Chapter Text
“It’s a — a — a tragedy,” slurs Anathema.
“It is,” Crowley agrees, having no idea what they're talking about.
Anathema nods and raises her glass. Fruity cocktail slops over the side. Crowley curses, grabs her drink, and takes a slurp of it. Wasting alcohol, that’s what she’s doing.
“That’s the tragedy,” Crowley says seriously. “That’s — you’re the — ”
“Exactly,” Anathema says, nodding. She stops. “Wait.”
Crowley grins and takes another sip of her drink.
Anathema crosses her eyes at him. “You — demon.”
Crowley laughs.
“Demon drink stealer!” Anathema cries. She’s loud enough that the women at the next table look over. Anathema grins and points at Crowley. “That’s what he is.”
“I am,” Crowley agrees proudly. It’s been his nickname since University.
“Right,” Anathema agrees. She looks at her empty glass, shrugs, and signals their server to order another. “What was I saying?”
“That you’re a tragedy,” Crowley informs her seriously.
“Yes,” Anathema agrees. “No. Wait.” She raises a finger. “I was talking.”
“You were,” Crowley agrees.
“About what?”
“I have no idea,” Crowley says honestly.
“Oh,” Anathema says. “Right!” She reaches over and grabs Crowley’s drink and takes a slurp. “A.Z. Fell!”
“Azzafell?” Crowley says, confusedly. He looks at the table. All the other glasses there are empty. Where’s that waiter? “What’s an Azzafell?”
“It’s who,” Anathema says. “A who. Awho? Anway.” She shakes her head. “A.Z. Fell. The book guy. That’s who.”
Wait, this actually rings a bell. A very faint bell from earlier in the night when there had been less alcohol. “Didn’t he buy a book?”
“He stole a book,” Anathema declares. “He stole my book, he — ” She tips back her glass and glares at it when she realizes that it’s empty. “Dammit.”
Crowley is still trying to recover the earlier memory of Anathema calling him in a rage, going on and on about her great-great-great-oh-my-god-so-many-great’s aunt and a book. An important book? Crowley hadn’t understood. He’d interrupted the rant saying that such a crime deserved alcohol and here they were.
“She — wrote a book, right? Your — ” Crowley waves a hand. “Aunt. Great aunt. Great-great-great — ”
“Great great great great great Aunt Agnus, yes,” Anathema says. “She wrote a book. A very important book. A book of prophecy.” She looks sad and not just over the lamentable lack of alcohol. “And then she lost it.”
Crowley laughs.
“No, she did!” Anathema exclaims. “She did, she lost it, and then she found it, and then her niece lost it again. We all thought it was a family legend until it turned up at an exhib— estab— estate sale.” She waves a hand. “Somewhere up north. I tried to get my hands on it but it’d already been purchased by,” her mouth twists, “A.Z. Fell. And co. Like, who’s co? I could be co. You could be co.”
“I could be co,” Crowley agrees with a drunken nod.
“Exactly!” Anathema grins. Then she frowns. “Except I’ll never be co. Because the book is gone. Again!”
“Well,” Crowley says, leaning in closer to her. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
*
It takes him too long to explain. Crowley has to give her details and then their server starts shooting him funny looks and so Crowley hauls Anathema out of the bar. They end up back at his flat. He tries to explain again and instead she passes out on the couch. Crowley throws his hands in the air and goes to sleep.
This, unfortunately, leads to Anathema standing by the side of his bed at an ungodly hour of the morning declaring, with her hands on her hips, “You’re a thief?”
Crowley groans. His head hurts. He can’t find his sunglasses. He’s not wearing any pants. “Go away.”
“Nuh uh,” Anathema says. “My memory of last night is spotty but I’m pretty sure that at some point my best friend told me he was a professional thief.”
“I’m not,” Crowley whines. He prefers to think of himself as a relocator. Some people have things, and other people need those things, and so he — quite helpfully — moves those things from one person to the other. For money. “I’m hungover is what I am.”
“You are getting out of bed, is what you’re doing.”
Crowley cracks one eye open. “I’m not wearing any pants.”
Anathema puts her hands on her hips. “I don’t care.”
