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1800 A.D.
It was the grand opening of A.Z. Fell & Co.’s bookshop, and Aziraphale was having a ball.
Not a literal ball, although the only things missing were music and dancing. The atmosphere inside the bookshop was like a soirée, with several prominent authors, publishers, and other literary minds all gathered together to ooh and ahh appreciatively over the angel’s collection. Aziraphale flitted among the crowd, delighted to entertain the men and women who shared his passion for old books and manuscripts.
Crowley was there, too, lurking at the edges of conversation and watching the angel play social butterfly from afar. He knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t introduce him to his other guests. They both had to maintain plausible deniability, especially as Heaven seemed to be all up in Aziraphale’s business lately.
But Crowley was okay with that; it was more than enough to watch Aziraphale enjoy himself, rosy-cheeked and beaming, really in his element. He was like a ray of sunshine on a drab, cloudy day, brighter than any of the mortals in their short-waisted tailcoats and flowing dresses.
Aziraphale had set limited hours for his shop’s first day, and eventually it was closing time. He thanked the humans for coming as they wished him success and filed out the door into the foggy, lamplit evening.
All, save for one.
A middle-aged man lingered by the till, dressed in upper class finery and holding a leather-bound book in his hands. Crowley didn’t know the man’s name, only that he was a low-ranking noble who had an annoyingly arrogant attitude about him. A bit like Gabriel, if Crowley was feeling particularly ungenerous.
“Mister Fell,” the man said with a broad smile. “What a pleasure it has been. You know, I wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of yet another merchant pandering his wares in our neighborhood, but your store is a gem. I’m impressed.”
“Well, I do appreciate the warm welcome that Soho has given me,” Aziraphale replied with a polite smile, although to Crowley’s trained eye, it was a touch strained. “Ah, I see you’ve found my collection of Apuleius. I didn’t know you were a fan of Roman literature.”
Lord Smugington laughed and shook his head. “Oh, hardly! Especially not in the original Latin, I can’t read a lick of it. But the gilding on this cover is extraordinary. How much?”
Aziraphale’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “I beg your pardon?”
"The book, how much is it?”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened in alarm as he was confronted with the horrifying realization that people expect a bookseller to actually sell books.
"Erm..." He wrung his hands together. "Well, that one isn't — that is, I hadn't intended to —“
"Surely you know the cost of your own merchandise," Lord Smugington interrupted with a snorting laugh. “You are a bookseller, aren’t you?”
Crowley bit back a grin from where he was lingering among the bookshelves. He had brought up this very scenario several times, but Aziraphale insisted that he’d keep his “special collection” somewhere off-limits and leave the rest available for sale. Now, with one of his books in a human's boorish grip, Aziraphale looked about as miserable as he had while imprisoned in the Bastille, awaiting his execution.
It took all of Crowley’s willpower not to burst out and do an “I told you so” dance (a much cooler version of the “you were right” dance). Besides, it was more fun to watch the angel squirm. Crowley could always get the book back later if necessary.
“I…” Aziraphale visibly struggled with the man’s question before sighing softly. “Yes, of course I am a bookseller. How silly of me.”
He smiled, demure and conciliatory, but Crowley knew better.
Aziraphale walked over to the other side of the till where a large ledger rested. “If you’ll just pass me that —“ he held his hand out for the gilded book, “— I’ll look up the cost.”
Lord Smugington, looking especially smug, handed it over. Aziraphale kept it close as he flipped through the ledger and ran his pointer finger along perfectly detailed script. "Let's see... oh, I didn't list it alphabetically... hmm, it must be under the Latin subheading… no, not there. Perhaps it’s with the poetry…?”
Like divine intervention, the grandfather clock by the desk chimed out the hour.
Aziraphale let out a performative gasp. "Oh my goodness, would you look at the time! The shop is now officially closed.” He shut the ledger and then slipped the coveted book underneath the counter. "I'm afraid we’ll have to resume our business another day."
“What?! But I’m right here!” Lord Smugington stamped his foot impatiently. “You were about to quote me the price!”
"Yes, but it's against the trade association rules to conduct sales after shop hours.” Aziraphale stepped around the till and gently herded the man towards the door. “And I would certainly not want either of us to run afoul of the law.”
He ushered him over the threshold, the noble gawping like a freshly caught fish. “Mr. Fell, I really must protest about this —“
"Mind how you go!” Aziraphale replied cheerfully, shutting the door in his face. Crowley caught one last glance of Lord Smugington staring into the shop in a mixture of indignation and confusion before Aziraphale flipped the sign to “Closed” and drew the blinds.
