Good Omens Fix-It – Prologue + Chapter 1: Under New Management: The Bookshop
Good Omens Fix-It
Prologue + Chapter 1 of 16
Rating: G (unless specified otherwise -- some chapters are T, epilogue is E)
A painter’s canvas hovered in an ethereally-lit room in Heaven, streaks and bursts of light brushing against it and disappearing into the white canvas, bright colors of pinks and blues and purples gracefully blending into an image of miraculous nebula, gorgeous galaxies, and bright universes. An angel hummed happily as he recreated the glorious, beautiful sky that he designed, the sky that hadn’t existed an unknown time ago - perhaps a week, had the Systema Solis been fully formed at that point.
“You did a beautiful job,” a precise, measured voice resonated through the air.
“Thanks, Saraqael,” the angel grinned, “It just sort of – ” he brought his hand to his temple and dramatically pulled it away, outstretching his fingers, “Brrrrraaaahhh—kshhh! Came to me!”
Saraqael gave a singular nod, “He wants to see you.”
Saraqael didn’t respond; she just spun her scooter neatly and started away. “Try to keep up,” she said dryly, though her expression suggested she had no doubt he would.
The slender angel strode behind, quickly catching up to the scooter; the hum of the motor fading into the emptiness of the immaculate, glaringly white hallway. The pair approached a massive set of double doors, so pearlescent it was almost glowing. Lifting her hand, Saraqael glanced sideways at the angel next to her as the motion caused the doors to opening inward to enormous glass-walled chamber, brightly lit and oppressively luminous.
The artistic angel entered the colossal room, Saraqael gliding in a few feet ahead of him; as they made their way further into the chamber, the doors closed behind them with an ominous thud.
“So it’s you,” an even, measured voice echoed from the opposite end of the hall, carrying all the warmth of a glacier.
The hum of Saraqael’s scooter and the soft footsteps of the slender angel beside her were the only sounds as they crossed the vast, silent chamber. When they finally reached the far end, both of them were dwarfed by the inconceivable height of the high-backed alabaster bench, where an older angel sat behind a massive ivory dais.
“That will be all, Saraqael,” the aged angel said.
A small sound came from the slender angel, and he looked down at Saraqael in question, eyebrows furrowed in confusion above green eyes.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay.”
With a look of disapproval, the authority figure huffed, “Do as you wish, but there will be no interfering.”
“Agreed, but let me ask one question,” Saraqael said rather boldly.
“Aren’t you aware of why we’re here in the first place?”
“Of course I am. That’s why I asked permission.”
Saraqael glanced up at the angel she’d escorted in, whose face still showed confusion, had been tinged with curiosity, “Where are the other Archangels? Isn’t there meant to be a trial?”
“I am the Metatron. In any instance of God’s absence, I am the Ultimate Authority – a trial isn’t necessary.”
The angel at Saraqael’s side trembled.
“E - excuse me,” he said, “Can I ask what’s happening?”
The Metatron fixed piercing blue eyes on the angel, “I’ve heard you’ve already been asking questions.”
“I have it on good authority that you’ve been second-guessing The Great Plan. That is not allowed.
“B - but it was only a few questions,” his voice quivered, emerald eyes filling with tears.
The Metatron continued, cutting off the confused question, “You are henceforth banished from Heaven, just like all those other rebellious angels.”
The angel’s breath caught. That couldn’t be right. It was just a few harmless questions…
“Banished!” The Metatron all but shouted, slamming his hand flat against the surface of the dias.
The moment his palm made contact with the top of the podium, the condemned angel was engulfed by darkness.
He was plunging through emptiness, icy silver shards slicing his skin, deafening drums of despair and dismay pounding in his ears, the temperature transforming from a pleasant, peaceful cool to a refreshing warmth of a spring day - that had only lasted for a millisecond, or it could have been a millennia, he had no way of knowing. He was hurtling down, surpassing the speed of sound, the speed of light, the speed of thought and he could feel his green eyes changing in some way.
The ground, the flat, dry, hard ground was approaching and he unfurled his wings to veer from the trajectory, but his feathers were sparse, tinged with black at the edges, and burnt feathers were drifting down in his wake. It was no use; he was going to crash directly into the rock solid, newly-created Earth and he would be obliterated.