Crowley sighs. “Anathema, you’re my best friend, but you’re not that kind of best friend.”
“If I’m your best friend then why am I just now finding out that you steal things for a living?”
“Jesus Christ,” Crowley hisses, sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face, “tell the whole bloody building, why don’t you?” He holds the covers up while he swings his legs over the side of the bed. “See if I ever tell you anything again.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Anathema says. “You’re acting like you’re the injured party here.” She shoots him a glare but does turn to face the wall, for which Crowley is thankful because he really didn’t want to flash her. “I’m the one who’s best friend has been lying to them for the past ten years.”
Crowley winces. “It wasn’t a lie.” Where are his pants? “It was an — obfusification.”
Anathema raises a finger. “So it is true.”
Crowley sighs again. “Bloody hell.” Oh good, there are his pants. He slides them on and grabs a new shirt from the closet. “Come on, if we’re going to talk about this, we need waffles.”
Anathema, because she is his best friend, perks up. “I’ll get the pan.”
Crowley explains as best he can — for the second time in twelve hours, though to be fair, there is significantly less alcohol involved this time around — as he cracks eggs and stirs flour. He’s never had to tell anyone who didn’t already know before what he does for a living and it’s funny what kind of stuff he finds himself admitting to her and what he finds himself holding back.
“So you are a thief,” Anathema says, as Crowley pours the first waffle.
“I— yes,” Crowley admits. “But a professional, like you said. Strictly business.”
Anathema runs a hand over her face. “Why did you lie to me? You told me you worked in an office.”
Crowley shifts his feet. “Actually,” he tries, “I told you I worked in acquisitions. I never really said where.”
Anathema glares. “How long?”
“What?”
“How long have you been doing this?”
Crowley opens his mouth and closes it several times. Thankfully, the waffle maker dings. “Oh good. Hey, do you prefer butter or syrup?”
“Crowley,” Anathema growls.
“What am I saying, it’s butter and syrup, I know how you Americans get.”
“Crowley.”
He sighs and puts the waffle on her plate. “Since third year University.”
“What?!”
Crowley hunches his shoulders. “They called me into the Dean’s Office after winter term. There was a… mistake… in my bursary agreement. They said they’d refund my classes and give me partial credit.” He presses his lips together. “I didn’t want that. I was enjoying my degree. I wanted to graduate.” Applied biology. It’s odd to remember how much it had meant to him then. “So I told them I’d find a way to pay tuition back.”
Anathema sighs and leans against the count. “They probably thought you’d get a real job. You know, like a normal person.”
Crowley shoots her a look and grabs the bowl. “You remember how much free time we had, don’t you? No way was I going to be able to keep my grades up on minimum wage. Not if I was going to work enough to pay back my tuition.” He snorts. “Actually, I’m pretty sure the Financial Aid office thought I’d started turning tricks when I came back a week later with a downpayment deposit in cash.” He pours the second waffle. “Maybe it would have been better if I had.”
Anathema runs a hand over her face. “Don’t say that, the statistics for early death among sex workers is much too high.”
Crowley sighs. She’s not wrong.
“So,” Anathema pokes him. “What did you do? How does one get started in this sort of thing?”
Crowley makes a face. “Same as anyone gets into anything, I expect. They try it once and figure out they’re actually not too bad at it. As for me, I sold key copies.” He holds up her plate. “Do you want this?”
Anathema stares at him. She doesn’t take the waffle. “You what?”
“I made copies of the professors’ office keys,” Crowley says, jiggling the plate in front of her. She finally reaches out and takes it. Crowley turns back to the waffle maker. “I sold them to students using a dead drop and an anonymous email account.” He snorts. “I’m just lucky I didn’t get caught. I had no idea how unsecure that was at the time.”
“You let people steal from Professors?”
“Uh uh,” Crowley says, shaking the batter spoon back and forth. Whoops! That made a mess. “I merely sold them the keys to various offices. It’s not my responsibility what the students did with those keys afterwards.”
He grabs a cloth and starts cleaning up the splatter. Anathema glares. She doesn’t offer to help. “That’s a fine fence you’re sitting on.”
