It began with a tinkle.
Many things do, broadly speaking, in the sense of being heralded by some foreboding omen or harbinger of fate. Whether it is the sound of trumpets commanding the first march to war, or a levitating stranger with technicolour wings come to tell you awkwardly about that metaphysical one-night-stand you didn't know you'd had, it was strange how great happenings tended to bring their own thunder before the lightning – and unlike more invisible instigators of doom, they almost always went down in the history books.
And so this, as well, began with a tinkle.
This particular tinkle chimed inoffensively from the little brass bell hung against the door and served as a very reliable sign of potentially great annoyances in the uncomfortably close future. If the little brass bell were sentient enough to understand how the sound of it ringing had come to be loathed, and had tear ducts, it would weep.
Aziraphale looked up from his book.*
"Nice place you got here," the man in the doorway said appreciatively, leaning languidly against the door, which creaked in protest. He was wearing a suit and sunglasses. He was distinctly not Crowley.
"Thank you, my dear chap," Aziraphale said. He carefully tucked the book into his desk drawer. ** He rose from the chair, smoothed out the wrinkles in his jumper and crossed the room to stand in front of the intruder, who, annoyingly enough, turned out to tower a foot above him. "Anything I can help you with?" Aziraphale asked levelly, seeking out the eyes behind the sunglasses with the penetrating look of someone with years of practice.
"Er." The shady gentleman looked down at him, as unnerved as people usually are when faced with the unsmiling face of someone who very obviously ought to be smiling and is quite good at it. Then he leered and leaned against the door even more aggressively. "Like I said, nice place. Very... what do you call it. Authentic. Yes. An authentic, antique book shop straight out of the good old days***, very nice. Shame if-"
"If anything were to happen to it?" Aziraphale asked innocently.
"Um. Lots of-"
"Fire hazards, yes, you're quite right, I'm afraid."
The man stared.
Then he bristled. "Look. It's just a matter of protocol, alright? You can't just charge in and make demands like some crass B-list film villain. You gotta try to have style."
"I assure you I'm quite familiar with style, good sir. Perhaps you should reach for some lower-hanging fruit, so to speak."
"Wha-? Okay, seeing as you obviously know the drill, I'm going to make this very clear to you-"
"I think you should leave," Aziraphale interrupted, very gently.
The man smirked. "Or else what? You'll call the cops?"
The angel looked puzzled. "Whatever for?"
Without meaning to, the man took a small step back. He was uncomfortable the way actors are when they realise that the script they've spent the night memorising has been changed and they'd missed the memo. He vaguely felt that his target was standing a bit too close, especially for someone who should be shaking in their boots. A deeper, animal part of him was also coming to realise Aziraphale had not broken gazes with him, blinked or breathed with any consistency**** since the conversation had started.
Surreptitiously, he felt for the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
It wasn't there.
He gulped.
"Y-you'll regret this," he promised, uncertain as he was about the nature of "this". A little crab-like dance took him to the doorway without turning his back on the bookseller, then he spun and all but ran out.
"Don't let the door hit you on the way out, dear," Aziraphale called after him, just as the door swung out, clipping the retreating man on his backside.***** He cursed, rubbed the sore spot and increased his pace, soon disappearing into a sleek black car with shaded windows. It hurriedly took off and vanished behind the corner.
"Don't miss your appointment with the dentist, either," Aziraphale said to himself and stepped away from the window. He immediately felt guilty, but decided to ignore the feeling.
"The nerve of some people these days," he huffed quietly, settling back into his comfortable chair and retrieving his book. He threw a last quick glance at the door (and a much sterner one at the doorbell), then carefully parted the pristine pages to a neat bookmark.******
The bell stayed quiet for a while.
* Technically a tautology. For the sake of accuracy and style, feel free to mentally tack on "while looking up from his book" to any future sentence involving Aziraphale.
** While looking up from his book, remember.
*** Which are exactly like the bad new days, only with gas lamps, which emit a much more nostalgic sort of light.
**** Never forget that speaking requires inhaling first. It is a mistake all ethereal beings make at one point or another and the results are invariably hilarious.
***** All the more impressive, since it only opens inward.
****** A postcard from Manchester, courtesy of Crowley, 1963-ish.
The next time the bell rang was a little over three hours later. This time, the tinkle had a slightly apologetic tone to it.
