DISCLAIMER: Yet again, I own nothing but the character of Franz. I am but a poor writer, hungry for reviews.
Seth Cohen was being held against his will, and he did not like it one bit.
"Summer, come on," he pleaded. "We've been here so long I may physically die of boredom."
His girlfriend, Summer, studied her turquoise-booted feet in the mirror. "What do you think of these ones?" she asked distractedly, momentarily glancing at the large pile of shoeboxes on the floor to her left.
"I think they are the same as the last pair."
"Those were aqua!" she said defensively. "These are turquoise. God, Cohen, are you blind?"
"Summer, please," he begged, the plea in his voice increasing to whine level. "We've been here three hours!"
After a few minutes of hedging over which shoes to buy, Summer eventually purchased the first pair she'd tried and they left the store. Walking over the Soho back streets—for, as Summer insisted, one couldn't go to London and not swing through the underground fashion capital of the world—their arms around each other, Seth suddenly saw a shining light in the distance amongst all the hipster boutiques and pubs. A sanctuary, if you will.
It was a bookshop of the old and dusty variety—his favorite kind. Big chain stores were nice and all, but they didn't have character like real bookshops did. Then again, this place was not likely to have the latest Chuck Klosterman, but that was minor enough to be overlooked. Eagerly he drew them toward the shop entrance.
Through the large picture window two men could be seen staring at each other behind the counter, both blond, one balding and one looking uncertain. Either they were related, or... well, judging by the attire of Señor Uncertain, another type of relationship could be interpreted. In any case, the tension could be felt even outside the shop, bristling against the window. Summer, however, was never one to avoid awkward or uncomfortable situations. She raised a fist and banged on the glass.
Inside the shop, two heads whipped around to face them. Señor Uncertain—who, they now saw, looked like a living J. Crew catalog—hurried over to let them in. Seth stepped inside cautiously, hesitant to encounter any kind of domestic quarrel, but any previous quarrels seemed to have been put on hold as the cardigan-clad man turned a smiling face upon them. "Is there anything I may help you with?" asked Uncertain, who then introduced himself as a Mr. Fell. Seth assured him there was nothing, that they were browsing, and to his relief the bookshop owner left them alone.
Aziraphale returned to the counter and an indignant-looking Franz. "When are you so eager for customers?" his cousin whispered urgently.
"I can't leave them outside, it's cloudy. It could storm on the poor dears." He focused his attentions on the small bundle of calligraphy pens next to the register. The pile was looking awfully untidy.
Franz disapproved of this poor lie, but let it go. "Oh. Well, I suppose I shall be off then. Things to do, you know." Aziraphale looked up, smiling, and nodded quickly before returning to the pens. Several minutes passed before the angel deemed the pile neat enough for his liking. Unfortunately, he noted that the two teenagers remained browsing. Rarely had he had customers spend so much time simply looking around; undoubtedly, this anomaly was due in part to the astounding amount of diversions the two found just by being in each other's company. Buying a book, it seemed, was becoming less of an actual plan and more of a theoretical idea used to tease each other. Aziraphale's inner softie(1) smiled. Their witty banter was quite cute, he thought, and somewhat familiar. Perhaps he had been listening to a bit too much of that newfangled "talk radio."
Or perhaps not, he realized with a jolt. The witty banter going on between the two teens sounded a smidgen like... well, like some of the conversations between he and Crowley.
In the corner of the bookshop, Seth kissed a giggly Summer on the nose as a fretting owner watched from the register.
It was late, and Aziraphale was all but plagued with nerves.
He sat at the table, a elegantly-shaped glass of wine in his hand, glancing at the clock. It was quite late... or early, his brain pointed out. It all depended how you chose to look at it. In any respect, Franz had been gone for far too long. Far, far too many hours. He took a sip of Moet and waited anxiously.
He sat, waited, thought. He imagined. Eventually his alcohol-enlivened musings turned toward the old days, and his posture slumped a little. He missed the old days, when the world was flat and the Host united. Before Lucifer Morningstar had torn apart what was meant to be the epitome of peace, and the creation of Hell had stretched the Earth into a sphere. Before airplanes, or speed trains, or freeways; before they were needed, because there was no distance to hold them back.
A small, rational voice in the back of his head told him to stop being silly. You can't second-guess ineffability, it reminded him politely. Things are better now; did we have tartan in the old days? Of course not. Be sensible.
Aziraphale straightened up in his seat, miracled the alcohol of his system, and waited.
(1) Approximately 82 of him.
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