Crowley shrugs and tosses the cloth into the sink. The waffle maker dings. “Yeah, well, it’s been a while. It’s become a very comfortable fence.” He’s put out throw pillows and hung a bloody flat screen TV, by this point, but he’s not going to tell Anathema that.
Anathema sighs. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me.”
She sounds more hurt than angry right now. Crowley slides the second waffle onto a plate and turns to her. “Anathema, you’re pissed at me, I know that, but I know you well enough by now to understand that my secret is safe with you. You aren’t going to rat me out and you aren’t going to go to the police. Ten years ago?” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t be sure.”
She bites her lip. “I’d like to say that I wouldn’t have ratted you out then, either, but I guess no one can know for sure what they would or wouldn’t have done ten years ago. You could have told me five years ago, though. Or last week.”
Crowley slides the butter towards her. “I could have,” he admits, “but after a while I got used to keeping the secret, you know? It was easier not to talk about it.”
“Ugh,” Anathema says. “Fine.” She grabs a knife and starts slathering butter onto her waffle. Crowley shakes his head. Americans. “If this has been some huge secret then why tell me now?”
“Well,” Crowley says, picking up his fork, “now you need my help.”
Her eyes light up. “The book?”
“The book,” Crowley confirms. He tips the second waffle onto her plate. “A.Z Fell, I think you said.”
Anathema grins. “And co.”
*
It doesn’t take long to find the shop. Crowley had googled it last night, too drunk to plan anything but already curious, fingers itching to find a way inside. That was one of the things he hadn’t told Anathema, the way stealing could get inside of you, twist you, make the entire world a series of puzzles you dare yourself to solve.
He found the owner of the shop, too, Mr A.Z. Fell himself, though there wasn’t much about him online. A newspaper article on a rare old book he’d found, an advertisement for restorations and repairs. No social media accounts. No facebook page. It was like the guy had been born in another century.
“He’s going to be eighty-nine years old and senile,” Crowley assures Anathema as they walk together to Fell’s place. “We’ll go in, scope the area, and you’ll draw him into conversation. I’ll look around and plan out how we’ll come back later. You say something polite and we leave.”
Anathema nods seriously as they get off the tube. She’d gone from arms-crossed-indignant to comrade-in-arms amazingly quickly. Crowley regrets not telling her earlier, but he knows she does best when she’s got a job to do.
“What if he suspects something?” Anathema asks. “What if he asks us to leave?”
“Then we leave,” Crowley tells her easily. “We’re not there to do anything wrong and we don’t want to draw suspicion. If you start to get bad vibes, just start making polite and go. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Anathema purses her lips. “I’m not getting anything except nervous anticipation,” she says. “I think we’ll be fine.”
Crowley shrugs but doesn’t argue. Anathema thinks she’s psychic. Crowley’s seen enough that he doesn’t disagree with her, even though he doesn’t exactly agree with her either. She’s always talking about the feelings she gets. It’s probably why she was so pissed at him for lying to her. He managed to fool whatever early-warning system she’s got.
A.Z. Fell and Co.’s Antiquarian and Unusual Book’s doesn’t look like much from the street corner. It’s an old shop, worn and dingy. Crowley doesn’t expect the change he sees when he steps inside. The thick-paned windows transform the muted London sunlight into something honey-gold. The ceiling feels at once low and high, with densely packed, overhanging bookcases and a soaring skylight in the middle of the room. There’s a rug on the floor and a couch he can see around a corner in the backroom. The till on the counter looks ancient and there’s a layer of dust over it thick enough to draw a finger through. Crowley wonders how long it’s been since the shop sold anything.
And yet the biggest surprise is the man coming around a shelf. His hair isn’t so much white as it is very fair blond and the only lines around his eyes are from smiling. He’s escorting a woman old enough to be his grandmother to the door, holding both her arm and a book wrapped in brown paper with equal reverence.
“Now you take better care of that, Mrs Edingham. It’s a second print but from the original publisher. That’s nothing to sniff at, you know.”
“Not good enough to stock in your shop though, is it, Mr Fell?” the woman, Mrs Edingham, says. Her tone is teasing but her eyes are sharp. They fall across Crowley as she’s led towards the door.