It was followed by the laughter of children, which brings instant joy and happiness to anyone who hears it only on the most theoretical level. A boy and a girl, both grade school-aged, hurried inside.
Aziraphale looked in alarm to where the pitter-patter of tiny feet and shrill voices had disappeared among his bookshelves.
Someone cleared his throat.
He turned to the harried-looking father, who was surveying the bookshop the same way an elephant handler might look at delicate china.*
"How may I help you?" Aziraphale asked.
"Uh, well, you see, the kids have gone and eaten through the entire collection at home, they're a nightmare to keep occupied – well, you know, kids – and then we were driving past and saw your shop. So if you could...? Doesn't even have to be child-level, really, they like dinosaurs, so maybe one of those fancy educational books – I can pay, I've got the money..."
Aziraphale was beginning to turn slightly green from the sound of excited shouts and scuffling somewhere in the shop and the implications of the man having money when the girl reappeared. "Ask him if he's got the new Harry Potter book, daddy!" With that, she vanished into the bookshelves again.
The father lifted his tired gaze to him again. "Uh, yes. If you've got..."
"Wait here, please," Aziraphale sighed** and headed into the side room with his private collection. "Look, Andy, this one's got pictures of weird people!"*** he heard echo from the bowels of the tortured bookshop as he left the room.
He made his way to the glass-protected shelves that had previously held some glorious old Bibles, which Adam's sense of humour had replaced with a compilation of children's books, including, oddly enough, the complete works of J.K. Rowling.
Aziraphale paused in front of the bookshelves. Then he peeked back into where his customer was waiting. "Which one's that, dear chap?"
The father looked up, startled. "What?"
"The newest Harry Potter book. Which one's that?"
"It's called ORDER – OF – THE – PHOEEENIX" a shrill voice proclaimed from somewhere below. Aziraphale looked down at the girl waiting impatiently with her arms crossed and nodded.
He selected a book from somewhere along the middle of the row and held it gently. It had a colourful dust jacket, a flawless kerning and line spacing and some pencil-drawn illustrations. The inside of it bore the author's signature in slightly smudged ballpoint pen. It was the kind of book that would always be considered a treasure, regardless of how long ago it had been published. ****
"Um... Hello?"
Aziraphale sighed and slowly walked back, cradling the book in his arms. "Yes?" he asked patiently.
"Do you..." the man's eyes fell on the book while the children let out high-pitched squeals. "Ah good, you've got it," he said with audible relief." Aziraphale nodded numbly. "How much do you want for it, then?"
Aziraphale walked to the old-fashioned cashier on wooden legs. He named a price that would have seemed outrageous even to someone who knew the book's unique history, but the man didn't bat an eye. He produced a heapload of cash and laid it on the table, counting it in front of him.
"Well?" he said.
Aziraphale stirred. The father was looking at him in expectancy, the children bouncing on their heels on either side of him. Aziraphale looked down at the book still cradled in his arms. He looked back at the customer.
A moment passed, then another.
Finally Aziraphale nodded weakly and reached for the brown wrapping paper. Though no-one had asked him to, he gift-wrapped the book snug as a bug, placed several loops of twine around it and finished off with a bow.
Somewhere below, the children were beginning to scowl and fidget impatiently.
He looked up again and finally, slowly, handed the book over.
The father sagged with relief. "Thank you, thank you," he said, then began to usher the children out of the shop.
At the door, the girl turned around and said loudly, "You shouldn't take drugs, they're bad for you."
Aziraphale blinked.
"My mommy says drugs make you dumb and slow and lazy. So you shouldn't take drugs."
"That's enough, Alice," the man said firmly, glancing up at Aziraphale with a nervous, uncomfortable smile, and herded her out the door.
The bell chimed again, and they were gone.
Aziraphale sagged back into his chair. He numbly lifted a handkerchief and dabbed at his face, then felt around his desk until he found a cup of tea gone cold, and gingerly took a sip.
Some time later, he rose and headed to rearrange the books where the children's rampage had disturbed them.
Aziraphale thought of the precious book, separated from its comrades, all alone out there, what little protection he'd managed to give it likely being torn to shreds at this very moment.
He shuddered.
He briefly considered making his shop off-limits to children again, but knew it wouldn't do any good.*****
* The most distinguishing feature was this perpetual wince of premonition etched onto his face.
