Chapter Text
The thing about Crowley was that he wasn’t a connoisseur of the arts in any typical way. Sure, if you put him in front of a Da Vinci long enough, he might be able to call it colorful or something of the like, but there was no appreciation further than something very baseline. He rarely watched television and he hadn’t seen a movie since Silence of the Lambs, and that one had been a bit underwhelming. Not nearly enough of Anthony Hopkins eating people. Who didn’t want to see that? (The answer, which Crowley chose to ignore, was most people).
So, no, Crowley was no culture expert. He could appreciate a good story, though. He’d read quite a few books in his time, but they were very rarely considered classics, and more often referred to as ‘violent, abhorrent abominations of the literary genre’. He rather enjoyed them.
The little bit of culture that had managed to get itself through Crowley’s wall of Emmerdale and books with the word ‘Awesome’ in the title had imbued a love for a certain nineteenth-century playwright inside of him. If there was only one thing you could depend on in this mortal coil, it was that Crowley had an Oscar Wilde quote to fit whatever situation you were in at that moment.
The man himself stepped out of his black Bentley, carefully shutting the car’s door and giving her a gentle little pat for good measure. He had pulled up in front of a row of shops, little homey things that gave the appearance of desperately not wanting to be in London, though they were very much in London. They were cute little things. There was a quaint bookstore a few feet in front of Crowley, and he looked the front of it up and down. ‘A.Z. Fell and Co.’, a bannered sign above the entrance read. Nothing too special, but it was the kind of place that twenty-somethings that ran blogs and ate dandelions because they were curious and not desperate would absolutely fawn over.
Crowley stepped onto the pavement and adjusted his sunglasses, blinking a few times behind them. It wasn’t a particularly sunny day in Soho, but he had the eyes of a geriatric mole, and usually kept to looking away from the sun.
Inside, the bookshop was just as quaint, if not more, as it was from the outside. The place smelled of dust, leather, and was that hot cocoa? It was stuffed with old leather-bound books, assorted candles (some of which looked way past their day, but still well-loved), and what looked to be a collection of antiques from around the world. Crowley stuck out like a sore thumb in his skinny jeans and Valentino. The shop seemed devoid of people entirely and Crowley was okay with this fact.
He walked slowly through the shop, gazing at bookcases and skimming over titles, most of which Crowley had never heard of. There was a surprisingly large selection of books of prophecy, which Crowley found charming. He let his fingers gently skim along the exposed spines of the books and relished in the sensation of raised fonts and textured leather brushing against his fingertips. For someone who had little appreciation for the arts, he was finding himself at home in a bookshop rather easily.
He spent another few minutes walking through, browsing the selection when a voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts.
“No! Of course not! Well… I do believe it’s different when you put it like that…”
Crowley turned his torso in the direction of the voice, his hips kicked out a little to steady himself. He raised an eyebrow and listened as the voice grew nearer.
“Really, Gabriel, I didn’t-” A sigh interrupted the high-pitched fuss that was coming from the back of the bookshop. “All right, then. Whatever you want. Is that all?”
Suddenly, a figure came out from a door near the back of the shop and stood behind a counter that seemed to be where any kind of actual business would occur. The man was of average height with bright, platinum blond hair that seemed a bit too bright to be natural to Crowley, who knew a thing or two about hair dye. He wore a blue button-down under a velvet waistcoat, a tartan bowtie, and was that a pocket watch? He was holding an antique-looking rotary phone, one arm holding the bulk of it and his other hand holding the phone to his ear. Crowley watched as he hung up the phone and placed it onto the counter, visibly deflating.
Wonder what his deal is, Crowley thought to himself. He was smiling. Why was he smiling? Crowley schooled his expression back to something that was just shy of menacing and turned to once again browse the books. He assumed that the man belonged in the shop (maybe the owner or something) and decided to ignore the interruption. That was before the man started talking again.
“Oh, goodness! Hello over there!”
Crowley turned slowly, eyebrow still raised. The man was smiling awkwardly at him, hands clasped in front of his torso. Crowley followed the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, somewhat nervously.
“Sorry about the noise, just problems with the boss. I do hope you know how that is.”