The angel smacked almost dully to the surface, though the ground surrounding his landing crumbled and cracked away and a hole opened into the planet. As he fell, returning to the impossible speed once again, an acrid burn washed over his eyes and the feathers that had clung heroically on burst into flames; a putrid stench of decay and sorrow engulfed him as he sped through the dense, suffocating emptiness. He was suddenly aware that he was screaming, a horrible, piercing shriek that comes when one is having their flesh peeled from their bones. And yet the screams were everywhere; cries of anguish, shrieks of despair, bellows of torment surrounded him, pressing painfully on his eardrums.
An appalling, nauseating, white-hot steam engulfed him a moment before the angel was submerged entirely in a milky-yellow boiling liquid - he tried to scream in torment, for help, for mercy, for pity, for something, but his head was beneath the surface. He could feel his skin bubbling and blistering, sizzling down to his bones, felt the fire of his wings somehow burning more violently, and he was suffocating - from lack of air, from anger, from sadness, regret, emptiness, loss.
Chapter 1: Under New Management: The Bookshop
“I thought you wanted your flat back, now that those demons are back in Hell,” Muriel commented, confused.
“I did - I do - and I do, actually have it back,” Crowley was seated in the armchair of Aziraphale’s bookshop, “I just prefer it here.”
“Did Aziraphale ever sell any books? I mean, he has quite a lot, and, after all, isn’t that kind of the whole point of a bookshop, to sell books?”
The demon didn’t look her way, but continued to stare out the window at a table where Maggie was sitting with Nina, both nursing coffee, “No. Well, to the first bit, but yeah, the point of a bookshop is to sell books.”
He sighed and looked around at the awkward angel left in charge of the bookshop, “Aziraphale used it to store his books; no matter how many times I tried to tell him that, if he didn’t sell books, people weren’t shopping, so it counts more as a library than a bookshop, he would go on and on about how libraries are for common purposes and his books were anything but common; there’s no getting through to that angel.”
Muriel looked at the floor, “Oh. Right,” she fidgeted awkwardly.
The door opened; the couple he’d been moodily watching entered, glanced around to spot the demon and made a very determined beeline toward him.
Crowley groaned, leaning his head back.
“Hello to you, too,” Nina quipped as she and Maggie sat on the sofa across from him.
“Why are you here? The last time I was on the receiving end of one of your lectures,” Crowley gestured almost frantically from one to the other, “you convinced me that Aziraphale and I needed to talk more and - ”
“What did you need to talk about?” Muriel asked.
“Oh, hello,” Maggie said kindly.
Stretching his neck to the side, Crowley said, “Nothing. We didn’t need to talk about anything.”
Nina and Maggie shared a look.
Shifting on the sofa, Maggie cleared her throat uncomfortably, “You - your name is Muriel, right?”
The angel stood more straightly, “It is. I am Muriel, Inspector Constable, at your service.” Muriel gave a salute.
Nina gave a look of confusion to her partner, “Inspector Constable?”
“Would you mind doing us a favor?”
Muriel suddenly looked very serious, “Of course not - I mean, I wouldn’t mind, not that I wouldn’t do it.” She smiled nervously.
“Right, well, do you see that coffee shop over the road? That’s Nina here’s shop and she doesn’t like leaving it unattended for too long - ”
“It’s not unattended; Mrs. Chen is there,” Nina interrupted.
Giving her a look of significance, Maggie continued, “Yes, but it’s an awful lot of work for the poor thing to do on her own and Muriel here seems to be perfectly suited to help Mrs. Chen; do you think you could do that for us, Muriel?”
The angel nodded dutifully, “I certainly can. Go help Mrs. Shin - ”
“ - Chen, Mrs. Chen,” Maggie corrected.
“Right, of course,” Muriel grinned in self-depreciation, “I’m not too good with names. Go help Mrs. Chen in the coffee shop over the road. I’m on it,” she gave a little salute and left the bookshop.
Crowley waited for the door to close before saying (somewhat fondly), “Not too good with a whole lot more than names. Right, what do you want?”
“We haven’t seen Mr. Fell for a while - three months now, but we see you nearly every day, staring out this window,” Maggie’s voice was gentle and concerned, “Where is he?”
