Chapter Text
October 6, 1940.
London had taken massive hits from the Blitz and the little shopping district of Soho spared little exceptions. Through it all however, citizens learned to live on. Even those who weren’t humans such as Crowley and Aziraphale. Yes they couldn’t technically die from things on Earth, but the paperwork after discorparation was awful so they tried to play it safe. As safe as they could since they both had to do little things so their respective sides wouldn’t get suspicious. Most times both of them would leave the serene little bookshop and go fulfill the little miracles or temptations they had to perform, or one would go and the other would stay back to watch the place. The quiet bookshop around Crowley as he stayed back this particular day made him want to claw his brain out, and the bustle of people outside going on about their day made him feel guilty knowing he should be out inconveniencing people, like having someone’s car engine stopping abruptly. Instead he lay on the old yellow velvety couch seated right next to Aziraphale’s desk. It was worn, having seen at least 100 years worth of use on it. The velvet frayed on the edges and the wood creaked whenever you sat on it, seeming like it would break in two if you leaned a certain way too much.
The embroidered floral pillows Aziraphale had put on it helped make it feel more comfortable, and helped to distract from the probably well expired stuffing in the cushions. He rubbed his hand up and down the back of the couch as he lay down, seeing the velvet change color slightly depending on which way he moved it, remembering how the couch even got there in the first place. It was one of the first things Aziraphale got when he was given the quaint bookshop. Crowley remembered insisting Aziraphale just miracle all the furniture inside, why waste time and energy placing each individual item when you could just wish it there? He was sure Heaven wouldn’t mind, since this was pretty much their headquarters on Earth, but Aziraphale wouldn’t budge.
“I am perfectly able to move furniture around Crowley.” he had said, sounding a bit fed up with him. “If upstairs found out I was doing THAT many pointless miracles they’d be furious.” So he went out to a local furniture shop and bought the basics, having an unlimited budget since Heaven did allow angels on Earth to miracle money. So the couch was bought, and moved, and obsessed over until it satisfied the angels standards. It brought Aziraphale joy, this whole place brought him joy. Doing the extra work made him feel accomplished, made him feel good. So in return, it naturally made Crowley feel good
Crowley snapped back suddenly out of the memory, feeling the velvet his hand was still laid on. He secretly hoped Aziraphale would come back soon so they could chat about the day and so Crowley wouldn’t be as bored. He scanned around the vast bookshop trying to find something to do. Dusting. He always fell back on dusting whenever he had nothing to do and Aziraphale was gone. He tried to make himself useful when he stayed back, especially lately because he had been making the angel do most of his work for him. He didn’t feel bad however, not in the slightest, because he knew once he got enough motivation to go out and tempt again, Aziraphale would make him do double the amount of good things so he wouldn’t feel as bad.
Crowley slowly slithered up from the couch, tilting to one side and stumbling a bit as he got up because the couch cushions practically swallowed him whole. After he regained his balance he sauntered over to the desk placed right next to the couch, looking for a duster. It was a chocolate looking rolltop desk, also purchased at the same time as the couch. It was littered with books Aziraphale was in the middle of reading, and the ones he had finished months ago still sitting right where he had placed them. Crowley admired the organized chaos Aziraphale kept around him. You wouldn’t have a clue where a pen would be but he would know right away. Amid the frenzy of books however, there was something new placed neatly in the center of the desk. The demon picked it up and read the title. It was a record, a 78 to be exact, with only one song on it titled We’ll Meet Again sang by Vera Lynn. The name sounded familiar to Crowley, like he could have easily heard it playing in a shop at some point.
He carefully removed the record from the white sleeve it laid in and scanned it over. It was in pristine condition, not a scratch in site, which was typical for Aziraphale. The vinyl shined in the lamp light as Crowley flicked on one of the Tiffany lamps on either side of the desk. Why not have something to clean to, he thought, brushing off some dust already collecting on the record whilst moving to the player. He flicked it on carelessly and placed the record down in the center. It was a wooden smaller suitcase type player, easy enough to not take up a lot of space but still had a good sound to it. Crowley hadn’t really ever gotten the hang of using a record player, too complicated for him to get and he didn’t feel the need to learn since Aziraphale knew how to. He quickly tried to imagine all the time Aziraphale put a record on for him, trying to recall exactly what he did to make the stupid thing start spinning. There wasn’t much else on the thing so he assumed the white handle looking thing was what he should move. He lifted the huge white handle of the needle with two fingers and hovered it over the record which had begun to spin. He took off his sunglasses which he forgot to take off coming in the door, and flexed his other hand preparing to put the thing down.
As if in an extremely intense surgery room, Crowley slowly set the needle down and began to hear a small crackle come from the player. “There’s no way it’s that easy..” he laughed to himself as the opening notes came through from the song. It was a slow song, not anything he would listen to on his own, but it was enough to keep him entertained while he cleaned. We’ll meet againnnn the voice of the woman singing rang out softly inside the bookshop. Crowley picked the duster he had left on the desk up and began his cleaning routine, going to the places he usually started with. He always started with the little table the record player sat on so he quickly got to work there. The side to side movement of the duster made him slow down, think a lot more, which felt nice not always having something in particular to focus on. Today, like most days, it was Aziraphale. Maybe he could goad him on about how he carelessly left a record unshelved which was very unlike him, and also pridefully tell him he successfully got it to play all by himself.
As the last few specks of gray lint fell onto the duster's brown feathers, Crowley dragged his fingers across the top of the old oak tabletop. His hands came up clean which was a relief, he’d felt himself slacking on his normal jobs around the shop. He lazily moved his gaze over to the shelf above the table which he absolutely hated. Not anything to do with the shelf itself, no not at all, just with the fact it was barely out of his reach. He quickly jolted up on his tip toes and shuffled the duster around in circles hitting little trinkets placed on the shelf. The record was close to stopping now as Crowley continued to dust. He usually put a hand on the table to steady himself and this time was no different. He slammed his left hand down and toppled a bit. A bit more and it’ll be fine, I doubt he checks every shelf in this place, Crowley thought, sighing. He moved a bit closer just so he could see a bit better, hand inching closer and closer to where the player sat. He dusted a bit more and as if it was all at once he lost grip of the duster and it fell onto the still spinning record. Crowley stumbled backward, realizing what the hell just happened.
“Shitshitshitshit”
Word count: 1, 449