Crowley smiled, and there was something sinister about it. He was rather proud of the fact that he was often said to give off the appearance a predator stalking prey. “‘Course I do. I’m a working Londoner, after all,” he said. There was something teasing in Crowley’s voice. His expensive look and expensive attitude conveyed that he might not have been entirely serious. The light-haired man smiled abashedly again.
“I, um… I do hope you’re liking the shop. Is there anything, in particular, that you’re looking for?”
“Yeah, actually. Got any Wilde?” The man, who Crowley assumed was the shopkeeper of sorts, perked up. All of a sudden, he was gallanting from behind the counter over to Crowley, who had now stood up straight and turned fully in the shopkeeper’s direction.
“This way, over here.” Crowley followed diligently as he was led over to a shelf lined with more books, these ones looking to be better-kept than the rest. It was a tall, thin shelf and had some kind of hanging plant lining one side of it. The other side was pressed up against one of the ancient-looking walls of the shop. On top of the case (which was significantly taller than the shopkeeper, Crowley noted) was a statue of an angel. What Crowley found fascinating about the thing was that it was depicted wearing, instead of robes or some kind of toga, a three-piece suit, along with an assortment of extravagant jewelry (some kind of necklace contraption that went up the jaw and traced the neckline, a pair of earrings, and a particularly stylish pinky ring). Crowley pried his eyes away from the statue and turned back to the man beside him.
“So, are you the owner?” he asked nonchalantly.
The other man turned his attention away from one of the books, whose peeling spine he was frowning over. “Indeed I am,” he answered proudly, smiling. The man, who Crowley now knew as the owner, did a lot of smiling. Crowley wondered what he was so happy about.
“So you must be ‘Mr. Fell’, then.”
“Who? Oh! Oh yes, of course!” The owner laughed nervously. “Of course, of course. My bookshop with my name above it, yes. You, um. You can call me Aziraphale, though.” Crowley gave him a bewildered look before turning back to the books.
“Any recommendations?” he asked tentatively.
“Certainly.” Aziraphale (Funny name, Crowley thought) pulled out a book. “Ah, here we are. The first illustrated edition of The Picture of Dorian Grey, published in 1908. The Summer Olympics were held in London that year. It was rather chilly.” He pulled out another book. “And here’s The Importance of Being Earnest, brandished with the appellation of ‘the Dramatic Works of Oscar Wilde’, published in 1900.” Crowley took both of the books, holding one in each hand, and got a good feel for them. They felt delicate and old and expensive and Crowley quite liked that feel. He’d gotten used to havings things of that nature under his touch.
“You’re a man of good taste if these are for yourself, Mr….”
“Crowley, and they are.” He turned to face Aziraphale and caught the man looking at him. His eyes were traveling over Crowley’s body in a way that seemed a bit deeper than just observing his outfit. Crowley looked away before Aziraphale could realize he’d been caught.
“A Wilde fan, then?”
“Yeah. He and I... have some things in common.” Crowley wasn’t just talking about their shared scintillating wit. The surprise on Aziraphale's face told Crowley that he’d understood what he had meant. Some things probably shouldn’t have been that surprising, though. Crowley was wearing women’s jeans, after all.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. If you need…” Aziraphale trailed off for a millisecond. “If you, erm, want anything, I’ll be by the counter.”
Crowley smiled that sinister smile once again. He looked at Aziraphale from under his glasses. “I’ll be sure to ask.”
Aziraphale swallowed, gave Crowley one last nod, then walked off in the direction of the counter. Crowley felt a sense of something like accomplishment surge through him.
___
After going through the entire selection of Wilde, which was quite extensive, and taking another stroll through the shop, Crowley decided on two books. One was the copy of Dorian Grey that Aziraphale had picked out, and the other was a first edition version of Hamlet, which was just oddly different enough from the version Crowley knew that he felt compelled to buy it. The books would make a nice addition to the homey feel he was trying to conjure in his otherwise cold, modern apartment. Before walking back to the counter, Crowley took one last look at the odd angel statue and wondered why it seemed familiar, yet so far-out. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of it for what he called ‘safekeeping’. He’d look into that later.
Crowley walked back in the direction of the counter. He saw that Aziraphale was sitting behind it, a pair of what looked to be reading glasses on as he intensively surveyed a book on the surface in front of him. Crowley watched and felt that the other’s concentration was palpable. Some book.