Crowley gave the angel a moment of relief before stepping out of the shadows, clapping slowly, a giant shit-eating grin on his face. Aziraphale startled and brought a hand to his chest before rolling his eyes. “Oh, don’t you start.”
"What? I thought your technique to run down the clock was brilliant. Although if you'll recall, I did warn you that your bookseller roleplay was going to catch up to you eventually."
Aziraphale was already back at the counter, cradling the Apuleius collection to his chest like a mother reunited with her baby. "I'm not... whatever it is you just said. I do intend to sell books. But you heard that man, he only wanted this one because it looked pretty! He had no appreciation for its contents.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow over his shades. "Angel, not every human who wants to buy a book is going to love them as much as you do. What are you going to do when someone like him comes in tomorrow, hmm? Or the next day?"
Unsurprisingly, Aziraphale's expression turned adorably stubborn. "I'll think of something," he said finally. "Besides, it's my bookshop. I get to make the rules."
~*~
1950s
Over the next century and a half, Aziraphale had found many ways to avoid selling books: unpredictable hours, strange smells, unhelpful service — common tactics among secondhand booksellers in London. Contrary to popular belief, he did occasionally sell a book, but only under the most special of circumstances.
He had earned himself and his shop quite a reputation, not it mattered to his tenants, especially Vera Bell, the woman who owned the tiny record shop next door. Mr. Fell was a sweetheart, a gem of a landlord and a lover of music, as well. So what if he was eccentric? He was kind, and that was good enough for her.
A stack of newly pressed classical records was waiting for Mr. Fell, but when a couple of days passed without him collecting his order, Vera decided to bring them over instead. Sometimes Mr. Fell got too wrapped up in his inventory and needed a gentle nudge that the world was passing by outside his door.
As luck would have it, his bookshop was open, but Vera was disappointed to see that he already had company. It was Mr. Cross, an older resident from across the way, a neighborhood busybody, and not even the fun kind that shared entertaining gossip, but the mean kind that constantly complained about everybody else. He was currently engaging in his favorite activity with a clearly unreceptive Mr. Fell. Vera waited silently by the door, not wanting to intrude.
"This neighborhood already has a reputation," Mr. Cross ranted, spittle flying, "and your decisions are only making things worse!"
Mr. Fell's expression was one of infinite patience. "It would be a sin to leave my properties vacant, Mr. Cross, especially when there is still so much damage from the Blitz all across London. People need a place to live."
"That doesn't mean you have to be a bloody charity," the old man sneered. "You have foreigners living down the street, a single mother selling jazz —“
"Widowed," Mr. Fell corrected sharply. "Not that it should matter."
"Still ain't right," Mr. Cross replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "She's got all sorts of characters visiting her shop, who knows what she's getting up to with them in there."
Vera dug her fingers into the paper string wrapped around the stack of albums in her arms and cleared her throat, alerting both men to her presence.
Mr. Fell looked offended on her behalf, but there wasn't an ounce of shame on Mr. Cross's wrinkled, weaselly face. "Well, well, speak of the devil," he said with an unpleasant smile. "Surprised to see you out and about in the daytime, luv."
"Mister Cross."
Mr. Fell's tone made the old man whip his face back around, eyes widening in fright. Even Vera felt a chill run down her spine. Mr. Fell was positively fuming.
"I will not allow you to insult my tenant, she has just as much right to be here as you. Even more so, in fact, considering where your loyalties lie. Don't think I've forgotten that it was you who directed those dreadful Nazis to my shop in '41."
The color drained from Mr. Cross's face. "I was, uh. I was just —“ he sputtered helplessly. "I didn't know —“
"Well, I know." Mr. Fell's eyes gleamed with righteous fury. "I had hoped that you would learn from the error of your ways, but I was clearly mistaken. I want you out of my shop and out of my and my tenants' business, or, trust me, there will be Hell to pay. Do I make myself clear?"
Mr. Cross hung his head and murmured a very quiet, "yes, sir" before slinking out of the shop like a scolded school boy.
Vera watched him leave in amazement. "Bravo, Mr. Fell! I've never seen someone shut down that crotchety gossipmonger so effectively before."
Her landlord blinked, and all the hardness of his expression vanished in an instant. He blushed and waved his hands around as if caught making trouble. "Oh, my apologizes, dear girl, for witnessing all that unpleasantness."
"No, it was wonderful! You were like an avenging angel."
This only seemed to embarrass him more, so Vera wisely dropped the subject. "Here," she said, offering him the albums. "I brought over your order. Everything is there except the Bach. There's been a production delay, but I should have it by next week."
Mr. Fell smiled at her warmly, accepting the package as if it were a gift, his eyes lighting up in sheer delight. "Thank you so much, my dear, I can't wait to listen to them."
