Chapter Text
November, 2022
The bookshop was busy. There were more customers than Aziraphale felt in any way comfortable with. At least they mostly seemed satisfied with the offerings of mass-produced paperbacks he kept on display in the main area. Those he could sell. That’s what they were for. Crowley’s idea had been brilliant, although he would be loath to let him know that.
“Order in shipments like a regular bookstore.”
“But this is not a regular bookstore!”
“Yes, but they don’t know that! Look, it’s been driving me spare seeing how agitated you get every time a customer wants to buy one of your precious books. Just, get the mass produced stuff and use it as a cover. That way, people who come into a bookshop, expecting to be able to buy a book, can. Give the people what they want.”
“I’ll… think about it.”
And it worked. For the most part. The downside was that now Aziraphale actually had to process transactions, instead of shooing customers away. He’d needed to order paper shopping bags for customers to put their purchases in. He’d added a chip and PIN machine next to his original pre-decimal cash register—although he kept it in the drawer so as not to advertise that it was available. It was all distressing in a whole new way that made the angel want to pack up the paperbacks and set things back the way they were before.
Aziraphale looked haughtily around the shop and the realisation dawned on him. Customers wore sweaters with reindeers and garish pom poms. The smell of peppermint flavoured hot chocolate wafting from one customer’s keep-cup. The bell above the door jingled as someone entered the bookshop and Aziraphale could hear the jolly sounds of carols playing from across the street.
“Good Lord,” he muttered, “Christmas time.” How had it crept up so quickly? This whole year had been a readjustment to normal life after those blasted lockdowns. And all of a sudden, the humans were getting into the spirit of the season before the season had even started. Indeed, for the past two Christmases, he had been able to close the bookshop and not feel guilty in the slightest. Christmas crowds had never been his forte. Crowds in general, if he were honest. Perhaps he could get away with doing it again this year. It was only November, and if today’s horde was anything to go by, the next few weeks would be insufferable.
His thoughts were rather rudely interrupted by the gentleman who entered the shop, hitting the bell above the door.
“Good day to you, Mr Fell!” Mr Brown said cheerfully, “And Seasons Greetings.”
“Ah, yes, Seasons Greetings,” Aziraphale smiled thinly, “Seems to start earlier and earlier each year.”
“That it does. Such a wonderful time. It looks as if things are in full swing, here!”
“Looks can be deceiving,” he murmured.
“Although that is not the only reason for my visit this fine afternoon.” Mr Brown continued as if he hadn’t heard the response, “For this month, the honour of hosting the Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeepers Monthly Meeting has fallen to me, and to Brown’s World of Carpets. And I was just checking that you would be able to join us?” He arched his eyebrows expectantly.
“Is it already time for another meeting?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up in response, “My goodness, you do seem to have a lot of those.”
“There’s important matters to discuss.” Mr Brown insisted, “And as a long term resident of Whickber Street, following in your father’s footsteps I might add, it must behoove you to take part in our proceedings?”
“When is it?” Aziraphale asked, somewhat pained.
“Why, next Tuesday, November 15, at half six after closing time.”
“Oh, I may need to stay open late that night.” Aziraphale feigned disappointment, “Business has been booming recently. Must give the people what they want.” He held his hands out helplessly.
“But you close every Tuesday.” Mr Brown frowned, “I’ve seen it for myself, and it’s written into your opening hours.” He pointed to the rather wordy handwritten note in the bookshop window. Crowley had helped him write the bookshop opening hours. They’d shared several bottles of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild and spent the good part of an evening giggling over the obfuscation in 1811.
Aziraphale thought desperately, “I— ah— well, it’s Christmas hours, you see. I’ll have to update the note.”
“Couldn’t your business partner keep shop so you can attend?” Mr Brown tried again.
“My— who?” Aziraphale frowned.
“That other chap who’s always around. With the sunglasses.”
“Oh! Well, I hadn’t thought of that…” Aziraphale admitted.
“Well, that’s sorted then!” Mr Brown’s cheer was back in full force, “We’ll see you then!”
“Wait.. no, I couldn’t—” Aziraphale blustered with a helpless look on his face, but Mr Brown was already heading towards the door.
“And bring a plate!” Mr Brown tipped his head as he stepped back out into the frigged November chill.
