Chapter Text
In the heart of Soho, there is an old antique bookshop. It opens at random hours and closes once the proprietor is satisfied with having completed his ‘daily ounce of charity’, allowing the residents of Soho to passively gaze upon his beautiful collection.
Sometimes a lost individual can go in and find help. Sometimes a heart screams that the shop is a safe place and they feel led to the double doors without knowing why. Other people just need some advice and feel a strange pull to go in the shop’s direction. Other still merely want to talk to someone who might be able to understand their feelings and so there they are, often without rational thought. In this regard, the bookshop is always open and there for those seem to need it at exactly the right time. All are free to enter in, either to read, to talk, to sit, to rest, or to study, but certainly, never to buy anything. Should you attempt to buy something, well… there are horror stories.
If the bookshop owner Aziph Z. Fell doesn’t somehow persuade you out of buying one of his precious rare treasures, then you will undoubtedly leave the shop screaming and running for your bloody life as a long giant red bellied black snake (and aren’t those venomous?!) chases after you.
So yeah, horror stories, and they only get more theatrical with each telling, as ‘shop survivors’ document online, their experiences.
“Get this Aziraphale, one person says here, and I quote, “I nearly died in this shop. I walked in looking for a copy of Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare, calling out upon entering to see if I could gain some assistance in locating it, and the next thing I knew, something dropped from the ceiling. And there I beheld a giant serpent with blood running down the length of its body and eyes that seemed to stare into my soul. I shook and wept and tried to flee, but the snake was suddenly in front of me. I looked back and then the snake was there too! I screamed for help and tried to fight back. I brandished my shoe and ran for the door as the snake dodged my attack. I was almost there when something seemed to grab my wrist. I let out a startled cry and turned, only to wet myself when I turned and found what must have been a ghost! His hair was white and his eyes otherworldly. I attempted to flee again, but the thing wouldn’t let me go. I honestly do not remember how I finally was able to escape, but I am so glad I did. A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop is haunted, mark my words. Haunted!” Can you believe this guy?!”
Crowley was all but rolling on the floor laughing as Aziraphale sighed and simply sipped at his wine from the armchair.
“Why do you even read those fantastical stories? Clearly I am not a ghost and you are not covered in blood, nor are you as fast nor giant enough to be in two places at the same time…” he paused before his eyes narrowed, “or are you?”
Crowley snorted. “Not really, but I can’t deny I cast amazing infernal illusions from time to time.”
“Crowley!”
“What? He was going to buy one of your books of Shakespeare, besides it’s not like he was hurt or anything. He just… won’t be coming back here anytime soon.”
Aziraphale groaned. “And if this ghost story of his attracts unwanted attention?”
“Well obviously like you said Aziraphale, you aren’t a ghost and I am not quite that scary of a snake. Usually. So, if someone comes to investigate, well, they’ll find we aren’t quite as… horrific, as the human made us out to be.”
“You, my darling, are a wily old serpent.”
“Of course,” Crowley jeered, “and you, my lovely angel, are just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.”
Aziraphale snorted into his wine and Crowley chuckled as the red liquid lapped dangerously at the rim of the glass, but of course miraculously, not a single drop was spilt.
“Besides, I could have just… let him buy the book.”
Aziraphale narrowed stormy blue eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
Crowley smirked before sighing significantly. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”
The angel scowled playfully, and the demon huffed a light laugh before a mischievous twinkle lit up serpentine eyes.
“You know Angel, there are other ways of driving customers out the door.”
“Hmm?” Aziraphale hummed, his closed as he savored his wine, enjoying the sweet and tangy flavor.
“Mmhmm,” Crowley leered at his darling angelic husband, “much more… corporeal wayssss.”
“Corpor-” Aziraphale choked, opening his eyes as he gasped.
Crowley grinned up at him from on the floor, kneeling, his hands touching slowly, carefully, teasingly.
“Much more fun ways,” the demon tempted.
“Oh, you are wicked,” the angel groaned at the feel of his husband’s cool hands pressing, caressing.
“Absssssolutely,” the Serpent purred.
So perhaps, not all the horror stories about the bookshop necessarily have to do with snakes, ghosts, and angry shop owners. Either way, that small little shop on the corner of Soho has always been a secret treasure amongst the community in London. A small little shelter for those who need it, and a place of wonder and creative imagining for those seeking thrill. And of course, within that shop you will always find the beloved Mr. Fell, a real angel according to his neighbors and customers (so long as you don’t try to buy a book, that is). And as of late, always by his side or found napping in the back room, is his darling husband, the incredibly sexy and somewhat intimidating, Mr. Crowley.
Perhaps the shop is magic, some say. A shop who, even it’s owners, live outside of time. Some believe it haunted. Others believe it a slice of heaven. Whatever it is, it’s always there and many believe it always will be. Most humans who visit the store and speak with its owners, would tell you in simple terms, that the shop is completely, undeniably, indisputably ineffable.