Crowley looked at the soft beige mounding of the ceiling, his tone strained, “Gone; he’s gone - gone to Heaven.”
“Why?” Nina spoke, “What did you do to him?”
Maggie shot a scolding look at Nina, “I’m sure it’s not Mr. Crowley’s fault; what happened?”
“You two,” he gestured between the women, “said we needed to talk.”
“Did you?” Nina asked, a hint of accusation in the words.
“Yes! Yes, he talked and I talked and The Metatron - the bastard - apparently told him he could be in charge, Supreme Archangel or something.”
“Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Maggie sounded hopeful.
“No, it’s the exact opposite of good, only worse; Heaven is going to destroy Earth and everything along with it - Aziraphale doesn’t want that, no one wants that, but it’s all about The Great Plan or some nonsense - very big on The Great Plan in Heaven.”
“They’re going to destroy everything? That’s ridiculous!” Maggie exclaimed.
Crowley grumbled, “Just you lot, Earth, the moon, physical stuff; er..sorry?. I’ll still be around to watch on as it’s evaporating; Heaven and Hell will still exist, only they’ll both be more miserable. Aziraphale is too trusting; The Metatron is using him to get…something, I know I know it, but for some reason, don’t know it. Aziraphale loves Earth, everything about it, the art, the music, the books - he doesn’t really want it to be destroyed, but The Metatron wants to do exactly that; Aziraphale always thinks the best of people - I’d have to show him undeniable proof, but how do I get that…?” He was now talking more to himself than the women.
Nina narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, “Just go up there and get it.”
“Aarrhh! I can’t just go up there and get it; I’d need an angel to take me and, even if I did get there, I don’t know what I’m actually looking for.”
Looking victoriously and excitedly out the window toward the coffee shop, Maggie said, “That girl, Muriel, she’s an angel, too, right? Can’t she help?”
“She is. She can’t,” the demon replied morosely, “Doesn’t have clearance to get the information I need, whatever it is. I can access it if I know where it is, but where the hell - Heaven - is it? And what is it?”
“What about that man, Jim, I think his name was, he’s an angel, right? Pretty high up from the way they were all talking about him - maybe he can help?”
Groaning, Crowley answered, “He ran off to wherever with Beezelbub; no clue where he is.”
“Can’t you find out? I mean, you and Mr. Bookshop - ” Nina suggested.
“ - Mr. Fell,” Maggie said
“ - Aziraphale,” Crowley corrected.
“Right, him. You two helped him out in a pretty major way, from what I remember,” Nina continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted, “Tell him he owes you.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow, somewhat intrigued by the idea.
“That would be blackmail,” Maggie proclaimed.
“Actually, it’d be extortion,” the demon had straightened up a little, “and, even if it were blackmail, I’m a demon, I can’t go worrying over what’s acceptable, now can I?”
“Fair point. So have this Jim fellow help you get what you need to get.”
Maggie made a sound of warning, “I - I thought the whole point of them leaving was not to be found; how are you supposed to figure out where they are?”
“Honestly, they were more concerned about being found by Heaven than by Hell; Shax isn’t so much of a leader and I bet she’s having to get instructions from Beelzebub - she’ll know where to find them.”
Crowley pushed himself up out of the chair, “Right, get on with your…whatever; I’m going to Hell.”
Crowley hated Hell - that’s to be expected, even for a demon - but Crowley really hated Hell; it was dingy and dirty, no one ever bothered to clean up, and it was crowded; at least eight damned bumped into him as he moved through the dark corridor that led to where Beezelbub - now replaced by Shax - oversaw the lost souls and the lesser demons.
“You aren’t the only one down here, you know!” Crowley shouted when a very wide man collided with him so hard that Crowley nearly called Satan’s name in vain.
He strode swiftly down the dim, cluttered and unkempt corridor, wincing as feedback came from the PA system “welcoming” the newly damned.
Crowley snarled, irritation flaring in his chest when he stepped in a puddle of something sludgy and unidentifiable.
“Haven’t seen you here in a long time, Crowley; I’ve been sent to the pits three times since you were here last,” the beefy guard spoke; he was a thick demon, his two canines overgrown and dangerously pointed, practically stabbing his greasy chin.
