(no subject)
Aziraphael's sitting in his bookshop.
It's nothing so very surprising.
The only thing that might, perhaps, strike the casual observer as a little odd is the fact that there are customers browsing and he still appears to be smiling.
Perhaps it's just that sort of day. Perhaps it's the fact that beams of sunlight are managing to wend their way past the higgledy-piggledy books stacked in the window, gilding the dust motes that dance in the air at every movement. Or it could be the book he's paging through; Peter Pan and Wendy, 1931 with illustrations by Gwynedd Hudson - he's always rather preferred it to the Mabel Lucie Attwell version. Those fairies always looked entirely too nice for the story. He's been looking for a copy of this book for some time - newfangled inventions like the internet have made his hobby far harder.
In theory, he's supposed to be cataloguing the damage but there's really not all that much to see, it must be said, and there are inescapable distractions. The ache in his lower back, for instance, which is only exacerbated by the high stool and is inexplicably widening his smile every time he shifts position. He's quite lost in reverie when the young woman approaches the counter and her quiet greeting makes him jump half out of his skin, flushing a brilliant red.
He's far politer to her than he'd usually be, enough to quite unsettle her, it'd appear, and his mind really isn't on the task at hand. Which might explain why he's left staring, bemused, at the space where Peter Pan had been. And the pound coin in his other hand.
Aziraphael pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, laughing. It's enough to thoroughly disturb the remaining customers who make their excuses and leave in short order, far more at home with cantankerous glowering and quite unwilling to trust his apparent good nature.
It's probably for the best; it means no one's about to see the tomato-red blush, the ridiculous smile prompted by the post he receives.
He sends a carbon copy of a receipt, in reply. And neatly written on the back:
Believe me, Crowley, I know what you mean.
It's nothing so very surprising.
The only thing that might, perhaps, strike the casual observer as a little odd is the fact that there are customers browsing and he still appears to be smiling.
Perhaps it's just that sort of day. Perhaps it's the fact that beams of sunlight are managing to wend their way past the higgledy-piggledy books stacked in the window, gilding the dust motes that dance in the air at every movement. Or it could be the book he's paging through; Peter Pan and Wendy, 1931 with illustrations by Gwynedd Hudson - he's always rather preferred it to the Mabel Lucie Attwell version. Those fairies always looked entirely too nice for the story. He's been looking for a copy of this book for some time - newfangled inventions like the internet have made his hobby far harder.
In theory, he's supposed to be cataloguing the damage but there's really not all that much to see, it must be said, and there are inescapable distractions. The ache in his lower back, for instance, which is only exacerbated by the high stool and is inexplicably widening his smile every time he shifts position. He's quite lost in reverie when the young woman approaches the counter and her quiet greeting makes him jump half out of his skin, flushing a brilliant red.
He's far politer to her than he'd usually be, enough to quite unsettle her, it'd appear, and his mind really isn't on the task at hand. Which might explain why he's left staring, bemused, at the space where Peter Pan had been. And the pound coin in his other hand.
Aziraphael pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, laughing. It's enough to thoroughly disturb the remaining customers who make their excuses and leave in short order, far more at home with cantankerous glowering and quite unwilling to trust his apparent good nature.
It's probably for the best; it means no one's about to see the tomato-red blush, the ridiculous smile prompted by the post he receives.
He sends a carbon copy of a receipt, in reply. And neatly written on the back:
Believe me, Crowley, I know what you mean.