fic: Vellichor (ficuary)

[csi_sanders1129]

Title: Vellichor
Chapters: 1/1
Author:csi_sanders1129
Ratings: K+
Word Count: 1174
Pairings/Characters: You, Aziraphale/Crowley.
Synopsis: In which you take a job at A. Z. Fell and Co.’s Antiquarian and Unusual Books and it is very much not what you expect.
Comments: Written for Ficuary 2021, Prompt: Training. First try at Good Omens fic. 2nd Person POV. Comments and kudos would be awesome. Enjoy!

You find the job when you need it the most.

A. Z. Fell and Co.'s Antiquarian and Unusual Books. Though, you learn very early on that the general idea seems to involve not selling any books at all. The owner, A. Z. Fell himself (must be a family name, you think, given the age of the shop) is a kind man who frequently offers you tea and biscuits and asks about your day. He pays you well, especially considering the very little you actually do in his shop, and allows you to keep whatever hours you wish (as does the shop itself, it seems, given the baffling signage on the front door which makes it near impossible for any potential customer to ever know when the place might actually be open, which, you imagine, is probably the idea). Occasionally, he even lets you touch the books.

There was recently a fire, he tells you. You cannot see any sign of fire damage or any sign of any repairs from any supposed fire damage. You certainly hadn't heard anything about a fire in the area, though you're sure you would have given the shop's prime location. He claims that things are a bit disorganized as a result, though, so you help arrange the books to his liking and you dissuade any would be customers who might dare to take any of them away in the process.

"Sir," you say, one evening when the little bell on the door rings as someone enters. You could have sworn you'd locked that already. "I'm afraid we're actually cl-" But the man barges in all the same. He is tall and lanky, wearing an expensive suit and expensive sunglasses. Despite them, you're still reasonably sure he eyes you up and down behind the dark lenses before he frowns and continues walking. "Sir!"

"Angel!" He calls out into the depths of the shop, where your employer wandered off to some time ago to look over a book you'd discovered in your rearranging that he didn't seem to know he possessed. "We have a reservation at the Ritz in ten minutes!"

"Oh, dear," comes the frazzled reply from A. Z. Fell, whose name you do not actually know. "You know how I get with a new book."

"I certainly do," the stranger, who is definitely not a stranger to Mr. Fell given the sound kiss he plants upon your employer, says with a sort of fondness that suggests this happens often. "Shall we?"

"Of course."

The stranger helps Mr. Fell into his tartan coat (even though you catch him sneering in distaste at the pattern) and the two of them make to leave.

"Oh," Mr. Fell stops himself before they get through the door. "Silly me. Where are my manners?" He introduces you to the stranger, named A. J. Crowley. Mr. Fell praises you, claims that you are doing a fantastic job helping out at the shop and that he rather thinks you'll stick it out, unlike the other employees he's tried out lately. Mr. Crowley seems quite relieved by this news and suggests you close up shop promptly and treat yourself to a nice dinner – his treat.

And, well, you are not averse to leaving early. You'd intended to stop by the market on the way back to your flat to pick up something for a quick meal, but with the ample amount of money just presented to you, and with Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley setting an example, you consider the merits of inviting your cute neighbor out to dinner, instead, maybe the two of you could catch a movie – that'd certainly be a great start to your weekend.

"I'll do that. Have a fantastic night!" you tell the two men as they depart for their dinner at the Ritz.

Mr. Crowley smiles over his shoulder at you, "Oh, we intend to," he promises. You watch through the shop window as he leads Mr. Fell to what even you can tell is a fantastically beautiful and fantastically expensive classic car in stunning condition parked just outside. You watch the two of them speed off at what seems like a profoundly unreasonable speed.

You return you attention to the shop, trying to close up as quickly as possible.

You have a phone call to make.

On Monday morning, when you 'open' the store for the day, you find the place alarmingly empty. A considerable amount of the books are gone, and for a brief and terrifying moment you fear that the place was robbed. But upon a quick inspection, you realize some of the rarest books are still accounted for. You cautiously move to the office, where you find a piece of parchment laid atop Mr. Fell's ornate desk. Your name is upon it. You open it to find, in exquisite calligraphy, a letter penned to you.

'Do not be alarmed,' it opens, which is never a fantastic way to start any missive, is it? 'But I have retired to South Downs with my companion. The shop is yours. Well, I am leaving it in your capable hands. I trust you will know what to do.'

You do not, in fact, know what to do.

But, you learn.

You learn that you can, on rare occasion, actually sell books. The ones you are apparently not supposed to sell with inexplicably refuse to remove themselves from their shelves until you nix the idea. You learn that without warning books will just appear in the shop; sometimes books will disappear. From what you can tell, no one delivers them or takes them away. You learn that Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley are getting married when you receive an invitation in the same elegant scrawl. And, well, you learn a lot more when you attend the wedding three months later and conversation amongst the odd collection of guests wanders into angels and demons and prophecies and the almost end of the world.

"I'd understand if this is a little too much for you," Mr. Fell, rather Aziraphale, as he now insists you call him, tells you when you come to bid your goodbyes to the couple.

"Nonsense, Angel," Mr. Crowley, just Crowley, counters, "I'm sure this is a fascinating development."

You find you are inclined to side with the demon on this one. "Congratulations," you say, with a smile and a hug. "It's getting late, though, and I have to get home." That cute neighbor you asked out to dinner is waiting there for you, after all, and no longer your neighbor. Then, before you forget, and to assure Aziraphale that you have no intention of leaving the bookshop short its caretaker, you add, "Oh! I have a lead on a rare book I'm sure you'll love. It should be in next week if it goes through."

"I look forward to reading it," Aziraphale agrees. You will not wonder where it's gotten to when it vanishes from the shelf. "Thank you."

You take your leave.

You wouldn't trade this job for anything.