Chapter Text
A. Z. Fell’s was barely a hole in the wall, in a run-down by-street that distinctly did not feature in any of the Hidden London and Time Out articles about magical Crouch End with its clock tower and its trendy shops . That suited Aziraphale just fine, thank you very much. He didn’t want to be on top of a Tube station where tourists and bored young people would pop into his shop looking for diversion; he didn’t aspire to be one of these modern book chains – sanitised, overlit places with coffee shops attached and floors you could eat off. (The floors at Fell’s were nominally swept, when he thought of it, but only into the corners, owing to the fact that the shop was too much of a maze to manoeuvre sweepings into the mews in back and he’d long ago lost the dustpan.)
Commerce in books about occult – or, to use his preferred term, ethereal – phenomena was a needle that had to be carefully threaded. People with a frivolous or fetishistic interest were more trouble than they were worth; on the other hand, customers had to know you were there. It had been simpler in the days when a small advert in the right kind of paper would catch the attention of someone who was a true amateur, in the old sense, of the secret arts; nowadays you had to have a web space, or a MySite, or whatever it was called, and he’d really never got round to figuring it out. But word of mouth worked wonders, and he had the clientele he wanted – earnest, spiritually elevated, respectful of the trade paperbacks and Arthur Guirdham hardcovers as much as the irreplaceable antique volumes, which were only viewable by appointment and not for sale. People like Anathema, who was currently checking out at the register with a two-volume ephemeris and the coffee-table edition of Hands of Light.
“It’s for my physio,” she explained, “I’m positive she’s aura-sensitive but she needs to learn to channel the power. I’m glad you had it, I hate buying books from those big soulless places. It rubs off.”
The door chime sounded, followed by the chunk of a reasonably resistible force meeting a not so movable object and a muffled swear. A head popped into view around the end of one of the shelves that crowded the entry.
It was a very vivid head. Aziraphale hadn’t seen that shade of red since his walking holiday in Connaught; the long locks tumbled out of a brown baseball cap and over the one shoulder he could see of a matching short-sleeved shirt. Thanks to wraparound sunglasses, only the lower half of the face was visible, but it was strikingly handsome.
“International Express,” explained the new arrival.
“Oh. Oh dear. Deliveries in the rear, please. It’s just round the mews, I’ll go unlock. I’m afraid it’s a bit cramped up here by the register.”
“I’ll just be on my way – oh!” said Anathema as she turned and came face to face with the deliveryman.
“Quite all right, dear?”
“I – ah – I think so.”
Aziraphale couldn’t blame her. The glimpse he’d had of the man was tantalizing, in a way that left him feeling surprised at himself. There were thoughts he rarely had from one week to the next, and thoughts he hadn’t had in years, and then there were thoughts he couldn’t remember having in his life. He had just had several of each.
“What’s become of Lester?” he said as he propped open the mews door to admit the deliveryman, who backed in pulling a handtruck – oh, dear, those branch-brown uniform shorts looked snugger than you’d want to wear driving a van around all day, and the lean-muscled calves spoke of hopping on and off the lift gate hour after hour.
“Dunno. Just fillin’ in on the route,” he said. “I’m Anthony.” He extended an identity card on a lanyard with a grainy digital photo and the name Anthony J. Crowley.
“Aziraphale Fell.”
“Well, that’s a mouthful, ennit?” It was a slightly rude thing to say, but the grin that went with it was disarming, and made Aziraphale flush not just at cheeks and ears but hotly under his shirtfront and disturbingly at points south. “Where d’ye want these?”
“Ah – back here by the accounts desk. So I can unpack and go over the bills of lading.” The weekly deliveries were a mix of orders from publishers, occasional insured shipments, and random items he needed to restock from time to time – register tapes, carrier bags, loo roll (Customers Only, said the sign on the narrow paneled door leading to a W.C. of museum vintage).
“Right then. Sign here – “ Anthony J. Crowley handed him a clipboard and tore off a flimsy when he’d initialed the receipt with a fountain pen.
“What’s the J. for?” Aziraphale asked, once more surprising himself, but the man had made a remark about his name, and he didn’t want to show him out just yet. There was – it was – he wanted a longer chance to look at that glorious hair, that cocky grin, maybe see what was behind the sunglasses. Really, at his age he should be past this.