** The girl had discovered the 1875 ink-illustrated edition of The Complete Works of Sir William Shakespeare. Fortunately for her and Aziraphale, she managed to replace it as if it had never been disturbed, and the angel never learned how close he had come to Falling that day.
*** Aziraphale approved of people reading and loving books the same way Hell approved of disobedience – it's all well and jolly, yes, excellent work on that, chap, but take that somewhere else, if you would be so kind.
**** Or, in this case, regardless of in how many years this particular edition of it was due to be published. The series had such gravity and mass as iconic children's literature that it strained against the constrains of time and space, and Adam had barely needed to lift a finger to get it to appear in the angel's new collection years before the author took that fateful train trip.
***** For some reason, the 'Adults Only' label had kept attracting some very strange people with some very strange requests until he'd been forced to take it down again. Even worse, Crowley had been entirely unhelpful.
...And through the hail of fire did the great stone doors open as the gong rang thrice, and there emerged a servant of Bastet with his cat eyes gleaming gold, and in his arms he held seven children of the Lady of Flame, and the claws of the mother drew blood as she sat upon his shoulders, and he hissed at us as a child of the Lady would, chastising us for our neglect of her kin. Thereupon he thrust them into our arms and vanished like smoke as the great holy rain began to fall. And we knew then that a sacred duty lay on our shoulders, that we would take the children of Bastet to her temple in the city of Boubastis and leave them in the care of the priestesses-*
The bell clinked, doing its best to sound inconspicuous. At this point, it didn't need sentience to start feeling a little guilty.
Aziraphale set down his pen and looked up in apprehension as a lanky teenager shuffled in, peering around cautiously. With the gangly, awkward-limbed build unique to extremely bookish, socially awkward youths, and wide-rimmed glasses perched on a pasty, freckled nose, he looked much as if a cartoonist had seen a caricature of a bookworm and then drawn a caricature of it.
"Hi," the boy said, waving nervously. "Ummm... I just thought I'd look around, never been in this part of town before. Um."
"Feel free, my dear," Aziraphale said dryly, picking up his pen again. He glanced up every now and then as the boy wandered through the bookshelves, fingers trailing almost reverently along the aged spines. "Wonderful collection," the boy said quietly, looking up and down at the titles.
"...Thank you," the angel said, a little more softly. "...Are you looking for something in particular?"
"Not really, I mostly just like looking around." The boy paused, then said, "What's this then?"
Aziraphale looked up to see the boy pointing to a small sign, one of the many hung on the side of every bookshelf.
"Oh, those are there for navigation and cataloguing purposes." In theory, anyway.
"Yeah, I mean, I figured that much, but what language is it in?" the boy asked impatiently, peering at the strange symbols.
"Akkadian."
"Ooh, like in Ancient Babylon? Really?" The boy looked at the sign again, in amazement. "Neat. How'd people find what they're looking for, then?"
"I know where everything is," Aziraphale said quietly. He could also read, write and speak Akkadian and even though very few other people could, he'd still indulged his paranoid side and deliberately mislabelled the shelves just in case.
"Do you? Golly, that's pretty amazing."
Aziraphale hummed noncommittally and returned to the book before him, pen poised in his hand.
"What's this, then?" Suddenly the boy was peering over his shoulder, gesturing to the open book and the stack of notes beside it. "It looks Egyptian. Can you read Egyptian? Wow, are you translating that?"
Aziraphale cleared his throat, relieved when the boy backed away. "Sorry, I was just curious, is all... Mom says I've no understanding of personal boundaries."
"Isn't there someplace you ought to be, my dear?" Aziraphale asked pointedly. Just as the kid was about to answer, the bell rang again, in distress, and the door slammed open.
"Oh dear..." the angel muttered, standing up.
Three boys swaggered in. One was wearing a leather jacket, another a baseball cap, and all three looked like they probably played rugby. "We've found you now, Jimmy," the tallest one smirked. "Didn't think you could hide from us in some dusty old bookshop, didcha? We know your habits, ya little bastard."
Aziraphale sighed.
They strode in, circling the ganglier boy as he backed away nervously.
"What you gonna do now, Jimbo-Dumbo, eh?"
The boy raised his hands. "Look, guys, we don't have to do it this way..."
"We sure as hell do."
Aziraphale cleared his throat.
"Stay out of this, old man, and don't even think about going near the phone. And you, you're gonna regret what you said to me today, you stinkin' bastard." With that, he grabbed the kid and shoved him hard against a bookshelf.
