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The wind howls furiously outside and rain pelts the dingy glass windows with an anger rivaled only by a very few select creatures, but inside the bookshop it’s warm and dry. For this, Crowley is eternally thankful, because it isn’t exactly easy being so susceptible to cold. He’s currently curled up on the counter as a snake, draped over the cash register. Aziraphale is doing something in the back room, or else he’d have made Crowley move a while ago because he gets in the way. As it is, Crowley is perfectly comfortable being in the way.
The bell above the shop makes a peculiar hollow sound when the door is forced open by someone straining against the gale-force winds. Crowley ignores them, because Aziraphale will notice that someone is here and shoo them away eventually. Even if he doesn’t, no one is going to stay in a shop long without an employee nearby. It typically makes them feel like they’re intruding.
Crowley lazily surveys the newcomer. It’s a woman, probably in her mid-twenties, nestled deep inside a garishly yellow hoodie. She kneels to run fingers along a few cracked spines on the bottom shelf, chewing thoughtfully on her bright pink lip as she does so. She twirls a lock of dyed black hair around a heavily ringed finger, making the many bracelets on her wrist clink together. Crowley suspects that she’s a university student come home to visit family for the holidays.
Aziraphale carries a box in, eyes narrowing at the sight of the young woman. She smiles pleasantly and goes back to perusing the books while Aziraphale deposits the box on the counter, nearly landing the corner on Crowley’s tail. Which reminds him why he doesn’t like sitting around as a snake. (Apart from the irrational fear that he might not be able to make himself look human again.)
The woman slides a book from the shelf, wrinkling her nose at the puff of dust it lets out. She straightens, knees crackling, and turns to Aziraphale. “How much for this?”
He glares at her over the rim of his glasses and shrugs.
“I’ll give you… sorry, do you take American money? I’ve been over there for school and I haven’t had the chance to exchange my dollars for pounds yet. This is a last-minute present for my mom. She doesn’t actually know I’m coming home,” she explains, shifting her weight from foot to foot nervously.
“I would take American money,” Aziraphale agrees. Crowley would raise his eyebrows, if snakes had eyebrows. Instead he settles for flicking his tongue curiously. Aziraphale never agrees to anything that might make it easier to sell a book. The angel in question is just watching his customer warily, as if still wondering why he hasn’t chased her away yet.
The girl grins blindingly. She places the dusty old tome on the counter carefully, mindful of the tattered pages, and shuffles through her hoodie pocket for a wallet. “Thank you so much. My mom collects old books like this one, and it’s almost her birthday, so I was coming home to surprise her, but I didn’t have a birthday gift, you know? So I stopped in here because it was the first bookshop I found, and lucky for me, I found the perfect book! And look at me, I’m rambling.”
The girl blushes and hands over a few green bills. Aziraphale presses a button on the cash register, ejecting the tray that would typically hold earnings, if he sold anything. Crowley hisses at him and slithers away before she can see him and possibly freak out over there being a random reptile hanging around. He manages to get into the back room (Aziraphale is terrible about closing the door all the way) and out of sight so that he can reform himself into a man shape.
He then makes his grand entrance—but not before making absolutely certain that he looks like he normally does—by pushing open the door and sauntering inside. The woman looks up at him and gives him the standard polite smile. He nods at her once before sliding behind the counter.
“So what’s your name?” Crowley asks. He leans against the counter and loops a hand around Aziraphale’s shoulders, peering at her from behind dark glasses.
“Mary,” she says, looking caught between confused and scared. Aziraphale nudges Crowley’s ankle with his foot, probably trying to get Crowley to stop traumatizing the customer. Crowley doesn’t obey; he’s a demon, after all.
“I knew a Mary once. Didn’t always get along with her kid, but she was nice,” Crowley says.
“I thought her son was a nice boy,” Aziraphale offers. He closes the cash register and hands the book to Mary. She smiles at him and glances at Crowley, mild confusion written over her features.
“That’s because you got along better with her people as a whole. I, however, tend to avoid the likes of you at all costs. You’re the only exception,” Crowley says extravagantly. Aziraphale looks at him disapprovingly for a second before rolling his eyes skyward and shaking his head. Crowley grins and says sarcastically, “Love you too.”
Something clicks in Mary’s head then, and she smiles with more surety. “You two are cute together,” she says, and leaves in a gust of wind and a spattering of rain.
Crowley snorts and sits on the countertop, swinging his feet back and forth. “We are adorable”
“In your opinion,” Aziraphale replies, smoothing out the dollar bill. Crowley frowns at it and wonders whose idea it was to make American money such an abhorrent shade of green. It’s something only a human could come up with.
“Well, of course. I’m a demon. Pride is a thing we have,” he retorts. Aziraphale chuckles and Crowley grins at him. “And even if it wasn’t, we’d still be adorable.”
“Of course we would,” Aziraphale says sarcastically.
Crowley hops down from the counter and effectively drapes himself on the angel, relying on that pesky angelic strength all angelic beings—and demonic ones as well, but that’s a rather closely kept secret so you really shouldn’t tell anyone—have naturally to keep himself from toppling them both over. “We would too.”
“Sure,” Aziraphale murmurs.
Crowley grins against his ugly sweater.