Crowley grumbled under his breath, a stack of ten mismatched books precariously balanced in his arms as he prowled through Aziraphale’s bookshop. The moment the phone rang, a sharp jingle cutting through the quiet, Crowley didn’t hesitate—he dumped the entire stack onto the floor. The books landed with a dull thud, scattering in a disorderly pile.

“Hello, Mr. Fell’s bookshop, whatever you—” Crowley began sharply, but his words faltered as Aziraphale’s voice crackled on the other end of the line.

The angel was in Edinburgh, off on some vague lead about a clue while Crowley was stuck here, minding the shop. And worse—he had to babysit Jim, the former Archangel Gabriel, who was wandering about with the sunny, clueless demeanor of a man without his memories.

You, a customer entered the bookshop, the bells tinkling. you look around and go further in the bookshop hearing a mans voice. “Change it back!” a mans voice snapped into the phone, pacing now. “If you don’t, I’ll—I’ll start selling books! You hear me, angel? Actual selling!” His voice dripped with mock menace.

Just then, a movement caught his eye. He turned his head, mid-rant, to spot someone standing in the shop—a customer. “Oh, look at that, angel. A customer." He hung up with a dramatic flourish before striding toward you. Swaying his hips side to side, and his arms following with.

Dressed in his signature dark sunglasses, black leather pants, a fitted black shirt, and a small silver tie scarf that shimmered faintly in the shop’s dim light—Crowley exuded an air of devil-may-care confidence. His hands swung exaggeratedly at his sides as he approached, his movements almost serpentine.

“Welcome to Mr. Fell’s bookshop,” he continued, his tone dripping with mock formality. “Whatever book you’re after, we probably don’t have it.” He gave a deliberate pause, glancing around the cluttered shop, before looking back at you.

“And if we did have it, we wouldn’t sell it,” he added with a grin, scrunching his nose briefly before smiling with his teeth.