“Bother.” Aziraphale groaned and decided to turn his temper on the hapless customers, urging them to finish up and get out of his bookshop so he could close up for the day. And maybe for a good while longer.
“But you don’t even open the shop on Tuesday’s.” Crowley hissed.
“It was all I could think of,” Aziraphale admitted as he refilled their glasses, “Those meetings are utterly dreary. They remind me of a bureaucracy I thought I’d left behind.”
Crowley made a knowing look and pointed upwards, “At least your lot were somewhat organised.”
“To the point of tedium.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes somewhat over dramatically and slouched back into his chair. He rubbed his free hand across his eyes. “You know, I don’t know if they modelled it on humans or the other way around. Meeting agendas. Minutes. Going over the minutes of the last meeting. Sharing out the minutes of the current meeting. The scriveners must’ve been desperate to get out of the office.”
The angel looked across at Crowley, who was comfortably sprawled across the armchair opposite his own. His sunglasses were off, resting on the horse statue behind them like that was their home when not on his face. Crowley only recently started doing that, Aziraphale had realised, and he now made sure that the horse statue was free from clutter so it would always be available. They spent most evenings here in the bookshop, unless they went out. Crowley was often here in the day too, apart from his occasional outings to the park.
“And you want me to ‘watch the shop’ while you go off to a meeting you don’t even want to attend?” Crowley asked. “Even though it’s on a day you don’t normally open. And I’ve never sold a book in my entire existence?”
“Oh, would you?” Aziraphale sat up and leaned towards Crowley hopefully, “That way I wouldn’t be outright lying to Mr Brown…”
“Nnnnnggr, I’m confused.” Crowley frowned. “You don’t want to go. So just… don’t.” He sipped his wine.
“He trapped me into agreeing! I didn’t know what to say.” Aziraphale took a long sip of wine and placed the now empty glass on the table.
“What could a purveyor of carpets say to a six-thousand-year-old-being that would leave him fumbling for words?” Crowley pressed.
Aziraphale twisted his hands together helplessly, “Would you please just help me?” he pleaded, “It will only be for an hour or so, I’m sure no customers will even come by. You could say the register is broken so you don’t have to sell anything.”
Crowley smirked, “So I’ll just sit here in your bookshop, alone, and tell customers that, ‘Oh, hey, yeah we’re open but the register’s broke so can’t sell anything. Oops!’”
“Yes!” Aziraphale nodded, relieved that he and Crowley were on the same page.
“Sounds woefully boring, angel.” Crowley stared intently at his wine before leaving back and staring intensely at the ceiling. “Can I just impress on you how much I do not want to do this?”
“My dear boy, a mere hour of your time is all I ask—”
“Argh, fine.” he grumbled.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Aziraphale was pacing. He couldn’t help it. He opened his pocket watch and grimaced at the time. 6:23pm and Crowley was nowhere in sight. It was raining. Heavily. The bookshop had had a quiet day, the rain kept most people away. But the stubborn few customers who did come inside mostly seemed to want to find a dry place to stop for a bit. Aziraphale had felt too ill at ease to suffer dealing with customers so he blessedly suggested to each one that the coffee shop over the road—or the pub, depending on what their mood leaned towards—would be a better place to wait out the rain.
After an interminable wait, Aziraphale heard the familiar roar of the Bentley’s engine and sighed with relief. A few moments later the skulking figure of Crowley could be seen rushing into the bookshop, his jacket over his head to protect him from the downpour.
“Sorry, angel, there was actual flooding.” He stomped a few times at the door and when that didn’t work, he snapped his fingers and miracled himself dry.
“Anything serious?” Aziraphale asked, somewhat concerned.
“Nah, I knew it wouldn’t look good if the waters parted way for the Bentley, so I went around the long way.”
Crowley looked around the empty shop, “Are you sure you don’t want to just turn the sign to closed, angel?” he pointed at the rain behind him with his thumb, “No one’s coming out in this.”
Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat and pointedly ignored the suggestion, “I’d best get a wiggle on, I wouldn’t want to be tardy.”
“If you’re sure then, angel.” Crowley sauntered past and collapsed into his regular armchair. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses. Perhaps because the shop was still, technically, open. “See you after your meeting.”
