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The demon Crowley was blocking their loveseat. Well – not their loveseat. The former-traitor-turned-Supreme-Archangel’s loveseat. Or maybe Crowley’s loveseat. After all, ever since Muriel had moved into this bookshop, he had been discarded onto it, curled around a piece of human-looking clothing. Grumbling, whining and unresponsive.
Perhaps he didn’t like angels. He only ignored Muriel since he knew they were an angel. But then, he had seemed to really like Aziraphale. Now though, he made pained, wet sounding noises with his throat whenever Muriel mentioned that name.
And he slept a lot. Maggie said he was “sick.” (There was another syllable, but it hadn’t made sense. Love was the Almighty’s gift, not something so woeful.) Just as well! Muriel was able to cure meagre illnesses!
Only it didn’t seem to work on demons.
After months, the humans from next door brought reinforcements. There was a younger one with them: black hair and huge, unbelieving eyes. (Perhaps because he was expecting someone else; he called Crowley by another name.) The demon finally sat up. He stared, his demonic eyes just as huge.
The boy had a lot of questions. (Muriel wondered where he got that from.) But the adults insisted Crowley answer them in a park. “Alfresco.” The fresh air should help with the sickness.
It was the first time Crowley left the bookshop – at least since Muriel was here. They should do something nice for him to find once he came back; encourage him to leave and find everything in order here, even with neither Aziraphale nor him there to supervise.
Their eyes fell on the fabrics the demon had been clutching in his sleep: an old, worn, beige coat.
The demon returned alone, limbs sluggish, dragging his weight across the hardwood floor as if his fall was pulling him towards hell still. He folded into the casket of his imprint in the cushions, a hand clawing into his beloved coat. He pressed it to his face and inhaled.
Crowley froze. A sniff. A forked tongue.
Muriel beamed. “I washed it! It smells nice now. Less worn!”
The demon stared at the fabric in his hands with even sicker eyes than this morning. And then he went still.
He went still for a very long time.
The coat slipped to the floor like a discarded handkerchief and the calendar-pages kept turning.
Muriel almost saluted when they saw him. “Supreme Archangel!”
He looked nervous in his own shop, fidgeting with his sleeves. Then he pulled until his gleaming white coat came off. “I heard, you… I… I thought perhaps I should wear my old coat again... and my old aftershave. Just for a few days.” He glanced at the sleeping demon with apprehension and something born before time and forged in the fire of an apocalypse. “I’ll bring it back.”
Understanding dawned on Muriel. “I won’t wash it again.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale sighed in relief, trading pristine white for worn beige. “And thank you for looking after… after my bookshop.”