"I slipped in a couple of singles," Vera added as he untied the string and carefully rifled through the records. "I know bebop isn't your favorite, but I thought that redheaded friend of yours might enjoy them."
Mr. Fell's blush returned. "Oh, ah... I'm sure he will, but it isn't what you think, Vera. He's not my friend."
Vera smiled to herself. She was pretty sure she knew the reason why Mr. Fell refused to tolerate any bigotry in their little corner of Soho. At least, that was the conclusion she had come to, unless he was somehow a literal angel. "Of course not, Mr. Fell. My mistake."
~*~
1970s
Organized crime was nothing new in Soho. Frankie "the Butcher" Baldwin had worked his way up from petty gangster to brute enforcer on these very streets, although this was the first time that his boss had ever told him to extort a bookseller.
A.Z. Fell and Co. was an institution, and weirdly unaffected by the moral decrepitude surrounding it. In fact, the entire block seemed to be under Mr. Fell's protection, which made sense considering that he owned a number of buildings surrounding his establishment. Yet, so far as actual mobsters could tell, the bookseller was not one of their own. A marshmallow brought to life is how most people described him. Queer as the livelong day, like a character out of a Dickens novel (not that Frankie ever read any Dickens).
So it should be a piece of cake to get this bloke under the "protection" of Frankie's boss. A nice fat monthly payment to keep the bad guys from torching the joint.
The tricky part was staking the place out and waiting for it to actually be open, but one afternoon Frankie got lucky. He strutted in, out of place in his colorful sport coat and corduroy bell bottoms, gold chains glittering around his neck. The place was empty of people, but Frankie already felt a little claustrophobic by all the books and decorative crap that dominated the shelves and display tables. Jesus, was this guy a bookshop owner or a hoarder?
Frankie's beefy physique meant that he didn't have to do much to cause some "accidental" property damage. It took only one knocked over stack of books before the owner hustled his way over from the back of the shop. A total creampuff, from the looks of it. "Can I help you?" he asked in a tone that clearly indicated that he wanted to do no such thing.
"Yeah, Mr. Fell, right? Sorry about that, I don't know me own strength." Frankie grinned, showing off his gold tooth. "Nice place you've got here. My boss, he's worried something might happen to it. Lotta crime in the neighborhood. Lotta places getting trashed, blowed up, that sorta thing."
Mr. Fell seemed nonplussed about the implications. "I see. And he sent you to...?"
"Offer our services, of course. Jus ' a little something now and then. Y'know, to keep away the riffraff."
"Hmm." Mr. Fell eyed him dubiously. "Well, while I appreciate your boss's concern, Mister...?"
Frankie's grin sharpened. "Me friends call me Frankie."
Mr. Fell smiled politely. "Frankie. I don't require any protection from the 'riffraff', as you put it. My bookshop is perfectly safe."
"You sure about that?" Frankie patted another stack of books with a meaty hand. "Books are awful fragile things. Someone like me could come back here with a can of petrol and a lighter and whoosh! Everything goes up in flames."
The creampuff's eye twitched, even as he continued to smile politely. "My goodness, what a terrible thing to suggest. I'm starting to think that your business isn't entirely on the up-and-up, young man."
Frankie shrugged expansively. "What can I say? It is what it is. Now, can I go ahead and tell my boss you're that you're in, or do I need to 'suggest' stuff to you some more."
He swiped his hand over a display table, knocking its contents to the ground, then cracked his knuckles. He expected the bookseller to cave — the posh ones always did — but Mr. Fell's expression didn't change.
"No, I think I've gotten the message."
The soft bookseller stepped up to him, except he didn't seem so soft anymore. He was staring at Frankie, unblinking, his mouth a hard, unforgiving line. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows seemed to touch only him, casting the rest of the bookshop, including Frankie, in shadow.
"As I said, Frankie, I am more than capable of keeping my bookshop and its contents safe. You are not the first person to come in here and threaten me under the pretense of 'protection'. Would you like to know what happened to them?"
Frankie opened his mouth, but found that he couldn't speak.
"They realized the error of their ways and abandoned such shameful behavior. I'm hoping that you'll also reach the same conclusion. For you see, this isn't merely a bookshop. It's a safe haven for those who wish to remind themselves of the beauty and knowledge that humanity has created over the past several centuries. Every book in here has a story that is worth preserving. Have you done anything with your life that's worth preserving, Frankie?"
All through Mr. Fell's speech, he never blinked. Not once. He simply stared at Frankie with an inscrutable expression on his face. Frankie had met a lot of tough guys before, some of them real psychos, but never had any of them made him feel so small and scared. It was if those cold blue eyes were multiplied — thousands of them staring into his very soul, weighing it —
— and finding it unworthy.