“Hrmpf.” Aziraphale pulled on his heavy outer coat and grabbed his tartan umbrella from the stand by the door. He placed a hand on the door and turned back to Crowley, “Don’t… Please don’t sell any books.”
“Wouldn’t have the first clue about it,” Crowley said, picking up a nearby paperback and flicking through it, “Might actually read this one.”
Aziraphale smiled and pushed the door open, heading out into the evening rain. As soon as the door closed behind him, he regretted his decision to leave the bookshop. The downpour hit in full force despite the umbrella. The wind was enough to send icy water hurling at him from all directions. None of the other shopkeepers would be so foolish to head out in this weather, surely? He thought to himself. He squared his shoulders and headed off towards Brown’s World of Carpets, across the road about halfway down the street.
He pulled the door open and stepped inside, noting the dripping coats hanging from the hooks and the overfilled bucket containing several sodden umbrellas. It seemed it wouldn't just be the overly cheerful Mr Brown who he would have to deal with tonight.
"Mr Fell, welcome! Come inside, just hang your coat on the hooks." Mr Brown’s smile faltered slightly as stared at Aziraphale. Tonight the carpet retailer had donned a rather flashy wine-red suit and finished the look off with a tartan cravat. He almost looked suave. "You did remember to bring a plate, didn't you, Mr Fell?"
"Ah—" he had forgotten that bit of the instructions, his gaze landed on the sorry looking trestle table laden with a random assortment of plates and bowls. "Well, I'm afraid I didn't cook, just put a little something together from the local grocer." He pulled a miraculously dry paper shopping bag from behind his coat, stepped over to the trestle table, and proceeded to pull out a range of gourmet French cheeses, Italian cured meats and dried fruit. "A small charcuterie, if you will."
"Marvellous, Mr Fell." Mr Brown beamed, "You never cease to surprise." He stepped over to the table and picked up a bottle of wine that had 'I Heart Pinot Grigio' on the label and proceeded to pour the pale substance into a plastic cup and offered it to Aziraphale.
"There we are," Mr Brown said as the stunned angel took the cup cautiously, "Something to take the edge off a long day at the helm of commerce."
"Indeed." Was all Aziraphale could muster as he stared at the flimsy plastic cup now in his hand. Perhaps he could just put it down on the table for someone else to take. Or maybe enhance the wine with a very minor miracle. But no, there was Mr Brown, staring at Aziraphale and waiting for him to take a sip.
Cautiously, he raised the plastic cup to his lips and took a small sip. That, it seemed, was enough for Mr Brown, who turned back to the gathering of shopkeepers. He prepared himself to wince at the taste of actual sour grapes, but was almost pleasantly surprised by the flavour. It wasn't fantastic , but it wasn't 'house brown brewed in a dirty clay pot and buried in the ground' either. Five thousand years of drinking certainly gave one a breadth of experience as well as, hopefully, somewhat refined tastes. But wine production had certainly improved over the millennia. And a five pound bottle of wine from the local supermarket did not, it seemed, immediately fall to the very bottom of the list. Even with the ridiculous label.
Aziraphale took in the scene before him. Mrs Sandwich stood with Mutt from Goldstone’s Magic Shop and Morgan from the Dirty Donkey, making polite small talk. Mrs Cheng was seated on one of Mr Brown’s fold out chairs next to Justine, it was interesting to see the two restaurant owners in polite conversation together. Nina was sitting alone with her gaze firmly fixed on her mobile phone, her thumbs were moving fast on the screen and Aziraphale thought she looked rather frustrated with the results. There were a few more attendees he recognised, Mr Frampton from the fabric shop, Ms Wintergarden from Intimate Books, and there was Maggie, from The Small Back Room. She noticed Aziraphale at the same moment he saw her and a bright smile stretched across her face when their eyes met.
"Mr Fell! We don't usually see you here." Maggie tapped the empty seat next to her and Aziraphale gladly took it.
"Hello, my dear," he smiled warmly at her, "You are looking well."
"I see you've gone straight for the wine!" she grinned.
"Mr Brown was rather insistent." Aziraphale took another somewhat reluctant sip, "Plastic cups? It's… rather unconventional.”
