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There was a cat in the bookshop. A small black cat curled up in Aziraphale’s armchair, snug and cosy in the spot of spring sunlight, fast asleep. It was an image of primordial peace and contentment. The only note of discord in this scene was the fact that he didn’t own a cat.
Aziraphale crept closer to the armchair, trying to be quiet, and inspected the creature. As if sensing his gaze, the cat opened its eyes, yawned, and stretched self-indulgently. It looked well-cared for, short fur clean and glossy, not a bald spot in sight, yellow eyes bright and inquisitive, the thin body that of a miniature panther rather than a creature on a brink of starvation. A neighbour’s pet on an adventure rather than a stray seeking shelter. He couldn’t think of any cat owners on Whickber Street off the top of his head, but then, it was not like he went out of his way to socialise with his fellow shopkeepers beyond the necessary.
“It is very nice to meet you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, crouching and extending a hand towards the cat. The cat sniffed his fingers and pushed his hand with its head, demanding scritches, which were granted immediately. “But your parents are probably worried about your disappearance. It’s time for you to go home.”
He carefully lifted the cat from its place on the armchair, walked a few steps to the door leading to the street, and set the little beast on the pavement, closing the door behind it. He imagined that would be the last he would see of it.
ᓚᘏᗢ
The next day, the cat was back. And the day after. And the next one. Napping wherever the sunny spot happened to be at that time. Reclining on his desk like a miniature sphinx, wide awake and watching Aziraphale’s movements around the shop. Exploring the nooks and crannies among the bookshelves, its presence announced by soft sneezing sounds. Ringing the service bell next to the till, the one only the most obnoxious customers dared to touch. Playing with dust motes in the rays of sunlight from the oculus.
Aziraphale set out a shallow bowl of water, refreshed daily, near the entrance. Then he started cat-proofing the bookshop.
The various cups and glasses bearing traces of tea, cocoa, hot chocolate, and occasionally something stronger were the first to go. Aziraphale had no choice once he found his favourite tartan-patterned mug in pieces on the floor, the cat sitting in its place with the expression of wide-eyed faux-innocence the cats do so well.
The piles of books, stacked haphazardly on the large desks, the small tables strewn throughout the shop, and not infrequently on the floor, were next. He really should’ve tidied them away sooner, Aziraphale thought when he heard the books—thankfully, just a bunch of paperbacks headed for the discount bin—tumbling down from the desk. And the heavier tomes like Mrs.Beeton’s Book of Household Management could really hurt the small cat if it managed to topple one of the larger stacks.
The trinkets and knick-knacks Aziraphale was so fond of disappeared as well. He did not expect to ever discover where the winged horse piece from his chess set ended up; he consoled himself with the thought that it was definitely too big for the cat to have eaten it.
Instead, different kinds of trinkets started to appear around the bookshop. Long fluffy feathers that were so much fun to chase and attack when dangled and wiggled by an indulging hand. Boxes and paper bags to set up an ambush for an unsuspecting passerby. Endlessly amusing crinkle balls of colourful foil to chase and pounce at. There was even a cat bed (tartan, of course!) tucked away behind the counter and a felt mouse with just a whiff of catnip about it. None of them matched the bookshop ambience in the slightest. Aziraphale found that he didn’t mind.
ᓚᘏᗢ
Aziraphale accepted the comings and goings of his feline guest without objection, happy for the company. They went on like that right until the day he found the cat licking off whipped cream from the hot cocoa he had made for himself before getting distracted by an untimely customer. Now this wouldn’t do at all! He evicted the cat gently but decisively, locked the door behind himself, and headed to a particular shop he had noticed a few blocks away.
The next time the cat materialised in the shop, he presented it with a neat collar, a rolled-up letter attached to it.
“Rest assured, I’m always happy to see you, my dear,” he said, fitting the collar around the thin neck. “But I need to make sure you’re safe while you’re visiting with me. I know cats in general are not supposed to have chocolate or cocoa, and I can keep those away from you well enough. But what if you have some unique allergies and get into something that’s bad for you? I need to let your owner know where you run off to and to ask whether you have any dietary restrictions. And you look very stylish wearing this!”
The next day, the cat was back, and it was bearing a reply—a scribbled note wrapped around a couple of banknotes.