The shelves rattled.
On the top shelf, a fragile old book was jarred towards the edge by the impact, and, after balancing precariously for a moment, hit the floor with a deafening thud. Several thin pages that had been loose fluttered down around it like feathers in the wake of beating wings.
Aziraphale stared at the book.
The others stared at him. Even with their psychic sensitivity of a gnat** , they could feel the change in the air, the way their hairs suddenly stood on end, the prickle in their noses, the unexpected tension in their limbs, coiled to fight or flee. Then, very slowly, he turned his head, and each of them looked back into ageless grey-blue eyes and saw, with razor-sharp clarity, their fates being decided and their souls laid out on a platter for a certain amount of weighing and measuring. ***
"Your mother would be disappointed with you,"**** Aziraphale spoke in a voice like the echo of lightning striking ice, and they cowered and fled as one.
The bookish boy lingered, wide-eyed. "Wow," he breathed, "that was so cool." Aziraphale turned to look at him, silently, his expression unchanging. "Umm... yeah, I'll just... I'll just go then." With that, he scurried out the door.*****
Aziraphale walked slowly over to the scene of the crime and knelt down. It was a fifty-year-old textbook on organic chemistry that had, by the looks of it, frustrated dozens of students before it had been discarded in favour of a more up-to-date edition. Aziraphale sighed and began to gather the loose pages.
The bell chimed.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" Aziraphale shot to his feet, turning the full force of his righteous glare onto the newest intruder.
Crowley froze, one hand still on the door, then shrunk back a little. Aziraphale stared at him, then sighed, all but crumpling back to the floor to collect the rest of the pages.
"Whoa," Crowley said, cautiously slinking closer. He glanced at the book, winced. "Bad day, huh?"
"Just help me gather these, please," the angel said tartly. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"What, I need a letter of invitation to drop by now?" Crowley said, but mildly enough, since he correctly interpreted the complaint as "Why weren't you here sooner?"
He fished a page out from under a bookshelf and handed it to Aziraphale, who nodded in thanks. The angel carefully carried the book and its loose pages to his desk, where he put on thin white cotton gloves and began to dust them off with a dry rag.
Crowley leaned onto the desk with a sly smile. "So what, you're scaring kids now? Might wanna watch yourself, angel, never know when you'll land on Britain's Most Wanted-"
"Not now, Crowley."
Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Alright then. Fine. So, um. Whaddya say we ditch this place and go somewhere less dusty?"
Aziraphale didn't respond as he carefully smoothed out the pages, tutting as he studied the deteriorating binding.
Crowley leaned closer. "The ducks, then," he lowered his voice. "How about that? We'll just go and feed the ducks. Always cheers you up, and some fresh air would do you good."
Aziraphale hesitated. "...I really shouldn't. I'm not supposed to close shop for another three hours at least," he said in a sort of pleading tone, looking up at Crowley mournfully.
The demon grinned, white teeth glinting in the light. "Well, then, we'll just take it down as me tempting you into dereliction of duty, shall we?" He leaned close. "Come on. It'll be fuuuuuun."
Aziraphale twitched a smile at him, but it faded when he glanced at the damaged book again. "I really do need to stay here and fix this though, my dear. I can't just leave it like this." He frowned down at it thoughtfully. "Maybe retrace some of the ink, as well..."
Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, and suddenly the book was reasonably whole again, though not without a few respectable-looking wears that made it look so endearingly authentic. He looked down at Aziraphale, who was frowning. "What?"
"I wish you wouldn't do that. It is my book, my dear. And it's just not proper to do it that way, it's not the same."
"Well, I can change it back-"
"No."
"There you have it, then," the demon grinned. "Come on, the ducks await us," he said, hauling the angel bodily out of the chair and dragging him to the door.
"You can be disgustingly manipulative at times, dear," Aziraphale noted as the door closed behind them with a grateful tinkle.
"Thanksss. Coming, angel?"
Aziraphale flipped the "Closed" sign, locked the door and turned to see Crowley leaning against the Bentley. The demon retrieved two paper bags from the backseat and waved with them.
Aziraphale smiled, just a little.
