Collector's Item

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Aziraphale, on the other hand, has some trouble giving Ankh-Morpork up. Continued Discworld crossover.

DISCLAIMER: Still not mine, beyond the occasional stringing together of words.
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Crowley returned to London at the first available opportunity, grumbling about how he'd probably have to spend the next decade or so gargling hydrochloric acid. Aziraphale had intended to follow suit soon after, but made the mistake of purchasing a newspaper and finding reason to stay in Ankh-Morpork for a few more days.

It was five months before Crowley came back and more or less dragged the angel back to his bookstore. Aziraphale tried to keep tabs on the city (in the name of staying on top of foreign affairs), but couldn't let himself go back for fear of forgetting to leave again. It wasn't working out very well until the day the cat turned up.

He had just finished making his tea for the day when someone behind him said, "Pretty impressive collection of books you have here."

"Thank you," he replied automatically, then stopped. Whoever had spoken clearly was not Crowley, and he hadn't heard the front door open. He turned around, half expecting to find someone who wanted to talk him out of the shop, and didn't see anyone.

"No, I'm down here. You people are all alike in that regard. If the voice isn't at your eye level, it's not worth paying attention to."

"Er." Nothing in six thousand years had quite prepared Aziraphale for the experience of being cut down to size by a cat.*

"Like I was saying," the cat continued, "you seem to like giving books a good home. I don't suppose you'd mind a donation to your collection? The rats are looking to get rid of this, and I don't know where else to take it." He got up and stretched, revealing that he had been sitting on the book in question.

It had clearly seen better days, and Aziraphale absent-mindedly restored the thin volume to mint condition as he flipped through it. "I don't normally take children's books," he finally said, opting not to ask about the rats.

"But it's a rare volume. Only copy on this planet, I'd imagine."

"Well, thank you again. And you're certain you don't want anything in return, er..." He trailed off, realizing that calling this cat 'kitty' or anything similar would likely be a big mistake.

"The name's Maurice. And no, not as such. Can't stay here long, I have things to get back to in Ankh-Morpork."

Aziraphale nearly dropped the book at the sound of the city's name. "Oh, dear. Has anything... interesting happened there recently?"

Maurice arched his back again. "I don't know," he replied, as carelessly as he could manage. "Have you got any cream you could spare for a poor street cat?"

By the time Maurice left, Aziraphale found himself caught up in another arrangement.

*A talking cat, at any rate. Nonverbal cats cut people down to size all the time, regardless of any occult or ethereal nature.