#jonmartin

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There was tea. Cocoa was offered, but Martin jumped at the mention of tea and Jon was happy to let him have his way. The fair-haired proprietor (Mr. Fell, his name was even printed over the door), fluttery and round and reminding Martin of the nicest priest he'd ever known as a child, moved around the shop as though it was an extension of his body as he made the tea, while the other one (he hadn't bothered to introduce himself, but Mr. Fell addressed him as 'Crowley' with the same tone of perpetually exasperated fondness that Martin used with Jon), preferred to slouch improbably in corners and study them with a wine glass in one long-fingered hand.

His hair was as red as horror movie blood, and his eyes were yellow, slit like a cat's, and deeply unnerving (which was a riotous thing to think, sitting next to Jon); he made Martin feel like he was seeing every awful thing he'd ever done and thought, and judging them on some sort of scale. Mr. Fell's blue eyes were equally frightening, though in a very different way, like a reminder of how long it'd been since his last confession.

"So," Martin asked at last. "What's, um. What's your story?"

"Um," said Mr. Fell. "That's... rather long and complicated and... not especially relevant, all things considered. We're not even entirely sure why the shop decided to manifest here. It does that now, you see."

"Did it not used to?" asked Jon, looking around at the books. There was a wistfulness in his gaze, a relief to be surrounded by words that weren't statements, and a longing to consume them as a normal human would, instead of as an Archivist.

"No, that's... well. Only since the end of the world."

"Ah. ...I'm sorry."

"Oh, no!" said Mr. Fell hastily. "No, please don't apologize to us. We're, er..."

"Different. Different end of the world," said Crowley. "Different world. 'S our fault, not yours."

"Really," said Mr. Fell, "if you get down to brass tacks, it was entirely my fault."

"None of that, angel. We've been over it a million times. Literally. I've counted." Crowley snorted softly. "Nah, that's not even the real story. Our story's that I couldn't accept that a story should end after an author's done with it. Stories don't just end." He jerked his chin at Mr. Fell. "He taught me that."

"But... there's got to be an end somewhere," said Jon. He sounded so tired. "It can't just keep going on and on and on, it's not... that's... how do you bear it?"

"People end, dear boy," Mr. Fell corrected him kindly. "And you and your young man are still people, regardless of your peculiar circumstances."

Martin and Jon both blushed. Crowley let out a bark-like laugh. Mr. Fell's smile was more gentle, if also very weary.

"But now," he said, "you've been here." He moved to the desk by the window and opened a very large book on his desk. "So that part of the story will continue. All stories continue, you know. It's just their nature. So long as there's anyone left to tell them."

Crowley watched him begin to write, and Jon saw a flicker of something very old and deep and tender flash over his angular face. Then he pushed off the corner of a shelf and gestured Martin and Jon to a spiral iron staircase near the back of the shop. "There's a bedroom upstairs. You two get some rest. Once you leave here, and you'll have to, you know, you won't find us again."