Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Silence was never the shops feature. The building would often creak and complain in the hours before London awoke, and then again during the evenings when the warm air evaporated into the night. Aziraphale sat behind the counter, wrapped in an old, tatty cardigan, its fabric faded to the colour of weak tea, surveying his kingdom. His eyes scanned over the philosophy books squeezed alongside Bibles dog-eared by devotion, their margins filled with more annotation than gospel. The Dickens editions. Their jackets timeworn into oblivion, gathered dust in silent, forgotten corners. Joy had been found here once. A warm refuge in the space between stories, a nest for rare texts and rarer conversations. With the passage of years that marked the wood, his soul found its home and refuge in the cracks. But now he mostly just perched and waited for the entry bells to chime, running through the routine of being a bookseller. Seemingly cut off from the love of the shop. As if it had been carved from his body, disposed of as faulty.
Aziraphale was never sure what would be on the other side of the door when it opened for trade. Some were regulars who had attended over the years, mild-eyed undergraduates, and gentlemen who treated every purchase as a moral victory. Each regular brought with them a sense of familiarity that would offer a moment of respite to the frayed edges of his mood. But then they were few and far between, even less so as the festive season approached and the streets filled with hollow seasonal shoppers.
Turning the page of his ledger, Aziraphale’s hands gave a slight tremor. He ran his thumb along the edge until it stung, a newly developed ritual to chase away the discomfort of pins and needles. The tremor was worse in the mornings, before the medication had time to ease the static that gathered behind his breastbone. His body, traitorous as ever, reminded him of its frailty with every minor indignity. Around his eyes were dark circles, a bitter sensation in his mouth that a strong cuppertea couldn’t cover, the light but constant ache that surrounded his ribs and turned breathing into a tight, controlled action.
Creating a warm barrier between his heart and the outside world, he wrapped his cardigan tighter across his chest, a new habit. A grimace crossed his face as the traitorous thing thumped.
Malaise had a routine within it. At half-past seven, he climbed the spiral staircase to the mezzanine and then towards the back wall, where a small, secluded door led to his flat. In the bathroom, he poured the day’s ration of tablets into his palm: two white, one blue, and an amber capsule that tasted faintly of lemon. He counted them twice before swallowing, chasing the chalky bitterness with a mouthful of tap water. His reflection stared back from the foggy glass, pale-faced, sad, clear eyes framed with creases, hair in unruly tufts. Serenbore hadn’t directly stated it, but the physician had implied enough to make it evident that he believed it was all in Aziraphale’s imagination. That, by rights, he should be feeling a new lease of life by now. He grimaced, then forced a smile, failed, and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.
The back room of the shop was small and cosy, with a simple and worn chesterfield against the wall, draped with handmade crochet blankets that his dear neighbour had made as gifts, in the brightest colours imaginable. ‘Not all colours were meant to be seen together,’ he protested, to a reply of ‘nonsense, if nature can do it, so can you’. He smiled and then made a show of straightening the cross on the back wall.
The cross was a simple wooden affair, a hand-me-down from his father’s study. No matter how many times he adjusted it, it always hung askew, as if the building itself resisted order. Below it, a stack of leaflets lay untouched. ‘FINDING FORGIVENESS THIS CHRISTMAS’, ‘WELCOME CHRIST OUR SAVIOUR’. The lettering was shrill, imposing, and overeager. His hand hesitated over them and, instead of reading any, he shuffled and tidied the pile so their edges aligned in neat, penitential rows.
His eyes caught on the sealed letter that lay next to them, and instinctively he reached for it. His hand paused and hovered, taunted by the paper which had sat there for almost a year. It was a cursed thing in his mind, a temptation sealed with gum, daring him to look. The silhouette of his hand quivered over the dated paper, once so spotless, now accumulating dust motes and seeming as worn as he appeared. His chest fluttered into his throat, causing him to swallow hard. He shook his head, and then, withdrawing his hand, he decisively stepped away from the damn thing before opening the shop for the day.
The bell above the door rang, and outside, the street bustled with early morning London traffic and pedestrians. He paused at the doorstep and watched in silence as a couple walked past, the woman’s red scarf wound tight around her throat, the man beside her laughing with too-wide lips. The woman caught Aziraphale’s gaze and gave a little wave. Aware that it would cost him nothing, he offered the smallest of smiles, but felt little.
Unwillingly, his attention drifted to the memory of the two men who’d passed the shop the day before, hands interlaced, laughing a little too loudly. Something about their ease with each other, how naturally their fingers intertwined, had struck him as indecent. It was the openness, the carelessness of it. The way it made a spectacle of what should be private, unseen, frowned upon. Dear Lord, if he could control it, so could others. It was wrong after all. Having watched them disappear into the traffic, he spent the remainder of the day downgrading his opinion of them, believing the internal criticism could rectify the perceived fault.
