fandomtownies | The Rare Book Shop, Thursday Night

[The Bentley screamed up the road and across the causeway toward the islet. As he approached, the sign became clear.]

Bloody Hell. He wasn't lying. Not that he could.

[He pulled into the lot and grabbed the first availible space. The vial slipped into his breast pocket and he could feel the burning torment coming through the crystal. Snatching the black leather attache, he began the trek into town. Crossing the bridge he spied the Fell to the right. Stepping into the town proper was like stepping sideways in time. It looked perfectly normal, but it felt like an open wound. How did the angel not notice it? Or was it that he just didn't mention it?

He walked up the small street, looking at the businesses, and ahead, on the hill, what must be the school. He stopped, tipping his chin and sniffing the air. Ahead, and around the corner. He takes the moment to cock his head and place a cigarette between his lips. The shining siver Zippo flares to life, then snaps shut. The cigarette begins it's slow demise. He walked liesurely, taking in the shops, the restaurants, the pubs; it was comfortably familiar. Reminds me of Britain. We know how to do quaint properly

He turned at the corner of the park. Not far away he noticed a Police Box. Blimey, this isn't really America at all! Then he saw it. He felt it before he saw it, but turned the glasses in the direction of the glow. Phale's Rare Books. The old boy was nothing if not predictable.

In the growing darkness he crossed the street, and with liquid strides he made his way to the shop.

Leaning against the door jamb, his long black coat, stylishly cut, drapes over a crimson silk-wrapped torso. The Italian wool slacks break just above his glistening snakeskin shoes. He stares into the darkness through black Foster Grants, a shock of black hair falling over one lens. Gingerly, he pulls the cigarette from between his lips, and the words flow out in a cloud of smoke.]

"Hello, angel."

This time, Aziraphale drops the phone.

"Crowley?" The words come out in a slow whisper, as if barely hanging onto existance. The angel stands, also slowly, and gazes at the figure in the doorway as if unable to understand what he is seeing. His eyes take in the familiar details, from the glistening shoes to the Foster Grants. A marked contrast to his own rumpled wool slacks and sweater, sleeves pushed above the elbows, dust marks dotting him from knees to nose.

"Crowley?" He says again, as if saying the word reinforces the reality.

Yes,angel. Your dear boy is here, in the flesh...as it is. [He saunters into the shop, looking around]

[Aziraphale stares for a moment longer, then feels the laughter bubble up inside. His Crowley was come, and he isn't certain whether the laughter was due to amusement or joy.]

If you're looking for the post box, dear boy, it's on the outside of the shop.

"Ah, quite right then. I'll just deposit this"..."[pats his breast] ..."and be going, right?"

[He turns to walk back out of the shop, but pauses and speaks over his shoulder]

"You know, if I'm being cast out, I certainly wouldn't mind something to keep me warm..."

A million interpretations of the demon's statement speed through Aziraphale's thoughts, all at the same time. The result of this is that he looks blankly at Crowley until the demon has actually reached the door, his imminent departure bringing the angel back to his senses.

"Tea?" Aziraphale asks weakly.

[His teeth gleam, sharp and cruel, when he turns with a smile]
Tea would be lovely...since I know you don't have a flaming sword to offer me, right angel?

[He strides back in, and stops inches from Phale. Face to face, they are quite a pair]

Aziraphale's lips twitch as he tries to hold back a gleeful smile. He stands, eye to eye with the demon, for an eternal moment. Finally unable to restrain himself, he opens his arms and pulls Crowley in for a warm embrace.

[He stiffens under the embrace, his back arching, adn his lips turning down in disdain. But somehow it's exactly what the angel should do...he relaxes slightly, feeling the divine warmth of those heavenly arms...and then pulls away]

I'm not so cold that I needed that, angel.

That wasn't for the cold, my dear.

[Aziraphale smiles finally, and moves across the room to where the pair of armchairs sits in a corner. A wave of the hand clears away the used dishes from his previous guests, and the angel pours two mugs of hot tea from the pot.]

Ah, a proper cuppa. These bloody colonials don't know beans about tea. They never have. [He sits in the chair]

[Aziraphale hands him one of the mugs and then goes to retrieve the telephone, still laying on the floor where he'd dropped it. Setting it back in its proper place on the little table, next to the vase of dead roses, the angel sits down in the other chair with a contented sigh.]

[He sips the tea. So very familiar] Not quite St. Charles, but this will do.

[He turns to look at Phale over the tops of his glasses]

You said there were ducks here?

Not here, dear boy. They live in a pond in the park. [He smiles at the demon over his tea]

Are they hungry at night? [asks casually as he sips his tea]

Oh, you know ducks. Always hungry.

I imagine I should see if they sink as well as those in St. Charles if I intend to stay here. [He sips his tea nonchalantly]

I imagine you should. Although, I should warn you, they're rather good swimmers. Also somewhat more jaded than those at St. Charles. More difficult to frighten.

Zombies, you know.

I need a challenge. [not wanting to appear too eager] I don't suppose you have some stale biscuits?

[Hiding an amused smile, Aziraphale stands]

I'm sure I have some in the kitchen.

[After giving Crowley a long look, as if memorizing him, Aziraphale walks into the back of the shop]

[He downs his tea in one gulp and stalks out of the store. Conversation was grand, but he needed to smoke. This reunion thing wasn't going as he'd hoped. He was beginning to think he'd genuinely missed Aziraphale. He stood a meter out of the door so the smoke wouldn't ruin the books. Gads, I'm being considerate! Pressing the fag between his lips, he chinked the Zippo open and set the end ablaze, waiting for the angel to come back with the bicuits.

[Returning from the kitche with a small sack of biscuits, Aziraphale stops dead at the sight of the empty chair. For one brief moment, he's certain that Crowley has bolted, despite the fact that he can still feel the familiar presence warming the edges of his senses.] Get a grip on yourself, angel.

[Surprised at how much his inner voice sounds like Crowley, Aziraphale follows a familiar scent -- a combination of smoke, leather, and cold night air, just touched with sulphur -- out of the shop.]

Oh, angel, I was just...[he looks down at his cigarette]...not burning down your shop.

Do you have the biscuits?

It's kind of you to be so considerate, my dear.

[holding up the paper sack] Shall we?

Ya, I suppose I can resign myself to that. [the curl of his lips completely betrays his tone as he walks with the angel to the park]

The Rare Book Shop, Thursday Night

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