stilljustandrew | (no subject)

" - per un barbiere di qualità."

It's not that it's Crowley. Stranger things have happened, after all, than the demon seeking out a library, especially one as, er... specialised as Milliways'. Arcane interests, and all that.

It's not that he appears to be methodically rearranging the volumes on the shelf closest to him, though to be sure, it does seem like a more than usually pointless form of devilry.

It's not even that he appears to be humming quietly to himself as he goes about it.

If there's one thing, one clue that something is terribly, deeply off about this scenario, it's the slippers.

"Ah, bravooohh fuck!"

"Uh."

... well.

There's no real rule that Crowley can't wear slippers in the library if he wants to?

"Hi?"

If there aren't rules about that sort of thing, there probably should be, because Crowley's just gone and dropped a fairly large collected history of Shropshire (vol. III) on his toe.

"Ffffgnrgh," he says with feeling. "Andrew?"

"... yeah?"

He looks from Crowley to the shelves.

"What are you doing?"

Randomizing the library books is not okay, Crowley.

Crowley gestures distractedly at the small stack of books still perched on one end of the shelf, his expression of alarm momentarily giving way to one of instinctive sheepishness.

"I was just wait what do you mean, what am I doing, what are you doing?"

"Uh ... research?"

He holds up and waggles the heavy book he's holding in one hand.

"Which last I checked is what the library is for?"

"You, this isn't a," Crowley begins, before his brain rejects this attempt at logic entirely, and attempts to start over. "What the fuck? How did you get here?"

Upon closer inspection, Crowley seems rather... dishevelled, and not only from the shock of Andrew's sudden appearance. His hair is tousled (or at least, more tousled than usual), his sunglasses are nowhere to be seen, and...

Well, it's always possible that lumpy argyle jumpers are suddenly in fashion.

Fashion is not Andrew's strong point, but ...

He blinks. And blinks again.

"You're going to tell me this isn't the Milliways library, aren't you."

"The - oh."

Comprehension dawns.

"Milliways. No, this is - " another gesture, this time at their surroundings. Seeing as they're still boxed in by bookshelves, it isn't really all that helpful.

(Pause. Sigh. Start again.)

"You're in London."

Fucking Milliways.

"In --"

The light dawns.

"Is this the bookshop?"

"The - ?"

Well, there's a sudden distraction from the absurdity of the situation.

Still, Crowley hesitates, violently torn between the urge to pull at that thread (the bookshop? has he ever mentioned it to Andrew? has Aziraphael? where's Andrew getting the information, otherwise?), and gratefully seizing on the fact that now he, Crowley, doesn't have to figure out what to call it.

Oh, well. Discretion is the better part of valour.

"Yes," Crowley says, drawing himself up as though a sufficiently collected demeanour will convince Andrew that he has not, in fact, wandered in on Crowley in what more or less counts as his pyjamas.

Fuck everything.

"This is the bookshop."

"Frelling L-Space," Andrew says ruefully.

(Luckily for Crowley, he's a bit distracted right now and is not likely to notice things like that. At least at the moment.)

"Sorry. I didn't mean to come here at all, I was just -- like I said, research. What with the current state of hey, have you been to the bar at all recently? Cause, you know ... I can give you the latest soundbites, if you haven't."

In the silence, punctuated only by a background noise that has now resolved itself into the distant swish of morning traffic, there is a faint, airy whistle, and then a click.

Under the expectant gaze of the universe, Crowley resigns himself to the inevitable.

"Coffee?" he says. "Kettle's boiled."

"... oh man, coffee would be great," he says with fervent appreciation. "I have completely lost track of how many hours I've been awake."

...That doesn't sound too promising. Still, it can wait; Crowley's got a very clear idea of how many hours he's been awake, and the answer is 'not enough'.

He scoops up the homicidal history volume from the floor, wedges it back onto the bookshelf, and beckons Andrew to follow him, back the way he came.