Crowley turned on the charm, “Malmoth? Is that you? You’ve got two new spikes on your head, haven’t you? Looks great!”
Malmoth smiled slightly, “Yeah, I’m trying to keep them good and dirty, you know, for the Succubi…”
“And you’re doing a wonderful job at that! You’ll be mistaken for an Incubus at the rate you’re going! …Listen, I know I don’t actually have an appointment, but I really need to talk with Shax; she’s in, yeah?”
Malmoth looked around shiftily, his dark purple eyes reflecting the fluorescent lights that were flickering on the hallway ceiling, very near burning out, “She is - go on.”
“Thanks,” Crowley gave the thick, sweaty shoulder of Malmoth an amiable slap then opened the door and strode inside.
“Heyy, Shax; how’s the new gig?” he sauntered into the gloom of the chamber - not that the hallway wasn’t gloomy (it was), but it was a general, spacious sort of gloom; this gloom was heavier, more tightly packed, condensed, really, so that there was even more gloom in the area than there was in the larger, open corridor - this gloom seemed like it could crush you if you didn’t have a fair amount of determination and confidence; luckily, Crowley was made of confidence. It was quite possible that the demon was composed of clusters of confidence and snark rather than cells and atoms.
The new Grand Duke of Hell had turned the chair diagonally, facing both the door Crowley had entered through and the glass window that looked out onto the occupants of Hell.
“Crowley,” she said, “I wasn’t expecting you…ever.”
Looking around the mostly empty room, Crowley noticed a very wilted fern in the corner and a gruesome piece of artwork that he was fairly certain was made of intestines and bile, framed in bone.
“Love what you’ve done with the place; really brought a personal touch to your…room? headquarters? office?”
Shifting to cross her legs, Shax raised her chin, “I know you, Crowley; surely you didn’t pop down here just to admire my decor.”
“Right! I need a favor,” Crowley said.
“A favor? You’re hardly in any position to ask for favors; it’s because of you that Arch Angel was hidden from Heaven; if he’d been caught, Beelzebub would still be here to run things!”
“And you would be back to pushing papers, checking in on lesser demons; you wouldn’t be Grand Duke. Seems I did you a favor, Shax.”
The new Grand Duke of Hell took a while to think this over before straightening herself, “Fine. What do you want?”
Crowley started meandering around the room, looking over the walls nonchalantly, “Ah, not much.” He made his way to the dead fern and lifted its drooping leaf, feeling genuinely sorry for the plant, “These things need water. Surely Beezelbub told you that before leaving.”
“Actually, it was only last week; you have to give it water every day, Shax.”
Crowley showed no outward sign of interest, but his attention became focused; he casually spoke, “Only last week? Why wouldn’t she have told you on one of your earlier talks? They must happen every…month or so? Checking up on efficiency under new management?”
Scoffing, Shax complained, “I thought I wouldn’t have to be reporting to anyone, but it’s monthly evaluations - supposedly only for the first year - and I have to report immediately if anything goes wrong or any time a demon’s sent to the Fiery Lake.”
Crowley stretched his neck, “So you know how to contact Beezelbub?”
Shax gave a slow, suspicious nod, “I do.”
Speculatively, the Grand Duke leaned back slightly, “Why?”
“Do it now. Or did you like the idea of going back to typing intake form after intake form after intake form for the rest of eternity?”
Clicking her tongue, Shax slipped her hand into the pocket of her dark maroon jacket and pulled out a phone; she tapped furiously at it with one finger for a short while then spoke at it, “Lord Beezelbub, Shax here; apparently Crowley - you remember Crowley - ”
Crowley loudly said, “Yeah, Lord Beezelbub, it’s me.”
“ - has something urgent to speak to you about. Call when you can,” Shax finished before poking the phone screen moodily.
“Right, how long does she generally take to get back to you?”
Shax was idly looking at the fern, “I prefer it like that - seems more appropriate, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” Crowley replied, disinterested. “How long?”
“It’s been about a week and a half since it was watered.”
“No, Shax, how long does it usually take for Beelzebub to return your call?”
Shax returned her eyes to the demon, “I almost always hear back within a week.”
Crowley growled at the ceiling.
“Can’t you…I don’t know…mark the message as important or something?”
