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Miles was nought a man of architecture, but as he let his feet carry him across Paris, he marveled at the tall imposing structures. At street level, few shops had wares and advertisements. A large selection of the buildings on this particular street may even be classified as lodging.
He had connections, a life of high-society and parties would cause even the poorest man to have few business partners. Miles would even go as far to say he could get a room in any single place here for a favor and some sweet talking. But yet, Miles was a curious man.
So, when one building sat squeezed between two others, marvelously white, plants by the windowsill, sunken into the ground. Miles was intrigued.
Such a building would fit in many places, none of which were central France. London perhaps? With this knowledge, Miles entered.
-
The place was well-lit, a grand chandelier that seemed far too large for the room displayed shadows in the far corners.
A grand display of bookshelves covered the walls, ornate wood carved by hand.
Books placed on every open surface, save the small round table he took note of near the back of the store.
Miles could not see a single book keeper at the front desk, so he browsed. There was a large selection of poetry, it seemed the book keeper had a particular love for Oscar Wilde’s short stories. Miles himself had read them before, but a lover of poetry must be a friend of his.
When he turned and a man, almost a foot taller then him , was standing there. He was a little surprised, there was no footsteps, no sounds. He wasn’t that ignorant to the world around him. So he simply inquired.
“You walk so quietly.”
His surprise was sadly evident in his voice. One thing high society was useful for was learning to not express emotion in his voice. But perhaps running from the law could break even the most stubborn of men.
“Comes with the job, no man should walk loudly, it would deter customers from the store.”
The other person's voice was not unlike the Scotsmen Miles had met in London, although with the dark red hair, he was no man of high society.
“Is this your bookshop? Certainly would explain the chandelier.”
Miles chided, the old passive-aggressive words probably far too rude for the new acquaintance. He smiled carefully.
“Do I look like I keep books?” The red-haired man smiled at something,
“No, I am a friend of the owner.” As they spoke, they placed emphasis on ‘friend’.
Miles was disappointed, one may simply imply ‘friend’ and mean ‘partner’. Or perhaps they were trying to make him jealous. He crafted a response.
“Friends can be far too much trouble for what they’re worth.” Miles mimicked the emphasis carefully. “There’s a reason I left wealth in London.”
He kept eye contact with the almost-opaque glasses the other man wore. He should at least learn his name before departing, it didn’t seem the red-haired man was going to speak, so he did.
“Now, could I inquire as to your name? It would be ever so nice to put a name to a face.”
Miles laid the thick accent that most high society carried, used to sweeten up deals, maybe It’d loosen the man up. He still stood even so straight, his face calculating.
“Crowley.” The red-haired man said. He had gone from a man of many words to a man of few quickly, one should worry.
Miles offered his hand, and his name to Crowley.
As Miles turned to leave, a blond man, only slightly taller then himself, entered the room from a previously unnoticed staircase. Crowley loosened his stance, leaning against a bookshelf.
“Hello, young man, are you a customer?” The blonde man spoke like many of the rich business owners of London, with a fierce politeness. The way he stood next to Crowley replicated that. Definitely the ‘friend’ who owned the bookshop.
“Sadly I was just about to leave,” He paused for a moment, “But you own the bookshop, yes?”
“Why yes of course! Do you have a question?” The man seemed painfully kind, although his voice was still posh, it seemed genuine. It threw Miles off.
“Yes! You have much of Oscar Wilde’s poetry! Say, do you have any first additions?” Miles was a man of commitment. Even thiught he carried little money, much of it kept in London after his- departure, he could always bargain.
“Ah, the First editions, I may be able to locate them for you? But introductions are in order first! Aziraphale, some call me Mr. Fell.”
Crowley let out a chuckle at that, the blond man turned and elbowed him before offering a hand to Miles.
He accepted it.
“Miles Maitland, Thank you for the offer, but I think I keep looking for myself, it’s like an adventure! but I must take my leave, perhaps to find lodging for the night.”
He left swiftly, as kind as the men were, he had no desire to stay the night in a bookshop.
-
As he walked back to the street, the first thing Miles noticed was the sun. It lit the sky a brilliant orange/pink. If he was interested in painting, he would paint it a hundred times over and never get bored.
The second thing he noticed was a man in the street. Pacing across it, speaking very loudly. Apparently in Paris, people ignored this, as the few people on the street under the beautiful sunset were continuing with their evening.
Miles approached the man, his hair was a much kinder red than Crowley’s. It neared a light brown.
The brunette had his hand knotted in his hair, looking at the road like it shot his mother. Now Miles was closer he could here panicked murmuring from the man- kid he supposed.
“Sir? Are you alright?” Miles was very aware this was dumb, and absently hoped Aziraphle was good at first aid.
“Oh hello! Your pretty! What’s your name? I bet it’s something all fancy-like! Real fancy bloke you are. I’m Campbell, probably, the same people who call me that called me depressed! That's their problem, not mine! Wearing all suits ‘n coats!”
Miles deserved credit for only being slightly overwhelmed when the man- Campbell - spoke. He sounded like someone dragged him out from Glasgow yesterday. Not even mentioning the outfit!
He was wearing a purple short-sleeved shirt, no shoes, and black slacks. In minus 5 degree weather!
Campbell was still talking as Miles took off his jacket and placed it on the taller man, of course, he was built like a particularly tall twig, and it swamped him. He stopped talking and put the jacket on in a strangely solemn way.
Then there was a kid crying on his shoulder. At this rather sudden development, Miles wrapped his hands around the kid. He wondered if Aziraphale would mind an extra person in his shop for a while.
