Chapter Text
There was a little bookshop, tucked away into a corner of Soho. It was rarely open, and if it was, and if you went in, the shopkeeper would follow you around in what he probably thought was a surrepticious manner, just in case you’d ever get the crazy idea of buying something, like a book.
Folks in town have noticed the shopkeeper changing, recently. While it used to be run by a somewhat stuffy, but kindly, middle aged man, it was now run by what most people would describe as a girl, if ‘sunshine incarnate’ wasn’t the first thing that popped into their minds.
It had been a nice day.
All of Muriel’s days had been nice. They’d been on earth for more than seven of them so far, and even rain hadn’t dampened their spirits.
They’d taken to bookselling like a squirrel to a tree, provided the squirrel was constantly offering bystanders nuts and talking about how nice they were. The books were now actually being read by more than just Aziraphale, as Muriel preferred to try and get as many people to share in their newfound joy of reading.
A.Z. Fell’s bookshop had people coming in from open to close, which was a pleasant 5:27 PM to 3:12 AM. If a reader found themselves in bed with a novel that ended on the most unpleasant cliffhanger, they could simply trot down the street in their pyjamas and request the sequel from the bright-eyed bookseller, as long as they brought back the first copy they borrowed earlier.
The books themselves were rather pleased about this. Muriel was a librarian at heart, and soon began to have a knack for knowing exactly what people needed to read. The only one that they couldn’t get a hang of was Mister Crowley, who sometimes pretended to be surprised to find himself in the bookshop.
‘Hi Mister Crowley!’ Muriel said on one such occasion.
‘Oh. Hello Muriel. Nice jumper.’ Crowley said, more out of habit than out of desire to compliment.
It was a nice jumper, featuring an capybara and a humorous quote. Muriel took the time to bask in the compliment (and the jumper)
‘Can I help you this time, Mister Crowley?’
‘Nah, thanks. I’ll uh..’
‘Of course!’ Muriel said as Crowley trudged off to a secluded corner of the bookshop where the books got a bit more feral.*
*All libraries have one such corner. It’s either filled with bodice rippers or with body rippers.
Some customers came in requesting something or other. On some occasions, Muriel would hand out books to passers-by, who would all receive them in a sort of polite confusion, but would always return another week, hungry for more.
At one pount during Muriel’s reign, Crowley had recommended asking for rent for the books. As an Angel, Muriel didn’t see much point in getting bits of paper or discs of metal, so she started a little noticeboard near the door. If customers ever asked Muriel if they needed to pay anything, they’d direct them to the noticeboard.
Prayers. Asked, and answered. A man with a broken leg found himself with someone to tie his shoelaces every morning. A person with alopecia was matched with a budding wigmaker, and they had just gone on their fourth date. Slowly but surely, the people of Soho started helping each other.*
*Crowley found this both very amusing and very vexing, since Muriel practically radiated incompetence, but was somehow better at manipulating humanity than he and Aziraphale had ever been.
This day, Muriel waved a customer out of the door and went to see Crowley.
Crowley was sitting near the more feral books (body rippers, today) and seemed to be talking to them. He stopped when Muriel approached.
‘Mister Crowley, I’ve got a question.’ Muriel said, in the way a third grader might ask to go to the bathroom.
‘Sure, what is it?’ Crowley asked.
‘Did you put in the suggestion box? Only there’s a suggestion box to Heaven now and I thought it might have been one of your good jokes.’
There was a little bookshop, tucked away into a corner of Soho. It was open at weird times, and when it was, and if you went in, you’d probably be met with a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed shopkeeper, who insisted on you borrowing some book or other.
Folks in town noticed something else, recently. Underneath the noticeboard offering and granting help, there was a box. Wooden, rather unassuming, looking like something a church would have for donations or purchasing a candle. It had a pen and some paper next to it.
In neat script, the box said ‘Suggestions to Heaven’
Many people ignored the box. Some were offended and ignored it based on that. Others simply didn’t care.
Some people, the people who generally also gave a damn about the noticeboard, did care about the box. It stood empty for a while, but eventually, suggestions started to come in.
Please stop letting puberty last as long as it does.
Stop with the mosquitos. The wasps can stay.
NO MORE SKOOL
teleport powers now plsgive extra protection to the tailbone
Many of those people found it rather amusing that every time a suggestion was put in the box, the box would chime a pleasant sound and light up bright white from the inside.
Muriel attempted to tell the people that they’d never had to empty the box (and thus had no idea what their neighbours were suggesting) but that was met by a sweet smile, as if they were a department store worker, desperately trying to tell a mom that Santa was real.
But the box only sort of worked. Puberty still lasted long, and school still went on. But there was a sudden lack of mosquitos the rest of the wet month, as if the mosquitoes had decided that they didn’t want to be in bedrooms anymore.
Things like that go on long enough, eventually people start to believe in suggestion boxes to Heaven, even if it’s just for a laugh.
create a new dog
give socks a sense of humor
Make it so keys don’t get lost at important moments
no more hangover everything is so so loud ever
mute button for people
A bright white light and the suggestions disappeared.
People found out that it was easier to do small requests; small changes. Hitting a small toe became a bit less painful. Scientists started to suggest seven hours of sleep, instead of the usual eight. (i just wanna be less sleepy all the time can’t you speed up the sleep?)
Muriel themself started using the box for some things.
Hello. Can you please make coffee creamer taste better? Thank you.
Hello. Can I please stop burning my mouth on hot food? Thank you.Hello. It’s me again. Could there be a spicier pepper? Thank you.
‘That one won’t work,’ Crowley said, looking over Muriel’s shoulder as they filled in the paper, tip of the tongue sticking out.
‘Why not?’
‘Pepper’s Hell’s business. Don’t see a suggestion box to Hell here, do you?’
‘...Shouldn’t there be one?’ Muriel suggested after a little pause. ‘Seems only fair.’
‘Not my department. Not my Hell anyway.’ Crowley said, in a way that suggested that, if continued, this conversation was soon to be Hellish.
Muriel nodded, but put the suggestion in the box anyway:
Shouldn’t there be a suggestion box for Hell?
They dropped in the paper. The inside of the box lit up in bright white and the paper vanished with a pleasant chime.
Muriel held out the pen to Crowley expectantly.
‘D’you want to do a suggestion?’
Crowley looked at the pen as if it were a mouldy slug.
‘Don’t think Heaven will like that.’
‘Well, you’re not exactly from Hell anymore, are you?’ Muriel said.
‘... I don’t think He will like it.’ Crowley muttered.
‘Seems kind of silly to put it here then.’ Muriel said brightly. ‘He knows you help me run the bookshop!’
‘He what?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Muriel said, as if it made enormous sense. ‘I still report back to him about the bookshop. I told him you told me to never sell any books, so I don’t. And then he blew his nose really hard and told me thanks and to have a nice day. He said it like he was full of water, which was a good trick. I don’t know how he did that.’
Suddenly, Crowley found himself also full of water. Tears that he had been saving for later wanted to come up, and fast.
Instead, he coughed, grateful for his sunglasses.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’
Muriel did a short bob of a curtsy and stepped over to the door, where a customer got harassed into borrowing a Terry Pratchett novel. There was a flowchart involved.
Crowley looked around, to see if no one noticed.
Someone did, but a quick miracle, and suddenly didn’t.
Crowley picked up a piece of paper and the pen.
He wrote something on it.
He folded it up.
He put it into the notice box.
The inside of the notice box lit up bright blue.