“I’m just glad I was able to restore it,” the man — clearly A.Z. Fell — assures her. He’s smiling pleasantly enough, but he hasn’t disagreed with her assessment, something the woman appears to notice as she turns back to him with a grin.
“Yes and if my grandchildren come to visit again, I’m sure I’ll be back.” She moves to the door and Crowley opens it for her. She gives him a smile. “Thank you, young man.” She looks over her shoulder, winks, and then steps out onto the sidewalk.
“Whew,” Fell says, the minute Crowley closes the door. “Always such a challenge to get her out the door without buying anything. Now then, let’s see.” He clasps his hands together and smiles at Crowley and Anathema. “Hello. How may I help you today?”
Anathema is staring at Fell. Crowley surprises himself by speaking.
“I thought the point of a bookseller was to sell books? Not very sporting of you to usher your customers out of the shop.”
Even more than speaking, he’s surprised to find that he’s smiling. He’s tucked his hands into his pockets and is leaning back, too. When did that happen?
Fell’s eyes are twinkling. “Perhaps ‘bookseller’ is a poor description. You are more than welcome to browse, but I never sell anything if I can help it.”
“Oh?” Crowley asks. He’s openly grinning now. “What if I came with a specific purpose in mind? Say,” he casts his mind back to what he knows of classic literature, “a copy of Frankenstein, perhaps.”
“I would congratulate you on excellent taste in gothic ramblings and ask whether or not you found Frankenstein or his monster to be the most tragic protagonist of the book. I would not, however, suggest buying a copy of it here.”
“Why not?” Crowley asks. “Maybe money’s no object. Maybe I need a first edition?”
“For your collection?” Fell asks. He’s smiling as well.
“Yeah,” Crowley says. “My collection of — gothic ramblings. Goes right next to the Shakespeare, of course.”
Fell shakes his head. “You would never put Shelley next to Shakespeare.”
“They follow quite closely in the alphabet.”
“An unoriginal method of organization.”
“Maybe I’m an unoriginal kind of guy.”
Fell looks him up and down. His smile gains the edge of a smirk. “Oh,” he says, “I doubt that very much.”
“Wow,” Anathema says, too loudly, from the opposite end of the room. When did she get over there? “What a collection you have.”
Fell turns and is it Crowley’s imagination, or does his smile lose just a hint of it’s shine? “Thank you, Miss, that’s very kind of you. Would there be something specific I could help you with?”
Crowley mentally gives himself a slap. What the hell? It’s not like him to start flirting in the middle of a job. It’s not like him to start flirting at all, usually he’s more of a stand-around-uncomfortably-in-the-corner kind of a guy, unless he’s playing a role.
That must be it. Crowley’s just getting into character, setting the stage. Yeah. Because otherwise, it would mean —
Crowley digs his fingernails into his palm and turns away. He’s here to steal from the guy, for fuck’s sake. He makes himself think of Anathema. The shop. He’s here to look over the shop.
It’s quite the shop. Despite recommending he purchase it elsewhere, Fell does have Mary Shelley. He also has Baroness Orczy and Jane Austin, but there’s also a row of misprinted Bibles, a slew of Shakespeare’s folios, and hundreds upon hundreds of books. A lot of them aren’t even in English. Crowley spots German, Arabic, Latin, and a handful he doesn’t recognize. They’re all first editions, he’s sure. There’s no doubt in his mind.
Across the shop Crowley can hear Anathema doing her best to engage Fell in conversation. She’s actually not doing a half-bad job of it, finding new questions to ask whenever the conversation stutters. Crowley tries not to wonder if Fell’s smooth tones are just as teasing as with her as they were when he and Fell were speaking. It doesn’t matter. That’s not why he’s here, after all.
Crowley takes a deep breath and thinks of the job. He loops back to the front door and notices the security system for the first time — it’s good, not top-of-the-line, but very decent. There’s also a HEPA filter hidden behind a stack of books and atmospheric sensors on the undersides of every shelf. Crowley takes another deep breath and notices this time that the humidity is lower in the shop than it had been outside. It seems that underneath the ancient exterior, Fell has a rather technological operation.
