Chapter Text
It was a terrible day.
Well, it wasn’t actually a terrible day. In theory, it was a perfectly lovely day. The sun had finally broken through the thick clouds that eternally hung over London, but not so thoroughly that those unused to its rays (like most Londoners) would be burned. The kind of weather where you could wear your favorite outfit out to a nice picnic, regardless of if it had long sleeves or short. And though no great peace had been reached upon Earth that day, nothing too terrible happened, which should honestly be considered one.
But it was a terrible day. Because Crowley had left Sylvia behind.
It’s not his fault he was in a rush to get his things back in his Bentley, and it certainly wasn’t his fault that he’d been so busy with his own special brand of self deprecation, self destruction, and just plain old general destruction that he hadn’t bothered to do a stem-count until a month after he had his heart ripped and stamped on by the only person he’d ever loved left the bookshop.
“Fuuuuuuuuck,” the demon groaned, hitting his head against the steering wheel.
If it was any other plant, he would have just left them behind, no doubt about it. But he’d had Sylvia for nearing 14 years, having gotten her a few hours after he and…well, they had plotted to stop Armageddon. She’d managed to survive those next 11 years, a period known to the surviving and succeeding plants as “the dark ages,” thrived during the lockdowns despite the lack of water, and always produced excellent cuttings with no fuss.
She was the perfect plant. And Crowley had left her behind in his bookshop.
So yes, it was a terrible day. Because Crowley had to go on a rescue mission to the one place he would least like to be.
(Normally, that place would be Heaven, but at least then he’d see Aziraphale.)
He’d debated sending someone else to do it, but he soon realized he didn’t currently have anyone to do so with. All of his remaining contacts either worked for Hell (bad idea) or would question why he wasn’t going to the bookshop himself because aren’t you and Mr. Fell close? He only had himself left to send.
Crowley took a deep, unnecessary breath in. “You can do this. It’s fine, it’s just the bookshop– a bookshop. Nothing’s there. You just go in, you grab Sylvia, and you leave, never to return. Simple.”
It was decidedly not simple, for reasons all readers and parties involved are entirely too aware, but Crowley’s strength of will, and subsequently strength of his own denial, was something not to be trifled with.
So by the time the Bentley rolled to a stop in front of A.Z. Fell and Co., Crowley was entirely convinced that his visit to the bookshop would be just that. And that feeling of certainty lasted all the way up until he reached the front door. The little handwritten note containing the shop’s confusing hours was still posted. But the door was wide open. That was unheard of, especially on a Tuesday.
It wasn't his problem. Simple. Go in, get the plant, get out. It wasn't his problem, it didn't matter anymore. Keep it simple.
The demon strutted into the bookshop, far more intensely than necessary, forced casualness rolling off him in a way that would make anyone in the nearby vicinity believe he was certainly up to something.
Don’t think, don't think, don't think.
Crowley’s paradoxical thinking kept him occupied long enough to make it to the backroom without having to look, and subsequently think, about any particular thing. There Sylvia sat, her leaves just as green and pristine as the day he left her. He hadn’t been worried about her. They both knew she knew better than to wilt, let alone after only a week of thirst. She’d been around for several of his naps by now, this was all par for the course.
He grabbed her in one smooth motion, turned on his heel, and promptly ran into a bookshelf.
“Bloody fuck, what,” The demon groaned, pressing his palm against his forehead. He looked and saw a wall of bookshelves blocking his original path. While some things in the shop liked to move around on him, they never did so without some greater intention from the owner. Aziraphale.
Which meant someone was here. Running the bookshop.
Groaning again, a frequent noise from the demon that day, Crowley called out. “For the love of–. Who’d they put to run this place?”
“That would be me, now!”
That bubbly, almost hesitant voice could only belong to one being.
(Was he being hopeful or masochistic or both to have hoped for a different bubbly, hesitant voice?)
“Muriel. Christ.”
“Oh, it’s actually just ‘Muriel.’ Though ‘Muriel Christ’ isn’t far off, you got the first bit.”
