I’ve been thinking about the opening hours for Azriaphale’s bookshop in good omens (apologies for the bad quality)
And if you look closely at the handwriting…then you’ll also notice it’s written with the same penmanship as this:
Both of these were written by Neil, which leads me to believe this:
The Bookshop Hours supposedly were written by Aziraphale, and the Holy Water note was written by Crowley. BUT, if these two have the same handwriting, then what if Aziraphale didn’t actually write his Opening Hours, but it was actually Crowley instead?? It’s a logical conclusion, I think.
But also think about it this way:
What if Aziraphale’s handwriting is actually super messy, and so when his shop opened, he very well may have written his opening hours, but when he showed Crowley, the demon couldn’t even read it. What if he just took the paper and said, “Angel, no one can read this, just–just give me the pen, I’ll write it for you.”
Conclusion: Aziraphale has messy handwriting and Crowley wrote his shop hours for him :)
“Okay angel, shoot.”
Aziraphale around, puzzled. “Shoot what?”
“Nothing. ’S a figure of— figure of whatsit. Just say what you want me to write. Dictate.”
“Oh. Righty-o.” Aziraphale picked up the bit of paper he’d originally written the sign on (though Crowley was going to have to take his word on that, as it looked more like one of the sheets of lines they made people write in Hell— after they’d put their hands on backwards) and began to read off it:
“I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am.”
Crowley looked up from the page. “Good to hear we’re being specific.”
Aziraphale shook his head. “I can’t think what you mean. As I was saying,” he continued reading, “while occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday–”
“Tuesday?”
“Hmm?” Aziraphale looked slightly annoyed at being interrupted mid-flow. “Yes?”
“Since when do you do anything different on Tuesdays? First I’ve heard of it.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale was suddenly very interested in the patch of wall directly over Crowley’s left shoulder. “Yes, well. Perhaps it was Thursdays, or Mondays… or maybe Good Fridays. Still, you’ve written it now. Might as well leave it as it is.”
Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Might as well.”
“I tend to close about 5:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading.”
Crowley looked up at the various heavy tomes around him, and snorted. Aziraphale ignored him.
“On days that I am not in–”
“Satan’s balls, Aziraphale! You mean there’s more?”
“I like to be precise, Crowley.”
“Precise!” Crowley looked down at what he’d written so far, then back over at Aziraphale, before deciding that in that direction lay only madness. “For Satan’s sake, angel!” he whined, picking a safer route. “You’re going to give me carpal tunnel at this rate!” (As it happened, both angelic and demonic corporations were immune to this particular problem, but Crowley didn’t see why that was worth bringing up now.)
“You were the one who didn’t want me to use the original sign.”
“I was the one who wanted to make it legible.”
“Shush!” Crowley shushed— largely out of indignation at being told to do so— and Aziraphale went on reading. “Ahem. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed.”
“Y'know, I think they might be able to work that one out for themselves.”
“On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours, unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays–”
“Wait, is this Wednesdays in general, or just the ones that happen to coincide with a bank holiday?”
“–Or sometimes Fridays. Oh, and in brackets please put ‘for Sundays, see Tuesdays’.”
Crowley did so, and then looked down at the thing he’d just written with the same expression he’d had the day he found out about the existence of coconut flavoured Quality Streets.
“C–can I borrow this?” he asked at last. “To take downstairs? I think it might be worth a commendation.”
“I think you must be confused, dear boy,” Aziraphale said firmly. “It’s my side that likes lists of rules and things. I always imagined your lot as preferring chaos.”
“Yeah, of course,” Crowley said, struggling to tear his eyes away from the page. “Because there’s nothing chaotic about that.”
Aziraphale seemed not to hear him. He was suddenly very busy rearranging the books on the shelf in front of him. Crowley watched for a while, then grew bored. “Angel.”
“Hm?”
“Is it an early closing day today?”
Aziraphale looked away from his shelf. “Why?”