The new Grand Duke narrowed her eyes, “I don’t think so…but I’ll let you know when I get an answer. Fair?”
Snarling up at the dank ceiling that was oozing a brown something undoubtedly unpleasant, Crowley snapped, “Nothing about anything is fair in this world, Shax. But, yeah, you call me as soon as you get a response from Lord Beelzebub - immediately, you understand? You get the call, you get the message, and you…?”
“End the call,” Shax finished.
“No! Well, yes, but no, you call me, Shax, you call me!” Crowley was quickly losing patience; he suddenly froze, a thought coming to him suddenly, “Wait, wait wait wait wait wait, did anyone do something about the mobile reception down here yet?”
“Fff! Beelzebub upgraded it, specifically for these check-ins - with Satan’s approval, of course,” she replied, a little too obviously petulant.
Crowley gave a bark of laughter, “Bet he wasn’t too happy about the interruption to his day - probably feeding kittens to piranhas.”
“You know he doesn’t like fish.”
“It’s a joke, Shax,” Crowley said, exasperated. “Fish’re completely useless - does anyone really even like them?”
Aziraphale did. Not that he’d ever specifically mentioned it, but he liked everything, so it was safe to assume he liked fish.
Feeling his chest contract in a similar, though much less intense, manner as when he watched the angel step into the elevator with the Metatron, Crowley shoved his glasses into his face hard, making sure they had no chance of falling off as his yellow eyes prickled fiercely.
He sniffed emphatically, “Right. I’m leaving now. You hear from Beezelbub, you tell me straight away, right?”
Shax rolled her eyes but nodded; Crowley strode out the door, anxious to get out of Hell.
Maggie and Nina were still in the bookshop when Crowley returned, and Muriel was now sitting in Aziraphale’s chair, back straight, hands flat on her thighs, looking around, clearly uncertain as to what she should do.
“What the Heaven are you all still doing here? Get the fuck out,” the demon said, earning himself a growl with hands thrown in the air from Nina, a sympathetic and patient sigh from Maggie, and an uncomfortable fidget from Muriel. “And you,” he looked at Muriel, the relatively young angel - only three thousand years old - and he sighed with disappointment at himself, “Youc’n stay; it is your post now, isn’t it?”
Nina turned slightly around to glare at Crowley from the door, “You try to help and all you get is get the fuck out. Charming.”
The two women left and Crowley turned his attention back to Muriel; he took a long inhale through his teeth, “Ah, listen, I know it’s your assignment or whatever to keep an eye out for the bookshop while - since - Azira - he left, but you can’t sit there.”
“Oh!” Muriel jumped up, “I - I didn’t know.”
Crowley stepped around her and sat down in the newly vacant seat.
“Waaaiiittt,” Muriel said, “I thought you said we can’t sit there.”
The demon stretched his legs out in front of himself, “No. Said you can’t sit here. Azir - shit - he’s the only angel allowed. I’m not an angel; you are.”
She looked even more confused than usual, but sat, instead, on the sofa, “Maddy and Nona said you went to Hell…”
oh, for Satan’s sake, he was correcting someone on what a person’s name is - and he recognized that his tone of voice was very reminiscent of - if not exactly like - Aziraphale’s gently spoken corrections. shit.
“Right,” Muriel gave a nervous, self-deprecating laugh, “Maggie and Nina. They said that you went to Hell.”
Rolling his eyes and glaring at the ceiling, the demon grumpily nodded, “Yep. Did.”
“What’s it like?” the scatterbrained angel asked, seemingly eager for information.
“Five star resorts, best dining there is, jacuzzi in every room, twenty-four hour room service, you know.”
Crowley couldn’t help but laugh, “You think Hell’s a high demand vacation spot? Hell? Really?”
The angel downcast her eyes; Crowley felt a pang of guilt.
“I - I don’t know; I haven’t been,” Muriel said to the floor, “and it’s not really talked about. I know it’s not a nice place, but I don’t know how not-nice it is.”
“Very not-nice,” Crowley answered, “The most not-nice place you can imagine, then tripled.”
A heavy silence filled the air, pressing in from all sides; after a few minutes, Crowley couldn’t take it anymore; he glanced at his watch, “Euuhh…I remember you said you’d never had breakfast; can I tem - ” probably not the best word choice for this particular angel, “take you to breakfast?”
