Chapter Text
When you told Lindsay you could take care of yourself, you meant it. Sure, you didn’t feel the most secure wandering around a foreign city with no Internet connection; but there was something sort of wonderful about it, about the feeling of being lost. It made you feel more at home in your own skin.
Plus, it wasn’t as though you didn’t speak the language.
Really, London wasn’t all that different from most major cities you’d seen back home. A little cleaner, maybe, but besides the black cabs and the whole left-side-of-the-road thing, you felt perfectly confident in your ability to—
“Watch out!”
Your ability to nearly get yourself killed in a hit-in-run, apparently.
Some sharp-eyed street goer was quick enough to grab you by the arm and pull you back to the safety of the sidewalk as a large, old-looking black car barreled through—running over the exact spot where you would have been walking, if left to your own devices.
“You alright, miss?”
The shock of it left you dumb for a moment, staring wordlessly at the car as it tore down the street. You caught a glimpse of red hair peeking over the front seat, as well as the first two letters of a license plate, before the driver hung a sharp left and was lost from sight.
“Miss?” You finally nodded, thanking your rescuer. Before he headed off, he was kind enough to confirm your directions to Lindsay’s bookstore recommendation.
This time, you double—no, triple—checked the street in both directions before daring to cross.
One of the things Aziraphale liked best about his bookshop was how near-sentient it was. That’ll happen, you know, with old establishments, and particularly with old bookshops. Even more so with old bookshops where the owner is hellbent (heavenbent?) on never letting a single book leave the premises. The shop knew this, and had developed a helpful sensitivity to the thoughts of new patrons, alerting Aziraphale whenever he was in danger of actually making a sale.
So when the door opened again (today was an atypically busy day for his little shop, and he was beside himself trying to thwart customer after customer. Right now, he was trapped behind a bookshelf, in the middle of explaining to an angry little crone that no, this particular copy of Whithering Lows was not available for purchase, and neither were any of the other copies), Aziraphale stiffened automatically.
But a funny thing happened. The door swung open—
The windchimes rang softly—
And for a moment, the entire shop seemed to hold its breath.
Except, of course, for the crone. “Really, Mr. Fell,” she said, “if it’s a question of money, I can assure you—”
“Er.” She continued to prattle on, apparently oblivious to the fact that his attention had drifted elsewhere. “Excuse me for a moment.”
“But I need—”
“I’m so sorry, I just, er, need to check on something in the back.” He started off in the direction of the front counter, a bit dazed. “In the front, I mean, the front.”
Something must have been wrong. Typically, the shop supported him by responding to overenthusiastic patrons with unpleasant smells, sudden drafts, and the like (the sudden drop in temperature when the Whithering Lows lady entered the shop had been enough to make him shiver, even beneath the heavy three-piece suit).
Currently, though, the air in the front room was a perfect twenty-two point two degrees Celsius without a draft in sight; any intake of breath brought with it the scent of lavender; and as he rounded the corner, passed the rows of shelves, and made his way to the entrance, Aziraphale saw that the windows were letting in an unusual amount of (typically non-existent) London sunlight, concentrated around the girl who’d just walked in.
The girl in question seemed entirely unaware of the effect she was having on the shop (understandable, since she had, in fact, just walked in). She didn’t move at all. She stood there, a few feet in front of the door, with her face tilted up towards the light, open and honest and in awe of the walls, the furnishings, the endless rows upon rows of shelves. Aziraphale stood equally still, trying not to startle her.
It didn’t work. She looked down and jumped a bit, as though she had been caught zoning out in class by a particularly strict teacher. A pretty blush rose up in her cheeks as she cleared her throat. “Hi! Sorry. Hello.”
“Hello.” He caught himself just a second too late, plastering a pleasant, unruffled expression over his own surprise. “Could I help you with anything?”
She shook her head with an apologetic half-smile. “I was, um, I was just planning to look around a bit. If that’s okay.” A glance down on his part showed him trembling hands, pigeon-toed feet. He felt an overwhelming urge to step forward and clasp one nervous hand in his own, run a thumb over where the pulse flickered in her wrist. Close the space between them. Or place a hand on her cheek and miracle her a moment of calm.
But he got the sense that, if he did that, she might shift from being merely shy to sprinting out the door. That wouldn’t do. He needed her to stay at least long enough for Crowley to se. He opted, instead, for what he hoped was a welcoming grin (he had grown so accustomed, after all, to only ever giving customers that one strained smile, and any change took a moment to grow used to) and a respectful nod. “Of course.”
You’d always had an unfortunate habit of falling a little bit in love with everyone you see.
Not quite everyone , but the occasional stranger, at least. And if not in love, than in...like. A crush, maybe, although even that seemed like too strong a word. It was just an appreciation, really, a noticing of the little things. That girl’s haircut, or the dimples on that guy at the table next to you.
So it wasn’t entirely surprising when you looked up, and you saw this man with his blue eyes and his dimples and his dandelion curls, and you found yourself immediately, absolutely smitten.