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Title: In a Book Shop in SoHo
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale preslash
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Human AU. In which Crowley is a realtor and Aziraphale really does sell books (honest), and they are brought together by the rain.
AN: Written for the prompt 'AU: Alternate Professions' for my Trope Bingo table.
Life was not going well for Anthony J Crowley, realtor. Firstly, his car had been taken in for repairs. Expensive repairs – the hazard, he was told, of driving an antique around central London. Secondly, this meant he now had to commute to the office. Thirdly, it was raining.
Crowley, as he preferred to be called, didn’t own an umbrella.
As such, he was using a newspaper as a shield against the worst of the weather when, abruptly, the weather grew worse. The sky opening and rain coming down in suit-ruining, newspaper-destroying sheets. It was Biblical.
“Bugger,” hissed Crowley, who’d never quite got rid of a childhood lisp and sounded like he hissed everything, as he was quite suddenly minus a shield and equally suddenly covered in paper maché. He squinted through the rain – even going so far as to remove his ever-present sunglasses for a better look – trying to find shelter.
He was unfamiliar with the area. A dusty, forgotten area of SoHo – but one that seemed to have a book shop, nonetheless. He darted across the road, entered the shop, and shut the door behind him a little harder than strictly necessary. A blond man looked up from behind the counter, lowering a book and staring as Crowley stared back at him.
“Er,” Crowley said, looking into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. The reproachful look being aimed at him was rather like having offended an armchair. The man looked like a Hallmark angel had discovered what middle age was and decided to go for broke – complete with a knitted sweater vest and tweed jacket (currently hung over the back of the man’s chair). “Sssssssorry. No umbrella.”
“So I see,” the owner said. The reproach faded and he offered Crowley a smile instead, one that invited Crowley to just bask in the warmth of it. “Would you like some tea?”
The book shop, oddly, had a fireplace. Crowley migrated towards it while the proprietor busied himself in the back room, and sat himself down in one of the overstuffed chairs next to it. The clock on his phone let him know he was late, but the chair was cosy and the fire was hot, and Crowley didn’t particularly care. There was no point in being your own boss if you couldn’t choose your own hours, as it were.
He occupied himself with picking sodden fragments of The Times out of his hair and studying the shelves that loomed around him. Old, rare religious texts stood next to books on queer theory; erotica novels haunted the top shelves while further down, limited edition comic books filled entire rows. He found himself both impressed and amused, and when the shop owner returned, he offered him a completely genuine smile.
“Thanksss,” he said, and took the offered cup. “Sssorry for dripping on the furniture.”
“Oh, it’s alright,” the owner replied. “As long as you missed the books.”
He accompanied the later with a steely look that reminded Crowley of a school librarian. Make that impressed, amused, and mildly aroused.
“Completely,” he said. “Interesssting sssssselection, though.” And he held out his hand. “Name’sss Anthony Crowley.”
The shop owner took his hand and shook it. His hands were soft and well-manicured; pudgier than Crowley’s own, but with a hidden strength to them. “Zirah Fell,” he said.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale preslash
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Human AU. In which Crowley is a realtor and Aziraphale really does sell books (honest), and they are brought together by the rain.
AN: Written for the prompt 'AU: Alternate Professions' for my Trope Bingo table.
Life was not going well for Anthony J Crowley, realtor. Firstly, his car had been taken in for repairs. Expensive repairs – the hazard, he was told, of driving an antique around central London. Secondly, this meant he now had to commute to the office. Thirdly, it was raining.
Crowley, as he preferred to be called, didn’t own an umbrella.
As such, he was using a newspaper as a shield against the worst of the weather when, abruptly, the weather grew worse. The sky opening and rain coming down in suit-ruining, newspaper-destroying sheets. It was Biblical.
“Bugger,” hissed Crowley, who’d never quite got rid of a childhood lisp and sounded like he hissed everything, as he was quite suddenly minus a shield and equally suddenly covered in paper maché. He squinted through the rain – even going so far as to remove his ever-present sunglasses for a better look – trying to find shelter.
He was unfamiliar with the area. A dusty, forgotten area of SoHo – but one that seemed to have a book shop, nonetheless. He darted across the road, entered the shop, and shut the door behind him a little harder than strictly necessary. A blond man looked up from behind the counter, lowering a book and staring as Crowley stared back at him.
“Er,” Crowley said, looking into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. The reproachful look being aimed at him was rather like having offended an armchair. The man looked like a Hallmark angel had discovered what middle age was and decided to go for broke – complete with a knitted sweater vest and tweed jacket (currently hung over the back of the man’s chair). “Sssssssorry. No umbrella.”
“So I see,” the owner said. The reproach faded and he offered Crowley a smile instead, one that invited Crowley to just bask in the warmth of it. “Would you like some tea?”
The book shop, oddly, had a fireplace. Crowley migrated towards it while the proprietor busied himself in the back room, and sat himself down in one of the overstuffed chairs next to it. The clock on his phone let him know he was late, but the chair was cosy and the fire was hot, and Crowley didn’t particularly care. There was no point in being your own boss if you couldn’t choose your own hours, as it were.
He occupied himself with picking sodden fragments of The Times out of his hair and studying the shelves that loomed around him. Old, rare religious texts stood next to books on queer theory; erotica novels haunted the top shelves while further down, limited edition comic books filled entire rows. He found himself both impressed and amused, and when the shop owner returned, he offered him a completely genuine smile.
“Thanksss,” he said, and took the offered cup. “Sssorry for dripping on the furniture.”
“Oh, it’s alright,” the owner replied. “As long as you missed the books.”
He accompanied the later with a steely look that reminded Crowley of a school librarian. Make that impressed, amused, and mildly aroused.
“Completely,” he said. “Interesssting sssssselection, though.” And he held out his hand. “Name’sss Anthony Crowley.”
The shop owner took his hand and shook it. His hands were soft and well-manicured; pudgier than Crowley’s own, but with a hidden strength to them. “Zirah Fell,” he said.