It'd been a long, long time since Frankie had set foot in a church. Praying for forgiveness seemed pointless, as he never felt particularly sorry for all the nasty things he'd done. It was always someone else's fault, someone else's responsibility. But now, suddenly, he had the strangest urge to fall to his knees, to clasp his hands together and confess his sins. Anything to break the stare of this cold, righteous man standing before him.
Anything to get away from those terrible eyes!
"I believe that concludes our 'business', young man." Mr. Fell's voice sounded both far away and very, very close, as if speaking in the space between Frankie’s ears. "You can see yourself out."
Frankie gasped, as if a noose around his neck had suddenly been cut loose. He ran out of the shop, not daring to look back.
And just like all the other gangsters who had come before him, nobody ever saw or heard from him again.
(Although if someone happened to visit a remote monastery in a tiny mountain village somewhere far, far away from London, they'd meet a monk who had taken a vow of silence. And if they bothered to observe him, they'd note his peculiar habit of always shuddering whenever he passed by the stained glass angels.)
~*~
Early 2000s
Gentrification reached Soho eventually. The strip clubs were replaced with coffee shops and the gangsters were replaced with yuppies.
Frankly, Aziraphale preferred the gangsters.
"Excuse me!" A sharply dressed woman with a blonde bob stomped over to Aziraphale's desk and put her manicured hands on her hips. "You're the owner, yes? You need to call pest control! There is a snake on one of your bookshelves!"
"Hmm?" Aziraphale took his time removing his reading glasses and setting them on the desk with his book. "Oh, yes, he's... well, he's only a pest occasionally."
The woman's eyes boggled. "You already know about the snake?" She huffed and crossed her arms. "I know Soho is weird but this is too much. Why would you have a snake loose in your bookshop?"
"To help with the rodent problem," Aziraphale replied mildly.
"Rodent problem?"
As if on cue, a rat darted across the woman's shiny pumps and disappeared behind Aziraphale's desk. The woman shrieked and ran out of the store.
Aziraphale sighed and bent down to retrieve the rat, which climbed nimbly into his cupped hands. "Crowley!" he called out as he gently deposited the rat onto the desktop and gave it one of his biscuits. "I've told you to stop letting your little rodent friends loose in the bookshop. One of them could get stepped on!"
Crowley sauntered out of the stacks, somehow still exuding a slithery nature despite being human-shaped. "They need the exercise, 'specially with you spoiling them constantly."
He gave a pointed look at the rat who was happily munching away at its reward, little pink paws carefully holding the round biscuit as if it were a steering wheel. Aziraphale smiled at the little creature indulgently before wagging a finger at Crowley.
"And hanging around as a snake yet again. You're giving me a reputation!"
"As if you don't have one already," Crowley retorted with an easy grin. He clicked his tongue and the rat scurried up to his shoulder. It sat comfortably underneath his waterfall of red hair and resumed eating its treat.
Aziraphale took in the sight — smiling cocky demon and his little furry sidekick, and felt his heart flutter. Under the pretense of mischief, Crowley was once again keeping his books safe and driving off unpleasant customers. He wanted to thank him. No, more than that. He wanted to confess his affection, his love for his oldest and dearest friend.
Instead, he stifled down that too-large feeling and simply cooed, “Don’t you make quite the pair?” because it really was adorable, Crowley’s outwardly cool demeanor tempered by a friendly rodent getting crumbs on his blazer.
Crowley tried to scowl at the angel's playful tone, but couldn't seem to manage it. “He’s my minion,” he retorted, even as he reached up to pet the rat affectionately. “Speaking of which, we’re off to make some trouble. See you later, angel.”
He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and swaggered out of the shop.
“Mind how you go,” Aziraphale called out after him, waving goodbye. Only once the door shut behind him did the angel exhale, a soft and winsome sigh that fortunately no one was around to witness.
~*~
One Week After The Second Coming
Aziraphale glared at the trio of former archangels gathered at his doorstep: Michael, her nose in the air as if she was too good for the bookshop, Uriel, stone-faced as always, and Saraquel, the only one with the decency to look embarrassed to be there.
"I believe that the Almighty made it quite clear that Crowley and I are to be left alone," he said with icy civility. "Rather audacious of you to turn up at our door. You're lucky that Crowley is off running errands or you'd all be turned into newts."
“The Almighty also instructed us to learn about Earth from the humans themselves. You helped both Gabriel and Muriel obtain that knowledge, you can certainly do the same for us.”