On his return indoors, his phone vibrated on the counter, screen flashing with the familiar name. “Yes, Maggie,” he answered, not bothering to soften the edge in his voice.
“You sound like death,” she said, in lieu of greeting. “Did you sleep at all?”
Aziraphale considered lying, then decided it was too much effort. “I slept,” he said. “Poorly, but that’s nothing new.”
Maggie snorted. “Did you at least eat?”
He let the silence hang, knowing she’d fill it herself.
“Well, you’d better have some toast before you faint on the underground. Mum will go nuts if you miss dinner again.” She paused, voice softer. “You are coming, in’you?”
“I’ll come,” he answered with a sigh. “If only to keep the peace.”
There was a faint rustle on the other end, traffic, footsteps, the hasty intake of breath that meant she was about to pivot to something more serious. “You don’t have to,” she said. “If you’re not up for it. You know they’re only going to…”
He cut her off with a brittle laugh. “Only going to what, exactly? Ask why I haven’t started dancing in the street? Why haven’t I found someone to settle down with now? Poke at the scar tissue a bit, see if it still bleeds?”
“You know they love you, right? Even if they don’t always show it in the right way.”
“Let’s not have this conversation before nine in the morning.”
“Fine. But I’ll see you tonight.” She said; her tone brooked no argument. “And you’d better bring a bottle of that awful sherry. It’s the only thing that gets me through Dad’s stories.”
He grunted something approximating agreement and hung up before she could say goodbye. The phone was a greater weight in his hand than normal, as if the pressure of expectation had moved to settle like an OtterBox.
He set it aside and looked out the window at the city. The street was a theatre stage, its actors ever-changing, dancing around each other, while the regular characters haunted the sidelines in their shop-like settings. The script was always the same. Men in ill-fitting coats hurrying to jobs they’d long since begun to hate. Women corralled by prams and children and schedules so tight they might snap. Schoolboys fighting imaginary wars beneath the gaze of indifferent mothers. All of them moved with the grim determination of people who knew there were worse things than the routine. That sometimes the only escape from a cage was to decorate it, to call it home.
He turned away, pulling the ledger close, and tried to lose himself in the comfort of numbers. But the pages swam, and the tremor in his hand sent a ragged line through the neat columns. He forced the pen down, paused, picked it up, preparing to write, then set it aside again.
Through the backroom door, his eye was drawn to the cross on the wall. He walked over to straighten it again, this time leaving it just a fraction crooked, a small rebellion against the tyranny of perfection. Outside, the world of London raced past. Still inside, Aziraphale sat alone and sighed, gathering his resolve for the day ahead.
He’d go to dinner, as promised. He’d smile and nod and let his father’s words roll over him like a benediction. He’d drink the sherry, eat the roast, pretend that the fissures between them were only surface cracks and not the fault lines they’d become. He’d perform, as always, and hope that no one noticed the places where the stitches had come undone.
And later, he’d return to the shop, to his books, to the quiet that wasn’t really silence at all. He’d turn the sign to CLOSED and let the city’s noise retreat behind thick glass and years of habit.
💕
Reeking of rain, newspaper pulp, and body odour, the station was unpleasant that afternoon. Descended slowly, Aziraphale took it one step at a time, as though the city itself might revoke his passage if he moved too quickly. The turnstile gave a reluctant clack, and the escalator groaned beneath his feet like a hymn sung off-key. The damp air thinned, and the temperature increased, like descending into the bowels of hell.
Numbly he pressed his way through the sea of bodies towards the platform, some moved at a regular pace, some ran, and others looked completely lost. With a gust of air and a metallic shriek, the train made its arrival. Aziraphale mindlessly stepped on, gripping the rail with pale knuckles. Across from him, a teenager in a battered hoodie bobbed his head to music leaking irritatingly from plastic earbuds. A woman fanned herself with a takeaway menu. No one met his gaze directly. That was the gift of the underground. Here, anonymity was worn like armour.
The abrupt movement of the carriage triggered a memory. A younger Aziraphale, back straight, and voice full of parroted dogma, riding this same line. Eager. Innocent. He’d thought conviction would be enough for happiness. Currently, conviction resembled a stone in his shoe. A constant. Dull, yet oddly comforting in its familiarity.
He observed his reflection in the darkened window. The usual light tan suit and dickie bow. He looked like someone who belonged in the footnotes of a church newsletter. A cautionary tale, perhaps. A legacy to Eleanor Rigby.
