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"So, what do you think of this village, my dear?" Aziraphale asked, sighing in pleasure over the last bites of saltimbocca alla romana.
They have been cottage-hunting, ready to take a break from London's big city hustle in their post-Second-Not-Coming retirement. There was a lovely cottage for sale not far from this village that came with a conservatory for Crowley’s plants and a library that could be persuaded to fit most of Aziraphale’s book collection. But it just wouldn't do to look at a cottage without also considering its surroundings, of course. The Bentley would be coming with them, but Aziraphale liked to have the basic necessities such as an acceptable bakery and quality dining close by rather than half an hour drive away (or an hour, if Aziraphale was in the mood for a snack while Crowley was napping). They checked out the village cafe and the bakery earlier, and were now in the process of thoroughly evaluating the Italian restaurant.
"It's alright I guess," Crowley shrugged. (The place was tiny, old-fashioned and picturesque, and made Crowley stand out like a murder hornet in a beehive, but he found he didn't mind. For Aziraphale, he would tolerate all that and maybe even quaint. Crowley drew the line at twee, but he suspected he would be willing to get back to the drawing board at the first pout from the angel.) "Don't think it has space for a toy shop, though."
"Well, definitely not an antique book shop," Aziraphale agreed absently, engrossed in the ever-important task of choosing the dessert. Tiramisu was always a safe choice, but cannoli looked delicious too... "But I am more than ready to retire. Dealing with customers is nothing but trouble... Wait," Crowley's words finally caught up with him. "Did you say a toy shop?"
"Yep. A demon needs his base of operations too. What, did you think I owned a nightclub or something? Whatever desserts you're thinking, get both and we'll share. Need to evaluate all options, don't we?"
Aziraphale did just that, his mind reeling. He hadn't thought Crowley owned a nightclub; the noise alone would drive his dear demon mad, not to mention the crowds. He hadn't thought Crowley had any base of operations beyond his flat at all, to be frank; if he had considered the possibility, he would have guessed a plant nursery or a flower shop. But a toy shop? Oh, he had so many questions! Why did Crowley choose a toy shop of all things, and how did he convince Hell that it was a fitting place for a demon? What sort of toys did it sell? And, most importantly, why did Crowley never mention it to him?
“Will you show me?” was the only question that he did ask. Crowley grinned, excited, like a kid at Christmas.
Pandemonium Toys was tucked away in a narrow alley off one of the busier streets of Mayfair, and it did not look any more hellish than Aziraphale’s own bookshop looked heavenly. True, the storefront was painted black (“My lot are not exactly subtle,” Crowley muttered by way of explanation), and the customers were welcomed by spooky disembodied whispers. The aisles curved away whimsically, and the shelves bent and twisted like something from Escher drawings, but there was not a whiff of occult about any of it. If anything, it feels… loved.
Crowley waved hello to the young man behind the counter. He was wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and a headband with a pair of devil’s horns.
“That’s Ollie. He’s in charge of the setup and the ambience. The motion-activated speakers at the door were all his idea.”
Ollie beamed at them. “I’ve loved this shop since I was a kid,” he said earnestly. “It always had the best science experiments, couldn’t find the likes of them anywhere else. And there’s a secret discount if the kids can’t pay full price with their pocket money.”
“Tell the whole world, why don’t you,” Crowley grumbled. “Can’t let a minor cashflow issue prevent a kid from building a volcano in the middle of their living room, can I? And don’t forget the 66.6% service surcharge for the entitled kids of rich parents who throw a tantrum here.” Ollie snickered, clearly on board with the shop’s flexible pricing policy.
Aziraphale walked the length of the shop, inspecting the shelves; Crowley provided the running commentary. The toys looked normal, though the selection was somewhat biased.
There were no dolls, no teddy bears and only a few other plushies (mostly spiders, insects, and slugs), and not a single Sylvanian family in sight (“My lot are not very sophisticated, but even I could not explain away cute plush animals”).
