Chapter Text
Crowley had no idea which block he had turned onto. His focus was on the bottle in his hand. Today the Bentley seemed far too stuffy. A growing hangover called for a brisk walk and the cold February air. Each inhale brought slight relief, and each exhale spread the sharp smell of alcohol around him.
I'm pathetic–the thought stung, but why dwell on it? Not surprising. It was his reality now.
Something began to dominate the stench of liquor—an overwhelming, familiar smell of Italian food. The haze of alcohol made it a little too difficult to grasp it properly, but each subsequent breath sobered him up more and more. He could now make out individual cracks in the pavement—their pattern suddenly all too familiar. His legs stopped moving on their own. The restaurant on Whickber Street. His throat went dry, and the lightness of the empty bottle in his hand became all the more annoying.
He quickly looked around, blinked a few times to clear the remaining blurriness, and yes—he was sure. Months of careful rerouting, and now such a basic mistake. He thought he was better than this. Bloody alcohol. First it dragged him here, and now it had abandoned him. It was harder while sober.
From the well-lit windows of the restaurant, his gaze was drawn to the contrasting, darkened windows of Nina's café. They were covered with cardboard, and a lone sign read ‘for sale’.
“Clearly, abandoning this damn street is the new trend,” he muttered and closed his eyes.
He knew what was behind him. An urge to leave quickly rushed over him, but curiosity won out. He turned around. The bookshop door. An image of his own hand closing it behind him that last time he left this place flashed before his eyes. His fingers found their way under his glasses and pressed hard at the corners of his eyes.
He left. Fine. Who cares.
The pressure steadied him and his hand relaxed.
Grief? Not my problem.
He looked towards the windows. And no, those were not boarded up.
Crowley took a few steps forward. Behind the glass, dust floating in the air refracted the light. He scanned the visible surfaces. There was no sign of the thick layer of settled dust one might expect after those two years. He looked at the nearest pile of books—it still contained titles he could list without batting an eye. Not that he cared. He strained his eyes, but from here he couldn't see the shelves full of other books, those important ones. Unmarked, without a price tag—books that were never meant to be parted with. At least that's how it used to be. The echo of that dreadful, “Nothing lasts forever,” rang piercingly in his ears. He stiffened his jaw and looked around once more. It should all be gone too.
The sudden switch of the light inside startled him as much as the rapid movement it revealed. The realization came quickly: Muriel. The bottle almost fell out of his hand. His palms must have sweated in the meantime.
He involuntarily followed the angel's silhouette with his eyes. They were moving books around, humming something under their breath. Steam rose from the cup in their hand. For a long moment, they did nothing special.
Are they just... existing there?
His eyebrows furrowed in irritation. It would be easier to see this place abandoned. Muriel could at least have sold those bloody books to fit in with this other emptiness. For them, it should be just a shop.
Why keep all this nonsense?
He watched Muriel pick up one of the first editions of 'Pride and Prejudice'. Crowley couldn't see the title, but he knew which book it was just by its position. He couldn't help imagining another hand gently stroking the worn cover. Enough. He threw the bottle at the junction of the wall and the sidewalk, not caring that one of the splintering shards cut his hand.
A bookshop is a bookshop, not a private bookshelf.
He only realized how hard he was pressing the door handle when the cut on his finger ached. The door opened without resistance. The familiar sound of the bell made him flinch. Too late now. Muriel had already turned toward him, a smile spreading across their face.
His own face tensed. The well known smell of old paper and dust momentarily overwhelmed him.
“Hello there.” Muriel was already walking towards him, circling the counter.
Fantastic. Now he had to say something. He cleared his throat. “Long time no see.” It didn’t sound very confident.
Muriel reached him. “Oh, I thought you might drop by sometime.”
He clenched his jaw. “What made you think that?”
They looked around with a smile. “It's such a nice place, I'm sure everyone misses it sometimes.”
He involuntarily mirrored their scan of the room, but their words made his head turn sharply back. “I don't miss anything.”
“Oh, I see.” Muriel didn't seem bothered. “What brings you here, then?”
Crowley allowed himself to look around the interior once more, this time intentionally. His gaze lingered on the counter, covered with traces of countless cups of cocoa. Time to lie. “Nothing in particular. Thought you might need some help, is all.”
“Help with what?” Muriel's voice sounded curious.
He focused his attention on them again. A trusting look. Oh, this is going to be easy. He just needed to convince them that it wasn't about erasing that stubborn, obvious presence. “What do you mean, what? With the bookshop. How many books have you sold today?”
Understanding flashed in Muriel's eyes. Finally. How could anyone be so slow? “Oh, with the bookshop, right! Today? Today it's closed according to the schedule.”
“The schedule will be changed.” Crowley began massaging his temple. “And this month? How many?”
Muriel seemed to be calculating something mentally for a moment, their gaze unfocused. “In August, I sold one school textbook to a very polite young lady, and earlier in March…”
Crowley interrupted them, waving his hand. “In August? It's February. This shop is a joke.”
Muriel took a step back and looked around again. Crowley made no gesture to comfort them. If they were convinced they're doing a bad job, it would be easier to steer them towards the plan. “Books need to be sold regularly. Lots of them. Preferably online. To people who want them.”
Muriel looked at him with wide eyes. “But I haven’t changed anything here. Aziraphale…”
Crowley interrupted them again. “Aziraphale...” Pronouncing that name after so long left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Aziraphale would surely have done it eventually.”
Muriel's expression changed from concerned to puzzled. “I thought he wanted everything to stay here?”
Of course he did. That's the point. He should have kept an eye on it himself. “Books are for reading.” He took a step forward. “They need readers. Selling them to those who want them is the best thing you can do. He would agree, trust me.” Something cold gripped him inside. Cold was good.
Muriel nodded and leaned forward expectantly. “Ah, I see, lovely! May I ask how to sell them?”
He looked around the maze designed to make shopping difficult. An obvious sign with impossible opening hours hung on the door. Crowley knew all the anti-marketing tricks used in this place. He knew immediately how to turn it all upside down.