Crowley smirked. “Because I’ve just written out possibly the most ridiculous and bloody-minded shop sign in the whole history of shop signage, and now I need a drink.”
Aziraphale very nearly managed to keep a straight face. “Well, yes.” His lips twitched. “I suppose that could be counted under the heading of ‘something needs tending to’.”
With a snap of his fingers, the sign on the shop door flipped to ‘closed’, and the two of them headed for the back room, bickering over what they were going to drink.
Outside, a small group of potential customers came up to the shop door and sighed when they saw that it was closed already.
“It’s always shut whenever I come here!” one moaned. “When does this place even open?”
“Youare! You’re thwarting me. We’re on our own side now. You don’t need to do that anymore.”
“Thwart! I’m not thwarting you! If I’m thwarting you, you’ll bloody well know it.”
“Are.”
“Are not.”
“Crowley.Lions do not eat peanuts! And there are signs,” Aziraphale gestured broadly, “posted all about forbidding people from feeding the animals.”
Crowleywas not pouting. “Well where’s the fun in that.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a fond look and cupped the demon’s face in his hands. “The poor demon. Are you lacking enrichment, dear? Do I not take you out enough, too busy with my studies?”
“Am a bit neglected.”
Aziraphale clucked his tongue. “Poor thing. Shall I make it up to you then?”
Crowley brightened. “You’ll let me feed the lions?”
“Of course not. I’ll let you feed an angel though.”
Crowley wrinkled his nose. “You want the peanuts?”
“No, Crowley,” Aziraphale said with exasperation. “But there’s a new café that opened up round the corner from the shop that I hear has a sinfully decadent cheesecake.”
“Sinful, you say?”
“Mmm. You can have an espresso and watch me eat it.”
“Right! Off we go then.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and the spot in front of the lion enclosure at the zoo was suddenly empty, peanuts scattered across the ground.
-
from prompt writing with @mamamichine. The prompt was the words “angel lion nuts,” and we had to take a good minute to snicker like fools before we started.
“What do you think the stakes are?” Newt asked, peering over the piles of books.
Anathema followed his gaze. “No idea, but it’s getting pretty intense,” she said, squinting.
Crowley and Aziraphale sat either side of a rickety old table, refusing to break eye contact. It was hard to tell if that was part of the game, or the sexual tension. They had insisted that they carry out their usual games night, regardless of Newt and Anathema’s surprise visit, because there was apparently a score to settle.
The rules of their game were utterly incomprehensible to an outsider. Three decks of cards sat on the table, split into seven piles of equal height and three of differing heights. There were coins on all the cards, and half a jenga tower dangerously close to the edge of the wobbly old table. Four upturned cups sat over the top of a selection of jelly beans from a multipack (three liquorice, one watermelon). Every now and then, the angel would move a card and smirk triumphantly, or the demon would move a cup and wink. The jenga tower trembled with every motion.
“Is it best of three tonight?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing the table. He was apparently nervous about the progress of their ineffable game.
“Oh, no. All or nothing, angel,” he replied smugly. “Winner takes it all.”
He huffed, taking a poker chip from his breast pocket and trading it for a coin. Crowley hummed appreciatively of the move, nodding.
“Your move,” said the angel.
Anathema wondered what they were betting. Her best idea was human souls, but where would they be getting them from? Her next idea was just money, plain and simple, but it seemed so banal. Newt was more worried about trying to figure out the game. Every time he thought he’d started to understand, they’d introduce another bizarre manoeuvre, or a whole new game piece. Half a chess set had been involved at one point, though he had no idea what had happened to it at this stage.
Crowley was doing his best not to laugh. He turned over one of the stacks of playing cards, flipping the coin which had been sat on top.
“Tails!” he cried triumphantly.
Aziraphale whined. “Oh, bugger,” he said.
Games night had been a favourite pastime of theirs since the fifteenth century. They only had one once every few hundred years, and it was usually one of the highlights of any given century. It worked best in the modern day, with plenty of eclectic games to stitch together, but the rules had always been the same:
Rule 1: At least two humans must be present to witness the “game”; preferably mutual friends.
