Chapter Text
It was a fine Thursday evening near the end of July. The slowly setting sun allowed for just enough warmth to sit on the outside patio of Soho’s newest Italian restaurant, where Crowley and Aziraphale had just eaten a rather fine meal. The atmosphere and lovely weather should have made for a pleasant experience overall. But something was dreadfully wrong.
“Alright, angel?” Crowley asked, unable to abide the tension any longer.
“Mm? Oh, yes. Fine.”
Aziraphale nudged the last bits of chocolate gateau around his plate without looking up. He’d worn the same preoccupied expression throughout most of the evening, as though his mind was so far away he wasn’t even aware of the world’s continued existence around him, of honking horns and decadent desserts and the increasingly agitated demon sitting opposite. The silence was beginning to flay Crowley’s last nerve. An immortal being like Aziraphale could think himself into a catatonic state if he weren’t careful. Not that Crowley would let that happen. Not again.
“You don’t look fine,” Crowley observed shrewdly.
Aziraphale didn’t answer. After a frustrated beat he tried again.
“Well, if you’re as fine as you say you are, you wouldn’t mind if I took the last little bite of this…?” With exaggerated slowness, Crowley made to stab at Aziraphale’s dessert with his unused fork. Before it could hit its mark, Aziraphale yanked the plate aside. Crowley smirked triumphantly. It was practically automatic, but the motion seemed to shake him from his stupor.
“So sorry, dear, did you want some...?” Aziraphale pushed the plate back in his direction.
“No. Just checking your reflexes.”
The fog was clearing incrementally from behind the angel’s eyes. He sighed, as though it were just now occurring to him that he’d wasted a perfectly good evening caught up in his own head. The aglio e olio had been delightful and he hadn’t even tasted it.
“Do forgive me. I’m afraid I’m a bit distracted tonight.”
Crowley shrugged the apology off. “What’s on your mind, angel?”
Aziraphale hesitated a moment, as if unsure how to phrase whatever it was that had been concerning him. He set his fork down and folded his napkin. “It’s just,” he leaned forward over the tablecloth and dropped his voice to a murmur. Crowley mirrored the motion, the better to hear him. “A customer came into the bookshop today.”
Crowley snorted. “There’s a surprise.”
“No! Well, yes but this was different,” Aziraphale clarified hastily. “This man, he said he knew me by reputation. Knew how loathe I was to part with anything. Said he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Well, that’s not that unusual, is it?” Crowley asked, squinting in thought. “I mean, from what I’ve seen, anyone who actually wants to walk out of your store with a book in their hand has got to be pretty aggressive.”
“Yes, but usually they’re not that hard to turn away. They talk a big talk, but in the end it’s all empty threats and I can get them out the door. This man, though… He seemed serious.”
“Did he buy anything?”
“Goodness, no.” Aziraphale sat up straighter. “I’m not that easily intimidated. But I get the feeling that he’ll be back. And soon.”
Frowning, Crowley kicked back in his chair so that it teetered precariously on its two hind legs. “So, what was he, do you think? CIA? KGB?”
The frown lines around Aziraphale’s mouth tightened, and his eyes narrowed. “Actually, he said he was the library director over at Oxford.”
“A librarian, huh?” The image was at odds with the villain Crowley had conjured up in his mind. He sucked on his teeth to keep from laughing. “Troublesome lot. One of ours, you know.”
Aziraphale glared at him, unamused. “It’s not funny, Crowley. Though I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to understand.”
“You’re right. I don't understand,” Crowley admitted. Sensing that Aziraphale was about to close off, all traces of humor fled from his face. “It's just - I mean, this sort of thing. It’s happened before, right?”
“Right.”
“So, why don’t you just - ?” Crowley snapped his fingers to indicate a miracle.
The angel hesitated, sawing his bottom lip with a pearly white incisor. “Normally I would. But in this instance… Well, I get the feeling it would be wrong. He’s not like the others. I don’t think he has malicious intent.”
“Malicious intent?” Crowley repeated, incredulous. “Aziraphale. The guy comes into your bookshop, threatens you, and you don’t think he has malicious intent?”
“No, I don’t think he did. At least, he didn’t seem to want to do me any harm.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “Is that what it takes? For fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, it shouldn’t always take a mafia shakedown for you to stand up for yourself.”
“Yes, I know," the angel said crisply, arms folded across his chest. “But it still doesn’t seem right to punish him just for taking an interest in my work.”
Crowley gave him a shrewd once-over behind his sunglasses.
“But you’d still like him gone.”
