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The bell over the door dings, and Aziraphale sighs. Customers. Hooray.
He steps lightly on his way into the front room, hoping that maybe if he gives off an air of enough mystery, he’ll seem creepy and the customer will leave, never to return. Of course, he doesn’t actively think this; rather, he mentally implies it. Wouldn’t want Heaven to think he’s anything but head over heels for humanity.
There’s a suited man in the front room, carefully inspecting one of the ages-old bibles. He’s crouched down to see one of the ones on the bottom shelf, and if he were so inclined Aziraphale would have cursed. He put the important ones on the bottom shelf for a reason.
When he hears Aziraphale, the man straightens up—and up, and up, and up. Aziraphale has to tilt his head back to look him in the eye. Even Crowley would have to look up at him.
The man grins and offers a hand. “Hi, I’m Officer Young. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” he says, in a distinctly American accent.
“Zira Fell,” Aziraphale says, ignoring the hand. Officer Young awkwardly takes his hand back, placing it in his pocket and taking out a small notepad. He takes a pencil from behind his ear and scribbles something at the top of the page.
“Alright, Mr. Fell. Have you seen anything strange around lately?” Officer Young asks.
Aziraphale shakes his head innocently, wondering if there’s anything that could truly qualify as strange to him anymore. He doesn’t think there is.
“Nothing? Cold spots, strange drafts, odd men lurking in the streets?” Officer Young presses.
Aziraphale tries not to laugh. “The only odd man around here is myself, Officer,” he says.
Officer Young nods, scribbles something down on his notepad, and opens his mouth to ask another question. Before he can, however, the door dings open, revealing another man in a dark suit. Officer Young waves him over. “This is my partner, Officer Shaw,” he says.
Officer Shaw offers a nod, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge Aziraphale’s general existence. He tries to peer at the notepad, but Officer Young yanks it out of the way. Officer Shaw grumbles and calls him a bitch.
“How often do you have visitors, Mr. Fell?” Officer Young asks.
“Every day or so,” Aziraphale answers, wondering if that’s too much information.
“And who’s that?” Officer Shaw asks, still trying to get his taller partner to let him see the notepad.
“My friend Crowley,” Aziraphale says, knowing full well that that’s too much information. Although, it doesn’t really matter. At most, they’ll ask for Crowley’s phone number, and Crowley never answers his phones. That is, unless it’s a call from hell, in which case he physically can’t ignore them.
The officers share a look, one that seems halfway between intrigued and scared. “And can you describe him for us, Mr. Fell?” Officer Shaw asks.
Aziraphale tilts his head to the side. “I suppose,” he says, not really seeing why not. “He’s tall, frightfully thin, and pale, and British, and he always wears suits and sunglasses.”
The officers look oddly relieved. “Thank you for your time,” Officer Young says, holding out his hand again. This time Aziraphale shakes it, just once, to try and encourage them to leave. The officers turn to leave, but they’re interrupted by the door opening again. This time, thankfully, it’s just Crowley.
“Angel, you’ve got customers,” he says, rather redundantly. He turns his gaze on the officers, most likely scrutinizing them from behind his dark sunglasses. A wide, terrifying grin spreads across his face. “And what have we got here?”
“Officer Young,” the taller of the officers says, extending a hand to Crowley.
Crowley ignores it, but for a completely different reason than Aziraphale’s. “I think we both know that isn’t true, Sam.”
Officer Young stops and drops his hand, taking a small, startled step back. “Who are you?” he demands, hand going to his pocket. There’s a gun there, Aziraphale is certain.
“Don’t recognize me?” Crowley pouts. “Too bad. I was hoping for a nice little Team Anti-Satan reunion.”
Officer Shaw has a handgun trained on Crowley’s chest. “Who the fuck are you?” he growls.
Crowley sighs heavily and tucks his chin to his chest, peering at the officers from above his sunglasses, one eyebrow raised. Two serpentine yellow eyes blink in unison, full of contempt and irritation. The two human men cock their weapons simultaneously. “Relax,” Crowley orders, “I’m not Azazel. I shudder to think of what it would be like if I were.”
“Then who are you?” Officer Young repeats.
Crowley shakes his head, as if despairing for the intelligence of humanity. “King of Hell, boys.”
Aziraphale tries not to laugh. The officers look so scared. It’s almost as if they believe him.
“Crowley,” the shorter of the two growls, and takes another step back. He still aims his gun, but it’s not as determined as before. “You look different.”
“What,” Crowley laughs. “You’ve never possessed some poor bastard for too long and felt like going home to your body once in a while? No? I weep for the children nowadays. No good hardship to get you going.”
Aziraphale takes a step forward. “What is going on? You know each other?”
“Yes, angel, we do. These are the Winchesters,” Crowley says, making a sweeping hand gesture at the humans.
Aziraphale can feel his eyes bugging. “Oh my,” he breathes. “Hello.”
“Sam, Dean, meet Aziraphale, the only angel who won’t try and kill you on sight,” Crowley mutters, finishing introductions.
“Angel?” the short one—probably Dean—repeats.
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, drawing himself up to his full height, which isn’t very impressive, but that doesn’t really matter, now does it? He’s an angel. He’s allowed to be short. “An angel.”
“You don’t seem like an angel,” Sam says.
“And how many angels have you met?” Aziraphale counters.
“A lot,” Dean grumbles. “So far, only two have been helpful.”
“Which ones?” Aziraphale asks, head tilted to the side.
“Gabriel was a dick until he died, but saved our lives once,” Sam mutters, eyes haunted. Aziraphale gets the sense that there was something more going on there, but he really doesn’t want to get into it. Knowing him he’s only make it worse. He’s not what you would call “good at helping people.”
“Gabriel is dead?” Aziraphale repeats, disbelievingly. It would have had to have been in the past week. Just last Monday Gabriel was helping out around the bookstore, carrying boxes back and forth from Crowley’s car to the shelves while Aziraphale wrung his hands and worried and Crowley laughed with Gabriel about all the horrible things they’ve done to humankind.
“For a while, now,” Sam breathes. Aziraphale frowns, but doesn’t say anything.
“And Castiel,” Dean cuts in.
Aziraphale can feel his eyes light up. “Cassie is still alive?”
“He’s in the car,” Dean says, brow furrowed in confusion, eyes suspicious. “Why?”
“We were good friends, once,” Aziraphale says.
“That’s… weird,” Dean says, blinking rapidly. “Um.”
“Not friends like that!” Crowley exclaims, laughing. “As if I’d have let him!”
“What’s going on?” Aziraphale asks. Sam and Dean look distinctly uncomfortable now, and Crowley seems to be having trouble breathing.
“Nothing, angel,” Crowley wheezes. “Just ignore them.”
“Well it’s not like I’d have let Cas!” Dean retorts.
Sam looks rather horrified. “I knew it,” he whispers.
Now it’s Dean’s turn to look horrified. “Oh, crap.”
“I think you two need to settle this,” Crowley says, his whole body shaking with laughter. “Why don’t you get going, and me and the angel will stay here, and pretend today never happened.”
Dean nods enthusiastically, grabbing Sam by the arm and dragging him out of the bookstore. Sam sputters a protest, but allows himself to be manhandled. They’re gone within seconds, but Aziraphale hasn’t heard them drive away yet. They must be talking.
Aziraphale turns to Crowley, confused. “What was that?” he asks.
Crowley wraps an arm around the angel’s waist and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Some people just can’t handle romantic relations with angels,” he says. Aziraphale blushes.
From outside, they can hear Dean shout, “But you had sex with a demon!”