“What? Are you serious? I know Aziraphale used to eat, but are we supposed to? Angels, I mean,” Muriel stammered.
“You’re not not supposed to; just few do,” he shoved himself hips first out of the chair, “Come on.”
Hesitantly standing, Muriel shifted awkwardly.
“You can’t wear that, though; I’m not eating with a police officer,” Crowley declared. “Wha’s your favorite color?”
“My - my favorite…color?” she looked around, “I don’t know. I like that flower over there.”
Looking the direction of the angel’s gesture then back, the demon snapped his fingers at Muriel and the Constable uniform changed into a soft blue dress and white leggings.
“Oh!” Muriel started slightly, “Oh, th - thanks?” She took the fabric of the dress in between her fingers to feel it; she grinned, “It’s very soft. Where are we going?”
“Do you like pancakes? You wouldn’t know, would you,” the demon said, “Ngk. Everyone likes pancakes. Let’s get you some pancakes.”
Crowley stomped out of the shop and went to his car; Muriel had her hand on the handle when Crowley glared at her - even though she couldn’t see his eyes through the dark glasses, the glare was obvious on the rest of his features, “Don’t touch my radio.”
At the restaurant, Crowley ordered a mini stack of buttermilk pancakes for Muriel and a mini stack of chocolate chip pancakes for himself, only because Muriel couldn’t decide which to try, so he figured he’d let her have some of ’his’.
Crowley downed a few cups of coffee as Muriel eyed the pancakes with an expression of fear that it was poisoned and that it would end her life.
Nothing like his angel, who was enthusiastic about every goddamned thing in the world, even the shit stuff like bills and parking fines.
Muriel poked at the pancake with her fork, took a tiny bite, and chewed slowly with a slightly puzzled expression. No wiggle of delight. No happy little noise. Just quiet, polite confusion.
Crowley watched her for a moment, something twisting in his chest.
Aziraphale would have already been on his third bite, eyes closed in bliss, making those soft contented sounds he always made when something was sweet or buttery or just good, the sound that would make Crowley’s chest warm in a way no other demon’s ever did.
Instead, Muriel took another cautious nibble like she was worried it might explode.
He looked away, throat tight.
“So, is this what humans do, then? Have breakfast with fri – ” Muriel stopped abruptly, cheeks pink.
Crowley’s eyebrow raised above the dark lens of his sunglasses.
A plump blue-aproned waitress with obnoxiously curled orange hair approached, “Shorely you ain’t done deery, is ya?”
The demon’s glare had a new target, though he spoke to Muriel, “Dunno. Are you done?”
The young angel fiddled with her napkin awkwardly, “Oh. Ye…yesss…? It was really…um, good.”
“You shore? Ya didn’ eat much-it-oll. By the by, howney, tha’s ah awfilly purdy dress yew got on.”
The smile Muriel gave was still nervous, but genuine this time, “It is, isn’t it? Thank you.” She gestured toward the slouching Crowley, “He just gave it to me this morning.”
“Aw, now ain’t tha’ jus’ sweet as pie? Looks like yew gotchur self a keyper.”
Muriel looked utterly confused, as though she’d been walking in an open field when a brick wall materialized directly in front of her.
Crowley snorted, giving a bark of laughter, “You - you think we…” he gestured between himself and Muriel, “Hardly. Just…friends. Yeah. Not my type.”
The waitress puffed derogatorily and laid the bill on the table, “Here’s ya bill.”
The demon snatched the paper up, still shooting daggers soaked in Holy Water at the waitress as she walked away; he moodily took the correct amount from his wallet and threw it on the table.
“Right, let’s get out of here before she comes back.”
Muriel was quiet as they walked back to the Bentley, though this was a heavy, thoughtful silence, unlike her usual vacant quiet - she didn’t even thank him when he opened the door for her to slide into the passenger seat.
They had just turned onto Whickber Street when Crowley couldn’t take the silence any longer, “What’s up? Usually a right chatterbox.”
The angel fidgeted, “What - what did that…that waitress-lady mean when she said that you were a…a keeper?”
Growling at the steering wheel, Crowley stretched his neck, “She thought I was your boyfriend.”