After a moment’s hesitation Aziraphale nodded, his lips pursed. The expression was unbearably familiar, given the sheer number of times Crowley had seen it over the centuries. It was the face the angel made when he wanted something done, something too dirty for him to sully his immaculate hands with, the face he made when he wanted Crowley to indulge a foolish whim or perform a frivolous miracle in his stead. It was almost comical how well Crowley knew the other being at this point. Aziraphale probably thought he was being subtle, getting Crowley to propose the idea of his own accord. Either that, or they were so used to manipulating one another after six thousand years it didn’t occur to him that he could just ask the other for a favor.
Crowley pretended to mull the information over. “You think he’s gonna come back?”
Aziraphale nodded again. “Quite soon, I expect.”
“Well..." Crowley dragged the moment out for theatrics before heaving a put-upon sigh. "I suppose I could rearrange my schedule, come round the shop tomorrow. Ward this guy off for you if he turns up again.”
From across the table, Aziraphale beamed at him. “Oh, would you really? You have no idea how much that would mean to me, Crowley. Thank you.”
“Yeah, whatever. Don’t mention it again,” Crowley said, scowling for effect.
True to form, Aziraphale didn’t mention it again for the rest of the evening. But he continued to aim little smiles of gratitude Crowley’s way as he finished the last of his dessert and licked the silverware clean. Crowley pretended not to notice.
_____________
The next morning Crowley turned up to the bookshop bright and early with a box of pastries. Aziraphale was still drinking his morning cup of tea when Crowley found him upstairs, and they chatted for a while over the breakfast table, munching croissants and refilling their teacups long after the kettle should have run dry.
By the time Aziraphale decided he could put off opening the bookshop no longer it was nearly eleven, and they descended the stairs together into the dusty storefront. With a reluctant gesture, Aziraphale unlocked the front doors, donned his white gloves, and began sorting through a large pile of books behind the counter. Wordlessly, Crowley shed his human skin and slithered to a high shelf, where the sun that filtered through the window created a large, inviting warm patch.
He expected to have to wait quite a while for Aziraphale’s mystery-customer-slash-agressor to turn up. But the store had barely been open ten minutes before the bell above the door tinkled, rousing Crowley from the beginnings of a nap. The towering shelves momentarily concealed the stranger from view, and so he flicked out his tongue to scent the air. A whiff of dry cleaning and expensive cologne smacked him in the face like a frying pan. If he’d been a human, he might’ve gagged.
Seconds later, a middle-aged man appeared from behind a shelf, strolling straight for the front counter. He was tall, good looking and well-groomed, like something out of a GQ magazine. Crowley hated him instantly.
“Mr. Fell. Good to see you.” Aziraphale looked up from the counter as the man approached, arms spread wide in greeting. His deep voice carried a plain, unattractive cadance. An American, then.
“Good morning,” Aziraphale answered stiffly. The latex gloves came off his hands with a loud plasticky snap.
“Busy day so far?”
“Just the usual. Is there something you wanted?”
Though the shop wasn’t exactly known for its welcoming atmosphere, Crowley couldn’t recall ever seeing Aziraphale behave quite so coolly before. If snakes were capable of feeling pride, Crowley was fairly certain that was the emotion he would have been experiencing just now.
The American man whistled, as though he, too, were impressed.
“Straight to the point, huh? You know, I admire that. Really, I do.” He flashed a set of dazzling white teeth as he lounged against the counter. “Well, I just thought it might interest you to know that I’d been thinking about our conversation yesterday. And it occurred to me that I may have gone about this all the wrong way.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.” A list materialized from a suit pocket, presumably of books the human was keen to get his hands on. It was a rather long list. “As much as we at Oxford would like to actually acquire some of the materials you’ve got here, I understand your reluctance to part with your personal collection. But I think I might have come up with a workable solution.”
Aziraphale hummed, unconvinced. “And what might that be?”
The man had begun to pace the counter, running an idle finger along the spine of a nearby book. To Crowley, the act was decidedly threatening, a display of dominance. Aziraphale appeared unaffected. “How would you feel about working with our archives department?”
“Archives department,” Aziraphale repeated. He looked slightly miffed, as though whatever impression he had of the concept didn’t quite line up with what the man was suggesting. “How exactly would that be different than you buying my books?”
“Well, in this instance, we wouldn’t keep them. You’d allow our archivists to temporarily borrow the materials so that they can digitize them, and when they’re done, they’d be returned to you.”
“Digitize?”
“Scan them electronically. After that the files are uploaded to our electronic catalogue, where they’ll be accessible to anyone in the world.”
“I see.” For the first time, Aziraphale looked rather intimidated. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about computers.”
The director laughed, flashing that veneered smile again. “It’s not as complicated as it sounds, I promise. I really think you’d appreciate the work we’re doing. The whole point of the program is to preserve these materials for future generations. Paper doesn’t last forever, you know. Honestly, it’s a miracle so many of your books have remained in such good shape for as long as they have.”
“Climate control,” Aziraphale explained vaguely.
The director seemed to accept this at face value, despite the fact that under ordinary circumstances, the dusty, unkempt bookshop was essentially a literary graveyard where books came to die. Instead, he clapped his big hands together and said, “So, what do you think?”
Aziraphale started at the noise and cast an eye around, shifting from foot to foot. “Oh, I don’t. I don’t rightly know. I’d have to give it a bit more thought,” he hedged. “You say you wouldn’t… keep them?”
“That’s right,” said the man.
“And when you’re done, people all over the world could look at them on- on a computer?”
“Yep. Pretty incredible, right?”
Aziraphale didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either. Judging by the way he was suddenly wringing his hands, it was obvious he was hesitating.
“Come on,” the director drawled, and he leaned over the counter to punch Aziraphale playfully on the arm. “You know I won’t take no for an answer.”
High up on the shelf, Crowley saw red.
Metaphorically speaking, of course, since he was essentially color blind as a snake. But the sentiment stood. By laying a hand on Aziraphale, the human had crossed a line, breached an unspoken boundary that had existed for six millennia; it didn’t matter that he didn’t know the rules. No One Touched Aziraphale.
With a low, threatening hiss Crowley slid down from his spot atop the bookshelf and began slithering along the counter, weaving between piles of books and assorted clutter. The mess kept him well covered, allowing him to approach undetected. Up close, he could see that the director had both elbows on the surface and was leaning forward into Aziraphale’s space. His stupid human body was several centimeters taller than the angel’s corporation, which was wholly unacceptable. Like a soldier from the battlements, Crowley ventured out from his last vestiges of cover and headed straight for the man.
“Listen, you don’t have to decide right now,” he was crooning, smooth as silk. “Why don’t you come down to the library next week? Take a tour of the archives department, see what I’m talking about. After that we can discuss the - oh, Jesus Christ, is that a snake?!”
The director leapt back from the counter in a wide, stumbling arc as Crowley wriggled his thick body to a stop in front of the angel. The sight filled Crowley with immense satisfaction, as did the sudden scent of the man’s sweat on the air. There was nothing like the sharp odor of adrenaline and fear to soothe a demon’s troubled soul.
Aziraphale fixed Crowley with a look of exasperated fondness, like an indulgent parent too entertained by their child’s antics to properly chastise them. “Oh, my, look who’s here,” he murmured, running a single fingertip down the length of Crowley’s spine.
Seemingly embarrassed, the director tried to set himself to rights, shooting his cuffs and squaring his shoulders. “That thing is yours?” He asked, his tone accusatory.
“Er. He’s his own snake, really. Does he frighten you?”
“No,” the man sniffed, taking a single step forward as though to prove it. He was not as close to the counter as he had been a moment ago, but he was no longer quite so far away either. For the most part, he seemed to have recovered himself, which ran contrary to Crowley’s plan - he'd expected the human to book it out the door the moment he saw him. Crowley leveled him with a cold, yellow gaze that communicated quite plainly, get out.
“Just snuck up on me is all,” the man was saying, drawing himself up to full height.
“He has a knack for that.”
Crowley bumped his snout against Aziraphale’s hand to encourage another stroke, which he received.
“Do you just let him run loose in here?”
“Sometimes," Aziraphale answered evasively.
“And nobody’s ever complained?”
“Not thus far.”
The American took another step closer. His face was warped, a twisted little smirk that seemed to hint that in his experience, the best way to overcome an insecurity was to feign confidence. Normally, Crowley could respect that. Under any other circumstances, he might have. But at the sight of the man’s huge hand rapidly approaching his body, rational thought fled his mind, and he reared back to strike.
“Can I touch - ?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t - “
It was too late. With a threatened hiss, Crowley lunged for the hand in front of his face, fangs out. The director leapt back just in time, and Crowley snapped on thin air. His entire body roiled, tail thrashing, knocking books and papers off the counter as fat drops of secreted venom splattered the wooden counter top.
“Oh, goodness,” Aziraphale cried, rushing around the counter in a flurry of concern. “I’m so sorry! Are you alright? Did he get you?”
The director looked frazzled, clutching his hand against his chest. A wave of angelic calm washed over the room and his expression cleared.
“No, I’m fine! I’m fine. Close call though,” he answered, shaking out his hand and breathing a theatrical sigh of relief.
Had he the orbital sockets for it, Crowley might have rolled his eyes.
“Are you quite certain? Oh, that was just so unexpected! I really had no idea he would do that!”
“It’s alright. Just a stupid animal."