“Just J. Every time you fill up a form, wants a middle initial, just took a fancy to it.”
“It suits you.” What the – whatever did he even mean by that? “I’m sorry, I’m sure you’ve a schedule to keep.”
“Not hardly.” Anthony lifted the last box off the hand truck. “Was hopin’ to take a look around, actually, if you don’t mind.”
“Well – certainly.” A jobbing deliveryman didn’t seem like the type to be interested in books about raising Kundalini or balancing your ch’i, but appearances could be deceptive.
“Gurdjieff,” said Anthony, picking up a remaindered copy of Beelzebub’s Tales To His Grandson . “Remember reading about him. Used to be curious, see. Only I was still at home, then, and I got told off for dabblin’ with the Dark Arts.”
“Oh, dear. You make it sound like those Henry Potter films. I saw one once on a Virgin flight, perfectly absurd.”
“Way Mum went on about it, like I was goin’ straight to Hell. She was death on all that, Ouija boards, Tarot cards, work’ve the devil she said, and every time I asked her what was wrong with it she fetched me a skelp.”
“Really the people who write those popular paperbacks have a lot to answer for. Any enduring interest in the secret arts requires a – a refined spirit.” Aziraphale wished he could sound more convincing. The proximity of the new International Express man in his cramped shop, the not unpleasant smell of male sweat that ghosted around his shirt, the freckled wiry arms were making his spirit feel less refined by the second.
“So y’ don’t stock that sort of book. Callin’ up demons and so on. The Grimmers and what d’ye call it.” Anthony looked oddly relieved.
“Grimoires. I would never do summoning myself, or sell to someone who wanted to. Those books stay in the back. Academic interest only.”
“Gotta special collection then?”
“If you’re interested I could show you. I’ve got some remarkable volumes – rare books of prophecy, Reginald Scot, the Lemegeton – “
“ Think I’d like a look at that.” Anthony’s eyebrows lifted above the nearly opaque sunglasses, his tone artless, intrigued. Aziraphale felt a tiny bit wicked as he led the way to a back room half-visible through a dusty-windowed door. Come into my parlour. He’d broken out in a fine sweat under his layers of shirt and waistcoat and long jacket. He wasn’t really thinking of – approaching a random tradesman who’d just happened into the shop, was he? His hand trembled a bit as he turned the key in the latch. Good thing the jacket was as long as it was.
“Just a moment,” he said, and pushed back past Anthony again. Their hips brushed together, and the contact was electric. His mouth was dry. “Going to put out the Closed sign, so – so we won’t. You know. Be bothered.” He peered out at the street. “Aren’t you parked on the double-yellow?”
“No problem. No one takes notice.”
The sign was more faded on the Closed side. He really was closed more often than not. Usually just alone with his books and happy to be, and – now his breath was coming a little quicker and he had to make an effort to ratchet it back down and compose himself. This would never do.
“Blimey,” said Anthony as the door of the collection room shut behind them. A moted beam angled down from the grimy skylight, shining on a scuffed antique table and shelves loaded with dusty volumes. Mother Shipton, Robert Nixon, the Witch’s Assizes of Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer (the handscripted title ran off the edge of the page).
“I’ve very few of the – how should it be said – diabolical works, but those I have are unique,” Aziraphale said, donning cotton gloves to take down a green-bound volume from a glass case and setting it in the centre of the table. “It’s a collection for the connoisseur. Here. The Arcana Smaragdina of the monk Theodosius, said to have raised denizens of Hell and bound them to his commands. It seems a good deal of rubbish, really, but it’s very rare and some of the text is smudged, so it’s hard to know what he did in places. The illustrations are stunning, though, and there’s one that – you’ll laugh, but you forcibly reminded me – “
He turned the pages reverently. Ah, there it was. Distinct from the horned, multi-headed, half-animal creatures on the surrounding pages, there was a woodcut illustration of a handsome, lean demon, small batlike wings drawn with thick lines above his shoulders: naked, sporting a rather astonishing – member, as the Elizabethan writers tended to call it, but in the visible particulars bearing a noticeable resemblance to Anthony J-doesn’t-stand-for-anything. If the book fell open a little easily to that page, Aziraphale’s new (friend? Customer?) didn’t remark on it.