Yet there’s no sign of a safe. Crowley wonders at that. Fell doesn’t seem like the kind of man who keeps his valuables in a bank. No, Crowley’s willing to bet that he has a fireproof safe around here somewhere. It could be up the spiral staircase on the second floor, tucked under the till, or secreted off somewhere in the backroom. Crowley’s places a bet with himself that it’s inside the ancient-looking cabinet behind the counter. Fell strikes him as the kind of guy who practically lives in his shop. If there is a flat, Crowley suspects Fell doesn’t do much in it but sleep.
The cabinet it is, then. Crowley nods to himself and disappears into the endless shelves. It’s time to start looking for Anathema. He’ll have to come back later with his flashlight and tools.
It doesn’t take him long to find Anathema. She’s going on animatedly about something. Crowley listens for a moment before he groans. Fell has somehow gotten her talking about her doctorate. Data analytics and projection modelling of rainforest destruction leading to grim predictions over how long their planet has. Crowley makes a face and starts walking towards them. He’s planning to rob the man, it’s only polite to save him first.
The bell above the door jingles.
Anathema’s tirade breaks off. “Just a moment please,” Crowley hears Fell say. He can hear the relief from here. “Hello, how may I— oh.” Fell’s voice goes flat. “Gabriel. What a pleasant surprise.”
Crowley stops immediately. He’s out of sight at the moment. Acting on instinct, he creeps towards the nearest shelf and peers around it. Anathema is already moving away from the counter, ducking behind some shelves. Crowley can’t help but smile. A natural, she is.
Fell isn’t looking at her. He’s moved behind the counter and all of his attention seems to be on the new arrival. Crowley shifts so he can see better. Gabriel is a man, six foot one, handsome in a trying-too-hard kind of a way, with perfect hair and a gleaming smile. He’s wearing a suit with a dove-grey overcoat that fits so well it has to be tailored.
“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. He’s clearly going for warm and is failing by a significant margin. “You are still here, excellent. I was afraid you might have closed for the night.”
Crowley peers through the shelves until he can see Aziraphale’s lips tight. Aziraphale Fell? That’s a mouthful, alright. It suits him, though. “Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Must be fate, then,” Gabriel says with another insincere smile. He walks to the counter with the ancient till and grimaces at the dust. “So unsanitary. Really, Aziraphale, have you sold anything since I’ve been here last?” He waves a hand before Aziraphale can respond. “Yes, I know, books, books, proper respect, and so on and so forth. Any customers still hanging around? I’m surprised you even let them in most days.”
Aziraphale, who had been opening his mouth to respond, snaps it shut. He glares.
Gabriel grins and lays his hands on the counter. “It’s good to see you.”
Aziraphale seems to work his jaw for a moment before responding. “And you, of course,” he finally says. “What are you doing back in England?”
“Me? Oh, I’m here for the opening at the British Museum,” Gabriel says with a gleaming smile. “Wonderful new exhibit, perhaps you’ve heard of it. Treasures from Rome?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Fell says. “It sounds... fascinating.”
“Yes, it will be, absolutely. Highlight of the season, I’ve been told. The Church has agreed to lend the Museum several important historical objects, limited time only, of course.” He leans in towards Aziraphale and lowers his voice. Crowley has to strain to hear. “I hear you’ve gotten your hands on something rather historical yourself.”
Fell stiffens. “Is that so?”
Gabriel grins and leans back. “It is,” he confirms, not trying to be quiet anymore.
Fell’s eyes harden. “Who told you?”
Gabriel shrugs. “I have my sources.”
“It’s— a private matter.”
“Oh, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. Crowley peaks out a little more and verifies that the man’s expression is as patronizing as his tone. “You know that’s not true. The Church has declared such things abominations.”
“It’s nothing of the sort!” Fell exclaims. He takes a deep breath. “It’s a piece of history.”
Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “Heretical history.”
Fell’s eyes flash. “Regardless, it is now private property.”
Gabriel sighs. “Listen, Aziraphale — little cousin, come on. I know you disagree. Everyone knows you disagree! Grandmother knows! You’re so protective of your precious books. This time, though,” he spreads his hands, “it is about more than just a book. It’s for the greater good. Surely you can see that.”
Aziraphale’s lips flatten. “I understand that’s how you see it, yes.”
