Chapter Text
Aziraphale was swaying around to the music playing in her bookshop, putting away books, from the vinyl, courtesy of Maggie from the record store. She had been recommended “Oasis” by her, but she wasn’t certain she’d like it - Aziraphale had been adamant about her distaste for bebop, though, so maybe Maggie figured out what she liked? Surprisingly, she didn’t hate it. She hadn’t been listening to much music apart from classical; Bach, Beethoven, Mozart… Those really were her favourite, even if they were a bit mainstream.
In the 18th century, many people had claimed that they knew Mozart personally, though Aziraphale was the only one who truly had.
She was holding a Jane Austen book, trying to find where she had put the books with authors starting with ‘J’ a few days prior. It was pointless work, since she didn’t sell any of the books, nor did she organise them for others' benefit, only for her own, but she was bored and had nothing to do. She’d considered popping by ‘Give me Coffee or Give me Death’, but she wasn’t sure they’d have the proper tea she liked, and she didn’t want to leave the bookshop unattended either. At least, not for a long time (though Nina didn’t talk much, if Aziraphale made the same mistake she’d made a few days ago, asking about Maggie, she would talk her head off).
There’s a faint knock on the door, something Aziraphale nearly can’t hear because of the music, and she looks up, her reading glasses almost sliding off her nose.
“You can come in, dear, the door’s open.” Once she says that, she frowns. “Unless I left the ‘Closed’ sign showing.” She leaves the book on the table beside her, going up the little steps and checking she’d put the sign on right. She had, so it didn’t make much sense why someone would knock.
Aziraphale huffs, despite herself, and starts to speak again. “Really, dear, it’s no trouble-” She stops when she swings the door open and there’s no one there, just a bouquet of flowers. “-to just come in. Hm.”
She crouches to grab them, and winces. It’s more of an instinct to act, since her back hadn’t been hurting for at least a week, and she had no reason to be in pain - though sometimes she felt a familiar weight at her back, one she couldn’t quite remember. The flowers truly are beautiful, a mix of peonies, freesias and another flower she doesn’t know the name of. She’s still holding the bouquet when she walks back into the bookshop, leaving the bunch on top of a table that was decorated with books (“decorated” wasn’t the fitting word, more so she had forgotten to put them back after reading). Now on her tiptoes, she looks for an ancient book, one she’d had for years upon years.
Ah, there it is. The Language of Flowers: An Alphabet of Floral Emblems. Aziraphale’d gotten the book as a gift for her birthday several years back. Now, she wasn’t very caught up on floriography, but she knew that there were various ‘flower languages’. She might as well start with the most well-known, Victorian.
According to that, the flowers she was unable to identify were Queen Anne’s Laces. They were quite beautiful, though it was puzzling how they’d bloomed. Supposedly, they only bloomed from July to September, and it was early May. Aziraphale readjusted her glasses, blinking behind them, as her eyes had started to hurt slightly, and looked for the flowers’ respective pages to find out their meanings.
‘Queen Anne’s Laces - Protection, delicacy.
Freesias - Friendship, sweetness.
Peonies - Romance, happiness, beauty.’
She found herself blushing without really wanting to. Clearing her throat, she took off her glasses, and grabbed a beautiful vase, one that Nina and Maggie had got her for her birthday. She’d seen it in the charity shop down the road and absolutely loved it, but hadn’t wanted to buy it just in case she needed the money for groceries or something similar (something a bit silly, since she wasn’t struggling with money). Thankfully, Maggie had noticed the likeness Aziraphale’d taken to the vase, and how her face had dropped when she realized it wasn’t in its usual spot the day after they had bought it for her.
Going to the back, she filled the vase with tap water and grabbed some scissors, carefully snipping off the ends of the flowers at an angle. She’d read somewhere that it did them good to have the stem cut like that, though she couldn’t recall where. Now more than ever, with the rise of technology and AI and all those addicting little apps that she had (she’d been convinced by Nina and Maggie to download Instagram simply to market the bookshop), she found herself scrolling daily. It was infuriating, how she felt it made her stupider.
Again, she found herself humming, putting the flowers in the vase and going back to the front of the shop, leaving the vase by the window so the flowers could enjoy some sun. This was, of course, pointless, as they’d die anyway, but she still liked the view of the flowers being hit by sunlight. Oddly comforting. She supposed it had something to do with London not having much sun to soak up.
The days passed quicker than they usually did, as little customers walked in to buy books. Maggie came over and they traded vinyls for books (Aziraphale was simply delighted when she gave her a Jeff Buckley vinyl). When there were no customers, Aziraphale wrote, which meant that she spent many of her work hours hunched over a notebook. Nina gave her coffee more often than not, since she didn’t want to leave the bookshop just in case someone came in (no one would).
With every other new day, she heard a knock, accompanied by a bouquet lying on the ground. It always made her smile despite herself. There was a note as an accessory most of the time, but it only said ‘-C’. She wondered, as one does, who was sending the flowers. When she asked Maggie, who was a friend of the man running the flower shop, she received a shrug and a “Not sure, sorry.”
Funnily enough, a person with short red hair was looking at Aziraphale from the coffeeshop, not that she noticed.