Chapter Text
So far as days went, it hadn’t been a particularly bad day, per se. Fairly typical for a Thursday, really. The lunch rush had been and gone - an entire three people’s worth, and Aziraphale had reluctantly had to part with a first edition copy of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park for an admittedly fairly tidy sum - and the shop was pleasantly deserted again well before 3pm rolled around.
The official early close-time on a Thursday had been one of Crowley’s better ideas, so far as Aziraphale was concerned. The bookshop remained - mostly - open from the hours of ten in the morning until five at night all other days out of the week save for Sunday, Aziraphale’s own whims notwithstanding. However the slight adjustment to the sign in the window meant that one afternoon in every seven Aziraphale was free to wander Soho - and London in general - as he saw fit. This would typically involve visiting one of the many quaint little family-run cafes within walking distance, followed by a meander around the tiny, eclectic boutique stores. He rarely bought much, but a nice chat with the owners - who he knew by name at this point - was always enjoyable.
Occasionally, when their schedules lined up, he would forgo his usual habits entirely and spend the afternoon in the company of the demon he had only recently realised had somehow, at some point, become his best friend. Aziraphale didn’t get chance to see Crowley as often as he would have liked, though their time together had increased rather significantly since the whole end-of-the-world thing, considering they no longer needed to hide their knowing one another.
At one point it would have been fraternising with the enemy . Aziraphale wasn’t certain quite when Crowley stopped being ‘the enemy’ and started being someone he genuinely adored, or even really whether the demon had ever actually been ‘the enemy’ in his eyes. Now, though, the only side they were on was their own - which made the whole argument rather academic.
The sun vanished behind a dubious-looking grey cloud as Aziraphale shut up shop and, glancing up at the sky in admonishment for so much as hinting at poor weather that afternoon, he decided to risk it by leaving his umbrella behind. While he had found he was somewhat more limited in his miracle-producing abilities at present than usual, primarily due to the ongoing disagreement in which heaven had tried to have him murdered for averting the apocalypse. They hadn’t cut him off completely though, which Aziraphale took to mean that they didn’t entirely hate him for what he had done.
Not that he expected to be forgiven any time soon.
Which of course meant that procuring an umbrella, a raincoat or both at the first spots of rain would be a simple enough task should he need them. It was always such a faff , carrying something he didn’t need, and Aziraphale allowed himself that little indulgence.
The street was relatively sparsely populated, by London’s standards. Or even by Soho’s standards, though considering it was just after three in the latter half of the week, he supposed the vast majority of people would still be at work. The landlady from the pub two streets over waved at him from across the road as she hurried along in the opposite direction, and he returned the gesture with a beaming smile that she couldn’t hope to mirror. The wind had picked up, pushing through the blonde curls of his hair and making the weight at the end of his watch chain jingle against his waistcoat. It might have been a tad chilly, if he wasn’t mostly immune to the pinch of cold.
“Excuse me, sir - do you have a moment?” He had barely rounded the corner when he was accosted. The girl was barely shoulder height, with long black hair tied back in a high pony - sensible, considering the weather - and a clipboard. She must have been scarcely out of school, judging by the lack of lines on her heart-shaped face and the innocent hope in her dark eyes. Aziraphale dutifully paused as she levelled him with what was perhaps meant to be a pleading look over the top of her half-rimmed glasses, but instead came across as more stern. She would, he thought, likely make a good teacher or lawyer, with a look like that.
“Of course, how can I help?” Her lips quirked up in a relieved smile in response, and she pushed her glasses further up her nose from where they had begun to slide down.
“We’re doing some research on businesses in the area and general footfall.” She explained, turning her clipboard for a moment so that Aziraphale could briefly see the list of questions. “Would you have time to answer a few questions on proposed changes to the area? We have a few designs set up that we would like to get people’s opinion on.” She indicated somewhat vaguely to the building behind her, door standing open as though awaiting their arrival. “The whole thing shouldn’t take more than around ten to fifteen minutes of your afternoon.”
“Of course, I’m more than happy to help.” He agreed with a small flourish. It was a good sort of day, and his post-lunch pastry and hot chocolate could certainly wait for a few extra minutes. “Lead the way.”
“Thank you, one of my colleagues will take over once we reach the office - this way, please.” Aziraphale followed a half pace behind as she lead him into the building and up a set of narrow stairs that looked, if he truly had to say so, as though they might shake apart at any moment. He wasn’t being snobbish, he wasn’t - but if not for the polite young lady on the stair ahead of him he would never have considered entering the place himself. Her hair swung behind her with each step, almost like a tail, oddly tangle-free considering the breeze out on the street.
The building itself was clearly old, as quite a few structures within certain parts of London were, and in desperate need of renovation to bring them up to the modern standard of living. The wallpaper was peeling, the carpet on the stair treads was thread-bare, and there was an odd smell of damp and decay that made him wrinkle his nose in displeasure.
It was honestly surprising to him that the place hadn’t been snapped up by a developer yet, considering how adamant that lot seemed to be about getting their hands on his shop.
Despite all of that, however, it was clearly inhabited; the hallways were lined periodically with dark wooden doors, most with a plaque or a decal of some sort advertising which small business had taken up residency within, and he could hear the vague murmurs of conversation in places as they passed.
“Right in here, sir.” His companion offered up another disarming smile as they reached the one door in the place that didn’t look as though it had been dragged kicking and screaming from the turn of the last century. Not that the upgrade was anything remotely resembling an improvement, however. The window - if it could truly be called that - was of a frosted plastic that only served to reaffirm just how little the thing must have actually cost, and the door handle when he reached out to turn it so he might step into the room left Aziraphale’s hand slightly sticky.
In hindsight, he should have suspected that all was not as it seemed.
A sweet-smelling cloth was pressed over his nose and mouth as something sharp jabbed him in the neck, hands gripping his arms tightly and, as he tried to lurch away from the assault, booted feet slammed into the backs of his knees. Aziraphale crashed to the tiled floor with a pained grunt, his vision starting to swim. His mind seemed to slow, and he was distantly aware of someone talking to him, or at him, yet the words slipped away before he could fully comprehend what was being said.
Something heavy slammed into the back of his head, and everything went terrifyingly dark.