Gabriel nods. “That is how I see it, and — more importantly — that is how the Church sees it.” He leans in again. Crowley doesn’t like how it makes him loom. “That’s how Grandmother sees it.”
Crowley can practically see Fell weakening. He finds himself clenching his hands into fists. He’s surprised by how much he wants to push himself towards Aziraphale, stand between him and Gabriel, and tell the larger man to fuck off.
Or maybe it’s not so surprising. Crowley’s always hated bullies, after all.
“It is the only copy left in existance,” Aziraphale tries. His fingers are twisting themselves together. “All the others were destroyed.”
“Pity this got missed the first time, then.”
“I— ” Aziraphale stumbles and Crowley can practically see him trying to think of a way out of this. “I could be wrong. It might not be what I think it is, and if that’s true, it’s still an ancient manuscript. It would be worth quite a lot of money.”
“Perhaps,” Gabriel says, though his tone shows how unlikely he thinks that is. “I’ll have Sandalphon authenticate it, of course. We’ll only destroy the book if it’s the original the Church has decreed heretical. If it is anything else, you can have it back.”
“In what condition?” Aziraphale asks. It’s almost a snap. He catches himself and takes another deep breath. “I mean, can I trust that you’ll be careful with the book in the meantime? Maybe I should hang onto it until Sandalphon arrives.”
Gabriel shakes his head. “No, no, there’s no need for that. You might run off with it!” He chuckles as though this is funny. “I’ll bring it to the British Museum. They’ll be glad to hold on to it, what with the opening of the exhibit and all. It’ll be safe, don’t you worry.” He grins and even from behind the shelves Crowley can see his teeth. “And if it is the book, well, they have an incinerator on site.”
Aziraphale flinches.
Gabriel laughs. “Either way, the Church will compensate you according. The value of the book if it is the original is extraordinary! We’ll pay you the full sum, of course. It’s all written down in the official request.” Gabriel opens his jacket and pulls out a thick sheaf of papers. He locks eyes with Aziraphale as he lays them on the counter. “Grandmother signed it herself.”
This is apparently the last straw. Aziraphale crumbles. “Yes,” he says miserably, “of course. Just a moment.” With slumped shoulders he turns around to face the large ancient cabinet. Crowley gives himself an internal nod as Aziraphale opens it and reveals — as he’d suspected — a fireproof safe.
He’s too far away to see the numbers. Aziraphale cups his hands around the mechanism anyways and dials. There’s a clunk and the door swings open. From his vantage point, Crowley can just barely make out a neatly arranged pile of books. On top is a thick volume with a dark green cover.
Aziraphale signs and picks up the book. He closes the safe, turns, and hands the book to Gabriel.
Gabriel takes it. “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnus Nutter, Witch,” he reads outloud. There’s a muffled gasp from the next stack over. Crowley looks over and sees Anathema. She’s shoved her knuckles into her mouth and is biting down. Her eyes are locked on the book.
“Excellent,” Gabriel is saying. He flips open the cover and thumbs through a half dozen pages. Crowley can see Aziraphale wincing at the harsh treatment. “Good, very good. Heretical nonsense, of course, completely against the ways of the Church, but pretty, I have to say. Still, if Sandalphon authenticates it, it’ll be a pleasure to rid the world of it’s ramblings.”
Aziraphale’s staring at the book nearly as hard as Anathema. “Yes, of course,” he says, but his voice is faint. His fingers twitch. He reaches for the book before seeming to catch himself. Clenching his hands together, he tucks them away behind his back. “You’ll take care of it, you said?”
“I’ll go straight from here to the Museum,” Gabriel promises. He tucks the book into the crook of his arm and smiles fake-warm at Aziraphale again. “Always a pleasure to see you, cousin. You’ll look me up the next time you’re in Rome?”
“Certainly,” Aziraphale murmurs.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Gabriel says. He pushes the stack of papers towards Aziraphale. “Those are for you to hang onto. I’ll be back once Sandalphon has arrived.”
Aziraphale takes the papers with a pained expression. “How long do you suppose that will be?”
Gabriel shrugs. “A fortnight, maybe two, if he’s still caught up in that business in America. Don’t worry, cousin,” he reaches over and claps Aziraphale on the shoulder. “You’re going to be a very wealthy man!”