“‘S a nice selection you’ve got here,” Crowley commented. He walked up to the counter and leaned over it, placing his elbows on either side of the book Aziraphale was reading. The owner quickly looked up, taking his glasses off. He looked at Crowley with wide eyes.
Their faces were very close all of a sudden. Crowley smiled. Aziraphale swallowed.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale practically squeaked. Crowley pulled back and watched as the owner took a proper breath, now that he had his own space. Crowley placed the books he’d chosen on the counter. Aziraphale stood from the chair he was sitting on and slid the literature around so that he could see the titles.
“Hamlet? So you enjoy Shakespeare too?” Aziraphale flipped through the book as he asked the question, probably checking for damage, folded pages, or maybe something else entirely. Whatever the reason, he looked very professional while he did it. Crowley watched his hands. They worked with a certain grace that must’ve come with experience handling books and pages. Crowley noticed he was wearing a pinky ring that seemed vaguely familiar.
“I can take it or leave it. I do love a bit of irony, though.”
“How do you mean?” Aziraphale looked genuinely confused.
Crowley waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Doesn’t matter. How much’ll it be?”
Aziraphale carefully stacked the two books on top of each other, then reached under the counter for a paper bag. The brown paper was brandished with a logo of two wings on it, with the bookshop’s name underneath it. He slid the two books inside and gave them a gentle pat. Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, who was watching the other’s graceful movements like a beady-eyed snake (who was wearing sunglasses).
“I, um… I’m happy to service a fellow Wilde aficionado, so let’s say that one’s on me. Don’t try to refuse, because I’ll just change the price anyways.” Aziraphale cleared his throat and straightened, seemingly imbued with more confidence. “It’ll be sixty pounds.”
Crowley didn’t know what to say. He was torn between being snarky and thankful. He decided to instead keep his mouth shut for once. If he’d been looking in a mirror, he probably would’ve been sorely disappointed with how tender his expression was.
“I appreciate it,” was what he managed to say, fumbling with his back pocket to pull out his wallet. He pulled out a few notes and placed them on the counter. Aziraphale took them, counted them, put them in a register, and took out the necessary change to give back to Crowley. He also reached for a notepad and a pen beside the register.
“Here-” Aziraphale started, and he began writing something out. “-Is, erm. My mobile phone number. In case you have any… questions or concerns. About the books, that is.” When the shopkeeper looked up from the pad, there was a slight bit of pink dusting the otherwise smooth, pale skin of his cheeks. Aziraphale ripped the piece of paper from the pad, put it together with the notes, and handed it to Crowley.
Crowley was, again, a bit speechless. Maybe more than a bit.
He took what was being offered as an automatic reflex. His eyes trailed down to the piece of paper and he quickly scanned the words. ‘Aziraphale, antique bookshop owner’, it read. Underneath that was a telephone number. And underneath that was a tiny, perfectly drawn heart.
Oh Christ, Crowley thought. Oh God. What the hell is happening right now?
He cleared his throat. “About the books. ‘Course.” Crowley stuck the paper and notes in his back pocket. He placed one of his hands on the counter and leaned his weight against it so that he and Aziraphale were a bit closer, once again. “If I wanted to ring you about something other than books, though, would the line still be open?” he asked quietly. He was smiling again. He’d regained his composure.
Aziraphale smiled too, but it was hesitant and something like shy. “I believe it would be.”
Crowley straightened up and took the bag of books from the counter. “Well then,” he started. “Pleasure doing business with you, Aziraphale.” Crowley added an inflection to the pronunciation of Aziraphale’s name that sent a shiver down the shopkeeper’s spine. Crowley knew exactly what he was doing and when he realized it had been a job well done, he gave a little wave and began walking towards the door.
When he was a few steps from exiting, Aziraphale’s voice piped up again. “Wait! Can I at least get your first name?”
Crowley turned around. He tipped his sunglasses downward so he could really look at Aziraphale.
“Next time. Gotta run.” And then he was out the door.
Outside, Crowley walked to his car, feeling accomplished.
Somewhere else, it was determined that he’d just made Oscar Wilde very proud.