#fwwl

“Oh! Yes, that would be me.” Aziraphale smiled a welcoming smile, which even surprised himself. Of course, he was warm and welcoming to everybody in general, but in the bookshop, somehow, he more closely resembled a dragon guarding his hoard.

The stranger slightly cocked his hand to one side. “What’s the A. Z. stand for?”

“Pardon? Oh, the sign, right. That’s my name. I mean, of course, the sign has been there for generations. It just happens to also fit my initials. Er.”

The man raised a brow, behind dark sunglasses that he still had not taken off, until he continued.

“Aziraphale Zachariah Fell. That’s my name.”

Right. That was his name. For a moment there, he had confused even himself. He wondered if he was getting old. Because for just a second, it truly had felt as if he had not known. Not known about the sign that his ancestors had fixed to the outside of the store, not known what the initials of his own name stood for. This weird feeling, the feeling he had not been able to shake off all week, took a hold of him yet again. He touched the bridge of his nose, but remembered he was not wearing his reading glasses. He must have misplaced them.

For a moment Aziraphale feared that the stranger would burst into laughter. But he contained himself, asking instead, not without mirth: “Aziraphale?”

“Oh, my parents were…very religious.” He gave him a crooked, apologetic grin.

A look spread across the lanky man’s face that Aziraphale could only describe as surprised delight; wrinkles appeared around his eyes and it almost made Aziraphale blush, though he wondered what had prompted this reaction--surely not his old-fashioned name. (It had been that, but much more so it had been the look on his face, a helpless sort of amusement that Crowley couldn’t help but find endearing.)

“I mostly go by Raphael, though. To friends, I mean,” he added after a moment, feeling awfully stupid. (Aziraphale, he’d decided a long time ago, didn’t quite suit him.)

“I see,” Crowley replied, a smile still playing around his lips. “Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to reply, but for the life of him could not think of any adequate reply. Who was this man, anyways? He had sauntered right into his shop and right up to him and somehow Aziraphale had told him about his parents’ religious beliefs without even knowing his name. Or anything else, really.

“So, you are…?”

“Ah.” As if he had been waiting for this moment, the man straightened and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. He might as well have been presenting to an entire audience. “Anthony J. Crowley, merchant of various goods, at your service.”

So this was what was going on, was it? Merchant. Aziraphale squinted imperceptibly. A book buyer. Nasty lot. Always after his pristine first editions, his life’s work--well, really, not just his. Most were inherited, though he had acquired the one or other treasure, in his lifetime… Feeling rather emboldened, Aziraphale decided to pay back what had been dealt to him. “So, what does the J stand for?”

“I’d rather hoped you’d ask about the ‘merchant of various goods’ part, honestly.” The man paused, but received no reaction. “No? Oh, alright. It’s really just ‘J’. Anthony Jay Crowley.”

“Well, now we’ve got that sorted out,” Aziraphale said with an amount of delight that seemed just a little too angelic to be entirely nice, “I am very afraid to inform you, my dear Mr. Crowley, that I don’t sell any books. If that is why you are here.”

Crowley stared at him behind his sunglasses, perplexed. “You own a bookstore.”

“Well. Yes. I mean--” He paused. I don’t like selling my books, he wanted to say. I love them too much. It feels like selling a part of myself. I’d much prefer to keep them all, if that were possible. Instead he said, “I prefer to sell them to individual buyers.” Because they only buy individual books. Singular.

“Why?”

“I just do.” He clasped his hands in front of his belly and sealed his lips tightly shut. Determined, he stood there, like a mother bear ready to protect her children.

Crowley, apparently, sensed that he was about to jog headfirst into a stone wall. His shoulders slumped. But he was not yet a man defeated. Aziraphale stayed on his toes. “Alright, alright. Cool stuff. No worries. But then, I assume...you buy them?”

Aziraphale’s face brightened. “Indeed!”

“You collect them?”

“You could say that.” Aziraphale’s chest grew various sizes, his aura positively shining. “I consider myself to be somewhat of an expert. My interest particularly lies with books of prophecy and, uh, Bibles with printing errors…oh, and Oscar Wilde!”

“Oscar Wilde,” Crowley repeated, pensively, before cocking his head. “Printing errors?”

“Oh, yes! For instance, there is the Adultery Bible, in which--”

Suddenly Crowley moved in closer, cutting him short. He lowered his voice as he spoke again, his face close enough that Aziraphale could make out the contours of his eyes through the shades. (Really, there was no need for that, they were alone in the store.)

“I might happen to be… in possession of one of those books you take such an interest in.”

“What? But, how-- Might I ask, who do you work for?”

