Chapter Text
“So. You thought, after everything I’ve done to carve out a peaceful, fragile existence here, that you could stop me?” Crowley asked cooly, moving his glasses to the top of his nose to deliver a scathing glower. “That you could just unravel it all, that it would be so easy?” He growled then, baring his teeth in the most threatening manner he could. “Grave mistake… No one threatens the sanctity of this bookshop,” he concluded, “except me.”
He pushed himself from his chair then, pacing to the rebellious plant in question, a wilting peace lily. It began to tremble as he got closer.
“Too late,” he said, with a cruel scowl, “to the bin, with you.” He wasted no time in tossing it carelessly into the rubbish bin, taking his foot from the pedal so it would ring out a sharp clang as it shut. He then turned about the other plants in the room. “Right,” he announced, “you see this?” he pointed to a wall of taped papers and lists, “those are all receipts- your receipts. Need I remind you that I brought you into this room, and I can take you right back out?” Just then, Crowley thought he could hear some whispers of defiance among the calatheas, all claiming that, actually seeing that they were the plants Aziraphale had chosen to be moved to the bookshop, that he was the one to bring them here. Crowley snapped his attention to them hastily. “What? You think just because the angel favors you, you should be immune?!” he roared, “Well I have it on good authority that won’t work. Why?” he challenged, levelling them with a squint in his eye, “because the one thing he favors more than all else, including you lot,” he continued, “is me!” And with that, he whisked himself from the room, slamming the door behind him for a dramatic exit. That should tell them.
As Crowley wandered to the front of the shop, where Aziraphale was seated at his desk, the angel greeted him without looking up from his novel.
“Putting the flora in their place again, my dear?” he asked, absently. Crowley shrugged.
“S’ your fault, really,” he murmured, “you spoil them.”
Aziraphale hummed, eyes still fixed on his book. “Do I?” Crowley took this moment to gaze at his angel, while he was distracted. It wasn’t often before that he could openly admire Aziraphale like this– he would have to get used to it. To get used to doing so without fear of having him kidnapped or discorporated, or either or them threatened with torture and such things, soon afterwards. At present, he looked soft as ever, completely taken in with his tome, a dusty old thing like many of his other treasures. The early morning light was catching all the dust motes dancing above his crown of curls, illuminated like a halo in the sunbeams. He looked practically, well, angelic. With spectacles planted on the end of his nose that he would never need, but always wore, because he thought they made him look ‘nifty’. His brow creased ever so slightly as he read, and his lips parted just so, showing him to be fully enraptured by the words in front of him. He was perfectly at ease, and Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way.
But of course, time would spoil that for him, as his going so long without a reply would bring the angel’s attention from his book and back to his surroundings, as he blinked a few times before fixing those eyes on Crowley, instead.
“What? I’m sorry my dear, were you saying something to me?” Crowley, smiling, uncrossed his arms and came close to his angel, chuckling his response.
“Nothing important, Angel,” he promised. “What’s the lucky tome now?” he asked, trying to peek at the cover.
Aziraphale lit up, exposing it on his desk. “This is the third volume of a biography of one of the first inventors of tweed,” he answered.
“Riveting,” Crowley commented. “You know, I have a theory, Angel,” he started. Aziraphale’s brows jumped in response.
“Oh?” he asked.
Crowley nodded, positively. “I think,” he started, gently marking the open page before shutting the book on Aziraphale’s desk, “that if we were human, you would worship books instead of religion.” Crowley had now placed himself most inconveniently, (and distractingly), between Aziraphale and his beloved book.
Aziraphale arched his brow in a playful manner, “is that really so?” Crowley grinned, nodding. Aziraphale had to hold back an eyeroll at such a suggestion.
“You wily serpent!” he exclaimed, a smile on his own face.
“I’m not wrong, Angel,” Crowley continued, tilting his head temptingly, “you love books more than anything.”
“Than anything?” Aziraphale challenged, with a knowing look. Crowley nodded once more, with false nonchallance.
“More than everything,” he insisted, “more than movies, more than walks in the park, even more than… sushi…” Crowley suggested, casting his gaze distractedly around the shop, this way and that. Aziraphale knew better, however. Crowley was wanting attention, and what better way of getting it than to dramatically profess such lies about his angel's priorities– and in a way that just so happened to perfectly expose his attractive nature in its best forms under the morning light? No this wouldn’t do, this would not do at all.
“I do declare,” he played along, “that would be quite the appreciation.” he paused, feigning contemplation, “more than everything…” He watched as Crowley’s smile grew more and more sinister, and had to hold back a smirk himself. “I suppose,” he said after a moment, “that could be true…” For a mere second, Crowley looked deflated. He blinked, confused, as if his plan was not panning out in his favor. But when Aziraphale couldn’t stand it anymore, he finally caved, and suddenly reached for Crowley by his shirt, one hand grabbing his tie, and the other cupping his collar, moving him so quickly that he was towering over Aziraphale’s chair before he could blink.
“Ngk!”
“Of course,” Aziraphale said at last, “it certainly would be true, if I didn’t love you.” he confessed, removing Crowley’s glasses to see his elliptical pupils blown wide, a light blush dusting his cheeks. Crowley stammered.
“Y-yeah?”
Aziraphale smiled, smugly now. He nodded, simply, “yes, quite. Because the thing I love most of all,” he said, pulling Crowley closer until he was practically sitting on Aziraphale, “more than walks, or food, or books… is you.” and with that, he brought himself to seal the gap between them, trapping Crowley in a short, sweet kiss. When he released the demon, he was satisfied to see that it had had the desired effect, as Crowley melted in his arms, until he had sunk low enough that he could transform into his serpent form, curling up in Aziraphale’s lap. The angel let out a hearty laugh at the sight.