"Oh, you should have seen the meeting from… April, I think it was?” Maggie gripped Aziraphale’s forearm, “Nina, over there, got in such an argument with Mrs Sandwich over the bin men racket at 5:30 in the morning. There was broken glass and upturned tables. It was quite a sight. Marguerite's was in a sorry state, but we all stayed back to help tidy up afterwards. Mr Brown probably thought plastic cups were safer."
"Have these meetings ended in bloodshed often?" Aziraphale asked. He had not attended one since before… well, before the Armageddon that wasn't. He had been able to avoid the Zoom meetings, citing technical difficulties. And had carefully avoided sightings of Mr Brown for the very reason he was trapped here this evening.
"Not every meeting…" Maggie paused in thought, "at least in the Zoom ones you could put them on mute!"
Aziraphale smiled because that seemed like a joke he should understand and Maggie giggled happily.
"Well, perhaps today will be different."
"Oh, I think we're in for an exciting one today. The Christmas lights are on the agenda." Maggie whispered conspiratorially.
Aziraphale groaned. Even he was not immune to the ramifications of the phrase, 'Christmas lights'. Overly bright and gaudy displays, the cause of complaints, arguments and everything that philosophically should not be on people's minds during the festive season. The vitriol and discontent had been so permeating last year that he had decided to close up shop and insisted on taking Crowley to the island of Crete under the guise that the weather was warmer, and anyway they were encouraged to get back into travelling now to help the economy.
"Good evening, all," Mr Brown called out, "Let’s make a start on tonight's proceedings."
He paused to allow the last few attendees to take a seat
"I trust you all got the agenda?" There were murmurs of assent, "Ah, Mr Fell, I don't seem to have your email address, so I've printed you a copy." He passed a crisp, white piece of paper to Aziraphale.
"How kind," he murmured, glancing at the typeface, "And I don't have an email address."
"You're joking," Maggie leaned over and whispered, "Everyone has an email address!"
"I haven't had the need for one, whatever it is." He did , in fact, know what an email address was. But his facade as a complete troglodyte had served him so well that he fell into the habit of being confused around anything particularly technological without even thinking about it.
"Shall we start with the notes from our October meeting?" Mr Brown continued, "Justine, if you'd be so kind…"
Justine smiled and stood up from her seat, reading from her phone, "Notes from last meeting: the proposal to council to stop ride share e-bikes from being left along the street was rejected. I know we submitted that request during our January Zoom Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeepers Meeting, but they only just got back to us. Apparently Soho is one of the only councils where the ride sharing bikes are at least stacked neatly together on the footpath, and not thrown in the Thames or wrapped around lamp posts."
"But that's bloody ridiculous!" Nina called out, "Those bikes clutter up already narrow streets! It's a hazard, plain and simple!"
"Don't you ride a bike, Nina?" Mutt asked.
"Of course I do! No bleeding parking around here, and it's better for the environment. But I stow it properly!"
"Seems like one rule for you, another for the rest of us!" Mr Frampton piped up.
"And what would you know?" Ms Wintergarden interjected, "You live above your shop, you don't even need to commute."
The arguing continued. Mr Brown valiantly tried to call for order but was largely ignored. Maggie and Aziraphale shared a knowing look and sat back to watch the chaos. Mrs Cheng and Morgan retreated to the trestle table to fill paper plates with food. The others were talking over each other, yelling and getting more agitated with each passing moment.
"Maybe we should try and stop them…" Maggie suggested.
"My dear, I wouldn't know what to say. They all seem so… passionate."
"And it's only the first item on the agenda!" Maggie looked like she was enjoying this, in a somewhat guilty way.
Aziraphale glanced down at the printed agenda in his hands:
- Ride sharing bikes
- Street maintenance; local signage theft and damage
- Graffiti removal (Nina - GMCOGMD)
New Business:
- Holiday hours
- Christmas lights
"This could go on all night." Aziraphale groaned as the realisation hit. He'd told Crowley that it would be no more than an hour. He checked his pocket watch and grimaced at the time, 7:09pm.
"Last month's meeting didn't get out to half nine."
"You are positively enjoying this!" Aziraphale hissed.
"It's better than MAFS," Maggie said, "It's like… our own little personal spectacle."
Aziraphale didn't know what that was, and he was in no mood for these spectacles. It was getting late, and he knew Crowley would get anxious if left alone in the bookshop—while technically open for business—and then there was the gnawing fear that a book might be sold.