Towering stacks of board games threatened to collapse at any rushed movement. Monopoly (“Aggressive wealth hoarding and slow financial suffocation of other players, that’s practically an ode to Greed”), Diplomacy (“Get them started on power politics and backstabbing early”), Werewolf (“Nothing like an evening of lying to your friends for fun to further Hell’s causes”)...
“Do you sell any games that do not induce wrath and conflict?” Aziraphale asked wryly.
“Absolutely,” Ollie chimed in from his counter. “They’re most of the stacks, actually. Mr.Crowley prefers to keep the classics front and center.”
“Look, angel, Hell had a few board game nights in the eighties, and there are a few demons who still stop by now and then for new releases,” Crowley hissed sotto voce. “One doesn’t put the games that earned commendations from Mammon, Berith, and Belial on the bottom of the stack.”
A corner table prominently displayed Jenga, with a few other stacking games half-hidden behind it. Aziraphale cooed at the in-progress game of Animals Upon Animals, a pyramid of cute wooden figurines. There was even a snake in it, sandwiched between a toucan and a sheep. (“Mocking the Ark, always good for a spot of mild blasphemy.”)
A large section of the shop was dedicated to the various science experiments and crafting kits. The volcano was there, alongside a moulding kit for making bug-like creatures, a “disgusting science kit” that promised experiments like growing mould and creating fake blood and an “explosive science kit” called succinctly “Kaboom!”
Another section was labeled simply “Revenge Gifts”. Aziraphale glimpsed toy musical instruments there and decided not to contemplate it too deeply.
“This doesn’t feel like an emporium of occult at all. How could Hell possibly have approved of you running a toy shop?” Aziraphale asked, impressed both by the selection of the toys and the deviousness that went into it.
“Ah, I just dropped off a shipment of human toys at one of the staff meetings.” Oh, that was definitely Crowley’s ‘I did something clever’ voice. “You wouldn’t believe the kinds of toys humans come up with, all on their own. Battery-operated drum sets with drumbeats included and three-level volume control, ‘loud’, ‘very loud’, and ‘trumpets of Jericho’? And that’s just one example. Dagon took to sprinkling Legos in the corridors after stepping on one, ‘a reminder that torment is capricious and omnipresent’. I think Erics still have nightmares about yellies—y’know, those voice-activated plushie spiders that crawl towards the noise? And don’t even get me started on slime!" (That’s where the “PLEASE do not LICK the WALLS” poster comes from, if you've been wondering.)
“No video games? You seem short on toys for fostering Sloth,” Aziraphale asked, remembering Warlock and his obsession with spending aimless days in front of a TV, his fingers and eyes the only moving parts of him.
“Nah,” Crowley grimaced. “The parents have that one well in hand already, they hardly need my help.”
“You know, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, enjoying the demon’s embarrassment. “I've always said that deep down, you really are quite a nice…”
“Shut it!” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels of his coat and pressed him into a miraculously empty stretch of the wall that happened to be miraculously out of sight of the clerk. Oh, Aziraphale would never tire of pushing his dear demon’s buttons. “I'm a demon. I'm not nice. I'm never nice. Nice is a four-letter word. I will not have…”
“Excuse me, Mr.Crowley, Miss Jessica from the shelter on the phone,” Ollie called out, breaking up the moment. “She’s asking to confirm our usual Christmas toy donation for this year.”
Crowley succumbed to his fate with a groan, letting go of Aziraphale’s coat and deflating. “Not. A. Word,” he muttered, his voice less menacing and more pleading than he probably intended, and yelled back “Yes, sure,” and then, in a regular voice, “Gotta get rid of the leftover stock, after all. And what better way to do that than spread some Envy and Greed around?”
Aziraphale, though, had temporarily lost interest in teasing.
“Christmas!” His eyes lit up with excitement. “You can do Santa experiences! In fact, I could entertain! We could do Santa’s Magic Encounters!”
Crowley’s eyes widened. “No, no, no. Please, no. No. Don't do your magic act.”
“I just need to get back into practice,” Aziraphale promised, rummaging in his pockets for loose change.
“Did someone say Santa encounters? That sounds brilliant!” Ollie chirped, oblivious. Aziraphale beamed, and just like that Crowley knew what they were doing in December, cottage or no cottage.