Only, it's not the way Andrew came. For one thing, the books passing by at eye-level are distinctly more mundane than those lining the shelves at Milliways, and seem to adhere to no sort of order at all. Fiction, botany, more history, some slim volumes of poetry intermingled with colourful covers emblazoned with titles like Biggles Sees It Through, and Biggles — Air Detective; more fiction, the sort with the author's name printed in large gold leaf on the spine, far more prominent than the title, a set of Basque encyclopedias, a biography of Chesterton.

The air no longer carries the faint, tinny tang of the eldritch; instead, the comforting scent of tea is stronger now, curling around the dry smell of dust in sunlight, and the faintest whiff of glue.

And books.

Mostly it smells like books.

Andrew inhales appreciatively. It's a good smell. It's comforting, on the most basic level.

"So, uh."

Something about Crowley's demeanor is niggling at him.

"Does that mean you don't want the latest four-one-one on the Milliways situation, or just not till after there's been coffee?"

"The latter," Crowley says, turning to look at Andrew and backing through a narrow doorway as he does.

A little nook of a hallway; a glimpse to one side of a sitting room as worn and comfortable as the bookshop smells (a fireplace, well-guarded; a deep leather couch and mismatched armchairs; more bookshelves, and a desk littered with curls of canvas and leather, scorers and glue and thread, and all the paraphernalia of the practicing bibliophile).

"Please. It sounds dramatic."

Then the kitchen, or possibly kitchenette, which wouldn't be so cramped if it weren't for the table and chairs, but where else is Aziraphael supposed to do his crossword? Cupboards, a counter, a sink; a windowsill with three plaster ducks and, crammed into the narrow shaft of sunlight, a vibrantly green fern. Two mugs on the draining board, and the various trappings of coffee set out by the kettle, where the last wisps of steam are curling out of the spout and probably warping the cupboard above quite terribly, given enough time.

It's all very... ordinary.

Ordinary is one word for it. Another might be domestic.

"It's," Andrew says, "yeah, kinda dramatic."

He fidgets toward one of the chairs, and for lack of anywhere better to put it, sets the book down on the table.

(He hasn't really had a chance to look at it yet.)

"Who's surprised."

It's more of a mutter than anything else, and clearly not anything Andrew is expected to answer.

(Not least because the answer is 'nobody'.)

Crowley's spooning a little more coffee into the pot with one hand, and reaching into a drawer with the other, unerringly locating another teaspoon.

"Milk in the fridge, if you want it. Sugar?"

Crowley takes neither. Mostly.

"Yes please," he says, and gets up to fetch the milk out.

Coffee without milk or sugar is just cruel.

A moment's hesitation, and then Crowley retrieves another mug from the cupboard. Pour water into pot; dig sugar out from behind the teabags.

Andrew can add his own (never interfere with the way a chap takes his coffee); after a moment's consideration, Crowley measures two spoonfuls into his own mug.

...Look, sometimes the fact that it's morning is bitter enough all by itself.

By the time he's transferred all the necessaries from the counter to the kitchen table, the coffee has mysteriously - you might even say miraculously - brewed, and Crowley pushes down the plunger, slow and reverent.

"Sit or stand," he says, (resentfully) amused at Andrew's hovering. "One or the other."

"I can sit," Andrew says agreeably, "I'm very good at sitting."

He demonstrates.

Crowley coils into the chair opposite, gesturing at the pot to indicate that Andrew should pour first.

Just because you're a demon doesn't mean you can't have manners.

Halfway through, though, it turns into a gesture at the book instead - handsome and heavy, in old, dark leather. Very old, if Crowley's any judge. Did Andrew pass by Aziraphael's cabinets on the way in?

"Best have that off the table while we're drinking," he says, "or Aziraphael'll have our hides."

"Huh? Oh --"

He puts down the coffeepot without pouring, and reaches to pick up the book.

"He's right," rueful. "Bad way to treat a book. Even if this one isn't one of his -- at least I don't think it is? I'm not sure whether I was still in the library or here already when I picked it up."

One doesn't hang around Aziraphael for this long without picking up at least a few good habits.

Crowley still leaves his books open face-down sometimes, but only when he -

Well.

Anyway.

"What is it?" he says.

He hasn't got an encyclopaedic knowledge of the contents of those cabinets, but he can make an educated guess.