At the next stop, a couple clambered on, flushed with laughter and joy. The man with unruly long hair and shamelessly wearing eyeliner. The woman kissed his cheek with casual grace. Aziraphale looked away, jaw tightening. It wasn’t disgust, not truly. It was something sourer, older, more ingrained. He gripped the rail harder, as if he could anchor himself to doctrine.
His phone buzzed with a notification. ‘Dinner at 6. Mum’s making lamb. Don’t be late x’. He deleted it without reading further.
Stations blurred past. Each one closer to a living room with floral cushions, stiff smiles, and Maggie’s eyes begging him not to ruin it. He would, though. He could feel it building in the cavity behind his ribs. The petty righteousness. The need to lash out and leave his mark, even if that mark cost him more than he could afford. He could only breathe when the train transitioned from underground to above, where the air appeared to chill.
The train’s speed decreased with the announcement of his stop. Bracing for the next performance, Aziraphale rose before the doors opened. On this occasion, he had no desire to act the kind, unusual bookseller. He’d be a blade disguised as sentiment. And later, when the fallout settled over lukewarm sherry and bitter roast, he’d call it truth. Because calling it cruelty would mean admitting to a crack in his foundation, and those he preferred to ignore.
💕
The scent of roast lamb, rosemary, and tension hit him as he stepped through the door of his parents’ house. His mother fussed and helped him remove his coat to hang it up to dry. Floral wallpaper adorned the walls above the dado rails, and the stripes of a green and white zebra lay below. Aziraphale could not stop himself from thinking he had stepped into a nineties carvery.
Two small Cavalier King Charles spaniels skittered around his feet, causing his eyes to spin as he tried desperately to determine tail from tongue. They were delightful little dogs, but Aziraphale simply was not feeling the joy today. Lace curtains adorned the windows, shielding the dark that had already fallen as it was wont to do this late in the year, and the floral curtains were tied back at the sides. Precisely arranged cutlery graced the centre table, featuring a jug of clear water.
Aziraphale fidgeted nervously with his ring as he shuffled just inside the doorway of the dining room. Maggie gave him a look and gestured at the empty seat beside her.
“You brought the sherry?” She said, already pouring herself a glass of water.
“I wouldn’t risk arriving without it.”
Their mother was already fussing over the gravy boat. Father cleared his throat as though preparing for a sermon as he took his place at the head of the table, framed by the extravagant window setting as though he were on stage. The room held its breath.
Maggie sat to his left, smiling softly, her roommate Nina beside her, hands folded politely in her lap. Maggie wore an olive green embroidered cardigan that matched precisely none of the table’s décor; its top button was the only one fastened. Nina was dressed in an elegant yet casually sharp black outfit. Nina appeared tense, glancing toward Maggie expectantly, but received a warm, comforting smile paired with a gentle touch. Aziraphale clocked it, irrationally irritated.
“So, Maggie dear, how long have you and Nina been sharing rent now?” Jane said as she took her place at the table, “The housing market is just terrible these days.”
“It has been almost two years now,” Maggie said, leaning in and flashing a smiling glance towards her terrified-looking friend.
“Maggie, would your friend Nina mind saying grace tonight?” Their father asked, “I’d love to hear what spiritual perspectives you might bring to our table.”
Nina almost aspirated on her water, dissolving into a fit of coughing, her face blushing bright red as she placed her hand across her mouth.
Maggie flew to her friend’s rescue and placed a reassuring hand on Nina’s back. “Putting her on the spot a little there, Dad.”
“Please,” Nina said, her voice unusually small, recovering from the shock. “I have heard so much about you. I’ve been looking forward to hearing you speak.”
Father Michael Fell smiled and nodded, inviting them all to lower their eyes as he proudly recited a few words of blessing over their meals. Aziraphale mumbled along, eyes drifting to the cross above the mantle. It too hung crooked, as if fate itself enjoyed the mocking thematic consistency.
“When I was your age, I had a roommate too. We were very close. Very close indeed. Pass the salt, dear?” Michael passed the salt to his wife.
“I was studying education at the time. I think it is lovely how you two girls share everything. The apartment, the bills, even those lovely necklaces you are both wearing tonight.”
Maggie glanced towards Nina, who looked back with a straight face. Maggie smiled and nodded. “I am so lucky to have found someone I gel so well with.”
“Aziraphale, your father and I were wondering if you would like to bring anyone special to Christmas mass this year. Any nice girls from your book club?”
“It will just be me,” Aziraphale said as he turned his attention towards the potch.