“Oh.” There was a long pause before Muriel said inquisitively, “Boyfriend? Like romantic boyfriend?”
Muriel frowned as they came to a stoplight, “Boyfriend. Odd.”
The angel very suddenly pressed her lips to Crowley’s cheek, letting them rest against his skin, eyes squeezed shut tightly as though bracing for something horrible; she moved away, sitting properly, back straight, in the passenger seat as though nothing had happened.
“Hey! The fuck was that?”
Muriel didn’t even look ashamed, “I - I don’t know…that’s what I’d do if you were my boyfriend, isn’t it?”
“But I’m not,” Crowley snapped, “Don’t do that again. Ever.”
The angel shrugged, “I just…being on Earth is weird, you know? All new stuff. I just wanted to know.”
The Bentley stopped in front of the bookstore, “You’re not going to assault me again, are you?”
Muriel laughed, “N-no. I’m sorry, Mr. Crowley.”
Gentleman as he was, Crowley went around to open Muriel’s door.
She got out and blinked up at him, “Thank you for the pancakes. And not getting too mad when I…I just wanted to know what it was like.”
The demon sighed, “I know. Not mad. Should’ve given me warning, though.”
He scrubbed his hand over his face, snarling to himself, “The only angel - or demon - or human - or anything, really, I’m the tiniest bit interested in is Azir - your new boss. So we’re clear.”
Crowley growled at the damn helpful inclination that had rubbed off on him due to centuries of being around Aziraphale and kissed Muriel’s cheek, lightly bringing his lips to her skin which warmed slightly with embarrassment and shock, “There. Now you know.”
The angel’s face was bright pink, “Right. Now I know.” There was another million-ton silence before she filled with deep red, “Th - thank you…I think.”
His forefinger aiming at her, Crowley commanded, “Don’t ask me to do anything else kiss-wise, because I won’t be pleasant if you do; got it?”
Muriel nodded once then saluted him, “Got it, Mr. Crowley, sir.”
Crowley, who had made his way to the bookshop door, turned around, holding up a finger, “Just Crowley - none of this Mister or sir nonsense, Mmkay?”
“Right. Just Crowley. Got it,” Muriel gave another salute as the demon entered the store, then followed after him.
The demon growled, “And stop with that whole…” he put a limp hand to his temple, “salute-y shit.”
Muriel immediately dropped her hand, “Right. I don’t know why I did that.”
“Force of habit, I suppose. Now, Az - he - never sold any books, so, I guess you’re…here to make sure no one buys any,” Crowley flopped into Aziraphale’s chair, taking out his phone to stare suspiciously at it for a moment before smacking it several times then holding it up in front of his face to glare intimidatingly at the device, “Fucking ring!”
“Didn’t you just get back from Hell?” the much-less-appreciated angel said, “Do they usually return messages that quickly?”
Crowley shot an angrily exasperated look at her but didn’t say anything in response.
An hour passed before the demon looked at his watch, “Did we even turn the sign to OPEN? Not that it’ll make a difference - we’re not selling anything.”
Muriel checked the sign on the door and gave a nervous chuckle, “No, I guess I didn’t,” she flipped over the sign and went back to stand behind the counter awkwardly. The angel looked down at the dress she was wearing, “This really is nice. Can I keep it?”
“Don’t care. Just wasn’t gonna be seen with an officer of the law. I don’t have any use for it, do I? Sure - keep the thing,” Crowley replied distractedly; he checked his phone again. Seeing nothing new, he turned it off then back on again, closed out every app and turned the ringer volume up all the way.
The demon shoved himself out of the chair, “Get me ‘f anyone wants to buy something. I’m drinking and passing out.” Crowley snatched two bottles of wine from the desk and went upstairs to brood while he drank the first bottle before taking gulps of the second bottle in between choked sobs. Falling onto the bed without any grace, he kicked off his shoes, threw aside his glasses, and held his phone against his chest. Within five minutes, he was in a shallow sleep, memories of Aziraphale stepping into the elevator plaguing his slumber.
“Muriel? You still here?” he called out as he descended the stairs. It wasn’t until he arrived at the first floor that he realized it was quite late - the sun had disappeared behind the horizon and only a few lingered in the streets - women with smudged makeup that had been expertly applied leaned against buildings’ walls, two smoking cigarettes.