* Bastet, alias Lady of Flame, alias Eye of Ra, was a cat-headed feline goddess in Ancient Egypt and was equated by some with Artemis, Greek goddess of the hunt. Though the last few millennia had been dangerously quiet and the time of blood sacrifices and wine orgies long gone, the recent emergence of the internet and the communities of what people call "furries" had been quite enough to keep her happily sustained.
** To be fair, gnats are actually quite distinguished psychics. When you're that puny and insignificant and could be wiped out by some bad weather at any moment, you take all the senses you can get. 'A ghost of gnats', the expression used to describe a male mating swarm, has more literal roots than one would expect.
*** One of the perks of being an ethereal creature is that you can stand in a crowd, whip out the penetrating glare, and each and every person there will see you looking right into their souls, all at the same time.
**** A virtually infallible line of psychological warfare in every situation, without exception.
***** The next thing he said was something like "Guys, guys, wait up!", after which the four of them went to the park, fed the ducks, confided in each other about their issues, and each went to bed a better person that night.
"...And that's when they left."
"I'llsay, I saw 'em run out. Should've seen their faces, you'd think someone'd stuffed fresh-cut onions into their nostrils. Nicely done, though. Straight to the gut. What's next, playing on daddy issues?"
"All I did was appeal to their consciences and urge them to think about their actions," Aziraphale huffed.
"Yeah, right. You know who else does that? We call 'em crossroads demons. They're the guys you sell your soul to. As in actually sell, anything you wish for, full package with guarantees à la Faust, that kind of thing. Maybe I should introduce you so you can swap tips."
"That is ridiculous, my dear. Guilt has always been a primary weapon in Good's arsenal."
"Not anymore."
"Since when, pray tell?"
"Since we copyrighted it," Crowley said smugly. In the ensuing indignant silence, he tossed a scrap of bread to a large duck, who nibbled at it, then fixed him with the long, withering look of insulted nobility. "Oh come on, you've got to be kidding me... Eat it, you overstuffed swimming chicken..."
"Crowley, you cannot copyright guilt."
"First of all, it's Guilt-Tripping© and don't think you can weasel out of it, and second of all, you can't copyright a lot of things but that doesn't seem to have stopped anybody so far."
Aziraphale snorted (but in an intellectual way), tossing some crumbs to a duck that proceeded to gobble them up. Crowley snorted too (but in a jealous way, because what the hell made Aziraphale'sbread so special?)*
Someone cleared his throat.
They turned to see a thin young man in a hat and coat with an upturned collar. He held Aziraphale's gaze, then said meaningfully**, "All elephants go north."
"Ummm... Swordfish?" the angel ventured.
"Sorry kid, no dice," Crowley said, raising his hands apologetically.
The man frowned at them skeptically, looking them up and down.
"Beware the green monkey...?" he tried again.
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, "We're just here to feed the ducks."
"Ah!" the young man's face lit up in comprehension. "Can I borrow a match?"
"I use a lighter," Crowley grinned.
"That's better still."
"Especially for setting people on fire."
"What?"
"Now shoo." Crowley waved at the man dismissively, who gave them a suspicious glare and started walking away.
"Try the gentleman over by the tree!" Aziraphale called after him, because he couldn't resist trying to help. "Really now," he said softly to the demon.
Crowley smirked, tearing the bread up into tiny pieces and bombarding the ducks with them, who quacked much like most assaulted aristocrats. "I should tell you about the time I infiltrated the MI5, the MI6 and the Italian mafia all through a single conversation."
"Wasn't that when the stock market collapsed?"
"Uh. So anyway, what were we talking about?"
"It seems to have slipped my mind," the angel said tartly, who didn't like the idea of Crowley copyrighting guilt not one bit. "So how was your day, my dear?"
"Well, you know how it is. Sleeping, sleeping some more, then taking a break to nap, then some wiling and tempting. Also, I think Microsoft's about to release a new one, so that's that."
"What's Microsoft?"
"...Never mind."***
"Is that all?"
"Hm? Is what all?"
"Usually you go into more detail, my dear. I can't shake the feeling that you're hiding something."
"Nah, who, me?" Crowley grinned. He slapped the angel's shoulder. "Come on, let me drive you back."
"Really? Just like that, my dear?"
"What?" Crowley raised an eyebrow.
"Usually you attempt to do a bit more cajoling and egging me on for a night out," Aziraphale noted. "Even if we'd already gone out the day before."