"I should really be going…" He started to say but was cut off by Mr Brown.
"Mr Fell! What do you think? You're one of the longest serving shopkeepers on the street. Perhaps you could share your thoughts with us?"
Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably as Mr Brown’s gaze focused on him. "On what, exactly?" He asked politely, noting that the arguing had stopped and nearly all eyes were on him—apart from Mrs Cheng and Morgan who seemed perfectly content munching away at his miracled charcuterie board.
"Why, the e-bikes of course!"
Aziraphale glanced back down at the agenda in his hands, he sighed, "As long as they're stowed securely, I don't see why we should be worried about them." He refrained from adding that he was the main reason the bikes were always neatly stacked along Whickber Street. Just the other week he’d observed pedestrians struggling to walk the narrow street as the bikes laid out an unusual and unwanted obstacle course. The merest hint of a miracle had been enough to encourage the riders to park the bikes neatly. It was for the good of the street, after all.
That seemed to deflate the situation somewhat. At least, no one complained when Justine read out the next item on the agenda. The street maintenance issue was from Mutt, someone had stolen the sandwich board he used to advertise his shop. Maggie mentioned that she’d seen it down the alleyway that led out to Chinatown and figured the wind must have blown it away. They moved on to the next item; graffiti.
“I have received an anonymous note ,” Mr Brown emphasised, “That there was concern around ‘Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death’ being a target for graffiti.” Eyes turned to Nina.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” she huffed.
“Could it be because of what is inside the shop?” Mr Frampton suggested.
“I paid a local artist to create those designs,” Nina said defensively, “Have you actually had a proper look at them? The artist put a huge amount of effort into it!” She shifted her arms and folded them across her chest, “Honestly, it feels like my shop is one of the only ones that take the Soho aesthetic seriously!”
Mrs Sandwich called out, “This anonymous complaint, did it mention any actual graffiti?”
Mr Brown shook his head, “Just concerns over—and I’m quoting here—’the overall feel of the street and the potential to attract unwanted attention’.”
“And it was anonymous? A note slipped secretively under your door?” Mrs Sandwich narrowed her eyes.
Mr Brown shifted uncomfortably, “Something… like that.”
“I personally enjoy the aesthetic,” Mrs Sandwich said, “It matches the owner and the coffee, and that’s what is important. To me and my girls.”
Others murmured their agreement, apart from Mr Frampton who was glaring at Nina, and the meeting moved on. Aziraphale glanced at his pocket watch again, 7:21pm. He was going to be late home.
Mr Brown smiled, “And that brings us to New Business. Top of the agenda; holiday business hours. I’ve checked with the local authority and all businesses can be permitted extended trading hours from 1st December to accommodate the increase in demand.”
“What if we don’t want to stay open longer?” Mr Frampton called out.
Mr Brown shrugged, “You don’t have to, I merely put in an inquiry on all of our behalf, so the option is there should you choose to accept it. Now, that brings us to the Whickber Street Christmas Lights.” he had to pause as several people started talking at once, “Now, now, it would be good if everyone could get involved this year.” The conversion stopped and there were decidedly pointed looks at Aziraphale.
He raised an eyebrow, “Did I miss a memo?” he asked.
“It’s become something of a tradition!” Mr Brown said, “These past few years, we have been decorating our premises bright and gay for the festive season. Your bookshop was decidedly… unfestive, last year.”
“I wouldn’t really know,” Aziraphale said, his hands brushing non-existent creases, “I went away.”
“Your shop is the largest on the street,” Nina said, “And you’re right; no decorations, and it was closed. Y’know, that reflects badly on the street? Other shops are impacted when businesses close. I hope whatever it was that caused you to shut up shop at the busiest time of year was worth it.”
When Aziraphale did not respond, Mr Brown stepped in, “I’m sure there would be offers of help available, Mr Fell, if it’s too much effort…”
“I am perfectly capable—” he started but was interrupted by Nina.
“It’s not just Mr Fell though,” she said, “The Christmas lights last year were garish. The nativity scene at the pub was…”
“Baby Yoda makes a great baby Jesus!” Morgan called out. This got a few titters of laughter from the group, “And anyway, our nativity was positively tame compared to Intimate Book’s offering…”
Ms Wintergarden let out a sharp laugh, “We spent ages making our display!”
