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His hand stopped moving. Crowley stuck out his tongue and tasted the air. Ugh. Another customer. Aziraphale sent him on his way with his usual mixture of obstinate book owner and polite British mannerisms. The angel settled back into his book, hand once more running over Crowley’s scales. He relaxed.
It was such a lovely Saturday morning. Aziraphale consented to having breakfast at home for once, and after a satisfying meal of crepes, fruit, cream and tea (for the angel) and doctored black coffee (for the devil) the two curled up on the most comfortable chair in the shop. Crowley reverted to his snakey form (Dark scales that shimmered like oil on water, a dusting of gold along his vibrantly red underbelly) and Aziraphale split his attention between his book (a very old copy of Jane Austen’s works) and Crowley himself (his fingers were pleasantly warm, as was his lap). Very relaxing. Very calm.
Until that customer walked in. But no matter, it was only the one.
(Crowley should have known better than to say such things)
One customer turned to two, then three, then more. A young man came looking for romantic poetry (Aziraphale consented to sell him one very small volume of Shakespearean sonnets). A couple wandered in on their walk (they made a swift about face when greeted with Crowley’s unimpressed hissing). An old woman in an eye-searingly orange cardigan stormed into the shop and proceeded to rant for thirty minutes about the indignities of the treatment of the elderly in nursing homes and how she was perfectly capable of wiping her own arse, thank you very much (When she realised that she, in fact, wasn’t in her son’s second hand bric-a-brac store, she was extremely apologetic).
Crowley could deal with them. They were minor annoyances in the great scheme of things. Momentary disturbances in his peace. Aziraphale would only stop stroking him for a moment to deal with each customer. He didn’t stand up; he didn’t remove Crowley from his person. He didn’t even scold him for hissing at the young couple! (In the back of the angels’ mind, he wondered what it would take for Crowley to take up a permanent position as his bookstores bodyguard. Answer? An Aziraphale pillow)
But then They arrived. No, not the juvenile delinquent squad in Tadfield. This They was an Australian family of four. Why they felt that a bookstore was the best place to buy souvenirs, Crowley wasn’t sure.
“Goo’ mornin’ sir!” One called out cheerfully. “You Mr Fell?”
“Indeed I am sir,” Aziraphale replied. “May I ask why you’re here?”
“ ‘M just lookin’ for a book. Or a series of books, rather.” He turned to one of his companions, a woman with dishwasher-blonde hair who smelt uncomfortably like horses to Crowley’s more refined senses. “Do you remember what Kate was lookin’ for?”
“The oldest possible copies of Shakespeare we can find,” She replied, “Or ones written in the ‘Victorian period’, whichever’s easiest.”
“Well, there is a perfectly good bookstore just down the road that will have multiple copies of William Shakespeare’s works. Perhaps you should look there.” Aziraphale returned to his book and continued to stroke Crowley’s scales. But his hand was light upon his back, and the pages never turned, as he kept one gimlet eye on the invaders to his domain.
Said invaders weren’t leaving. “Don’t mind if we have a little looksie?” The father asked easily, “Might find something interestin’ in here.” He proceeded to poke at Aziraphale’s first editions, while his two daughters ran around the store. (well, they weren’t running insomuch as walking quickly, but to the annoyed Crowley, they might as well have been sprinting).
Aziraphale soon became fed up with the interlopers. He set Crowley down on the counter (and ignored his angry hissing for being put on such a cold surface) and walked to the door, holding it open. “I believe something has just popped up. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.” He was summarily ignored.
“Bloody hell!” The father crouched till his face was level with the counter. “You’ve got a red-belly black! How in the five blazes did you manage that! He’s so sedate!” He called over his two girls, who also began to coo over the snake.
“Can I pet it? Can I, can I, can I?!”
“Oooh, he’s so pretty!”
“And cute!”
Crowley reared up and hissed. He was not pretty! And he was definitely not cute!
“Awww, look at those fangs!”
“He’s so big!”
“Honey, come get a look at this!”
Aziraphale was speechless. If his jaw hadn’t already been dropped, it would have fallen. This… wasn’t the normal reaction.
The father turned to where the angel was still holding open the door. “Can I pick him up? Just for a minute? We never have such calm ones back home!”
Oh hell – heaven – FUCK no
Crowley slid off the counter as fast as he could without losing his dignity (or what was left of it). He dodged the grasping hands and slid into the back room. Behind the now closed door (which no one could tell exactly who closed it) he could hear groans of disappointment. “But I really wanted a photo!” One girl whined. He continued through to Aziraphale’s apartment before he could hear any more – someone knows what he’d do if he heard the word ‘cute’ said once more in his presence.
His calm, relaxing Saturday was ruined. The demon proceeded to sulk under the couch till Aziraphale came back upstairs (after removing the family from his shop and turning the sign to read CLOSED). “Well, that was interesting.” He said. “At least they didn’t try to buy any of my books.”
(What he didn’t say was how an offer was made to buy Crowley.)
(He made a mental note to never allow Crowley around any Australians while in his snake form.)
(That family may experience a small streak of bad luck later. Nothing too extreme – their horse got out. Their goats got out. Their chickens got out. Their two dogs ate all eleven chickens – Just small things)
Aziraphale decided that he really didn’t like Australians.