The artist had taken the trouble to cut a separate block so that the locks of the shoulder-length hair were printed in red ink interspersed with the black. Aziraphale jumped as a lock of the real thing brushed his cheek. Anthony was leaning over his shoulder – he’d assumed the usual protective huddle that was by now second nature when opening a rare volume – and his smoke-and-civet scent was strong enough to make the blood thump behind Aziraphale’s navel.
“Must be worth a fortune,” said the deliveryman.
“Ah – it really depends on the buyer. And of course these are not for sale. For one thing, they could imaginably be put to the wrong use, whereas if they’re here – under my control – “ He realized he was babbling. Anthony was so close.
“Interesting man, you are, Mr. Fell.” The voice was softer, deeper in his chest. “I’m quite glad I took this assignment.” Assignment seemed like an odd term for a delivery route, but just before he could extrapolate anything from that thought, there was the delicate touch of lips on the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. He jumped and sucked a breath, then moaned as the lips traveled slowly down, oddly hot breath in his hair
“Thought so,” said Anthony. “Don’t usually get invited in the back, see. Sign, seal, on to the next job. Saw how you were lookin’ at me.”
Aziraphale realized he was gripping the table hard enough to hurt his palms. There was a butterfly flicker of tongue up the back of his neck.
“Fancy it?” said Anthony.
“God, yes,” squeezed out of Aziraphale’s throat. His knees were wobbling,
“Language.” Anthony’s big hands slid around his waist, cupped the curve of his round belly – far too many hours behind the register nibbling on pastries, but the bakery next door was oh, so good – only it didn’t seem to bother Anthony, who kneaded the plump roll of abdomen with a little growling purr and began to slip buttons open, waistcoat, shirt, tugging him close so that Aziraphale could feel a rigid pressure against his bum that was. Well. Truly amazing.
He gasped again as the hot fingers reached his skin – raking nails in a way that made him press back against that hard ridge, slipping down to open his waistband and slide beneath. A little gout of warmth pumped out of his cock as Anthony freed it, stroked lazily down to grip the base, cup his bollocks.
“Want it this way?” he said. “Right here? Just the height for me. Mmm, nice and thick, you.”
“I – ah – please.”
“Please what?” The steady stroking on his cock was making it jump and twitch and fill to a hardness that felt as if it would split. It was unbearably wonderful.
“Please – your – “
“You want something of mine?”
“Your. Your cock. Can feel it.”
“You want it in that nice plush arse?”
The thought pulled a little thready whine out of him, a stuttering nod.
“Have to say.” Teeth were brushing the back of his neck, and oh they were sharp. “What you want.”
“Your. Cock. In me. Please.”
“There, good boy,” said Anthony, tugging the trousers down past Aziraphale’s stout thighs. There was a clink of keys as the uniform shorts dropped to the floor, a whiff of an intimate musk, the hot push of god help me he’s enormous against his buttock. Anthony was already slick with his own juices, a prodigy. “You want all this? Yours.” One hand pulled his cleft open, leaving the other to guide slippery flesh against his entrance – teasing, pressing, circling, smearing him with unctuous fluid. The tease went on until he was whimpering, biting his lip, pushing back against hardness that slipped away and then thrust against him again. “Last call to change your mind.”
“Fuck me,” Aziraphale pleaded.
The heat was scorching. It was metal touched outdoors on an August day and a glowing coal and the heart of the Sun, and it was good, he didn’t care if it burned him out from the inside. Fangs too long to be called teeth any more nipped at his neck, piercing skin just enough to make him wail with sweet pain. He felt a thin trickle of blood, and then the lapping of a tongue, fluttering, serpentine. Anthony wrapped him with a wiry arm and thrust, and thrust, and the length of that slick heat was going to split him and he didn’t care, he only wanted it never to stop.
“Pretty thing,” crooned Anthony in his ear. “Fat, sweet, luscious thing. You want to come on my cock, don’t you? You can’t get enough. Ask for it. Tell me what you need.”
“I want – “ The table had moved a few inches. “Want it. Harder.”
“Like this?”