Rule 2: The “game” must be played using as many different game pieces as possible.
Rule 3: Be as cryptic as possible. Play along with what the other is doing (remember, it doesn’t matter who appears to be winning).
Rule 4: Bets must be placed before the game starts on how the humans will react to their absolute nonsense (because yes, there is no game, no rules and no real point to any of their antics). Closest guess wins, loser has to buy the next bottle of wine.
(Unspoken Rule 5: If any human dares to directly ask about the rules of their game, they must immediately collaborate to build the most incomprehensibly complicated, pointless, stupid and irritating list of rules known to man.)
“Hmm.” Aziraphale scanned the Tube map. “Not the best start, but we’ll catch up, my dear, don’t worry. Right. Newton, your roll.”
Newt looked at Crowley nervously, but Crowley and Aziraphale were pointing their fingers at each other, fingertips an inch apart.
“Go on, roll!” Crowley snapped. Aziraphale was frowning.
“Three.”
“Yes! Aha!” Newt and Anathema’s ears popped as Aziraphale groaned, and something snapped in the air between them. “Okay. We’re going to start at Archway.”
“Not allowed,” Aziraphale instantly countered. “You can’t start on the Northern Line, don’t be completely absurd.”
“Fine. Blackhorse Road.”
“You have to start at a station with wheelchair access.”
“Then you have to start at one of the inaccessible ones.”
“No.”
“Fair’s fair, angel. If I have to abide by Heaven’s rules you have to abide by Hell’s.”
“Fine,” Aziraphale gritted out. “We’ll take Cockfosters.”
“I fucking bet you will,” said Crowley with a sleazy grin. “Right. We’ll take Tottenham Hale.”
“What are the rules of this again?” Anathema asked.
Crowley sighed theatrically. “We start out at two different Tube stations at noon. You can only start when the BBC’s pips are over.”
“But Crowley’s not allowed to go through any station that has the letters s and t together in them.”
“Street? Or Saint?”
“Saint,” Crowley said. “But back in 1979 Aziraphale argued that one station was named after ‘St. Anmore’ and so now it’s any station with an ‘st’. And he’s not allowed to go on the Central line-”
“Because it’s red. And Crowley obviously can’t go through Angel.”
“While if Aziraphale goes through Angel or any station named after a Saint whom he met, Aziraphale, he can send me to a station of his choosing as long as it’s in the same zone I started in.”
“Now, Crowley can go through Blackfriars, because of his commendation.”
Anathema was trying to keep notes. “Commendation?”
“For the Spanish Inquisition. Blackfriars are Dominicans, and the Dominicans ran the Inquisition.”
Anathema was looking at Crowley with fury. “You did the Spanish Inquisition?”
“No!” Crowley looked offended. “I just got a commendation for it. So, yeah, if I go through Blackfriars, I’m allowed to send Aziraphale to the final stop of my choosing.”
“If we’re both on the Piccadilly Line at the same time we have to go to Knightsbridge and duel. Whoever loses has to go to Heathrow, round the Terminals, and then come back. Oh, and Crowley can’t go through Temple, obviously. Ditto Bow Church, Westminster, and Whitechapel.”
“And Aziraphale isn’t allowed to get on or off a train which doesn’t have wheelchair access, unless it’s marked on the map with a red cross, and unless he has to start under Hell’s Rules when the starting station only is exempt.”
“Oh, and Crowley has advantage at any station to do with the monarchy or money, like Bank or East India, so if he gets off in one of those stations and I’m on the same line, he can send me to a station on a connecting line, as long as he puts me down in the same zone.”
“What about Montague’s 2nd revision, eh?” Newt was grinning. “And, er, green rules, in light of the general election? Pedestrian precincts count double and bus lanes are wild?”
Crowley stared at him. “… what the fuck are you on about?”
“Oh, come on,” Newt said. “It’s Mornington Crescent. From I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue. Radio 4? Pretending you have to get to Mornington Crescent first, wind up the American by making up stupid rules.”