“Oh, I work for myself.” Crowley straightened. “And if you want to ask where I get my goods from, you’d do better not to. Let’s call them Of Unknown Origin. Capiche?”

A moment of silence.

“So… are you interested?”

Another beat, during which Aziraphale tried to convince himself that he was not actually considering his offer. Of course he wasn’t. He gasped.

“Absolutely not! How-- Why-- I’m, I’m shocked!”

Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale was sure that, behind his sunglasses, he was rolling his eyes. “Fine, fine. I get it. You’re boring. Should’ve known the moment I walked in here. One of the Good Ones.” His tone turned mocking at the last words, upper lip curling.

“Now that’s just awfully rude; there is no need for such behaviour.”

“Whatever.” The man called Crowley lifted a hand, already turning. Then he stopped in his tracks, shoulders slumping, and a groan escaped his lips. For a second Aziraphale was confused, but then he registered the source of his newest discontentment: It was raining.

It had started to rain heavily, and water was splashing off the streets and running into the gutters. One step outside and you’d be soaking wet. Crowley cursed under his breath even as he began walking towards the door.

“Ciao.” He gave a little wave.

“Wait!”

“Oh?” Crowley turned, but was unprepared for what awaited him. There he stood, the round little man with hair as white as a cloud, and was extending his arm towards him--holding an umbrella. Crowley gaped at the thing.

“Take it. It’s raining.”

“I-- Yes, I can see that, it’s raining, yeah, wet stuff, seen it before,” he brambled, still incredulous. Haltingly, he took it. Wedged it under his arm. Opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it. Closed it. Opened it again. “Well, thanks, see you around,” he mumbled, just above a whisper, and then he was out the door, under the umbrella, making for his car as if the devil was on his heels.

He drove through the pouring rain as Queen blasted from his speakers. Really, he wasn’t in the mood. Should’ve checked the CD beforehand. This strange encounter did not quite leave him alone, and he replayed it in his head countless times. The white umbrella lay discarded on the front seat. He took it with him, up into his flat, where he immediately turned on the TV and failed to pay even a minute of attention to the things happening on the screen.

Books weren’t even his usual trade. It had been a spontaneous thing, a thought he’d had ever since he’d found that book in his flat a few days ago. The Nice And Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. He could for the life of him not remember how he had come into its possession. It must have happened ages ago, some collateral damage from one job or the other, and he’d misplaced it, and only now stumbled upon it again. Either way, it looked like it was worth a good sum of money, so asking questions about its provenance seemed unwise, as long as he could sell it.

Just his luck that the bookshop he’d happened upon and decided to enter on a whim--it had looked promising, all antique and, well, booky--had turned out to be bad luck. And yet…

And yet, he couldn’t get that stupid face out of his mind. Those piercing blue eyes that had went from Soft to Fierce in a heartbeat, the hand that had offered up protection against the rain when he had done nothing to deserve it, nothing at all. Well--he’d have to return the umbrella, at least.

After all, the shop was promising. It was stuffed to the top with books that smelled of Age and Money, the kind of books without cover but with gold lettering. Sometimes a little temptation was all Good People needed to turn into Not Quite As Good People, after all.

With this thought in mind Crowley fell asleep, on his couch, with the TV still blaring in the background.

  He woke up where he had fallen asleep. Grimacing, he straightened his neck and stretched out his limbs. A glance at his phone told him he had fifteen minutes to get ready, which was all he needed. He got up, turned on his stereo (one clap), changed into fresh clothes while somehow simultaneously brushing his teeth, and was out the door--but not without mindfully turning off the music (two claps). As he always did.

Crowley had dreamt again, and he was sure it was a dream that he’d had before, just recently, but the only thing he could remember from it was the word Demon, and now that gave him no clue whatsoever.

By the time he got into his Bentley he was holding a steaming cup of coffee, which he managed to drink without spilling a drop while speeding through busy London streets. He’d forgotten the umbrella, so he could not go back to the bookshop. That’s what he told himself, anyways. He also ‘forgot’ it the day after. And on Friday. On Saturday, after having thoroughly watered and terrorized his plants, he finally grabbed the white umbrella and stormed out the door.

He almost kicked a lamp post when he arrived at the shop and saw the Closed sign on the door. He drew his head back and glared at the sky. Then he looked at the door again, at the handwritten sign with the office hours, and the sound that escaped him almost sounded like a hiss.

“You’re supposed to be open, bastard,” he growled to himself, wondering why he was so upset, and then the door suddenly opened and he found himself face to face with the enigmatic Mr. Fell.