“My girls took inspiration from it,” Mrs Sandwich said, “So many unique uses for a Santa hat!” There was a murmur of laughter from the group.
“Can’t it be just a bit cohesive?” Nina asked, “If we picked a theme or something?”
“We’ve already started on our display!” Morgan said, “You’d put all our work aside so we all match?”
“I don't have time to spend hours out in the cold hanging festoons and LED snowflakes!” Mr Frampton added in. Nina glared at him.
“Well what's the bloody point then? It's one time of the year when we can spread a bit of cheer and you won't even consider a consistent theme across the street.”
“It's nice that everyone can express themselves,” Aziraphale said. “And even though ‘Intimate Books’ display was a bit... unorthodox, it was... tastefully done.” Ms Wintergarden winked at Aziraphale and he blushed lightly.
“I quite liked it!” Maggie added.
“What about a bit of friendly competition?” Mutt suggested, “We could ask our loyal customers to vote for their favourite displays.”
“What does the winner get?” Nina asked.
“My girls will be simply impossible to wrangle if they get wind that there's a prize for best dressed business.” Mrs Sandwich said, “They’ll turn all their focus and energy into it.”
“Do we need a prize?” Justine asked, “It’s just a bit of fun, really…”
“Of course there should be a prize!” Morgan said, “And the Dirty Donkey will win it!”
“Pfft,” Nina said, “Only if you think the voters enjoy seeing… zombie Jesus, or a dinosaur eating Mary.”
Morgan smiled, “You’re giving me ideas.” Nina rolled her eyes.
It seemed the meeting might miraculously not go too far overtime—and Aziraphale hadn’t even had anything to do with it.
Mr Brown said, “Well, prize to be determined, the Whickber Street Christmas Light Competition is agreed on. We can start accepting votes the week before Christmas I think, and displays should go up as soon as possible.”
“Not before 1st December.” Nina insisted, “It’s tradition.”
“My nativity is going up tomorrow.” Morgan said, “Just to spite you.”
There was a beat and then people started getting up, realising that the meeting was over. Mr Brown called out his thanks to Justine for helping with the agenda and then made a beeline for Aziraphale, who was about to walk back to his shop with Maggie.
“Mr Fell,” Mr Brown called out, “Might I have a quick word?”
Aziraphale started to make an excuse but Maggie was quicker, “It’s alright Mr Fell, I’ve got to be heading off, you chat with Mr Brown.” she waved at them before heading off to collect her coat and umbrella. At least it looked like the rain was starting to ease outside.
“What can I do for you, Mr Brown?” Aziraphale said, his voice somewhat pained, like he was waiting for something unpleasant.
“I was worried that you might feel a bit… singled out.” Mr Brown frowned, “I certainly didn’t want to imply that your shop had to be decorated…”
“No worries at all, my dear boy” Aziraphale let a warm smile creep across his face, “I did not feel singled out in the slightest.”
“Only… I’d be very happy to lend a hand with… decorating.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened at the offer. No. Absolutely not. Not happening. “Oh, that’s very kind, but I wouldn’t want to be any trouble—”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all! It would be my absolute pleasure to help out a fellow retailer during this festive season!” Mr Brown positively beamed.
“But you have your own premises to attend to,” Aziraphale desperately tried to think of an excuse, “And the extended holiday trading hours. You’ll be far too busy—”
“Never too busy to help a friend. I feel like I must insist, Mr Fell.” A friend. That stumped the angel. Generally, humans were not his friends, but Mr Brown had said it anyway. The carpet seller seemed to take Aziraphale’s moment of silence as consent. “I’ll come by in the next few days, we can plan something moderately spectacular together!”
Damn and blast it all to buggery. “I should be heading off,” Aziraphale said non-committedly, “My, uh… associate will be waiting for me.” He made his way over to his coat, everyone else had already headed out and his coat was the last one on the hooks.
“Be seeing you soon then, Mr Fell!” Mr Brown said cheerily, fetching Aziraphale’s umbrella from the bucket and handing it to him.
