Would you believe I haven't even finished the book yet, and I'm already writing a fic? Watched the show, yes, but I'm only about halfway through the book. I'm afraid I couldn't resist. It just sort of...happened. Quite tickety-boo.
Enjoy!
For those who liked to find a nice place to read when their home lacked one, there were limited options in London's Soho. Parks were well enough, but only if it wasn't raining and not too windy. Even sunny days weren't much good if your pages kept getting blown about. There were shops, but they could get loud, and for the more particular reader you might have to walk a long way before you found a place that had food or tea worth buying to secure a table.
Few readers who were so picky in where they enjoyed their tales knew of Mr. Fell's antique bookshop, and it wasn't something they readily shared.
Anathema Device was one such picky reader, especially if she was reading one of the texts passed down from a notably eccentric but literarily talented ancestor. That wasn't to say she, like her reading companions, didn't enjoy other writings. Biographies, Tolkien, various other genres, even fanfiction. Her tastes were broad, and when not reading her ancestor's copies she usually used a tablet. She wasn't the only one, the array of others who read there used all mediums available to the modern bookworm. A few were her own age, in secondary school, there was even the occasional primary school student. The rest were in university, a few adults thrown in with the pensioners. Anathema would have never met them otherwise, but over time she'd learned their names, and they hers, even if the majority of their time was spent in various worlds. Something made easier by the assortment of comfortable couches and armchairs scattered about the shop, many of which had little tables next to them for your teacups and pastry plates.
They might not have been allowed to enjoy this haven, but Mr. Fell seemed to be one of those shop owners who had a shop not so much to sell his wares but as a place to keep his collection. It was a source of amusement, seeing him carry out his various tactics to keep the occasional shopper from buying anything. The only thing that made any real money in this shop was the neat miniature café tucked against one wall, apparently put in by the suggestion of his often-absent husband. They'd known very soon after meeting him he was as straight as a rainbow, of course, but on her fifth visit Anathema had seen a lanky, somewhat androgynous man in sunglasses yank Mr. Fell behind the shelves for a very thorough kiss.
Apparently that same man had suggested Mr. Fell take advantage of the fact he harbored bookworms for extended periods. He now had a nice little bar which he used to serve cocoa, coffee, an assortment of teas, dainty sandwiches, and a few pastries. Mr. Fell was also apparently a foodie who enjoyed making them as much as he did eating them. Supposedly he was a text translator by trade, which explained how he managed to afford this place, but he seemed to spend as much time fussing about the shop as he did transcribing Old English or Hebrew to modern English. What the husband did for work, he had been addressed in an even more flustered tone than usual as 'Crowley', Anathema wasn't sure. Though when he manned the bar any coffee you got was guaranteed to be Irish. He wasn't around much, and aside from being amusingly sarcastic he was well enough.
All in all, a very cozy haven for bookworms. Even if the mildew did get strong whenever a particularly persistent buyer hung around too long, or if the central air or heating mysteriously stopped working for similar reasons. Even if Mr. Fell once went on a truly impressive rant about underage drinking when he caught his husband trying to give a thirteen-year-old an Irish coffee because he was being "too annoying".
Minor issues aside, it was a place no one was willing to jeopardize. In fact, if they were at a good stopping point in whatever they were reading, they would go so far as to help Mr. Fell in his efforts to discourage buyers. He always gave you a free slice of cake if you managed it, and he always noticed even if you were subtle about it. As far as Anathema was concerned, it was even more reason not to mention to anyone the presence of his pet snake.
There was a tank at the far wall, decently sized with all the trappings a snake might want. A rock to hide under or lay on, a sturdy branch to hold its weight, a bit of plastic foliage, and a water dish that was always full. Sometimes there was indeed a snake in there, lazing about, but it only seemed to be there on the weekends. She rarely saw it outside of Saturday and Sunday, actually, barring various bank holidays. And even then, it was rarely in its tank.
The first time always gave new visitors a scare, but once assured it was the most unreasonably tame snake you could imagine they would agree to keep mum. Anathema saw it slither through the stacks on occasion, or lazing about the shelves, which it seemed to prefer over its branch. She wasn't sure what species it was, and Mr. Fell had never told them that either, but it was long and black with a dark red tinge along its belly, and vividly yellow eyes. Half the time it wasn't even awake, though it would occasionally crack an eye and flick its tongue at her before apparently going back to sleep should she sit someone near it.
