’t.”
A wave of despair rolled through the storefront like a tempest. Aziraphale blinked, examining the man closely.
“Oh, dear, are you alright? I didn’t mean to bother you.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m fine.” He gestured to the phone on the counter. “Hey, I could call my manager and ask him to stop by for you? It’s his day off, but he lives pretty close. He might be able to stop in and at least get you a list of our inventory.”
Aziraphale nodded. “I would appreciate that immensely, thank you,”
“No problemo. I’m happy to help.”
Ethan picked up the phone and started to dial.
Another wave of despair rocked through the store. This time a chill ran over Aziraphale’s arms. He glanced around. A college student was leafing through a dreadful translation of The Odyssey . Aziraphale cringed. Bad, yes. But worthy of eliciting mortal terror and dread? Hardly. The boy looked enraptured, anyway. Aziraphale shook his head, glanced towards the loft where an older woman was paging through some rather raunchy sonnets. A huge magenta smile pressed onto her face. Again, an unlikely candidate. She flipped the page.
Aziraphales eyes fell once more on Ethan.
“Yeah, he’s here right now.” Ethan rolled the coiled wire between his fingertips. A glance towards Aziraphale. “Seems pretty interested. Ok. Ok. Yeah, alright. Thanks, Joe.”
Aziraphale placed a hand on the edge of the counter.
“Right, you’re in luck. Joe said he’ll be here in fifteen. Apparently, he had some more inventory to do today.” Ethan shrugged.
“Oh, thank you.”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Feel free to browse while you wait.” Ethan picked up his magazine again, flipping back to a recipe for Crème brûlée.
Another pang of panic. Aziraphale shut his eyes, pinched the temple of his glasses and pulled them off with a practiced tug and rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he was having a terrible headache*.
*He wasn’t. Instead, Aziraphale was focusing very intently on the source of the fear. New York, Godforsaken as it was, made pinpointing such a source a laborious task. He had to weave his focus through the apartments next to the bookshop, the sudden loud bursts from an emergency room a block or two down, until finally another sharp gasp of it burst out from beneath his feet. This time a prayer accompanied it. This prayer roughly boiled down to the following: “Dear God, it’s me, Guinevere Beck. My now ex-boyfriend, Joe Goldberg, is a monster and a killer. I think he’ll kill me. Please send help promptly. Please, I’m terrified. God, I was so blind. He’s locked me into a cage.” This, of course, is abridged. The original included expletives and tended to ramble a bit more. Understandably, of course.
Half a second later, Aziraphale opened his eyes once more. “Ethan,” he started, “Ethan, I have to step out for a moment.”
Ethan didn’t look up.“Yeah, alright.”
Cars rushed past on the street. The sun glared down past a haze of smog and clouds.
Aziraphale paced away from the shop and slipped down an alleyway
Crowley,” he hissed towards a brick wall. “I do so hope you’re enjoying the garden competition. Your hyacinths were exceptional as always.” He scratched at a spot of dirt on his linen jacket. “Oh but I told you that this morning, didn’t I? Now you know I hate interrupting you, but if you get a moment, pop over to New York if you would.”
He snuck back out of the alley, peeked out towards the street sign at the end of the road. Then he wandered back down, this time addressing his reflection in an oil-slicked mud puddle. “Right, I’m on 1575 York Avenue in a little bookshop called Mooney’s. I wouldn’t bother you, but I believe something quite serious is happening. I’d appreciate a second opinion. Thank you, dear.”
Then, after glancing around to make certain no one had spotted him speaking so affectionately to a dirty pool of water, Aziraphale briskly made his way out of the alley and back into the shop. The thrumming of dread was just as strong as before.
“You’re back,” Ethan remarked, gripping a bright yellow feather duster in one hand and a handful of dirty rags in his other.
“Yes,” Aziraphale started. “I had…” He trailed off and waved a hand vaguely—after all, how does one explain the notion of instant, celestial communication when one barely understands it themself?—before finishing. “I had something to do.”
“Awesome. Joe just got here a second ago. He should be back with the inventory list in a minute.”