Having affirmed that the director was not, in fact, injured, Aziraphale flounced back around the counter and paused in front of Crowley. “I’ll be right back, let me just get him out of here," he said, addressing the man. Before Crowley could react, Aziraphale had scooped him up like a misbehaved puppy and trotted him off to the backroom, hissing words of admonishment under his breath all the way. The world spun around him as he tumbled out of Aziraphale’s arms and onto a cushion.
“Stay here!” The angel whispered harshly before slamming the door behind him.
Crowley stared after him. Shocked. Hurt. And then absolutely furious.
There was no reason for Aziraphale to be angry with him! Crowley had only done what he’d wanted. Get rid of the guy without using a miracle. This was the best way he knew how, and it had worked countless times before. Six millenia worth of experience had taught Crowley that the sight of a great big snake usually sent humans running for the hills. How was he supposed to know this one idiot of a man would try and touch him without permission? Did Americans just not have boundaries? And what, was he just not supposed to defend himself, when the guy had first laid a hand on Aziraphale, and then attempted to lay one on himself? If anything, Crowley thought he deserved worse than a measly little snakebite, and would’ve been happy to provide it had he the correct number of limbs for the job.
Seething, Crowley slithered off the cushion and over to the door to listen. Through the wood, he could hear the angel’s muffled voice offering rapid-fire apologies while the library director assured him again and again that he was alright.
Eventually the frantic quality in Aziraphale’s voice dissipated, and the two began speaking in calm, polite tones, so unlike the hostility that had permeated their earlier conversation. With his inferior reptilian hearing, Crowley couldn’t quite make out what was being said. He tried morphing back to his human form, the better to eavesdrop with, but found he was too upset to concentrate properly. Effectively stuck, he waited until the bell above the bookshop door sounded, signaling the director’s exit. He then retreated hastily to the armchair where Aziraphale had left him and coiled in on himself, the picture of nonchalance.
Within moments Aziraphale appeared in the backroom, hands on his hips and righteous indignation painted across his face. Crowley wilted under his gaze.
“Well, that was rather rude, don’t you think?”
Crowley flipped his tongue out in disagreement, peering over the coil of his body with unblinking eyes.
“I mean, really, Crowley. What if you’d actually bitten him? You could have killed him. Or maimed him at the very least. You’re lucky he pulled back in time.”
The one-sided reprimand really wasn’t doing it for him. With a burst of concentration, Crowley assumed his human form and stumbled to his feet. It was a slapdash job. His limbs were loose, his tongue barely fit for producing sounds, let alone communicable language. He tried anyway.
“You assked me to clear him off.”
Aziraphale frowned reproachfully at him from across the room. “Yes, well, I didn’t ask you to take a chunk out of him, did I?”
“What does it matter? I missed.”
“That’s not the point! You shouldn’t have tried to bite him in the first place. He wasn’t going to hurt you, Crowley.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like people touching me,” Crowley spat venomously. His skin crawled at the thought of that huge, unfamiliar hand on his body.
Aziraphale had the audacity to look hurt. “You’ve never said that before. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have - ”
“Not you,” Crowley clarified, exasperated. “Strangers. Humans.”
“Oh.”
There was a lull. The angel pressed his lips together into a thin line, which usually meant he was trying to get a handle over his emotions. Crowley leaned heavily against a nearby shelf and willed his legs to be steady underneath him. His entire body was putting up a valiant effort, but the control he had over his human form was tenuous at the best of times. Arguing with Aziraphale was not helping.
Much as he’d like to be petty, Crowley didn’t feel like fighting, especially not over something as trivial as a human, and a stranger at that. So, in keeping with time-honored tradition, the demon extended the proverbial olive branch first.
“I wasn’t really going to bite him.”
Aziraphale glanced up at him, suspicion written across his face. “Really?”
“Really.”
It was only half a lie. Crowley could have changed course at the last minute, if he’d wanted to. He hadn’t been planning on it in the moment, but still, the option had technically been there.
The angel pondered the admission a moment before issuing a curt, seemingly satisfied nod. He came out from the doorway and into the room, smoothing his clothing as though the garments were rumpled feathers.
“Well, alright then. No harm done, I suppose.”
“No harm done,” echoed Crowley, and he sagged into the armchair he had just abandoned, still feeling a bit prickly. The angel collapsed into the chair across from him and let out a small groan.
“Do you know, that was all rather exhausting,” he admitted.
Crowley vocalized in agreement. “I hate humans.”
“No you don’t.”
“No I don’t.”
For a while they lounged in silence, sober thanks to the early hour. At length, Aziraphale checked his pocket watch.
“Oh, look at the time. Shall we do lunch?”
“Please,” Crowley said, eager for the distraction. Lunch meant guilt-free day drinking, and after everything that had just transpired, Crowley felt he had more than earned a little indulgence.
Aziraphale smiled, and together they stood and left the bookshop, which had been open for a grand total of forty-five minutes that day.