The angel and the demon were silent for a long moment. “Our rules aren’t stupid,” Aziraphale said. His voice was soft with hurt.
“Oh, great! Great, we invite you to Games Day, and you hurt the angel’s feelings!” Crowley shouted. “The aim’s to get back to the bookshop, youmoron!”
“Don’t, my dear, it’s all right. I suppose… I suppose when you say them all at once like that it does all sound a bit silly.”
“No, no,” Newt said. “No, shit, no, sorry! I thought it was- There’s a game on Radio 4, I thought you were- No, I mean, we’d love to play. It’s really kind of you. Sorry, right, let me write down all the rules and then we’ll set off for the starting points…”
Aziraphale sniffed and reached for a biscuit. Crowley rubbed his back, glaring daggers at Newt as he and Anathema tried to find a pen between them. “Beautifully done,” he whispered.
“Something about ‘Bastille Day’… wait. Why’s this news report saying the Bastille was destroyed in 1789? I distinctly remember finding you there in 1793.”
“Ahem. How should I know? The reporter must have made a mistake.”
“…Wikipedia concurs. And Google.”
“I, ah. Well. I don’t know what to tell you. We were there.”
“We were. Or rather… you were.”
“You said you were in the area.”
“Yes,after I felt a wild outpouring of celestial anxiety comin’ from Paris, and got on the next ship.”
“And you rescued me, and I was very grateful. Now! Why don’t you try to break the sound barrier again on the next open stretch of road? Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“Aziraphale.”
“Fine! Fine. Theoretically… suppose a… person… wanted to see another person. A-and suppose that person— the first person, that is— suppose they knew the second person was very busy overseas… but they thought the second person might, er, drop by. If… if the first person needed help. If, say, they were being held in a famously brutal prison during a revolution. Er.”
“YoumiracledtheBastille back into existence?”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting it to be gone, was I? I improvised. Masonry miracles are a bit of a speciality of mine. Remember how often the wall in Eden needed repair?”
“Angel!”
“What? You’d been in bloody America for twenty years! Even the Marquis de Lafayette came back, and nothing whatsoever from you! Not even a letter!”
“American politics was finding its feet! They were holding the first cabinet meeting. I couldn’t miss it!”
“Well excuse me for existing I’m sure. …You can’t tell me you didn’t find it satisfying, though. Swooping in to free the angel who’d been unfairly shackled by some horrid human.”
“Yeah, I remember the shackles… and the frills.”
“We hadn’t seen each other in years. I thought the occasion deserved a bit of pomp and circumstance.”
“Aziraphale… was that meant to be a date?”
“I might have expected… but never mind, you weren’t to know. You were a perfect gentleman. Brought me to lunch. Walked me down to the harbour. Got me on the next ship to England.”
“You said you wanted to leave.”
“Isaid I wanted to go somewhere else. I meant my lodgings!”
“Oh.”
“Crowley. You are a genuinely kind person… don’t look at me like that, you are. You are talented and imaginative and solicitous. You are a warm and wonderful friend. If you have a fault, it’s that you never did learn to take a hint.”
“I… uh. Angel?”
“Yes?”
“Am I… am I two hundred and thirty years too late, here?”
The car rested on the grassy shoulder of the road, engine ticking peacefully. In the passenger seat, Aziraphale smiled the smile he’d worn when he heard the demon appear in his (entirely manufactured) cell, all those years ago. “Crowley,” he said.
Crowley took his face in his hands and kissed him.
Minutes passed.
“You know…”
“Hmm?”
“I could re-manifest those frills.”
“Think you could manage another masonry miracle?”
“Of course. And. Ahem. What about the chains?”
“Better have ‘em. Pomp and circumstance, like y’said.”
“Ohyes. Will you be stopping time again?”
“Something better. Gonna make the earth move for you.”
One of my favorite things, when fic takes a blooper in canon and turns it into an essential part of the narrative.