Several inches more across the floor. The lamp jostled.
“Yes – like that – fuck me, fuck me, fuck me –”
“Pretty little bookseller likes it rough, doesn’t he? Here – here – “ Anthony grunted with every stroke, forcing him down until he was bent almost to the table, grasping and spreading him; then halfway out he stopped.
“Beg me,” said Anthony huskily, pinching up a soft nipple, tugging and rolling it until Aziraphale pushed back and writhed and ground against him. Anthony grabbed his wrist when he reached to touch himself, still cotton-gloved.
“Give. I. Please.”
“Tell me you want to finish.”
“I – please, don’t stop – “
“All right,” came a voice that had become deeper and more gravelly, and the table thumped against the wall, Anthony’s whole thick length pulling nearly out and then slamming back into him over and over, and what spurted and squelched into him with a final shout was like fire and stars, and he wanted more even while he exploded over the table, howling.
When the room began to put itself back together he was lying across the walnut surface. The Arcana Smaragdina was under his belly. His breath was still slowing. Anthony lay chuckling against him, hair spilling over his shoulder.
“Bit’ve all right, that,” he said breathlessly.
I’ll have to tell them at the bakery that I had a carpenter in came crazily to Aziraphale’s mind.
Anthony slid from him with a succulent noise, then snapped his fingers. He found himself clean, and dry, but gloriously, mortifyingly sore, and all he could think of was getting that scalding cock inside him again, and he imagined a voice saying Well, Aziraphale, so you met this man and ten minutes later he fucked you into the wall, can you explain yourself, and his knees quivered as he stood.
“I don’t, ah – usually – “
“I know.”
The grin was back, roguish, but also a little frightening. “Used a little – leverage.”
Anthony lifted a hand to the sunglasses, pushed them back into the sweat-stuck crimson locks on his forehead. The eyes were unblinking, lid to lid the deep amber of tiger’s eye, the pupils slitted and bottomless.
Well. That explained a lot.
Aziraphale looked down at the Arcana, which was now adorned with a glurt of come on the page facing the woodcut. For some reason, he didn’t care.
“You are a – “
“Right in one,” said Anthony. “We just needed to check you out. Usually not quite so proactive, y’know, but I took a fancy to you. Like ’em soft and plump ‘n’ fluffy.”
He reached out to tip Aziraphale’s chin with a slightly clawed finger. “See, my bosses don’t take to collections of books like that. Bloody nuisance, mindin’ your own business, just pickin’ your toenails or groomin’ your tail or somethin’, and some pimply twat who’s got his hands on an ancient text draws on his mother’s basement floor and poof, you’re stuck until you can figure out how to make him fuck up. But if you aren’t sellin’ – “
“Ah – wouldn’t think of it – “
“ – can just tell my supervisors you’ll be fine long’s you’re monitored.” The grin spread. “And that I’ll take full responsibility for the surveillance. You’ll just need to get something delivered, oh, once a week, say?”
Aziraphale considered the – the proposition.
“I can do that,” he said. “And I can tell my – er – superiors that – “
He rubbed his neck. He’d been fighting it for several minutes. Fuck it.
The white wings unfolded from his back with a snap like a flag in a breeze, shedding light as they spread above him. He rolled his shoulders, shaking his head with a blissful sigh.
“Ah, that’s better. I can tell my higher-ups that any demonic activity in the area will stay under my direct observation. Does that seem like a reasonable bargain?”
Anthony’s grin almost met behind his head. “Well, fuck me,” he said.
“As it were.” Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow. “Is your name really Anthony?”
“Eh – just Crowley, really,” said the demon. “But, y’know, like I said, you fill up a form, they want a first name.”
“Well, Crowley, I think we have an arrangement.”
“An Arrangement,” pondered Crowley. “I like that.”
“No one will need to know anything.”
“Next week?”
“I’ll – ah – pencil it in.”
“No summoning, ‘kay?”
“Perish the thought.”
Crowley bent to pick up the brown serge shorts, tucked that truly magnificent member back into them without any sign of underpants being required, and looked around the room full of dusty treasures until his yellow eyes came to rest on Aziraphale again.
“Weren’t kiddin’,” he said. “This really is a place for the connoisseur.”