“Again?” his mother said. “Oh dear, I had hoped that now you are beginning to feel a little better, you might have turned attention towards meeting someone, dear. You are not getting any younger, and it would be nice to see you get out of that stuffy shop.”
“Mum, please.”
“Remember what I always say from the pulpit, Lad. God knows what is in our hearts, not what we think he sees. You must open yours to the joys of matrimony, son. Have I not been a shining example of the joy this can bring?”
Aziraphale pushed down the rising feeling of nausea at the thought and forced another mouthful of potato and swede mash. If he was being truthful to himself, the thought of settling down with a nice girl had always been the furthest from his mind. For sure, he thought them pretty, and many have minds worthy of decent conversation. The prospect of touching one, and of having someone share his space, was another matter. He pushed his true feelings back violently and booted the door on them.
The conversation shifted to less uncomfortable topics, including discussions about how the church was preparing for the Christmas season, updates on Maggie’s career, Nina’s job, and Jane’s promise to teach Nina how to knit.
Nina laughed at something Maggie said, their hands brushing each other as they passed the dessert plates. It was nothing. It was everything. And suddenly, Aziraphale could no longer stand the symmetry of their smiles. Their poorly concealed togetherness. Their happiness, a mirror held up to his emptiness.
He cleared his throat loudly.
“I suppose,” he said, his tone deceptively mild, “we are all playing our roles rather well tonight.”
Maggie stiffened.
Jane blinked at her son. “What do you mean, dear?”
“Aziraphale…” Michael growled a hushed warning across the table.
Aziraphale looked directly at Nina, then at his sister.
“I mean, some roles seem better hidden than others.”
The silence that followed could suffocate a cathedral.
“Az,” Maggie said, a quiet warning, piercing eyes gripping his own.
Nina looked towards him, and her lips mouthed the word ‘please’ without sound, her dark, shining eyes imploringly annoyed.
But Aziraphale pressed on haughtily. “We deserve honesty, surely? Isn’t that what faith demands?”
“That is enough.” Michael barked.
Maggie rose to her feet. “We should go,” she said. Nina followed her actions quietly.
Passing Aziraphale, Maggie hesitated, their gazes connecting. Her eyes held no anger, just sadness. A strange mix of grief and disappointment.
Jane fussed over the girls’ departure, fluttering, as a butterfly flutters over summer blooms, pleading with them to remain. She provided kisses, reaffirming their welcome, tea, cake, and knitting.
She returned to the table and settled, eyes lingering on the cheesecake before her.
“Was it worth it?” Michael asked, grey eyes cold as steel.
Aziraphale didn’t answer. He reached for the sherry, poured a glass, and sipped. It tasted worse than usual. The night pressed black as ink against the windows, the cross remained crooked, and the stitches unravelled a little further.
💕
The next evening, the air was chilled, and the wind was cutting. The atmosphere of warmth that should have surrounded Aziraphale, what with the cheerful Christmas songs, and the scent of German sausage, mulled wine, and roast chestnuts filling the air.
The crowd was bustling past, and he went along with them, heading away from Oxford Street and back towards his cosy, quiet shop. His steps were measured, and he hummed his accord in the correct places to keep Muriel content as she waxed poetic of the evening.
He struggled to grasp why an adult female would insist on attending the illumination ceremony. Surely, it was for kids and adults who endured attendance. Over a month of bribery ahead of them to manipulate and control their spawn, while they scrimp and save for gifts that won’t see the summer.
A group of preteens charged past, brushing alongside them, with waving flashing lights ahead. Tat, Aziraphale thought to himself, ‘overpriced Tat’.
“Az?” Muriel said, her voice soft as she rested a hand on his arm. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, dear.”
Aziraphale’s jaw belied his tension and hid his impatience. Muriel sighed and hooked her hand through his arm. Leaning in for warmth, for reassurance, and hoping her friend may smile. Aziraphale accepted her actions, and she sighed an internal prayer of thanks. Her employer had been grumpy and quiet when they met, and she was used to his moods. However, he had been even quieter lately.
Muriel had hoped that a Christmas evening out of the shop would do him good. A new scene, along with maybe holiday cheer, could provide some influence, even if through osmosis.
“I am looking forward to seeing the Christmas shoppers.” Muriel said with a side eye Aziraphale’s way. She observed his reaction and was dismayed to see a wince.
“Shoppers. Huh, shoppers who have no idea what they are doing, or any appreciation, true appreciation, for the art of storytelling and literacy. Just looking to score brownie points with partners and family. With zero knowledge of how to care for editions.”
“Az?” Muriel asked, stopping before the entrance to the tube and turning to her employer and friend. “I am really worried. Are you sure you’ll be okay? Would you like me to stay over tonight?”