“No, I will not.” Aziraphale frowned at his former superior. “Now leave, or do I have to ring up Jesus again?”
Michael visibly cringed at that.
“Aziraphale…” Uriel’s voice was surprisingly plaintive. “We’ve never done this before, learning from humans. It’s —“
"Humiliating," Michael muttered, her expression downcast.
"Humbling," Saraquel corrected, giving Michael a stern look, before returning her gaze to Aziraphale. “All this time, we thought we were doing what the Almighty wanted. The last thing we want to do is screw it all up again.”
"I know," Aziraphale replied, not unkindly. “But I am not the one to teach you. Even if I wanted to, some things you need to figure out on your own.”
“But —“ Michael looked visibly distraught. “What if we make a mistake?”
“Well, I have good news for you there,” Aziraphale answered before shutting the door, “As long as you are trying your best, the Almighty is very forgiving.”
~*~
Another Couple of Days After That
The sign on the bookshop was flipped to “Closed”, but Crowley walked in, anyway, as easily as if he had a key. (He did, somewhere, but it wasn’t necessary.) He dropped his sunglasses on the horse statue on Aziraphale’s desk and a package of pastries on the desk itself. “Angel! I’m back!”
"Upstairs, dear!" Aziraphale called from the top of the spiral staircase.
Crowley jogged up the steps easily. Aziraphale had shooed him out of the bookshop earlier, claiming that he was setting up some sort of surprise, and Crowley was curious what the angel had been up to in his absence.
Aziraphale greeted him with a kiss and a warm smile, then angled his head to take a peek at the first floor. “Oh! Did you get us something from the new bakery down the street?”
“Later,” Crowley said, redirecting the angel’s attention. “I want to see this surprise of yours first.”
Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. “Impatient,” he teased. He slipped his hand into Crowley’s and led him to the bedroom at the end of the hall. “I did a bit of redecorating while you were out.”
"A bit of —“
Crowley stopped short when he opened the door and took in the view. The formerly stuffy Victorian bedroom had been transformed. Gone was the old bed with its dust-catcher ruffles and too small frame. In its place was a spacious sleigh bed made up with a soft, dove gray duvet and a mound of comfy pillows. Fairy lights were strung up on the walls, and the clutter that had once dominated most of the room was gone, save for a single stack of books on Aziraphale’s nightstand.
“Ta-da!” Aziraphale gently pushed past Crowley and entered the bedroom, giving a little flourish with his hands to show off the space. “I know we’ve started house hunting, but that might take some time, and in the meanwhile I don’t want you to feel like you’re simply sleeping over when you stay the night, so I poked around until I found some items that felt more like… well, like us.”
"You... you picked out all this?"
Aziraphale smiled shyly and fussed with one of the pillows. "I had a little help," he admitted. "But mostly I thought about what we both liked... you do like it, don't you?"
Crowley bit his lip, a well of emotion threatening to overflow his senses. "Yeah," he croaked. "I like it a lot."
Aziraphale's smile blossomed and he walked over to Crowley and enveloped him in a hug. Crowley tried his best not to cry, but bless it, this bedroom makeover meant a lot to him. Not so much the furnishings themselves, although it would be nice to sleep on a mattress that wasn’t as old as the bookshop. No, it was the care that Aziraphale had put into it. He wasn't simply carving out a little space for Crowley to curl up in, he was opening up his whole damn heart and giving Crowley a proper home.
“It’s perfect, angel,” he said once he could trust his voice again. He squeezed Aziraphale once and then pulled back to look him in the eyes. “In fact, I think we should take it for a test run.”
A snap of his fingers turned his clothes into black silk pajamas.
“You want to go to sleep? Now?” Aziraphale laughed. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“So? I’ll just take a little nap, then.” He gestured to Aziraphale’s nightstand. “You already have plenty of reading material to keep you occupied while I snooze.”
Aziraphale sighed, but there was a smile on his face, too. “If you insist, darling.”
A snap of his fingers and he was also in pajamas. Tartan, naturally, but the fabric was soft and felt good under Crowley’s fingers.
They got into bed, and Crowley groaned appreciatively. Now this was a proper mattress. He sank into the pile of pillows, then rolled to his side so he could effectively drape an arm and a leg over Aziraphale. They cuddled and exchanged a few lazy kisses, but Crowley hadn’t been kidding about the nap, and soon enough his eyes began to drift shut.
“Thought you were gonna read?” he murmured when Aziraphale made no move to get a book, and instead simply held Crowley close and played with the demon’s hair.
“Maybe later,” Aziraphale replied softly.
As he slipped into a proper doze, the angel placed a gentle kiss on his forehead and whispered, “Welcome home, Crowley.”