(no subject)
It's the sort of weather which reminds him why he lives where he does. Cool grey streets that end in squares of sunshine, tiny parks of vibrant green and even the market stalls selling bootlegged goods are gilded. He tips a non-existent hat to the scantily-clad woman leaning in a doorway, skirts a couple of gentlemen squaring up to each other on cracked concrete with a smile; as he continues on his way it sounds rather as though they've resolved their difficulties. It's entirely too nice a day for disagreements.
He's whistling as he walks, something he heard on the radio before he left. Not his usual sort of thing at all, really, but perhaps there's merit to this be-bop thing, on occasion. He's made a mental note to ask Crowley if he knows anything about this 'Buddy Holly' fellow, and the fact that they're on good enough terms that he can is perhaps contributing to the spring in his step.
The walk to the British Museum doesn't take nearly long enough, in his opinion - the sunshine has got people smiling, even in London, and that always rather warms the cockles of his heart - but it's quite made up for by the magnificent ceiling. There's a Michaelangelo exhibition on, and he decides to gently prod Crowley in this direction, if they're lost for something to do at the weekend. There's something so very delightful about his work on musculature, even if it's rarely historically accurate.
This is the point where Aziraphael almost trips over a small child that is running, shrieking, away from her harried looking parents. The gesture he makes is very nearly unnoticeable; when she's caught a moment or two later she's speaking in a whisper and inordinately fascinated, all of a sudden, with the reading room.
The angel, on the other hand, heads through Egypt and Ancient Rome, directing his steps towards an unnoticeable door tucked away in a corner between fragmented friezes. There are books aplenty in the reading room, of course, and it's quite extraordinarily beautiful... but it's barely a fraction of what there is. Some of the books they have stored it wouldn't do at all to make available to the public.
It's a good hour or two before he emerges. He's obtained a battered leather satchel from somewhere, and it contains a book or two that shouldn't be missed. His step is noticeably quicker, now - they're not the sort of books that ought to be kept cooped up together for two long, not if the carrier wishes their general vicinity to remain the same shape and dimensions as it began - but there's time enough to make a couple of quick stops on his way home.
Pick up a couple of gifts.
And if he emerges from his bookshop again later, and goes to the rather more neon and exotic shop next door for a cup of tea and a natter, well that's probably entirely unrelated.
He's whistling as he walks, something he heard on the radio before he left. Not his usual sort of thing at all, really, but perhaps there's merit to this be-bop thing, on occasion. He's made a mental note to ask Crowley if he knows anything about this 'Buddy Holly' fellow, and the fact that they're on good enough terms that he can is perhaps contributing to the spring in his step.
The walk to the British Museum doesn't take nearly long enough, in his opinion - the sunshine has got people smiling, even in London, and that always rather warms the cockles of his heart - but it's quite made up for by the magnificent ceiling. There's a Michaelangelo exhibition on, and he decides to gently prod Crowley in this direction, if they're lost for something to do at the weekend. There's something so very delightful about his work on musculature, even if it's rarely historically accurate.
This is the point where Aziraphael almost trips over a small child that is running, shrieking, away from her harried looking parents. The gesture he makes is very nearly unnoticeable; when she's caught a moment or two later she's speaking in a whisper and inordinately fascinated, all of a sudden, with the reading room.
The angel, on the other hand, heads through Egypt and Ancient Rome, directing his steps towards an unnoticeable door tucked away in a corner between fragmented friezes. There are books aplenty in the reading room, of course, and it's quite extraordinarily beautiful... but it's barely a fraction of what there is. Some of the books they have stored it wouldn't do at all to make available to the public.
It's a good hour or two before he emerges. He's obtained a battered leather satchel from somewhere, and it contains a book or two that shouldn't be missed. His step is noticeably quicker, now - they're not the sort of books that ought to be kept cooped up together for two long, not if the carrier wishes their general vicinity to remain the same shape and dimensions as it began - but there's time enough to make a couple of quick stops on his way home.
Pick up a couple of gifts.
And if he emerges from his bookshop again later, and goes to the rather more neon and exotic shop next door for a cup of tea and a natter, well that's probably entirely unrelated.