"Tartan collar? Really? The cat's name is Bentley, and, thankfully, she's not allergic to anything. Mind you, she’s a shameless thief and a con artist. I have enclosed some cash to cover the cost of food she has no doubt stolen or begged from you.”
Aziraphale gasped at the last sentence. He couldn’t believe he’d been so out of practice receiving visitors that he had forgotten the very basics of the process.
“Oh my, where are my manners? I’ve been quite rude to you, my dear girl, haven’t I?” he addressed the cat apologetically. “But rest assured, now that I know you’re allowed to have anything, I’ll make sure to always have some treats on hand for you.”
He reread the letter, petting the purring cat absently. There were a few points there that positively begged for a response…
"Tartan is stylish! I refuse to accept that Bentley is anything less than a perfect angel. She has impeccable manners; the mug she broke was certainly nothing more than a tragic accident."
The next day, Bentley was proudly sporting a spiked black leather collar. A skull-and-bones-shaped name tag had her name on the front and a cell phone number on the back. The attached note was very short:
"I have equipped Bentley with a new collar to better match her personality. Sorry about the mug."
Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh at the cat, attired like the tiniest punk in the world. He fancied she looked sullen at that, and he offered her a treat—a little cheese-flavoured biscuit from a yellow box that promised it to be crunchy outside, soft inside, and irresistible overall. Bentley sniffed it experimentally, gobbled it right up, and meowed, demanding a second helping.
“Alright, just a few more,” he said, offering her two treats, salmon and chicken, this time. Both received a warm welcome. “I don’t see why your dad is so insistent on demonising you.” Admittedly, the two notes he received so far didn’t disclose much about the owner, but Aziraphale liked to imagine Bentley being fawned upon by a man, someone just as sleek and stylish as herself.
Speaking of style… He rummaged in the drawers of the desk, where all sorts of potentially useful detritus tended to accumulate, and pulled out a satin ribbon of a cheerful shade of yellow that would bring out Bentley’s eyes nicely. Aziraphale tied it to the collar, making sure it obscured the rude tag, and hummed in satisfaction. It took him longer to unearth his smartphone, but he finally located it under an open book and snapped a picture of the newly accessorised cat. Bentley posed proudly, perfectly on board with the impromptu fashion show.
Hesitating only for a moment—the man wouldn’t have sent Bentley back with his contact information if he didn’t want to be contacted, would he?—Aziraphale texted the photo to the phone number from the tag.
He didn’t have to wait long; his phone chimed with the sound of an incoming text message before he even got up to get Bentley more biscuits.
“My cat does not wear yellow. She has never worn yellow. She is not going to start wearing yellow now!”
Aziraphale grinned. Texting was definitely an improvement over the use of carrier cats for note exchange. He gazed at the chewing cat, plotting his next missive…
ᓚᘏᗢ
Aziraphale was still giggling over the last text from Bentley’s owner—a photo of her wearing red devil’s horns, looking positively murderous, captioned simply “Told ya”—when he heard an odd scraping sound. He glanced down, and sure enough, there was Bentley herself, busy dragging something across the floor. She dropped it in front of his armchair and wandered off to the water dish; carrying stuff must’ve been thirsty work.
“What do you have here, hmm?” he asked, bending to pick the item up. It was a pair of sunglasses, frames scratched after being dragged across the pavement.
Aziraphale snapped a photo of the glasses and sent it to Bentley’s owner. He took some extra effort to craft a note:
“Your efforts in Bentley’s character assassination have gone too far. Setting her up to take the fall for theft? She pleads not guilty.”
That done, he hummed thoughtfully. He was no Sherlock Holmes—his favourite literary character could probably deduce the entire history of Bentley’s owner, complete with his name, address, and shoe size, from barely a glance at the glasses—but he fancied he could play a guessing game too. The sunglasses were clearly expensive, with steampunk metal frames; the man must be well-off and a stylish dresser. Darkened lenses and frames that extended into little shields on the sides suggested aversion to light, possibly even photosensitivity. The damage on the frames and the grains of dirt stuck in the crevices would’ve suggested carelessness or recent outdoor activities, but Aziraphale already knew to ascribe both of those to the cat rather than the man…
The bell over the door tinkled, and Aziraphale looked up from the glasses only to find the most gorgeous man he had ever seen entering his bookshop. Tall and lean, with an angular face framed by long auburn hair that stood out against stylish all-black clothing, he didn’t look anything like the bookshop’s typical clientele. But Aziraphale didn’t think he had ever met the man either, and he was quite certain he would remember being introduced to someone so handsome. So a shopper he must be, possibly searching for a gift for someone more bookish in his life.
