Chapter Text
The shopkeepers and traders of Whickber St. had never seen this particular shining black Bentley drive anything even vaguely resembling the speed limit. What they had seen, more than enough of, was this particular shining black Bentley tearing out of its customary parking spot with a gruesome shriek of rubber on asphalt and taking off down the honestly quite narrow road at speeds that should lead directly to at least 4 different collisions. What they were seeing right now was this very particular black Bentley calmly pulling out of its customary parking spot and setting off down the street at a very respectable, some may even say safe, speed.
Mr. Brown knew immediately that this could simply not wait until the next Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeepers Association monthly meeting. So, exactly 20 minutes after he awoke from an incredibly strange dream, and exactly 8 minutes after he flipped his sign from “closed” to “open,” Mr. Brown found himself switching it right back the other way and setting off down the way.
His first stop was Mutt’s magic shop. He knocked on the door which noted the store was currently closed, however, Mr. Brown could see someone puttering around inside. It swung open after a momentary delay.
“Mr. Brown! How lovely to see you this morning.” He began with a smile and a flourish, ushering the other man inside. “I would tell you that my store is definitively closed, but I am quite sure you aren't here to buy accessories and accoutrement for professional illusionists and conjurers.”
“Quite right, Mutt. I have entirely another matter to discuss with you. Now, I am not entirely sure about you, but I, for one, have an entirely fuzzy recollection of the Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeepers Association monthly meeting that allegedly occurred last night. As such, I had intended to propose a follow up meeting in the coming week.
“However, a stroke of, shall I say, rebelliousness, overtook me and I made the decision to do no such thing and simply wait another month to discuss the matter of Christmas lights and garbage collection. And then, the absolute strangest thing happened. You recall Mr. Fell’s friend with the car, yes?” He said the word car with a certain amount of disdain and emphasis in such a way that any trader or shopkeeper of Whickber street would surely understand exactly which motor vehicle he was referring to. Still, he paused for an affirmative from Mutt.
“Yes, of course, that flashing black Bentley.”
“Yes, yes. Now, as I was waiting in line, just out the door of Nina’s wonderful cafe, this very Bentley pulled out right into the street right in front of me with nary a screeching tire and folded seamlessly into traffic, at a safe speed.” Mr. Brown emphasized these last words by laying a hand to his chest as if he were reading out heartfelt poetry.
“Well-” the other man began, but was cut off by Mr. Brown’s everlasting monologue.
“Now, yes, this alone would mean practically nothing to me. But, after the excitement of last nights monthly meeting, I had cause for suspicion, which was aroused even further when I went to check on Mr. Fell’s shop and someone else opened the door. Now, how many times, in your entire memory, has anyone other than Mr. Fell opened the door to that very bookshop? None, exactly. Now, this oddly dressed, chipper young lad informed me, at my questioning, that Mr. Fell was no longer around and that they were to watch over the bookshop.” Mr. Brown finished with a resolute clasp of his hands.
“Well, now.” Mutt hesitated. “This series of events and happenings does leave me with questions.”
“And there we have it. I am calling for an impromptu, unprecedented emergency Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeepers Association meeting. Thursday night, my shop, at 7 PM, will you be there?” The proposal finally laid out in full, Mr. Brown seemed to let out a breath and relax his grasped hands.
“Yes, yes. I will certainly be there, might even bring the ole missus.”
Mr. Brown left the magic shop and slowly made his way up, down, and across Whickber Street. His conversations with his fellow shopkeepers went in much the same way each time. Though much to his neighbors' relief, the monologue shortened each time and he found a nice succinct rhythm to explain the dire need for this meeting. At long last, he had two shops left and as he went into the first, he was delighted to find the second shopkeeper was present as well.
“Ah! Nina, Maggie! You are just the shopkeepers I needed to speak with.” Mr. Brown exclaimed, positively delighted, as he pretended to not see Nina’s exaggerated eye roll.
“Mr. Brown! So lovely to see you in one piece.” Maggie stated, followed by an expression of extreme shock that usually meant you had just told someone something they weren’t supposed to know. “What can we do for you?”
“Well, where to begin.” Mr. Brown stated, in a tone that said he very much knew where to begin. “You’re familiar with Mr. Fell’s friend in the sunglasses, yes? It does seem as though you two have become somewhat closer to Mr. Fell and his friend in the past week.”
“Get on with it, what’s up?” Nina asked, with a smidge more of her usual morning temper. (To be expected really, the woman had been awake for 30 hours and witnessed what surely was an extended group hallucination involving angels and demons and battles).