“Thank you.”
Ethan shrugged and turned back to brushing off the tops of some slow selling biographies. Some political figure, Aziraphale decided, remembering errantly the front page of an old tabloid he’d seen approximately seven months ago. He had been in some sort of trouble with a celebrity.
A stab of fear burst through the floor. Aziraphale pretended to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.
The door swung open behind him with a rattle. The brass bell clanged. Aziraphale turned around and beamed. “Crowley.”
Crowley sauntered* up to him.
*Crowley often saunters somewhat like a jaguar, with grace and all the slumbering surefootedness of an apex predator. However, in this case, Crowley sauntered up to Aziraphale like a sexy slinky.
“Aziraphale,” he said, slowly, glancing towards Ethan and the college student slumped over on a chair. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. It’s only—”
The college student was staring at them with glazed, stupefied eyes.
Aziraphale lightly gripped Crowley’s sleeve, steering them towards a more abandoned section of the store. He dropped his voice. “Do you feel it?” He asked.
“Er, feel what?” Crowley said, stumbling over his words.
Aziraphale pointed down at the glossy wood floors. “That: Existential Dread, Mortal Terror, the incredible amount of fear radiating upwards.”
Crowley tilted his head. “Oh, that. Yep. That’s Mortal Terror.”
Aziraphale nodded. “I was right, then.” Then he exhaled sharply. “What a dreadful mess.”
“I’d say.” Crowley plucked a weathered copy of Jane Eyre off the shelf, flicking through it disinterestedly while glancing behind him. “Bad spot of luck.”
“How was I to know?”
Crowley hummed non committedly. “Say, shall we get dinner after?”
“Yes, of course.”
Somewhere towards the back of the store a door creaked open and a set of metal bars rattled as they were shut and consequently locked with an ill-fated snap.
“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale. “That will be him.”
Crowley nodded, cracking his neck with a slight tilt. “Alright. “Shall we pull another South Africa?”
Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled. “That would be terribly fun.” He waved a hand about. “All that fire, and all that juggling though. Might not work here.” He sighed. “We haven’t enough time to start a cult either.”
Crowley shrugged. “You’re probably right.”
“Couldn’t there…” Aziraphale began. “Couldn’t he just have an ‘accident’?”
Crowley’s eyebrow snaked upwards.
“It is an older building. There could be all sorts of problems. Dry rot, electrical fires, loose floorboards, black mold—”
“What about the girl?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose that could pose problems. Then, horrified suddenly, his eyes widened. “Crowley, all of her fear has disappeared. Do you think—could she have died?”
Crowley shook his head. “Nah, it’s still there.”
“Really? I can’t feel anything.”
Crowley nodded. “That makes sense; she’s attempting a Faustian Bargain. Desperation, bartering her soul for the death of her ex-boyfriend.” He waved a hand. “Pretty standard stuff. Lot’s of begging. Taking Kit Marlowe a bit too seriously, I suspect.”
“Oh, the poor dear.”
“Yeah, she’s not doing a great job of it. She’d make a poor lawyer. He rocked his head back and forth. “Great ear for dramatics, though. Really impressive stuff. You're missing out.”
Aziraphale’s eyes glimmered with unconcealed interest. “Could you—”Aziraphale cut himself off, shaking his head. “Oh, nevermind. I suppose it is a bad time.”
And it was a bad time. For reammerged from the basement was the rather nondescript, vaguely attractive* man who carried with him the detailed inventory of the rarer books kept away from the public.
*Much like Ted Bundy he was rather bland but not physically more hideous than any other man you would encounter on the streets. He was in the habit of showering, brushing his hair and putting the occasional bit of product in it. His soul, also like Ted Bundy’s, was frightfully hideous: a tangle of Wrath and Lust and Greed and Prideful Obsession.
Aziraphale stiffened. Besides him Crowley tilted his head, unimpressed.