“I’ll be fine, dear. Please don’t worry yourself. Oh, and I have decided to close tomorrow. Take the day off, full pay. I’ll see you Monday.”
“But tomorrow’s Saturday. It’s our busiest day.”
“I know that.” Aziraphale barked, then instantly deflated. “Oh my dear, I apologise. I just. I have a headache coming. I am sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“That’s alright. Maybe an early night and a day of rest will do us both well.”
Returning to the shop, the tube was packed, feeling devoid of fresh air. Someone’s coat sleeve brushed Aziraphale’s cheek. A child sneezed without cover. The air was humid with perfume and disappointment.
Aziraphale stood wedged near the doors, hand gripping the cold metal rail, his breath shallow, and his patience thinner than the air. The train swayed, and a wave of exhausted parents leaned like dominoes. He inhaled through his nose, lemongrass, nicotine, stale wool, and reminded himself that the great theologians had likely endured worse.
At Pimlico station, he disembarked into the crush of pedestrian traffic. London had fully shed its restraint as he walked towards Regency Street, where the corner Tesco Express would be open for him to grab a bottle of something to help induce sleep. The main street was strung with lights. Angel silhouettes sparkled with wide wings spread across the sky. He stopped beneath one, its face a blur of filaments and plastic grace.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Beneath their divine imitation, people streamed past. Jovial couples in matching scarves, teenagers filming themselves with ring lights and phone grips, an old man peddling mulled wine from a converted pram. Aziraphale pulled his coat tighter around himself. Somewhere above him, celestial wings flapped in silence and light, and he wondered if angels ever truly watched the world they’d been given.
Clutching his Tesco bag as he left the shop, he turned off the main street just as the traffic crescendoed into horns and half-sung carols. The alley to his bookshop welcomed him like a badly kept secret. Narrow, damp, framed by leaning brick and errant graffiti. Rainwater pooled in the cracks of the pavement, and a cat darted past with the practised panic of city creatures. As he reached his door, he paused beneath the sign ‘A. Z. Fell & Co.’ and exhaled.
Inside, the silence greeted him like an old sin. Not true silence, of course, just the hush of paper and wood and a thousand unread words. He pulled down the blinds, hung up his coat, and let the angel lights remain behind him, flickering without judgment, despite his feeling worthy of such.
💕
Aziraphale set the last of his supper’s leftovers in the fridge and stared at the container as if moral ambiguity could spoil food faster than time. The slice of cheesecake his mother had insisted he take home with him. He hadn’t eaten much, not that he’d had the appetite. The biscuit still clung to the roof of his mouth. Too dry. Or maybe it was the guilt.
The wind howled through the alleyway around the shop, tapping insistently against the old window panes. Aziraphale’s eyes wandered away from them, towards the bins, noting that they were full. He’d been meaning to take them out for days now, and he could almost sense the rats getting brave in the walls. Sighing, he tugged on his coat and retrieved the black bag, double-knotted and dripping faintly at the bottom, before descending the stairs to the side door of the shop.
He stepped into the night with the bag held out at arm’s length like a reluctant offering. The alley smelt of damp concrete and whatever the curry place two doors down had burnt earlier.
He dropped the bag into the bin, lid clanging with a finality that made him flinch.
And then he saw him.
Across the street, half-shrouded in shadow and framed by the halo-spill of one overhead streetlight, a man stood watching. He was leaning against a lamppost with practised ease. He wore a long black coat that caught the light like oil on water. Dark curls framed sharp cheekbones, and a cigarette burned between his fingers like a punctuation mark on a word Aziraphale couldn’t quite form.
The man didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t hide. Just watched silently.
Aziraphale froze.
Within him, something moved, a pull he couldn’t explain, recognition without logic, less attraction, more like a thread pulled within a forgotten part of himself. A flicker of danger or deliverance. He couldn’t tell which.
The man tilted his head slightly. Not a greeting. Something closer to acknowledgement, and Aziraphale bristled at being seen. As if the man’s stare could look into his heart, revealing his soul.
Aziraphale stayed rooted to the pavement as the man watched, before his feet would obey and carry him back indoors.
Back inside, he fumbled with the latch, hands trembling more than usual. He locked the door, and the air fell heavy around him. The cold had seeped in from outside and chilled his bones. Nervously, he reset the cross on the back room wall with unnecessary precision, trying in vain to align with at least one uneven shop wall, and turned off the lights. But even in the dark, the image clung to him, burnt behind red eyelids.
The cigarette, the dark glasses, the insolence.
That night, Aziraphale tried to sleep. He failed.