Crowley didn’t bother to regale that with a response.
“It used to not be me, it used to be Mr. Fell, which, you know, you were there, but he went away and now I-”
“I know he went away, I’m very aware of that fact and I don’t care at all. Who put you in charge…and why are you wearing his clothes? ”
Crowley had finally looked up at the angel on the staircase, to discover they were wearing his outfit. The one he’d worn for over a century now. Though Crowley supposed he was likely draped in some celestial fabric or other by now, like the old days, that stupid golden collar he always said was far too scratchy for his tastes–
Don’t think. Simple.
“It’s my bookseller’s uniform! Like the one Mr. Fell wore. I thought it--”
“And what god awful way have you been deciding to reorganize these by?” Having run directly into the bookshelf gave Crowley an awfully close look at its contents. And though he was trying very hard to do so, no one could deny that if you use a place as your main meeting and/or drinking location for over 200 years, you’d have a very detailed memory of the place. And the Shelley’s were not in their place.
In fact, nothing was in its place. Books were strewn about in precarious piles on every available surface. Hundreds of sticky notes littered the walls and shelves with quips such as, “blue ones go here(?)(!),” and, “Good job on the bookselling, Muriel!” There even appeared to be a ‘house’ of books teetering on the edge of the windowsill.
“Color! Once I finish then I’m going to re-organize them by size. I was going to try both size and color but I don’t think I’m experienced enough to try that. Mr. Fell was a very experienced book seller and he didn’t have them organized that way, so I must imagine it’d be a very hard thing to do.”
It was all wrong. It was so very wrong in the bookshop that it was physically painful for definitely only that reason. The demon took a deep inhale, closing his eyes. He, though somewhat strained, managed to count to ten before opening them once again.
It truly was a terrible day.
“Right. First things first, close the shop. ‘S always closed on Tuesdays, regardless of the sign, ‘s just there to throw people off. Rule of thumb, If you’re not sure whether it’s supposed to be open, close it. Also, Don’t sell the books. Ever.
“So do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you care? Because you said earlier that you don’t care but it seems like you care. I apologize if I got that wrong, I’m just a bit confused.”
“Aren’t you always.” He remarked dryly.
He had to admit, Muriel did have a point. All that did seem an awful lot like caring. But he couldn’t just leave the bookshop in this state, just like he couldn’t leave Sylvia behind. He had a longstanding relationship with the place, and it just wasn’t right to leave Muriel to muck it all up.
Deep down, you really are quite a nice person.
“Yes, well, I don’t. I don’t care, not one lick. But there are just some things that you have to do– Booksellers have to do.”
“Not…sell books?”
“Exactly.
“Oh…okay! Got it! Thank you, Mr. Crowley.”
“Right.” He flicked his hands and the doors swung shut, the sign flipping round with it. “It’s going to take ages to get these all back in place. Tell me, you can read, right?”
Muriel nodded assuredly. “I can. I can even read human languages too! I’m, I’m not very fast at it, though.”
“‘S all fine, same here. Just…if I call out a title, go and find it, yeah?” Crowley said absentmindedly, beginning to dismantle one of the numerous piles.
“Yes! I can do that no problem, Mr. Crowley,” Muriel said, a wide grin parting their face. “But, just where can I-”
“Crowley. Just Crowley’s fine.”
“Yes, Mr… I mean, not Mr. Crowley!” A very annoyed silence echoed through the bookshop. “M– Crowley. How do I…find the title?”
“It’s the words on the front. The big ones,” Crowley said slowly, though not unkindly.
“Oh, thank you.” The silence pervaded again. “The…extra big ones, or just the regular big ones?”
“Just come down here, would you? For heaven’s–I’ll show you. And I'm getting you some new clothes, too.”
Which is how one Anthony J. Crowley, on that no good very bad terrible day, became the proprietor of A.Z. Fell and Co, Antiquarian and Unusual Books.
He just didn’t know it yet.