“Mr. Crowley?” Surprise was written all over his face. He pointed to the sign on the door. “We’re closed.”

Crowley glowered. “You’re supposed to be open. Look.” Frantically, he pointed at the door, as if it was not the man’s very own shop door, with his very own sign in his very own handwriting.

“I do take my liberties,” Aziraphale simply said, lifting his chin. “I was just on my way to get scones.”

“Scones?”

“I was feeling awfully peckish. So I thought, what is one more hour of opening the shop against the promise of fresh scones?” He beamed, and his eyes dropped to the umbrella that Crowley was clenching so hard his knuckles were turning red. “Oh! My umbrella!”

“Came here to return it,” Crowley pressed out between his teeth.

“That is awfully kind of you, Mr. Crowley. Thank you.”

“It is yours, so…” Crowley shrugged. “You’re really closing the shop for scones? I’ve never gotten their appeal.”

“You must not have tried the scones of the nice little bakery down the street, then! They just opened, but I must say they really make the most lovely, buttery-- why, let me tempt you to one, then!”

Crowley almost fell backwards into the pavement. This man had to be the most trusting, naive and genuinely nice person he had ever met, and it was almost driving him insane. He stared at him, and couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I mean, well, not tempt, exactly.” Aziraphale gave a nervous laugh. “Invite?”

So they had scones, and coffee, and a glass of Chardonnay. It came so natural that they both wondered why they felt as if they had known each other for a long time, when in fact it had only been a few days since their first meeting.

Only when he was back home in his empty flat, feeding his pet snake, did he remember that his objective had been to tempt the shop owner with his shady book selling deal. Instead, he had somehow ended up being the tempted one. Crowley huffed. Well--he guessed he’d have to go back.

  There was no bell above Aziraphale’s door. This was because a bell alerted you to entering customers, and Aziraphale did not want to be alerted. In his best case scenario, the would-be-customers had already left the shop by the time he came round to the front. So as he rounded the corner to the front of his shop with a cup of tea in his hand he was not prepared for the person lounging (really, there was no better word for it) on his desk.

“Hi, A.Z. Fell.” Crowley grinned, hopping off the desk and circling round to him. “Fine morning to acquire some books, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Crowley, I’ve told you before, I am not--”

“Not even…” He produced a book, nicely bound in protective cloth. “The Nice And Accurate-- oi!”

Aziraphale had taken the book right out of Crowley’s hand, staring at it as if he’d discovered the Holy Grail. “I’ve seen this before,” he whispered to himself as he retrieved the book and lay a shaking hand on its cover. Then, “No, no, I haven’t. I can’t have. I must have…” His head shot up. “Where did you get this?!”

“I told you, I don’t disclose--”

“Crowley!” Surprised, Crowley lifted his hands. Aziraphale looked exasperated, and then, as he realized how he’d addressed him, scandalized. “Oh, I’m sorry! It’s just, this book, it’s... It’s rare.”

“I imagined.”

“No. You really don’t. When I say it’s rare, I mean it is… unique, possibly.”

“Shouldn’t tell me that, if I’m the one selling it, should you?”

Aziraphale froze. His eyes grew wide, and he was on the verge of swearing.

“Tell you what.” Crowley leaned in, voice soft. “The price stays the same--if I can interest you in acquiring more interesting books in the future. And in not asking too many questions. Trust me, don’t. That’s never worked out well for anyone.”

“I…” Aziraphale hesitated. “No, I can’t. You’re.. you’re a criminal! Aren’t you?”

“Ehhh, definitions. It’s just a hobby, let’s say. Besides, what are you, an angel?” Crowley lifted his hands to his sides, waving them through the air as if mimicking a wing beat.

Aziraphale felt very torn, because, yes, a part of him did feel--well not like an angel, certainly, but still like a Good Person. On the other hand, this was not hurting anyone, was it? And this book--as well as any other rare books--they would be in good hands, with him. If he thought about it like that...

“Yes,” said Aziraphale.

“What, yes? You are an angel?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, I will buy the book. I will agree to your condition.”

“What.” It sounded more like a squeezy little wot, the sound he made. Then Crowley smiled, widely, incredulously, almost thrilled. “I knew there was a spark in you, angel!” He took off his sunglasses, revealing startlingly bright eyes. (Like honey, Aziraphale briefly thought, averting his thoughts from the morally ambiguous deal he was about to strike. I like honey.) Crowley offered up a hand, and Aziraphale took it. They shook on their unspoken arrangement with a firm grip--lingering just a moment too long, averting their gaze just a second too late.

The wheels of fate, expertly jammed, began to grind down on the crow bar holding them in place.