Chapter Text
Crowley loved Whickber Street. Every morning, he pushed his dark glasses up his nose and congratulated himself on his instinct to buy the shop in this cosy part of Soho.
The roaring nightlife was just around the corner, and this street was a gem of little coffee shops, pubs and restaurants, seasoned with some boutiques and some occult themed stores. Even a shop supplying magicians with their equipment was located next to a record store selling a variety of the old classics. He himself had bought some well-loved records of queen from a blond flustered lady dressed with a cozy cardigan.
However, if you were to ask him which other shop was a must-visit, he would point to the old antiquarian bookshop across the street in an instant. He would highly recommend to brows the rows upon rows of bookshelves. Nevertheless, his recommendation would come with a warning; beware of the shop-owner! This particular specimen was one of the kindest, the gentlest and loveliest of all of them; with the slight shortcoming of no interest to part with any of his wares. He would warn you, that this particular individual had been seen breathing fire down the back of his patrons if they did not handle the exhibited books with utmost care and thrown certain, sticky fingered, people out. He was rumoured to be the guardian of the books. A dragon to collect ad hoard them all. These tales had not come to Crowley from his own experience, but by the hear say which he had picked up from the whispers on the street.
To know why Crowley had not passed the threshold of A.Z. Fell and Co. – Antiquarian and Rare Books you have to understand, that he had to uphold his image. He certainly was not of the studious kind and preferred to keep an air of dark mystery around himself. He had learned to guard his heart and soft edges through his youth. How successful he was, was up for debate. Many of his patrons had seen a gentle smile tuck at his lips when they purchased a bouquet of flowers for their loved ones and were lectured about the meaning of flowers in that process. Especially young lovers had found themselves with a hefty discount when their money would not buy the bouquet they had originally mind for their loved ones.
All in all, Crowley was a romantic at heart; hidden behind a dark, mysterious and stubbornly scruffy outside.
Said romantic was looking forward to his first winter and changing of the years on Whickber Street. Especially, after he had been bullied by Ms Sandwich into attending one of the many meetings of the local Shopkeepers & Street Traders Association of Soho. Unfortunately, A.Z. Fell or his Co. had not been able to attend this o any of their previous meeting. However, since he was able to look at the compassionate gentleman from across the street, hidden behind luxurious greenery, he seized the opportunity to find out more about the aforementioned gentleman and absorb any gossip he could get his hands on.
Especially Mr Brown had proven to be an bottomless source of information, who had memorised Mr Fell‘s opening hours by heart and analysed them well-enough to browse the stuffed shelves frequently. What Mr Brown did not know, but Crowley had observed, was that since he had broken the code: „I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 AM, perhaps 10 AM. Occasionally I open as early as 8, but I’ve been known not to open until 1 – except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 5:30 PM, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night; you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open during normal hours unless I’m elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays, see Tuesdays.)“, the times had grown eve more erratic, and A. Z. Fell had closed the shop more often without prior announcement.
Crowley was not sure if he should be glad about this development, since the more frequent closing and opening did grant him more glances at the soft, white-blond curls, or if he should be bothered, tempted into some shenanigans since Mr Browns presence seemed to bother the kind bookkeeper. Not today! Today Mr Brown was an endless source of information he had not been able to gather during the past 9 months.
He had learned about A. Z. Fell‘s tastes. Apparently, Mr Fell enjoyed fine wines, fancy chocolates and had developed a deeply found love for French desserts, especially crêpes.
The shopkeepers had agreed to decorate the entire street for the festive season to attract more tourists and boost their pre-Christmas sales.
Thus, Crowley had been busy during the weeks approaching the first of advent. He bought fairy lights, wrapped Christmas wreathes, and ordered poinsettias, amaryllis, red and white roses as well as miniature evergreens. One part of his shop had been dedicated to scented candles and smelled of cinnamon, oranges, pine and vanilla. Regarding the decorations he decided to stay with the classics, gold and red ornaments were strategically placed in various corners, inviting patrons to linger and delve deeper into his green garden of Eden. Especially the dark red of the baubles complemented the branches of holly, which showed off red berries. He was proud of himself and comparing his decoration to the other shopkeepers on the street he should be. Instead of loud singing Santa Clauses or shrill fairy lights flashing in various colours, his shop was a classic oasis, aimed to sooth the nerves of the people from the onslaught of Christmas Carols and flashy lights.
Curiosity had him peeking out across the street to see the process A. Z. Fell was making. But even on the 30th of November the windows of the bookshop were kept darkness, and only the shadows of hardened book-lovers who could not be persuaded by gentle, or harsher, coaxing please not to part with their money could be made out. None of whom, who managed to leave with a purchase, had said book wrapped in festive paper… Opposite of his side of Whickber Street, everything looked as usual, as if Mr Fell had not received the memo to dust the Christmas decorations.
Maybe it was a ruse, and he had planned to show everyone on the first of December how a proper decoration was done and to put all other shop owners to shame.
However, the first of December came and went, and still no lights shone through the windows of the bookshop. There was no wreath at the door, and no tree had been decorated under the round sunlight window in the middle of the shop – nothing.
During the first days of December Crowleys anticipation grew into worry. What if Mr Fell had fallen, while searching for the decorations, and was buried underneath a pile of boxes overflowing with Christmas trinkets? The shop had not been opened during the past week, and he had not been able to make out a flash of blond hair.
As his worry grew, he decided to seek out his best source of information on the man who intrigued him from afar, Mr Brown.
He regretted his decision to meet up with the man as soon as he was subjected to the extremely unkind comments about Mr Fell’s abilities as a shopkeeper. About him not being a team-player and tarnishing the seasonal display of Whickber Street, to his suitability as a vender. Mr Brown explained in great detail to Crowley that A. Z. Fell & Co. was rather a mausoleum of old, dusty tomes and that said owner was offended on a regular basis as soon as a customer ventured to purchase one of these treasures. That his business had managed to keep running for such a long time was a miracle indeed. Surely something shady must be going on behind closed doors.
Crowley was left with two useful tip-ids of information: that Mr Fell had not and in all likelihood would not participate in the run for the flashiest, brightest and most seasonal decoration on Whickber Street and that a sighting of that soft-spoken and gentle person would grow rarer the faster Christmas approached.
As he watched the dark windows from across the street, for any signs of a golden hallow, a flash of beige or a tartan bow tie, a conviction settled into Crowleys heart, if Mr Fell refused to allow the Christmas spirit into his heart and home, Crowley would show it to him and prove that it was worth a second look. A soul which supported so many people around him, in so many a quiet ways should be cherished and celebrated, especially this time of the year.