-
Miles walks into the store with all the certainty of a baby deer, Campbell having calmed slightly and being, to put it one way, dragged into the store. Aziraphale is sitting at the front desk, studying a book with far to many words.
“Miles! Back so soon?” He cheerfully states, taking his ridiculously small glasses off , “Who is that you have with you?”
Miles briefly wonders what about Campbell makes it seem like someone else needs to introduce him, before noting that he was leaning against Miles, hiding his face once again.
“Campbell,” Miles chose his words carefully, “I met him five minutes ago, he has grown quite attached.”
Aziraphale seemed to stifle a laugh at that, “We have an extra bedroom upstairs, if you can wake him up enough to get up there.” He tilted his head like Campbell was a particularly adorable puppy, and whilst the man was asleep, that was likely accurate.
Nodding, Miles nudged him a little, and he shot right back upright, but did not continue his speaking as he had before entering the building, but now was not the time to discuss the health of a stranger.
They walked up the stairs, although Miles had to ask Aziraphale what door it was several times. Making it into the room, Campbell took the bed with little complaint. The older one took the time to look around the room.
It was quaint, but more than Miles would expect for such an odd little place. The bed was small and had white sheets, but a light pink comforter. Neither Aziraphale or Crowley seemed fond of pink, leaving Miles to wonder what had caused the color.
The nightstand was nothing special, the chair stood next to it was black and seemed as if it would sit better downstairs, between the rows of dark bookshelves. A small chest of drawers shared the wall with the door, Miles noted as he sat in the chair.
After but a few moments, Miles had joined Campbell in the realm of sleep.
–
Awaking to the smell of eggs was a new change in Miles’ mind, but definitely not an unpleasant one.
He opened his eyes and was swifty reminded as to why folks didn’t elect to spend their nights napping on chairs. He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably.
Campbell remained asleep on the bed. Snoring lightly, the young man seemed as if he needed sleep. So Miles straightened his suit, lightly wondering if he could borrow any clothes, but not wishing to push his luck.
Ordinarily, Miles would try to find every small thing that annoyed his business partners in their first interaction. Then work every part of it into an overly-polite conversation in the second conversation. Making Miles seem more annoying to many lesser men, and a threat to those important in the upper-class world.
But with the unusual circumstances placed upon him, there was no use trying to figure out the two kind men who’d provided two strangers lodging. There was scarce few men like that now. Best to keep them close, in a business standpoint atleast.
Apparently he had been stood staring at the door for too long. As Campbells soft breathing had changed into the exited, almost manic, muttering. Miles was not an educated man, but if anyone could make that out, he’d eat his scarf.
“I can smell eggs! Can you smell eggs? Sometimes my Ma would cook eggs on the days after I felt all sad! Too bad she kicked the bucket years back-” Campbell said that clearly at least, although the kid seemed incapable of thinking silently, it was- some would say- charming.
“Lets find Aziraphale, He might have breakfast.” Miles spoke quickly, if only to fit in his sentence before Campbell had something else to talk about. With all the things he was talking about, he would probably learn more during breakfast then his years as a student.
He offered Campbell his hand before they started out the door. It seemed almost subconscious as to stop him from pacing and probably managing to hurt himself with all his erratic movements.
-
Opening the next door he saw, it opened to a rather domestic scene, a small kitchen connecting to a slightly larger living area, complete with a loveseat and two armchairs, but on the kitchen table sat four plates of scrambled eggs and what seemed to be several slices of salted and fried pork.
To say Miles had underestimated the money from bookkeeping was also an underestimation.
Crowley had also re-appeared from the night before, wearing a dark suit of a slightly different shade, with a bright yellow tie and socks, neither complimenting his red hair. He sat on the armchair closest to the kitchen, the couch being placed across from it. A coffee table separated the two.
Aziraphale interrupted his stupor.
“Ah! Good morning! Would either of you enjoy some tea?” He spoke so kindly, Miles was thrown back, But he managed a nod, Campbell also managed to use a human gesture, but with far more enthusiam.
Campbell was quieter, but from what Miles could make out, Crowley was going to have a conversation about colors at some point.
Miles sat on the loveseat, smiling genuinely when handed the plate of food and tea, for the first time in far too long. He felt almost sad, and the sheer amount of happiness that seemed to fill this simple bookstore made him sure that tears were going to fall.
He let them. Campbell had apparently turned to Aziraphale instead of Crowley to discuss colors with. Who knows, maybe he’d said his tie matched his hair, something ridiculous like that. He laughed wetly. Placing his food on the side table, he wiped his eyes with his scarf.
Crowley appeared to notice this change in Miles’ mood fast then the rest of them. He’d’ve thought the man who had made a grand total of two facial expressions in the time they’d seen each other would be less well-versed in emotions. But alas.
“You alright, kid?” Crowley spoke carefully, he knew the answer, that was certain enough.
“Its- fine.” Being good at words was necessary. Being good at emotions was not.
“Do you- want a hug?” Even Crowley seemed confused by the words leaving his mouth.
Miles did not glorify his words with a response, but did hug the man. Despite being practically skin and bone, the hug was surprisingly warm, like a warm fire. Campbell, noticing the hug, stopped speaking and joined the hug.
Miles felt infinitely better once he’d sat back on the couch. Looking back across the room, he caught the tail end of a sad smile on Aziraphale’s face. But Miles had nothing that should be said in a room with others to say, so he complimented his cooking and tea, and that was that.