#the devil's work

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you into my mess. I’ll leave.” You turn towards the stairs.

Aziraphale, who has locked the door with his right hand, while making a small motion with his other, interrupts, “My Dear, I offered you shelter. It is Mr. Donovan’s business methods that are the issue here, not you.”

“But I led him here,” you protest.

“And you leaving will not change him having taken offence at our interference.” His eyes are pleading you to see his point.

You shake your head, “I can’t stay. If I leave, Jack will concentrate on me, again.”

“Or he may very well not. He’s a proud man and we affronted him. My bookshop is a safe space.”

Huffing you count off this morning’s events, “He sent his goon in here, the energy is all messed up and what is this?” You point to the parcel near the backdoor.

“This is another one of Jack’s little intimidation tactics,” Crowley answers and promptly goes over and picks it up.

With Aziraphale momentarily distracted you head up the spiral staircase.

Upstairs, you push open the door to the guest room and stand there a moment. The room feels half a degree off-kilter, each sound and smell faintly wrong. The bed is a heap of tangled sheets, discarded clothes on the floor and the desk is a disaster of scribbled notes, herb bags, plates and empty mugs. A sticky ring stains the wood where you left last night’s herbal tea.

You kneel and place the backpack on the bed. Starting by folding shirts with mechanical precision, stacking clean ones to the left, dirty to the right. Since bending down is difficult with Henry’s body wrapped around you, you take hold of him to set him down. His length shifts against your ribs, tightening slightly.

You look down at him, “Seriously? You can’t be that hungry!”

He hisses back.

“Ugh! You just had two mice literally yesterday. That’s enough food for three days. At least.”

Henry tremors.

“You’re impossible today! Fine. I’ll get you a nice rat on the way home.”

Now, the damn snake retracts his head.

“I don’t care what Crowley promised you! We’re leaving!”

There’s a loud knock from the open door.

“I promised Henry I’d take care of his food. Since Aziraphale extended sanctuary to the mice living in here,” Crowley states. He’s already holding out an arm to take Henry. And Henry is winding his way over to him extending his body half way across the space between you. Traitor.

“Where on earth did you get a mouse for him on such short notice?”

“Actually, I have a fish for him, like I promised,” he manages to make that sound like a perfectly normal thing. Just having a fish handy for feeding your serpent.

“What are you? A hobby miracle worker?” You can feel your eyebrows stopping just short of your hairline.

And Crowley? Gives you a half smile and a, “On occasion.” Before taking over Henry and disappearing back down with him.

You sling the door shut with a vengeance and, instead of packing, grab a pillow from the bed. You sink down onto it cross-legged. The urge to scream into it is strong, but you swallow it down. All your nerves are jangled strings—Henry’s nonsense, Aziraphale’s gentle insistence, Crowley’s snide competence, the stranger’s probing.

You close your eyes. Breathe in. Hold. Out. Hold. You count: four, four, four, four. After five minutes, your heartbeat has slowed, your shoulders dropped. You do not feel proud, only washed out and slightly ashamed. The memory of Aziraphale, face pale and hands fluttering to his throat for a bow tie that wasn’t there, stings you worse than the threat itself. Time to face the music.

The quiet voice of Aziraphale drifts up the stairs carried by a weak breeze smelling of sea salt, rain and sunshine. There’s magic in it, but a type you’ve never encountered before. The atmosphere shifts, the shop vibrates as if hit by a small earthquake and then the bookshop suddenly feels right again.

When you hit the last step, Aziraphale turns to you. He’s properly dressed again, complete with his bow tie and jacket. In fact, he looks ready for a royal visit, absolutely immaculate.

“Ugh, Mr. Fell?”

“It’s still Aziraphale, my Dear.”

“Aziraphale, I’m so sorry. About this morning. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“Oh, thank you for the apology. It’s quite alright. This morning none of us were at your best.”

“I have to go home though.”

“You are still more than welcome to stay. I would worry about you out there alone.”

“But I have to check on the cottage and one of my clients may need me.”

“Then we’ll drive by and check it out.”

Crowley’s voice behind you makes you jump. You didn’t hear the back door open or close.

You nod, “Let’s see what we find and go from there.”

You don’t even remember grabbing your battered duffel or stuffing your arms into your coat, but the next thing you know, you’re on the Soho sidewalk. Aziraphale opens the backdoor for you and after you’ve climbed in Crowley hands you Henry from the driver seat. The passenger door closes and the Bentley rumbles to life.

Only to stop a few minutes later beside a bakery window in a side street. There are no parking spaces, so the car just sits in the middle of the road. Crowley jumps out without any explanation. And the cars behind you are starting to honk. In answer the Bentley plays “Don’t Stop Me Now” on full blast. While causing a minor traffic jam in the morning rush hour. You bury your face in your hands and Aziraphale fidgets in his seat.

It takes Crowley several antagonising minutes to return with hot bacon rolls and coffee for everyone. He hands them over, with the words, “Keep the seats clean, will you.”

“Crowley, was this necessary?”

“Humans get grumpy when you don’t feed them. And your witch hasn’t had breakfast yet.”

Aziraphale huffs and bites daintily into his bacon roll. The half an hour drive is spent silently eating and sipping coffee to a number of Queens songs.

At your home the snow on the ground is melted and has left dirty puddles on the ground. On the roof, the rail beams and the Ivy there’s still snow, now joined by small icicles. The image of the two-story cottage is unchanged. The windows boarded up, the paint peeling and the Ivy slowly swallowing the whole structure.

When you make your way over to the house your footprints are the only ones in the mud. You reach for the wards you left behind. There’s a faint echo of foreign energy that touched them. But they don’t seem to have been affected.

Scanning the grounds for any notes or others signs of disturbance you see that the flag on your post-box is down. So, no mail or messages from clients. You touch a hand to the door and find nothing out of order. Everything is as it should be. Opening the door, you step inside followed by Aziraphale and Crowley.

“I’ll grab a few more things,” you announce over your shoulder, heading to your bedroom.

After stuffing fresh clothes for three more days into a large shopping bag, you head into your workroom. There you find Crowley watering your plants. Watering your plants very carefully with a spray can. You don’t own a spray can. Not knowing what to say, you settle on, “Uhg, Crowley? Thanks for watering them.”

He nods and leaves the room.

You stock up on basic spell supplies and a few rarer ones – just in case. By the time you’ve stored everything securely and make it back to the living area you find Aziraphale absent and Crowley just setting down the spray can.

“Where’s Aziraphale?”

“He’s waiting in the car. Let’s go.”

The drive back through the London traffic is uneventful. Until the Bentley rolls up to the bookshop. At midmorning the streets of Soho are busy, as usual. But there is tension in the air. Heads turn towards the Bentley, people whisper and while the sidewalk across the shop is packed, the side on which the shop itself sits, is devoid of foot traffic. The lone old beggar on the side of the building is the only person in the direct vicinity. At least the figure looks like a beggar at a glance. There’s no sign, hat or bowl in sight though. And you’ve never seen vagrant here before.

As you extract yourself from the car you notice a second tramp across the street. This one is younger and while there’s a guitar case beside him, there’s neither a guitar to be seen nor is the case open so passersby could drop money into it. You shake off the feeling of unease, gather up your backpack and secure Henry around your middle. Turning and taking a step towards the shop you nearly collide with Aziraphale.

He’s stopped in front of the door, keys in the lock, hand on the doorhandle. You crane your head and balance on your toes to look over his shoulder. There’s a note taped to the middle of the bookshop’s door.

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous · → Next

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

Comments and asks are welcome.