“Well, you may have noticed, Mr. Fell’s friend-”
“Their name is Crowley, please.” Maggie interjected.
“Ah, yes, of course. Well, you may have noticed, Crowley was driving this morning at a surprisingly calm speed. Now this alone is cause for concern in my eyes, given he driving behavior we have all come to expect from this particular black Bentley. However, my suspicion increased when I ventured to Mr. Fell’s bookshop to ask a series of questions about last night's meeting and some oddly chipper stranger opened the door!” Mr. Brown had quite a bit of worry in his voice for someone who, just yesterday, was quite perturbed at Mr. Fell’s lack of participation in the esteemed Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeepers Association. At this, Maggie and Nina shared a glance that said “We know much more about this than you do and we do not intend to share that information with you, though it would doubtless be of some use to you.”
Out loud, Nina simply said: “Fuck.”
Maggie continued with: “There is quite a good chance that much of this is somewhat… our fault.”
“Well, regardless of blame, which I do feel it is much too early to begin placing, I am calling for an impromptu, unprecedented emergency Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeepers Association meeting. Thursday night, my shop, at 7 PM, make sure to be there.” And with that, Mr. Brown walked out of the shop leaving the two women behind feeling quite guilty.
“Oh dear,” Maggie said, barely above a whisper, “I do feel we may have been wrong about Crowley and Mr. Fell.”
“Well, yeah, probably. I’ve been thinking a lot about everything we saw last night. And it is quite possible we had misunderstood quite how long this ‘not talking’ had been going between them. Don’t go looking at me like I belong in an asylum, but I am fairly certain those were actual angels and demons in Mr. Fell’s shop.” Nina paused. “What I’m saying is that when Crowley said they had been talking for millions of years, he might have actually meant it.”
“Oh dear,” Maggie repeated, “We have to get ourselves involved in someone else’s love life don’t we.”
“Yeah, I do think so.”
–
Muriel looked up from their book when a heavy knock echoed through the bookstore. They were not quite comfortable in the clutter and warmth of this bookshop after an eternity spent in the white sterility of Heaven, but they liked Mr. Fell (and Mr. Crowley, but he was a demon and they supposed they shouldn’t) and wanted to keep his shop nice while he was off with the Metatron. They made their way to the door from their previous position of standing with perfect posture in the center of the room.
“Hello?” They asked tentatively, not being quite used to Earth and human things yet.
“Hello!” Said a very kind voice, belonging to a tall human with blond hair. “My name is Maggie, I am a friend of Mr. Fell’s, I was wondering, is he here?”
“Oh! Maggie,” Muriel stuttered over the name, “I’m afraid Mr. Fell has left. I am the owner of this book shop now!”
“Oh,” Maggie responded, disappointment clear in her voice, if any humans had been listening, “Well, what about his friend, I would quite like to speak to him as well.”
“Well,” Muriel knew this must be Mr. Crowley, “He isn’t inside here either, but I can go find him if you like?”
“Oh, if it isn’t too much trouble.” Maggie said. Muriel closed the door and took a few steps back before tracing through London for demonic energy. They found it! And squeezed their eyes shut only to open them in a narrow alleyway, in front of a very black, very shiny car.
They peered through the windows, but only saw a black and red snake of enormous proportion and a few green plants. They knocked on the window. This must be a human custom: “knocking.” Before their eyes, the snake unwound and slowly became the familiar shape of Mr. Crowley.
Maggie still stood on Mr. Fell’s doorstep, slightly shocked at having a door shut in her face by an incredibly polite, probably immortal being.
–
Crowley’s sunglasses were secure on his face. His throat was raw from crying, his head pounded from drinking, and now his entire body hurt from coiling as tight as possible in serpent form between his plants. He found his solution as he conjured up another bottle of cheap, stinging vodka. Whiskey and wine felt wrong without a soft, glowing presence at his side. Another sob wracked his body. He threw the last of the alcohol down his throat and let the bottle join the other three already in the passenger seat. He felt himself coiling up into a serpentine beast once again. He knew his back would ache and his legs would forget how to be legs, but at least snakes couldn’t cry.
He hissed as he felt the gentle burn of an angelic presence. He remained a snake. He squinted through slitted eyes as Muriel peered through the windows of his car. He gave up when they knocked incredibly politely on the dark windows. He found himself, back in his body, sprawled along the floor of the back seat. He really didn’t want to let this angel into his car, but there was something in their blind naivete that stung with familiarity. And so he found himself sitting silently next to a 37th class scrivener in a bad inspector costume in his Bentley.