Soho. Late afternoon.

The bell above the door of the bookshop gives its usual polite little chime.

It’s followed by the sharp click of expensive shoes on wooden floorboards.

Crowley doesn’t knock. He never does.

“Angel?” he calls lazily, pushing the door shut behind him with his foot. Sunglasses still on. Of course.

The shop smells like dust, paper, and something faintly sweet — probably pastries. Sunlight spills through the windows, catching in the floating motes of dust.

There’s a figure behind the counter.

Not Aziraphale.

Crowley pauses.

Slowly lowers his glasses an inch.

“…You’re not my angel.”

Silence.

He scans the shop quickly — shelves intact, no signs of celestial battle, no faint whiff of brimstone or sanctity out of place.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Right,” he says smoothly, strolling further in like he owns the place. “Where is he?”

The figure behind the counter doesn’t answer.

Crowley tilts his head.

“…You can speak, can’t you?”

Nothing.

A flicker of annoyance. Then calculation.

He circles slightly, like a cat assessing a new piece of furniture that might secretly be a threat.

“You’re human,” he mutters under his breath. “Obviously.”

A beat.

“He wouldn’t,” Crowley says quietly to himself. “Would he?”

His gaze sharpens.

“You’re not robbing him, are you?” he asks suddenly, voice silkier now — dangerous in a subtle way. “Because I will have to object. Loudly.”

He taps a book absently on the counter. It doesn’t move by miracle. Just physics.

Crowley exhales through his nose.

“…Angel’s gone five minutes and the place starts hiring staff.”

He steps closer to the counter now, leaning one elbow on it casually — invading space without quite touching.

“So,” he says, voice lowering just slightly.

“Who exactly are you… and what have you done with Aziraphale?”

His yellow eyes glint behind the glasses.

The shop is very, very quiet.

And Crowley is watching you like he’s deciding whether this is mildly inconvenient—

—or a problem.