The demon rolled his shoulders, looking away. "Yeah, well, I know that look you have when you're itching to get back to your books. Probably going to go over each and every one and replace the binding and retrace the ink, or something horrible like that. I probably couldn't stop you if I tried, and I've still got some work of my own to do, so..."
"Whatever you say, my dear," Aziraphale said patiently. He could have returned equally well that heknew the look the demon had when he was being evasive, but saw no reason to press the issue.
"Alright then," the demon grinned. "Let's see if we can find where we left the car."****
* Yes, yes, very funny. Get your mind out of the gutter, please.
** And with just the hint of a Russian accent.
*** Someday, Crowley planned to introduce Aziraphale to modern technology. The angel was a surprisingly vain creature, as evidenced by how, when poring over a book or manuscript, he would occasionally exclaim "Look, my dear, this one mentions us!" or "I do believe they meant you by that, dear boy!", which made Crowley suspect that "Googling yourself" would be a real hit. However, he'd only just managed to teach the angel to use a now nearly prototype-level, bulky mobile phone, and wanted to pace his victories.
**** It was very rare for Crowley not to find where he had left the car. The people and pigeons and dogs and parking lot attendants that inhabit a city all form a sort of organism, in a manner of speaking, and organisms that stick around that long tend to have developed a sense of self-preservation.
The Bentley hummed pleasantly as they rolled through London at a leisurely pace. Aziraphale, his coat folded neatly on his lap (for mid-autumn, the weather had been surprisingly mild so far), stared out the window. The only thing disrupting the companionable silence was the Best of Queen blaring at moderate volume from the speakers*. Crowley hummed along.
Aziraphale's eyes widened as he spotted the tinsel and holly wreaths already hung up (quite prematurely, in his humble opinion) all over the stores. "That reminds me, dear," he said eagerly, "Have you already any plans for Christmas?"**
Crowley glanced at him and out the window distractedly. "What? Oh. Hah. Buggers starting early this year. Yeah, sure. I was thinking I'd pop in at the church and deck some halls, you know what I mean? Maybe chop down some trees and sell them, now that I think about it. Can never go wrong with a bit of mass environmental destruction."***
"There's no need to be nasty about it, my dear," Aziraphale pouted.
"Oh right, sorry, not in the holiday spirit, is it now? Shall I sing you a carol in apology?"
Aziraphale sighed. "I was thinking we could go to the circus. I can hardly remember the last time I've been."
"You're a walking circus all by yourself, angel."
"Really, now, I think that is a bit-"
Which was when the speakers interrupted them.
"...Our lives dictated by tradition, superstition, false religion, through the eons, and on and on and on and on and on and on-on-o-o-o-on CROWLEY, ARE YOU THERE?"
Crowley slammed on the breaks, clapped a hand over Aziraphale's mouth and draped the camelhair coat over his head in one sharp movement.
"Hello, lord," Crowley gulped, plastering on his best fake smile. You never knew when they'd get it into their heads to watch.
"IT HAS BEEN A WHILE SINCE WE TALKED, CROWLEY."
"Uh, yeah, I suppose it has..."
"THE LAST FEW MONTHS HAVE NOT BEEN GOOD FOR YOU, CROWLEY."
"No?"
"THEY HAVE BEEN VERY, VERY BAD."
"Um... in a... good way, hopefully?"
"NOT FOR YOU. WE HAVE BEEN HEARING SOME INTERESTING THINGS ABOUT YOU, CROWLEY."
"Like... like what?" Crowley swallowed, shooting a quick sideways glance at Aziraphale. (The angel, still covered by his coat like furniture in a derelict house, and equally motionless, was unable to return his look.)
"WHAT IS THIS WE HAVE HEARD ABOUT YOU AND KITTENS, CROWLEY?"
Crowley blessed under his breath. Through gritted teeth, he said, "Couldn't imagine, boss."
"YOU HAVE BEEN DISQUITENGLY KIND TO SMALL ANIMALS, CROWLEY."
"I'm really not sure what you're talking about," Crowley said, very cautiously. "Isn't it in my job description to make people's lives miserable and pave the way for fellow servants of evil?"
"WHAT ARE YOU GETTING AT, CROWLEY?"
"What I'm getting at," Crowley began with the tentative tone of someone explaining new ideas to very old-fashioned people, "is that cats could practically be our poster boys. They've got style, they look down on humanity, they give humans parasites, and if they don't like the look of you they'll tear your frickin' face to shreds. And the best part is, they've got humans completely under their heel, I mean, have you seenthe internet lately?"