“I’m sure you will,” Aziraphale nodded curtly and made his way out into the now light drizzle for the short walk back to his bookshop. Where Crowley would, undoubtedly, be fretting his absence.
“Sorry I’m late, the blasted meeting took longer than expected.” Aziraphale locked the door behind him, hung up his coat, stashed the umbrella and finally miracled the damp out of his clothes. He peered around at the familiar space and smiled when he saw Crowley sat in the same chair as when he’d left, the paperback open on his chest and soft sleep sounds coming from the demon. His sunglasses had been knocked askew at some point and his face was calm and still. “Crowley, it’s only eight o’clock, it’s a bit early for you to be nodding off, isn't it?”
Crowley stirred and opened one golden eye, “M’st’ve nodded off…”
“The book was that riveting, was it?” Aziraphale nodded at the paperback. The book in question, The Bell Jar, is open about halfway through, laying across Crowley’s chest. If it had been a customer treating a book that way, Aziraphale would have been incensed. If it had been anyone else, they would have been tossed out of the store with a firm verbal shakedown about the woes of breaking the spines of paperbacks. But it was Crowley, and Aziraphale didn’t mention it.
“S’not half bad.” Crowley said, taking his sunglasses off and leaning forward to deposit them on the horse statue. He closed the book and set it down on his lap.
“Keep it, if you’d like to finish it off.” Aziraphale said as he walked over to the bar, “Fancy a nightcap?”
“Have I ever refused?”
“Probably… at some point. Whiskey? I’ve got a new bottle of Talisker in.” It wasn’t really Aziraphale’s thing, but he was feeling particularly grateful to Crowley this evening and wanted to show it. He poured them both a generous amount and passed one over to Crowley before sitting down opposite the demon.
Crowley took a long, slow sip before speaking. “How was it, then?”
Aziraphale sighed as he took his own swig of whiskey, “It was—as you would no doubt say—a thing .”
“Hng?”
“Oh, they mainly dithered about pointlessly… lot’s of contrary arguments. And now there’s a Christmas lights competition, or such like.”
“A competition?” Crowley’s brows perked up, “Could be a spot of fun. What kind of competition?”
“They want everyone to dress their shopfronts up for the festive season,” Aziraphale said almost glumly, “And they intimated that I wasn’t up to scratch on that front.”
“Is there a prize?” Crowley grinned.
“To be determined, apparently.” Aziraphale covered his eyes with a hand and groaned, “Everyone is encouraged to go all out, put on the biggest and brightest display. They were at each other’s throats over it all.” He paused and remembered, “And blast it all to Hell, Mr Brown has taken it upon himself to advise me on how to decorate my bookshop.”
“Who’s that, then?”
“Mr Brown, proprietor of ‘Brown’s World of Carpets’, on the left just past the magic shop.” He waved a hand vaguely, “He made out like he was doing me a great favour. Charitable even…”
“Did he now?” Crowley guffawed. “He’s taken a bit of a shine to you, angel. Take it from me.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, “That’s the last thing I need. I think I’ll just close the shop for a while.”
Crowley stood and leaned over Aziraphale, “Oh, no, no, no! You are not closing up shop! I want to see how this all plays out.”
“Really, Crowley, you can’t be suggesting—”
“I feel like I’m insisting, actually.” The demon took another gulp of whiskey.
“—I don’t want any part of this!”
“You do!”
Aziraphale frowned, “You haven’t had a hand in any of this, have you?”
“Me? I’m just hearing about it from you.”
“Do you know, it almost seemed demonic.” Aziraphale was talking past Crowley and deliberately shifting the conversation.
“Oh, how so?”
“They were all so incensed, it was palpable. “
“It could just be humans being humans, angel.”
“Perhaps, but maybe it would be best to check with your lot… if that’s something you still do?”
“Pfft, hardly. Although, if there is any demonic intervention, I can think of a few demons that would get off on that sort of thing.”
“Then you should look into it, for the good of the street, you know.”
“And what about you, can I at least tempt you to join in with this Christmas light competition thing?”
Aziraphale was focusing ever so hard on his nearly empty glass of whiskey, he took the final sip and placed the empty glass on the table, “Only if you agree to check for demonic interference.” The noise that came from Crowley could only be described as squeee! “Good lord.” Aziraphale muttered, wondering what the hell he had just agreed too.