Oddly enough, though, the man did not head towards the bookshelves the way a customer would. He just stood at the entrance, clutching a small box in his hands, alternating between blinking furiously and squinting… The puzzle was solved by Bentley when she reemerged from whatever nook she had been exploring and rushed over to rub herself against the man’s legs, chirping affectionately. Of course, Aziraphale thought, light sensitivity, and the little beast had chosen such a bright day to steal his sunglasses…
“It is a pleasure to finally make an acquaintance with the owner of our dear Bentley. My name is Aziraphale Fell.”
“I’m Crowley. Well, Anthony, but nobody calls me that. Thank you for welcoming this demon of Hell into your bookshop. Here.” He thrust the box into Aziraphale’s hands, and, once his own were free, picked up the cat and crooned: “Who’s the best escape artist in London? Who’s the little unstoppable spawn of Satan? Have you had enough of encroaching on this lovely man’s hospitality yet?”
Judging from the cat’s lazy blinking and happy purring, the answers were “Me”, “Me”, and “Nope. Have you seen the size of the snack bags he bought for me?” Aziraphale felt the need to chime in anyway.
“Oh, Bentley has been a perfectly lovely guest, and she’s by no means encroaching. And what would this be?” He raised the box questioningly.
“An apology mug. Y’know, for the one this hellspawn destroyed.” Was it a blush tinting the man’s cheekbones? Aziraphale couldn’t rightly say, so he busied himself unpacking the gift. The mug was so white it practically shone in the dimness of the bookshop, and the handle was shaped as a pair of fluffy feathered wings.
“Just saw it and thought it was appropriate for you,” Crowley kept talking, setting the cat down. “Y’know, because you keep insisting that Bentley is an angel, but it’s really you who is one.” Yes, it was definitely a blush. Aziraphale felt his own cheeks starting to warm up too and grasped for some distraction.
“Would you like a tour of the place? I could show you where Bentley likes to nap.”
“Let me guess,” Crowley closed his eyes and put his fingers to his temples in a dramatic gesture. “You bought her her own bed. A tartan bed.” He opened his eyes again and laughed at Aziraphale’s expression.
“Tartan is stylish!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s actually how I figured out where Bentley is sneaking off to. Pretty sure you’re the only person on the whole street who wears tartan. Couldn’t just come by and introduce myself, though, you’ve always been buried in a book whenever I’ve seen you out and about. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind, just seemed rude to interrupt…”
Crowley had seen Aziraphale before. This extremely attractive man had not only seen him but paid him enough attention to remember his tartan bowtie. (Aziraphale adored tartan, but it was really a pattern for accessories, not for larger items.) This man who Aziraphale could swear was way out of his league seemed to be rambling because he was nervous…
“Well, it is very kind of Bentley to give us an excuse to meet properly,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, leaving his train of thought alone for the moment. “Oh! Your sunglasses! They don’t seem to be completely ruined, the lenses are intact, but I’m afraid they’ll need a thorough cleaning before they are fit to be worn again.”
Crowley grimaced, accepting the sunglasses and putting them into his jacket pocket.
“Might’ve rushed here without thinking to grab another pair,” he admitted. “You’re right, I can’t put them on like this, and it’s too damn bright outside right now.”
“Ah, you’re most welcome to stay here until twilight!” Aziraphale rushed to offer. “Tea…?”
ᓚᘏᗢ
Bentley sat on the windowsill, listening to the chatter of her two favourite humans. She really hoped they would take it away from here. Just getting them to this point had been entirely too much effort already. She was a cat, and cats didn’t do effort.
She curled into a ball in the sun, getting ready for a celebratory nap, when something outside caught her eye. Two women, the soft blonde who gave the best head rubs and the spiky cafe owner who always offered her a treat while grumbling about animals in the establishment, were arguing on the sidewalk. Bentley narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. Well, maybe just one more time… But nap first.