Other times it was with Mr. Fell. On notably cold days it was coiled loosely about his shoulders like a fashionable scarf. On notably sunny days it would bask in the higher windows where passersby wouldn't stop and point and wail to the nearest authority figure. Last November Anathema had come into the shop one unbearably cold day to find Mr. Fell sitting in an armchair with a set of knitting needles and a ball of soft black yarn, in the process of knitting what appeared to be a very long, armless sweater. Anathema had deliberately sat in sight range that day, and had had the distinct pleasure of seeing Mr. Fell tie off his rather neat end result and proceed to roll it down over the length of his pet. It had been a wonder how the creature had allowed this to be done to its person, though it did look oddly cute. Anathema was, however, forced to demote her opinion on the average snake's ferocity when it allowed Mr. Fell to coo over how fetching his new sweater was, why hadn't he let him do it sooner, and lightly petted his head.
While she personally kept a respectful distance, Anathema had become used to the snake. It was as much a fixture of this place as the collection of rare bibles behind glass, or the line of various tea tins behind the bar, or Mr. Fell himself. A little odd, perhaps, but perfectly harmless.
Unknown to Anathema, who was currently settling into a particularly interesting fantasy novel in her favorite of the overstuffed armchairs with a cup of cocoa on its accompanying little table, Mr. Fell was in the process of tidying the bar. It was his custom, after a surge of students arrived once released by their schools. It filled him with hope for the future, having his little flock of young readers harboring here, though there were elder ones too. It had begun purely by accident, then accumulated over the last ten years or so. Crowley joked about it, poking him in the ribs and saying things like, "It's just like you, only wanting people to read in your bookshop and never buy anything." Putting in the little bar had been his idea, and he grumbled less now that those who hung about actually did buy something. Aziraphale thought it was a splendid idea, though not for the money. He too liked the occasional biscuit or warm drink while he read, and he felt it was the least he could do, since these lovely people had to endure things like unpleasant temperatures or Crowley's old socks placed just inside air vents. He had an alternative source for the mildew scent, but when the individual was particularly unpleasant they were shown no mercy.
While his main source of income was transcribing texts, he was fluent in four languages and not just when it came to restaurant vocabulary, the bookshop was his passion. Much like Crowley and his Bentley, painstakingly restored. Speaking of which, where had his husband gone? He ran a nursery on the opposite side of Soho, and had given himself the day off. Where was he?
Sidestepping to peer between isles, Aziraphale checked his tank. Empty. Oh dear. The regulars were used to his husband slithering around or lazing about, but a rather young couple had come in for the first time. This could be quite tickety-boo.
"Crowley?" he called softly, checking the usual places said man liked to lounge.
A soft hiss made him look up. A black head peeked over the edge of a shelf, tongue flickering. He looked entirely unrepentant.
Glancing back towards the new couple, Aziraphale hurried over and reached up both hands. "What are you doing up there, my dear? I thought you despised windowsills this time of year."
Naturally Crowley didn't respond, not verbally, though he did slither down Aziraphale's arms to settle about his shoulders. He smiled tightly as the snake's cold, scaly nose nuzzled his ear fondly. Not an apology, just a gesture of affection.
"Since when do you hang about the children's books?" he muttered, going back to work at the bar. People were far less likely to protest a snake's presence if it was with him and not just roaming freely. "Honestly. I don't mind you napping on the shelves, but kindly don't do it there." It was among the first edition tomes deliberately placed out of the reach of grubby fingers, but still.
That time his husband's hiss was decidedly unrepentant. Aziraphale sighed, but gave up. He took some dishes to the back to be washed later, then returned to his post upfront. He did have a desk, but he didn't use it as much. Not during his open hours, which had become more regular since he discovered he'd accidently created a haven for fellow booklovers.
The young couple looked a bit surprised to see him wearing a snake, but they did buy two cups of tea and some finger sandwiches before settling down in a window couch. That done, Aziraphale settled at his desk and began translating a textbook from Japanese to English.
He continued this with relatively few interruptions as Crowley dozed, until the shop closed at approximately six o'clock that evening. Once it was locked up, he climbed up to the flat that made up the upper two stories above the shop. Crowley left his shoulders at that point, slithering down to the floor. Aziraphale hung up his coat, neatly rolled up his sleeves, and washed up in preparation for dinner. Crowley resumed his humanoid shape, rising to his full height which put him at three inches over Aziraphale, and stretching in a decidedly languid fashion. He was in his preferred clothing, which only enhanced how skinny the man was. How he managed to stay that way when he ate like a starved teenager, Aziraphale had no idea. Personally, he was on the…soft side. He knew this, and in all honesty their kind rarely got fat. It was meant to be a boon of being a Shifter, they had high metabolisms, but he'd become a bit sedentary in his middle age. It didn't help that Crowley enjoyed baking delightful desserts and swigging wine as much as he did yelling at plants. Naturally Aziraphale had to join him, one did not allow one's husband to drink alone, particularly when it was an excellent vintage.