Crowley found the young angel sitting on her knees on the sofa, arms folded on the back of the couch as she looked out the window.
“Hey,” Crowley said unenthusiastically.
“What are those women doing out there? Just standing around. Humans really are odd, aren’t they?”
Flopping back into the armchair, the demon shrugged a shoulder, “Depends who you ask, really.”
Muriel hadn’t taken her eyes off the women, “Seriously, what are they doing? Do you think they need help? Should I go ask?”
Having taken out his phone again, Crowley waved her off, “Sure, yeah, why not?”
He snarled viciously at the device in his hand when it alerted him that it needed a software update, “Euurrrggghhh!”
The demon stabbed the “Update Now” button then moodily swiped his thumb repeatedly up the screen, wishing he had the knowledge of who exactly was to blame for the creation of Terms & Conditions, then prodded the I Accept button before glaring out the window to see the awkward angel Muriel standing near two women in revealing clothes and dangerously tall stilettos.
Crowley snatched his sunglasses from the table and rushed out the door, taking long, quick strides to the small group, “Hey! HeyheyheyheyHey! What are you telling her?”
Muriel had taken a stunned step back away from the scantily clad women, covering her mouth with both hands.
The red-haired woman with smudged mascara laughing almost maniacally, the other, platinum blonde, snickering into her hand.
“What the hell ‘ave you been telling her?”
“Just answering her questions, love,” the red-haired prostitute said, “She asked us why we were standing out here. It felt wrong to lie to her.”
“Oh, that felt wrong? Really? Are you out of your minds?” Crowley exclaimed, wrapping a protective arm around Muriel’s shoulders, “Why the Heaven would you show her that?” The demon glared at the women; even though he knew they couldn’t see his narrowed eyes behind his sunglasses, the action made him feel better.
Tightening his hold on the angel, Crowley marched back to the bookshop, raging the entire way, “Like you needed to hear that - that - that grotesque things humans consider acceptable behavior! Why’d she tell you that?”
The demon opened the door to the shop and ushered a traumatized-looking Muriel inside, guiding her to sit on the sofa, “Sit here. I’ll be right back.”
Hurriedly, Crowley went to the kitchenette; he was back in the little alcove in less than five minutes, carrying a mug; he held it out to Muriel, who blinked up at him with confused curiosity.
“Hot chocolate; take it - should help,” Crowley offered.
“How?” Muriel questioned, taking the warm cup.
Sighing slightly, the demon flopped into Aziraphale’s chair, “I don’t know, if I’m being honest. Gabri - Jim always liked it.”
Crowley frowned deeply, “Must’ve; but he liked anything sweet, didn’t he? If it was sugary, he was a big fan - if he liked it, ‘s a safe bet it was sweet…or sushi.”
“You’re…but you’re not sushi…”
“Well-observed,” Crowley cocked his head slightly.
Muriel took a hesitant, suspicious sip of the hot chocolate, “Oh, this is nice. Right. You’re not sushi…are you? No, you’re a demon.”
“Right again. Now, what the heaven are you talking about?”
“You said that if Aziraphale likes something, it’s either sushi or something sweet. But he likes you.”
Crowley couldn’t contain his snarl, but quickly allowed melancholic brooding to replace it, “Not enough.”
Muriel furrowed her eyebrows, “What? What do you mean?”
“I laid it all out for him, didn’t I? Told him how we’ve been together for…well, forever - since the beginning of - no, before the beginning of time, that I didn’t know what I’d do without him, that we could run off together - away from all the fighting and politics of Heaven and Hell, that we could be us, and he just buggered off to Heaven, that’s what he did. HEAVEN!” Crowley jumped up suddenly and frantically felt his jeans pockets, then his jacket pockets, ripping his phone out of the inner hidden space of the jacket and crashing back down into the chair as his phone started back up.
“Come on, come on, come on, come on!” Crowley urged the device as Muriel drank her hot chocolate.
“Yes, yes, yes, I know all that,” the demon swiped through the obnoxious mini-tutorials of new features, growling when it told him that he needed to re-verify the network connection and demanded that he sign in to his mobile service account after the update.
Next → Chapter 2: Amethyst Shores
