One day, nine months after the failed Apocalypse, a knock came at the bookshop door.
Crowley and Aziraphale were situated in the back corner; Aziraphale at his desk and Crowley sprawled out on his sofa.
At first, the knock was timid. Aziraphale, not wanting to deal with customers just as he always did, ignored it and hoped that they would take a hint that the shop was closed.
But the pounding grew louder, more desperate. The angel sighed, excused himself, and went to the door. On opening it, he was met with a short young woman who was shivering in the pouring rain. Her eyes behind her foggy, soaked glasses were desperate. "Oh dear. Are you all right?"
Her voice was shaky and quiet, and Aziraphale had to strain to hear her over the downpour. "T - the University Library didn't have the books I - I needed and they s - said that this place h - h - had them."
Aziraphale could see the backpack straps over her shoulders. She was a student. An unfortunate student who had gotten caught in the rain and would probably catch her death if Aziraphale left her exposed to the elements any longer.
"Well, do come in." Damn this empathetic heart. He smiled and stepped aside so that the girl could come in. Even her steps were shaky, as she was soaked to the bone. When she stepped inside the warm bookshop and Aziraphale closed the door, he saw her shoulders relax. She let out a sigh of relief. He noticed a few things emanating from the girl, as angels could see auras just as witches could: along with the chill, she was shy and anxious.
"What were the books you needed, dear girl?" he asked.
The girl fished a crumpled up index card with a list from her pocket, damp, but still legible.
Aziraphale bustled about the shop, gathering the books from her list. He placed them on the table near the hearth.
"Thank you, I promise I won't take long at all." Her steps were careful, so as not to track water all over the place. What she didn't notice was that with each step, she was drying off. By the time she reached the sofa, her clothes were practically dry, but her hair still damp.
When she went to clean the water droplets off of her glasses, she was surprised to find that her shirt was completely dry. It wasn't even cold, and she knew that there was no way that standing inside by the fire for three minutes did the trick.
"Don't rush." He smiled before walking back to his desk, where Crowley was giving him a questioning look. They were thankfully out of earshot from the girl but still spoke in whispers.
"What was that all about?" Crowley asked.
"She's a student, and was freezing half to death out there in the rain." Aziraphale was too big-hearted and Crowley swore it would get him in more trouble than he could handle one day. They both glanced at the girl, who was being ever-so-gentle in turning the pages of the antique books. They were books on architecture and restoration and how to preserve old materials. They were books Aziraphale had collected because they were different, but had sat on the shelves collecting dust for decades as no one found any interest in them. In fact, some of had been written in German.
While the girl's left hand slowly turned the pages, her right hand was quickly jotting down notes in her notebook.
"And you're not worried she's going to ruin your precious books?" Usually, Aziraphale was such a stickler about who he let touch certain books, which books were allowed to be sold, and so on. He didn't even like customers, as they would rather buy the old books instead of admiring them. He too even surprised himself when he allowed the girl, whose name he had not gotten, to read through them. But then again, they were just odd books he had collected, not his Wildes.
Aziraphale shook his head, "She looks harmless, Crowley. Don't know why you're so worried." He picked up his mug of cocoa, heated it back to its desired warmth in his hands, and took a sip.
"Not to mention, she went from soaking wet to bone dry in record time, Mr. Discreet."
The girl, desperately trying to translate the German text in front of her, was finding it more difficult than usual with the two men across the room so obviously whispering about her.
"I can hear you, you know." She didn't raise her head from the book, but she could probably tell out of the corner of her eye that she had caught the men's attention.
They didn't talk about her for the rest of the evening — or, at least, they got much better at whispering.
An hour went by before she finally looked up from the table and saw that the rain had stopped. She packed her things in her bag and Aziraphale stood and excused himself from his and Crowley's conversation to lock up the shop after she had left.
"What is it, may I ask, that you're researching?" The more Aziraphale thought about it, the more intrigued he was on why a young girl would need such peculiar books. He had lots of students come in for books on history and of course, books of famous authors and poets, but this was a first.
"Oh, I'm writing my senior thesis. I study Historic Preservation at University College London." She slung her bag over her shoulders. "Thank you so much for letting me use those books. You have no idea how much I needed them, and our library didn't have them. Not that I like our library anyway. It's far too crowded and noisy and I can never find a place to sit alone."
With her being dry now, it was the first time Aziraphale really got a good look at the girl. She had dark red hair, almost the shade Crowley's, and icy-blue eyes that resembled Aziraphale's. Light freckles were scattered across her nose and cheeks. She was a rather pretty young girl, but she hid behind glasses that didn't suit her and long hair that she pulled forward to cover her face. Aziraphale could sense things about places and people as well. He could tell when someone was loved or was very loving, he could tell when someone was sad, when they were angry and when they were...lonely. And this girl was extremely lonely.
Aziraphale didn't know what came over him, but he told the girl that she could come back to the bookshop whenever she needed; that he would make sure no one took the books on her field of study, not that he expected anyone to take them. Perhaps it was because he felt for the girl, as he does most students he sees working themselves to the bone trying to graduate. Or perhaps it was because this girl in front of him was in some desperate need of human interaction. Behind them, Crowley's jaw might as well have hit the floor.
She was about to leave when Aziraphale asked, "Oh, and I forgot, what's your name, dear girl?"
"Oh!" She gave an embarrassed smile. "It's Eve."