“Saving face by transforming into a snake?” he teased.
“No choice, Angel, have to,” he insisted in return, “limbs— hng— won’t work anymore.” Aziraphale chuckled again, and Crowley began to slither up, and around his neck for a cuddle.
“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale said, lovingly this time. He allowed Crowley to remain reptilian jelly for quite a few moments, striking his smooth scales, before he interrupted the silence. “Although,” he said, “if you could temporarily regain use of your limbs, it would be most helpful.” Crowley opened one, molten yellow eye at him.
“Hmmm? What for?” he asked, not moving nary another muscle.
“To hang a shelf for me- for the new books.”
Crowley coiled tighter, unwilling. “New books? What new books?”
“The new books I’m bringing home from the library today,” he said, “and from the estate sale we shall visit tomorrow.” He chanced a quick look back down where Crowley was snuggled.
After a moment, Crowley unraveled himself, standing as he transformed back into his demonic form, his wings sprouting out behind him, making him appear larger than life. A drama queen, as always.
“We’re going to an estate sale tomorrow?” he asked. Aziraphale gave him a disarming, begging smile. Crowley rolled his eyes, “right, fine, we can go to an estate sale tomorrow. Where’s it at?” he asked.
“Bedfordshire,” Aziraphale answered, standing. “And, dear,” he added.
“Rrggh, yeah, what is it now?” Crowley asked, with a very much put-upon annoyance.
Aziraphale smiled, cupping his hand around Crowley’s cheek. “Your eyes glow so beautifully in this light,” he hummed, planting a kiss on the tip of his nose.
“Er- tch- ngk!” Crowley stumbled over inaudible speech, until he finally settled on, “er- um. Thanks.” Aziraphale beamed, before skipping over toward an area of the shop where he set the shelf that needed hanging. Bloody menace, Crowley thought, watching him as he happily walked on. Then he softened at the sight of him again, an endearingly bloody menace, he corrected, and one I just so happen to be completely gone for. He waltzed after Aziraphale, catching up.
“Alright Angel, I’ll hang this and then we can go to the library.” Aziraphale gave him an award-winning smile that could melt the coldest of hearts.
“Marvelous!” he exclaimed.
Some minutes later, Crowley was done up with a tool belt and a measuring tape fastened to his hip, courtesy of Aziraphale.
“Is this really necessary, Angel?” he asked.
“Of course it is,” Aziraphale assured him, “I’d hate for the shelf to turn out crooked. That certainly wouldn’t do.”
“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” the demon groaned. “You’re taking this rather seriously.”
“Oh, pish posh,” Aziraphale tutted.
“Probably exposes the boniness of my hips,” he grumbled, poking at one end of the belt sitting on his hip.
“Now,” Aziraphale clicked his tongue, admonishingly, “that’s pure nonsense. I like your bony hips.”
“Ngk-” Aziraphale gave Crowley no time to recover from the praise, enlisting him straight to work.
“And do please make sure it’s level, you know how anything crooked on the walls drives me mad- yes, just reach up here. I would help you, dear, but I’m much shorter and cannot reach.”
“You have wings, too,” Crowley pointed out.
“Oh,” Aziraphale paused. “Yes, I suppose I do have.” Then, after a pause, "no space to use them in here, I'm afraid." Crowley let out an exasperated sigh, but there was no real heat in it. After a couple attempts, fusses from Aziraphale, and one minor threat made from Crowley to tilt every shelf in the shop to match, the piece was hung. And according to Aziraphale, it looked spectacular in its place.
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As they strided into the library, an awed gasp left Aziraphale's lips at the sight before them. This wasn't a trip to the ordinary library they frequented in Soho. Aziraphale, of course, in all of his time in London, frequented many of the historical libraries in the city, and had his favorites to choose from. But he hadn't ventured to see some of the newer ones, that were constructed anytime in the last 800 or so years. So when he stepped foot into the relatively new National Art Library, he was astonished to see that, despite the modern building practices, it still held a dignified appearance. It gave the presence of somewhat sacred architecture— substance that demanded respect. Not like these new libraries, with their sleek desks and lifeless flourescents. The design was utterly magnificent. Aziraphale brought a hand up, not quite hovering over his mouth, as his eyes traced the interior of the building.
"Impressed, Angel?" Crowley asked, with an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"I dare say," Aziraphale exhaled, forcing himself to tear his gaze from the walls lined with books, just for a moment enough to respond, “I think libraries can be holier than some churches." Crowley raised his brows at the mildly blasphemous declaration. He peered at the wall next to him, littered with flyers advertising programs offered to the community through them, asking for volunteers for soup kitchens, litter cleanup crews, and community events for children, the sick, and the elderly. Crowley hummed his response,
"On that, Angel, we can agree." Aziraphale, finally taking his attention from the walls, looked sharply at Crowley, as if torn from a trance. He glanced behind him at the wall of advertised activities before his gaze landed once more on Crowley, his eyes softening a tad. He gave Crowley a warm smile, which the demon couldn't help but return, as the angel slid up beside him, taking his hand in his own and giving it a brief squeeze. Crowley returned it. "Right, shall we split up and contribute to the destruction of your bowing bookshelves, O' feathered one?" he asked. Aziraphale gave him a sidelong glance with a hint of a mischievous smile behind it, and pulled his arm closer.
"No, my dear, I'm afraid I'm quite content with committing that atrocity together." Crowley obliged, and after making a mental note to come back to investigate their little seed exchange program for local gardens, he slid beside Aziraphale as they started together for the rows of books.