Chapter Text
Purdie “Pudds” Presley had been a resident of Soho for about nineteen years (AKA since she was born) and for all nineteen of them, A.Z. Fell and Co. had always been there. It was one of the few constants in her life. She rarely went in, never having been the type of person to read dusty, old, expressive books for leisure. Mr. Fell was always there too, all soft-edges and white-blond hair. He must have been in his late fifties or early sixties, though he had looked about the same for as long as Purdie could remember.
He must have been a slow-ager, Purdie figured, as she watched the bookshop from the cafe across the street, drinking a cup of tea. Slow-aging for a relatively low-energy man...unlike his partner. She had seen the Bentley a few times in front of the shop, but she had never assumed that was Mr. Fell’s boyfriend? Husband? He was a handsome, tall, and skinny thing with fiery red hair and who drove entirely too fast and blared music much too loud. He dressed like a failed rockstar; maybe he was. He was always hanging around the shop nowadays, ingloriously sprawled in a chair in front of the window.
Purdie hated him with a passion. Though they had never interacted, he gave her Bad Vibes. To her, it was more than obvious that this man— Mr. Crowley, one of her reputable sources had informed her, though whether that was his first or last name was up for debate— was using poor, old Mr. Fell. Mr. Crowley was young and wild and probably needed money and what better way to get it than to prey on the rich, lonely, and eccentric Mr. Fell?
She got it. After all, debt didn’t pay itself. Regardless, it was sad, really. Mr. Fell certainly deserved better than someone who was a gold-digging prick.
At times she wondered if Mr. Fell knew that he was being played, but judging from the way that he gazed at Mr. Crowley with such adoration and love, he had no idea.
The first time that she ever suspected anything truly off about their relationship, though, it was a bright and sunny Tuesday. She was doing research for a friend who was writing a paper on some niche topic that Purdie didn’t care about— Mesopotamian architecture or some other. Her friend, Shane, had gotten stuck babysitting for some quick cash, so Purdie had nobly surrendered her free time to do the research for them. While she would have preferred to use Google, Shane had insisted that they had a bookmark somewhere in one of Mr. Fell’s books and that as long as she didn’t try to purchase anything, there would be no issue.
So, for the second time in her life, she walked into A.Z. Fell and Co. and for the second time in her life she wished she hadn’t. The air was crackling with tension and anger. Mr. Fell was not behind his desk. Something was decidedly off.
Purdie warily inched further into the store despite feeling as if she wasn’t supposed to be there. She made it around a shelf. A pile of books was toppled on the ground. She heard a noise and immediately swung her head towards it. It was coming from the closed door of the back room.
She walked closer.
A muffled crash reached her ears and she recoiled sharply. Then her curiosity got the better of her and she edged towards the door once more. Someone was shouting.
“You are such a bloody idiot sometimes, angel!”
“I know, but Gabriel-“
“Aziraphale, don’t listen to that wanker! Why should you care about him? He doesn’t give a single monkey shit about you!”
“Crowley, there’s really no need for that kind of language.”
Purdie stiffened. That was Mr. Fell. Mr. Fell was being yelled at by Mr. Crowley. Crowley had called Mr. Fell an idiot.
“So what is your great plan, then?” Crowley continued. “You’re gonna go to the hospital?”
“No, Crowley!” Mr. Fell protested loudly, just a tinge of panic in his voice. “Of course not! It would be too hard to explain-“
“Then fix yourself!” Crowley snapped and Purdie had heard enough. How could he say such callous things? She stiffly backed away from the door, past the shelves, and right back out the store. She stood on the sidewalk for a moment. She knew Mr. Crowley was up to no good.
She thought back to the sound of pain she had recognized just moments earlier. Had he been hurting Mr. Fell? She was in much too deep for this. She needed to talk to Shane.
Aziraphale absently stacked books on the shelves in his typical manner of disorganized organization. His old ladder creaked ominously underneath him, though he paid it no mind. His mind was on other things, namely, Gabriel.
The Archangel had paid him a visit earlier that week and he was struggling to forget about it.
I know you don’t work for us Up There anymore, but you still can’t keep doing all these frivolous miracles, Aziraphale. Consider this an unofficial warning. I might not be your superior anymore, but I am still so much more powerful than you and I can and will cut off your miracles. Think about that, sunshine. Good.
Aziraphale hadn’t even been able to get a word in edgewise before the purple-eyed angel had left and he had been left shaking with an awful feeling in his gut. Then Crowley had come and pried the story from a dazed Aziraphale and it still baffled the angel that Crowley got so angry in his defense, but there was nothing that could be done. He was unwilling to rebel against Gabriel’s orders, regardless of retirement. This was something too important. He didn’t want to lose his miracles.
