Chapter Text
In the aptly named South Downs village of Heaven, population 2,222, there is a bookshop. This bookshop, A.Z. Fell and Co., sits proudly on the corner of Main Street and Angel Avenue, and is almost always closed. But if you know who to talk to and what to look for, you may be able to get a special appointment with the man in charge, the eccentric Aziraphale. He’s always dressed like it’s 1949 and good fortune seems to smile upon those who cross his path. His strange ways have made him something of a town celebrity. Rumours swirl about him, is he a time traveller? Is the bookshop a front for something much more insidious? The mystery of Aziraphale has haunted the people of the South Downs for decades. But every year, on Christmas day, the enigma opens wide the doors to his shop and lets visitors take whatever they want, for free.
Or at least, that’s what Crowley read in his brief about the man, 60 miles away from his office in London. He’d been tasked by his boss, Beelzebub, to go there and try to buy A.Z Fell and Co. from the man himself. They wanted to turn yet another independent bookstore into an Inferno Books location, and Crowley was going to make it happen. He didn’t particularly want to buy this poor guy out and make him watch his store turn into a cookie-cutter consumerist dystopia, but they always say do what you’re good at and Crowley was damn good at franchising. Plus, he had to admit he was a little curious what the whole vintage wardrobe and perpetually closed bookshop thing was about, if nothing else, this trip should be a good story.
Crowley thought back to his own days as a bookseller. In college, he’d dreamed of opening his own independent bookstore on Old Compton Street and donating a portion of the profits to ACT UP London. At first, it seemed to be a huge hit. He’d stuffed the shelves with Marx and Butler and Faderman and held weekly theory reading groups. He helped prop up many struggling queer authors and generally did good for himself and his community. But then an Inferno opened up around the block and business dried up quick. And you know what they say, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
Now Crowley had been working as a business expansion expert, whatever that meant, for about a decade and a half. His main gig was to go around England, buying up indie bookshops to turn into Infernos. He’d long ago gotten over the horrible moral implications of his work, seeing it as a necessary evil if he was to survive. There just was no place in this world for anti-capitalist, queer, booksellers, he told himself. It didn’t stop the self-hatred, but it did help him sleep at night.
Crowley replied to Beelzebub’s email with a quick “K, on it” and looked out the window. Christ. It wasn’t even December yet and snow was already pilling up on the streets below. Whatever happened to global warming? Crowley sighed and grabbed his long black coat from the back of his chair, pulling it on while signing off his computer. He needed to stop back at his flat and pack a bag. If he could make it through all this snow, he was going to pay Heaven a visit.
***
“You almost ready for Christmas?” Nina asked, handing Aziraphale his hot chocolate. He was occupying his favourite table at Nina’s cafe, “Give me coffee or give me death”, he never asked for death, but he usually didn’t ask for coffee either, much preferring the sweetness of hot chocolate to the bitterness of an espresso.
He sighed and took a sip of his drink, it was the perfect temperature. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, fiddling with the cup. “I always hate to give away any of my books.”
“You work yourself up about this every year,” Nina replied, crossing her arms. “If you really hate it so much you could just stop doing it.”
“But it’s tradition!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “And beyond that, it’s just a nice thing to do, I can’t keep all my books to myself.”
“You do every other day of the year” Nina pushed back.
“That’s very true but on Christmas it’s different” he looked at Nina wistfully but she just rolled her eyes.
“I’ll never get your obsession with Christmas.”
“It’s the most fabulous time of the year!” he explained. “It’s the season of giving, of family and love and togetherness, what’s there not to like?”
Nina counted off on her fingers; “The cold, the expectation to buy the perfect gifts for the people you love, having to see your family, going to church, having to act dumb around kids when they ask if Santa is real–”
“Well sure,” Aziraphale interjected, “all of that can be quite the hassle but the spirit of the thing is what really matters. You’re really going to tell me you’ve never felt moved by the Christmas spirit?”
“I think if I ever had I’d’ve checked myself into the hospital.”
“I just don’t get it, Nina” Aziraphale shook his head in disappointment. “Christmas is the happiest day in the calendar, a celebration of empathy, the festival of lights–”
“Pretty sure that last one’s Hanukkah.”
“Regardless, it’s true. Christmas is a magical time of year and I won’t hear you slander it.”
“If you really love it that much then you should have no problem giving away your books in service of it.”
Aziraphale sighed and took another sip. “You’re right, Nina, I really shouldn’t.” He spent the next half a minute staring into the middle distance, thinking of nothing but his own selfishness.
Nina, growing uncomfortable with the awkward silence, excused herself with an “Enjoy your hot chocolate, Mr. Fell,” and returned to the counter to serve the other 2,220 residents of Heaven their daily dose of caffeine.
Aziraphale’s mind was swimming with images of Christmases past, particularly later in the day when his shop had closed and he could assess the damage. Antique books strewn every which way, a Dickens in the Austen section, and Austen in the Morrison section, and of course, several of his personal favourites missing. It really was a disaster. Every year, a tornado of locals and visitors would tear through his bookshop leaving nothing but dog-eared pages and cracked spines behind. The truth was, while he loved Christmas, it was also his least favourite day of the year, what with the ransacking of his carefully arranged bookshop and all. He desperately wanted to call it quits on the whole tradition, but he had a promise to keep and Aziraphale may have been a lot of things, but he was not an oath breaker. He picked up his hot chocolate to take another sip only to find that it had gone mysteriously cold. Great, just what he needed.