Joe smiled rather easily for a man with a young woman sobbing in his basement. He stuck his hand out towards Crowley expectantly. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. I hear you’re interested in our rare books. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Crowley stared down at the extended hand, snorted, and shook his head. “Really not interested in bargaining with you, mate.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale continued beside him, reluctantly seizing the offered hand a bit tighter than he might normally. “This is my friend. He’s stepping out.” Aziraphale eyed Crowley rather pointedly. “He needs to make a phone call*.”
*The phone call in question would be to a whole squadron of police officers nearest to the area. If a bit of demonic intervention forced them to intervene in the matter, well, really, it was only for the best.
Joe winced at the grip but nodded genially enough.
“Yeah, alright,” Crowley agreed. “I’ll just go do that then. Take your time, won’t you, angel. The traffic’s awful around here, and I can't change every infernal stoplight the Americans have set up.”
Aziraphale beamed. “Thank you, dear.” Then turned back to Joe. “Now before anything gets too out of hand, I really must see your inventory? Have you any Fitzgerald’s”
Joe nodded, eyes flicking over the list. “You're in luck. This Side of Paradise and The Beautiful and the Damned, both first editions, too.”
Aziraphale clapped his hands together with delight. Then motioned eagerly to the list, “I would rather like to buy those. Might I have a look at the rest?”
…
Approximately twenty minutes later, a group of mildly compelled police officers had surrounded the perimeter of the store.
Crowley had slunk back inside, holding a teetering but neatly stacked pile of first editions that Aziraphale simply could not in good conscience allow to waste away in an evidence locker.
“Are you happy now?”
Aziraphale wrung his hands together. “Yes, only I do hope the poor girl will be alright after all of this. Perhaps, I should give her a blessing just to be safe.”
Crowley shrugged.
The pair moved out to the street with a cheery ring of bell. The door swung behind them fatefully.
The police officers, like ants around a bit of discarded pastry, swarmed inside of the bookstore moments after.
…
A few minutes later, with books stored neatly on his shelves back in London. Aziraphale returned.
Crowley was smirking as Joe Goldberg was shoved rather unceremoniously in the back of the cop car.
“Have I missed much?”
“Not really, a sort of deranged love confession. You wouldn’t have liked it. The girl’s still here if you want to work your magic.”
“Yes, I would. I feel awful for the poor thing.”
The girl in question, Guinevere Beck was shuddering like a half-drowned kitten under a glaring orange shock blanket in the back of an ambulance.
Aziraphale approached her with all the caution that one does for animals prone to bolt. It would hardly do to scare her after the shock she’d had.
She glanced up with wide, tremulous eyes. Aziraphale smiled at her with all the kindness that a holy being can have. Guinevere Beck felt quite faint; the smile was the cause of this sensation.
“Now dear, you have had quite a spot of trouble—”
“You’re not what I expected. You’re almost like my dad.” She blinked rapidly, her voice rose almost to a hysterical pitch. “Oh my god, it worked. Marlowe was right. You are him, aren’t you, you're Mephistopheles*?”
*Beck was quite sensitive to Heavenly and Demonic beings for the moment given that she’d been tampering with celestial matters barely an hour prior. She was rather off the mark, but that’s hardly her fault.
“Aziraphale, actually.” Crowley corrected behind her.
“Are you here to collect my soul?”
“No—” Aziraphale sputtered. “No, not at all. I don’t want that. I’m here to give you a blessing, actually.”
“A blessing?” Her eyebrows raised dramatically high.
“Yes,” Aziraphale smiled benevolently once more. He gripped her hands between his. “Is there anything that you particularly enjoy?”
“I’m a writer.” It was not said with any particular enthusiasm. Rather she seemed to grow quite queasy at the confession.
He patted her hand sympathetically. “He did have a rather twisted appreciation for the art form.” He straightened up once more. “You’ll be a wonderful writer, Guinevere Beck. I’m actually quite excited to get your books in a few years.” Then he proclaimed with every finality that a holy being can(which is quite a lot) the following: her talents would increase exponentially; every story she wrote would be gripping and rather good; publishers would be deeply moved; her need for an editor would lessen by the day; for her, writing would become one of the easiest things in the world.
Beck blinked. “Thanks, I guess.”