He sighed, placing the newest of his collection on the top of the stack. The ladder made a very unhappy sound. He would have to buy a new one when he finished sorting. He took one step down.
Crack.
There was a brief moment of oh, fuck, where Aziraphale found himself falling, and then his body met the ground with a rather unsavory sounding crack. Pain laced up his arm as he stared at the now-broken ladder with betrayal. At least the books hadn’t tumbled down as well.
“Bugger,” Aziraphale said for lack of anything better to say. This was quite painful. Granted, nothing he couldn’t miracle- oh.
Right. He couldn’t.
“Bugger,” he repeated, then unsteadily pushed himself to his feet. He had to call Crowley. He dialed the familiar numbers into the rotary, arm cradled to his chest. It didn’t do anything to assuage the pain.
“What’s it?” Crowley drawled, sounding rather tired. He must have been asleep.
“Hello Crowley. I seem to have gotten myself into a spot of trouble.” He sped through his words, ignoring the demon’s alarmed noise. “I hate to ask but could you come over posthaste? Preferably with a medical kit.”
“What’s happened, angel?” Crowley asked, certainly more alert than previously. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, just...tickety-boo.”
“I can hear you lying, Aziraphale. I’m on my way.”
So, the bookseller hung up the phone, wandered into the back room, and focused on his breathing because even if he didn’t need to breathe, it was rather grounding. It would be so easy to just heal it, Gabriel’s ordered be damned.
The bell rang, signifying someone had entered the store.
“Aziraphale!”
“Back here.”
Crowley rounded the corner, arms chock full of bandages with two stacked med-kits. He paused. “I was expecting an army of wounded humans in here,” he admitted, expression hidden behind his sunglasses. “What’s going on?”
“I, erm…” He was faintly aware he was flushing. Only he would find himself clumsy enough to land in this position. “This is rather embarrassing, but when I was stacking from my new shipment, the ladder broke beneath me and I injured my corporation.”
Crowley raised a dark eyebrow. “Okayyy,” the demon drawled, seemingly not understanding the issue. “Can you not heal your corporation? Quick miracle, innit?”
“Yes, but,” Aziraphale used his good arm to fiddle at the end of his waistcoat in a familiar nervous gesture. “Up There said no more frivolous miracles.”
A look of comprehension crossed Crowley’s face. Said comprehension was swiftly switched for scorching rage. All the med-kits met the ground in a clatter. Aziraphale stiffened.
“You are such a bloody idiot sometimes, angel.”
“I know, but Gabriel-“ Aziraphale started in a much calmer tone than the demon’s, fully intending to defend his so-called idiocy.
“Aziraphale, don’t listen to that wanker!” Crowley’s voice cracked as he floundered for something to do with his hands, settling for waving them in the air. He was beyond exasperated. “Why should you care about him? He clearly doesn’t give a single monkey shit about you!”
“Crowley, there’s really no need for that kind of language,” the blond replied instead of denying the truth. Gabriel had made it very clear that he saw Aziraphale as less than waste from any of God’s creatures.
“So what is your great plan, then?” said the other, voice dripping with sarcasm, “You’re gonna go to the hospital?”
“No, Crowley!” Aziraphale retorted indignantly. He wasn’t that stupid. “Of course not! It would be too hard to explain-“
“Then fix yourself!” Crowley snapped, and Aziraphale cringed. He knew that the demon wasn’t angry at him, not truly, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
The redhead froze. Inhaled and then exhaled deeply and all the anger left his posture. He took off his sunglasses, golden eyes, expression earnest and regretful. “Aziraphale, angel, please,” he pleaded. “I just...I hate to see you injured. You shouldn't have to be worried about Gabriel all the time. We made our own side for a reason. We’re not like them, so why should we have to listen to them?”
The angel looked away. He hated seeing the demon get so worked up over him. “Crowley, I can’t,” he said simply. His tone held no room for further argument. Crowley looked stricken.
“Then let me miracle it better!”
“You shouldn’t. Next thing you know, you’ll have your s- Hell giving you trouble too, my dear.”
“Hell doesssn’t give a damn what I do, Azssiraphale. They’ll leave me alone.”
“We can’t risk it,” Aziraphale replied softly. I can’t risk it, was what he meant. It was bad enough that he was at jeopardy of losing his own powers. The last thing he wanted was for the demon to resent him losing access to his own miracles.
Crowley opened his mouth, as if he wanted to argue more, then closed it. He sighed. “How can I help?”
“You took some doctoring classes back in the 1900s or so, right? I think I need a sling…”