"THE WHAT?"
Crowley sighed and rubbed his head.****
"Look, the point is, I was protecting the interests of Hell. So, you know. I don't really see the problem."
"WHAT AN INTERESTING PERSPECTIVE."
"Er... I suppose it is."
"WE COMMEND YOU FOR YOUR INNOVATIVE IDEA, CROWLEY."
"Um... Thanks?"
"WE WOULD LIKE TO REWARD YOU, CROWLEY."
"No, that's... that's okay, really."
"WE INSIST."
"Uh, I mean it, I'm just happy to serve. Advancing the cause of evil. Yep."
"IF YOU FEEL THAT WAY."
"Oh yeah. Lord Beelzebub has never seen a soldier quite like me."
"PLENTY, ACTUALLY.
"Uh, yeah, I was just-"
"DON'T THINK WE'VE FORGOTTEN ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED IN EGYPT."
"Ah."
"GOODBYE, CROWLEY."
"Bye, lord."
"WHAT WAS THAT, CROWLEY?"
"Uh... Hail Satan..?"
"IINDEED, CROWLEY. Oh yes we'll keep on trying hey tread that fine line yeah we'll keep on smiling yeah-"
Crowley turned the speakers off.
For a moment they sat in silence.
An orchestra of honks sounded behind them. "Hey, moron, you can't park here!" someone shouted.
"Right," Crowley said, and hit the pedals again.
Beside him, Aziraphale slowly reached up to pull the coat off his face. He looked around at the streets rushing past them again, then at the demon. "Alright, my dear?"
"Peachy."
"It's just that you're speeding."
"I'm supposed to speed," Crowley scowled but slowed down just a bit. Aziraphale nodded in satisfaction, then peered out the back window. Behind them, the man who'd yelled at Crowley felt a sudden urge to rethink his life.
Crowley shot him a sideways look and smirked. "You know, I'm pretty sure that still counts as 'messing people about', angel."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."
"Uh-huh."
"Crowley, dear?"
"Hmm?"
"What happened in Egypt?" the angel asked innocently.
Crowley glared at the road ahead. "Nothing you need to know about, angel. Come on, we're almost there."
"Of course."
A minute later, Aziraphale climbed out of the car. Crowley hesitated, then followed him. Aziraphale looked at the bookshop, as if worried that it had been assaulted by hooligans during his short absence. He turned to Crowley, who was leaning against the side of the Bentley, watching him. "Thank you for taking me out, dear boy, it has been quite diverting."
"Yeah, uh, sure. I'll see you in a bit, then, yeah? That okay?" He saw Aziraphale nod and turn to the door, fishing out his keys. "Try not to inhale too much of that dust in there!" he called after him, grinning.
"Do take it easy on the plants, my dear," Aziraphale huffed in response, and then he was gone.
Crowley stared at the display of the bookshop, then up and down the street. "Alright then," he said to himself, climbing back into the Bentley.
On his drive back through Soho he heard an odd rattling noise and slowed down beside a pair of dustbins in curiosity.
A striped grey cat leaped nimbly out of the lidless one and onto the roof of a low shed. Then it turned and looked at him critically.
For a moment, Crowley glowered back.
"Ssssoon," he hissed.
The cat hissed back.*****
To be continued...
* Well, insofar as Best of Queen can possibly be said to disrupt anything.
** Aziraphale liked Christmas for much the same reasons a magpie did: It was bright, shiny and pretty with lots of interesting food and drink, and the worst of the Christmas shoppers itching for a rare gift from a real antique bookshop could be thwarted fairly easily by declaring it closed for the holidays starting sometime around Halloween. Plus, there was the whole 'birth of Jesus Christ' thing, even if the humans did get all the details and the timeline completely wrong. It was the thought that counted.
*** Crowley disliked Christmas for much the same reasons an old grandpa would: it was bright, loud, shiny, filled with the laughter of children, and most of the traditions were either unavailable to a more-or-less unattached immortal or downright tedious after the 1000th or so short year in a row. That said, he did approve of it on a purely professional level.
**** Most demons are, as Crowley quite correctly assumed, still stuck in the 14th century. On an unrelated note, most of the internet was created by humans. Let that sink in for a moment.
***** Its meaning could be approximated as "your mother".