"'S alright, I've got it. Take a load off, yeah?"
Aziraphale paused, standing in front of their open fridge with an onion in one hand and spinach in the other. "Oh? You're sure?"
Crowley waved a hand, plucking the veg from his fingers. "I've been napping half the afternoon anyway. Besides, you always rip the shells."
Grimacing, Aziraphale let him take over the kitchen, knowing his was right. Even if they were stuffed before they were cooked, manicotti shells could be tricky, a tragedy since they both enjoyed the dish. He walked into their living room, extending his arms over his head and lowering them slowly, tilting his head from side to side. When he raised his arms again, cloth was melting into flesh that was in turn sprouting feathers. The change took mere seconds, if that. It had been a few days since he'd had a proper shift, he was due, and it would take time for the food to cook once it was prepared.
Neither he nor Crowley were what one might call common Shifter breeds. There weren't many snakes about, and certainly not many in Britain. Avian Shifters were much the same. Humans who saw him would think Aziraphale a sulphur-crested cockatoo, rather than a bird of prey that made up the majority of his breed. Much like snakes, there weren't many of his kind here, but he was alright with that.
Ruffling his feathers, Aziraphale flew around the room a few times before settling on a perch by the window. He peered out, light fading over the cityscape. Perhaps they could go for a walk this evening. Flying in London got a bit tricky, though it was far less so than it would be in Australia. He ignored the fact that part of his going soft was likely him preferring to go on walks perched on Crowley rather than on his own two feet.
As the last sunlight faded, Aziraphale flew into the kitchen, settling on Crowley's shoulder, which was thin enough to make a branch-like perch. His body heat made it considerably more comfortable than a branch, though. It was part of why non-Shifter birds like sitting on fingers or other human body parts, even their feet could hurt after a time.
His husband was in the process of pouring sauce onto the bottom of a pan, a bowl of stuffing sitting at the ready. Craning his head a bit, the snowy white cockatoo preened some of the ruffled red hair conveniently at eye level. When they'd first gotten together Crowley had grumbled and complained and even swatted at the bird when he did this, but these days he bore the gesture of affection with only the occasional grumble or deliberate shrug. At current he was too occupied to do either. Food was a guaranteed distraction.
Aziraphale stayed here as the manicotti was prepared and put into the oven, its doubled recipe taking a bit longer to cook than usual. After that they watched the Golden Girls while waiting for it. Aziraphale did resume his human form when it was time to eat, a process that was very different for him than it was for his husband.
Crowley, in his opinion, always ate as though he were a real snake and his food was trying to escape. It made dining in public a bit tricky when he wasn't in the mood to display restraint. Honestly, if he could eat by just pouring food straight down his gullet without fear of choking, he likely would. Tonight, this meant he devoured his half of the pasta with barely an attempt at chewing, gulping it down in approximately three minutes. Aziraphale took a good deal longer. He preferred to consume food with far more dignity, enjoying each bite. Savoring and appreciating it, not a crumb out of place when it could be prevented, as he felt it should be. They'd reached something of a truce, in that Crowley wouldn't complain about having to wait while he ate if Aziraphale didn't complain about what he considered a lack of appreciation.
He took charge of cleaning the kitchen while Crowley sprawled himself over a bar stool. That done, he resumed his feathered shape and alighted on his husband's shoulder once more as Crowley let himself out. He strolled in his admittedly unique fashion through Soho, his gate oddly lulling for the yellow-crested bird perched on his shoulder. He enjoyed the sights, the smells, the sounds of nightlife as people bustled about. Some people stared a bit, at the man in all black with a white bird on his shoulder. A few snapped what were likely videos or pictures for social media, part of a phenomena he had never fully grasped.
Theirs was a simple life of simple pleasures, despite the general lack of normally one might have expected from two Shifters. Once upon a time Aziraphale had considered greater aspirations, but…he was happy here. Things changed over time, they had to, Shifters were as mortal as humans. He wasn't prone to bouts of philosophy beyond what he considered as common sense or stupidity, but he knew Crowley felt the same. The man got to lay around a comfortable bookshop in his snake form without people squealing for heaven's sake. Unless Aziraphale was mistaken, he was certain the braver of his regulars had begun feeding him meat from sandwiches. Last week he had witnessed Anathema deliberately placing a saucer with half a slice of cake on a bookshelf where Crowley had been enjoying the afternoon sun.
Not the most conventional life, Aziraphale would admit, but it was his, and as he rode through Soho's nightlife upon his husband's shoulder, he wouldn't trade it for anything.
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