It’s clear that Aziraphale doesn’t care a fig about that. “Right. Yes.”
Gabriel grins and starts for the door. “I’ll say hello to Grandmother for you.”
“Please do,” Aziraphale says woodenly.
Gabriel smiles one more time — just as patently false as before — and leaves. The bell dingles happily as he does.
Aziraphale slumps against the counter. His face crumbles.
Anathema bursts out from behind the shelves. “Go after him!” she shouts at Crowley. And then, turning to Aziraphale. “You gave it away! You just gave it away!”
Crowley sighs.
Aziraphale is straightening. “My dear girl,” he begins.
Anathea doesn’t let him finish, striding towards him with — oh no — the Pointed Finger of Righteous Doom. “My great great great great great Aunt Agnus’s book! Not only did you steal it from me, but you gave it away! To him!” Anathema whirls around to stab her finger in the direction of the door. “You heard what he said!”
“I — ” Aziraphale tries.
“He’s going to burn it!”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Aziraphale snaps. “It — He — Gabriel is a highly respected and very influential man in Rome, I couldn’t possibly — ” He stops and stares at Anathema. “Wait…”
Crowley sighs and steps out from behind the shelves. “Anathema.”
She whips her head around to glare at him. “What are you still doing here?”
“I’m not going to run him down in the street,” Crowley snaps, irritated. “You heard what he said, the book’s worth money, which means if he loses it there’s going to be hell to pay, and you can’t get anywhere in London without your face being splashed on a half dozen CCTV cameras.”
“You promised me the book,” Anathema growls.
Crowley raises his hands. “And we’ll get it, but we won’t get it by knocking this Gabriel fellow over the head. We’ll need to be more subtle than that.”
Anathema tosses her head. “I can do subtle.” She turns back to Aziraphale. “Now you.”
But Aziraphale has gone stone faced. “The two of you,” he says flatly, “came into my store to, what? Rob me?”
Crowley winces. There’s a way to salvage this, there is, he’s just got to—
“We came here,” Anathema declares, “to get my book back. You thief!”
Aziraphale draws himself up. “I would never!”
Uh oh, she’s got The Finger out again. “You did,” Anathema declares. “You snatched my Great Aunt Agnus’s book up before I could get to that estate sale, almost before I’d even heard about the estate stale, and you took! My book! The one that belongs to my family!”
“I am very sorry you feel that way,” Aziraphale says stiffly. “Now I think it would be best if you, if both of you — ” his eyes flicker momentarily to Crowley and Crowley cringes at how cold they’ve become, “ — leave.”
“No, wait,” Crowley croaks. He takes a deep breath. “Listen. I think we can help you.”
Aziraphale, despite being a few inches shorter, still manages to look down his nose at him. “I think not.”
“I think so,” Crowley counters. “Maybe we did come here to inquire about that book — ”
“Inquire it back,” Anathema mutters.
“ — but you clearly aren’t happy about what just happened.”
Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”
Crowley gestures to the door. “Pillock-head, what’s his name, Gabriel — he’s a dick, and he’s going to burn your book — the book — ” he says with a half-turn to Anathema, before she can even open her mouth “ — and you don’t want that.”
“What I want is immaterial,” Aziraphale says stiffly. “The book is gone.”
“Not yet,” Crowley counters. “It’s just in enemy hands.”
Aziraphale splutters. “Enemy!”
“And we can get it back,” Crowley promises. “You can help us.”
Aziraphale’s lips thin. “What makes you think I would want to help you?”
“Come on,” Crowley says, gesturing to the shop. “What is this place if not a safe haven? A resting place for ill-treated first editions. An Eden. And you, standing here, presiding over it all, like a — a — a guardian angel.”
Aziraphale draws himself up to his full height. “I am nothing of the sort.”
“Maybe not yet,” Crowley tempts, “but you could be. Help us get that book back and you’ll have earned your wings.”
Aziraphale sniffs. “This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous.” He taps his fingers on the counter and glances at the door. Crowley just waits. Anathema, thankfully, stays silent.
Finally Aziraphale huffs. “But I suppose there’s no harm in talking. Very well, come to the back. I’ll put the kettle on.”