As always and without question, Crowley’s usual parking space awaits him as he races up to the bookshop. Aziraphale has been busy, it seems, during lockdown; a fresh coat of paint and some brightly coloured hanging baskets remind Crowley of just how fussy his angel can be. He would never admit to it making his heart skip a beat – he doesn’t need a heart anyway.
Ignoring the ‘Closed’ sign that hangs on the door and dispensing swiftly with the lock, Crowley steps inside the bookshop and allows himself a long, slow inhale. He’s missed this place. He’s missed the smell of the books, the sun streaming in through the window and warming the pages of whatever happens to be lying in its path. What he hasn’t missed, however, is Aziraphale’s idea of technology. I might be able to get used to your aesthetic, angel, but you won’t ever persuade me that this – Crowley stares pointedly at a hunk of white plastic that he supposes passes as a computer – is the way forward. The screen of the hulking machine glows:
