#that winter shopping scene came to me in a vision after reading your likes section

[archive-of-the-lost]

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫 @i-am-so-strange

Your ideal match is…Michael Kaiser!

♡ This may be a surprising match for you, and honestly, it is for me too! I'm not sure what kind of SO I expected for him, perhaps someone with his dramatic flair and/or ambition. But after reading your info, I didn't have anyone else in mind for you, so here he is!

♡ Kaiser is undoubtedly the snobbiest guy in blue lock, and that's saying a lot, so you both didn't get along at first. Enemies to lovers all the way (again, my first matchup based on this concept!). I'm thinking the first time you both got along was when he made a comment on someone you both found annoying, and you couldn't help but agree, spending the new few minutes gossiping about that person with him until you remember your goal to think more positively about people.

♡ "Film school dropout and a frustrated writer lol". This is the line that put him in my mind and no one else could wedge themself in. Kaiser obviously has a connection to theatre/the arts given the professions of his parents, and he did have a period where he incorporated stage roles into his shit-talk. 💀 My point is, I think he would have a genuine interest in film and writing as a hobby. So he'd want to know more about this side of you, what parts of media/the arts that you like. Even why it didn't work out, if you'd tell him.

♡ Once he finds out that you play the piano and the guitar, he seems to make it his personal mission to get you to play for him. He pesters you every day about it, begging urging you to play him a song. When you finally do, he just stares at you the entire time, transfixed.

♡ One time he accompanied you shopping, offering to pay for anything that wasn't food in an attempt to court you rather than show off his wealth. You seem to be the type to insist paying for yourself, being independent and all, but he was persistent in offering to buy you that gorgeous but expensive coat you were eyeing. For Christmas. Did I mention it was snowing? He was lagging behind you for a bit when you stopped to look through a window of an antique shop. What a memorising sight it was, he just had to take a picture. Yes, his tiny smile was quite cute from the corner of your eyes.

♡ Throughout the first few months of dating, I can imagine the both of you sort of dancing around each other, too afraid to come off as "too much" or too vulnerable. You're both independent and not great at showing how much you care about someone, which leads to a honeymoon period probably more anxiety-ridden than it should be. He definitely did his research on traditional romance and brought you roses, chocolates and a fluffy stuffed bear. Very cute, but it took him a while before starting to get you more personalised gifts.

♡ Once the both of you become more comfortable with each other, the relationship starts sailing more smoothly. The two of you can joke with each other without worrying about the other person not finding it funny, playfully swat at each other, tease each other. Kaiser isn't the type to laugh at little things much, but when he sees you laughing, he can't help but laugh as well. That's the chemistry of love.

♡ Your ability to stand up for yourself is good for your relationship with him in the long run. There are times when he makes mistakes or even pushes boundaries, so you being able to tell him when you're unhappy (in a healthy communicative way) with something he did is vital to the long-term success of the relationship. He needs to know what's healthy in a relationship, what he can and cannot get away with.

Your sibling is…Barou Shoei!

♡ Your mentions of cleaning and dislike of disorganisation reminded me of him LMAO Okay, but seriously, you both sound like a great match! For living in the same house, that is! He'd appreciate those qualities of yours as he also loves cleanliness. It also means you're scolded by him the least out of his three sisters, haha. Though it helps that you're older than your sisters. You're more mindful of cleanliness.

♡ Is cleaning a hobby? Barou certainly thinks so. He often gets you to clean with him, not because he wants to give you work to do, but because he finds the activity enjoyable and sees it as a way to bond with you. He stated his ideal type as someone who can clean with him, which gives us some insight into his preferred way of spending quality time with loves ones: doing chores together.

♡ You're an INTJ, he's an XSTJ (not sure if he's I or E yet), so the both of you are quite similar in that way. Independent, organised. Even down to the being bad at expressing that you care for people part. But! While you're a "looks like could kill you but is actually a cinnamon roll" type, he's a "looks like could kill you, will kill you" type all the way through. Yes, he does care for his family, but you're never gonna catch him doing anything sappy without looking constipated.

♡ Barou also looks down on everyone, not just certain people. He thinks his strength is his egoistical mindset, so you know he's even proud of it. 💀 Hey, maybe you learned it from him. But Barou isn't above respecting someone (kinda?) after they beat him in soccer, so he's also working on his tendency of looking down on others. Somewhat. In his own way. You guys can work on it together!

♡ Woah, the both of you are blunt and straightforward. I imagine that causes the both of you to butt heads when you disagree, because you mentioned you know how to stand up for yourself, so you're not the type to agree with him just to keep the peace.

♡ Barou mentioned that he hasn't cried since the day he was born, and by the looks of it, he hasn't laughed since he learned to walk either. When you have friends over and you're laughing with them, he gives you a weird look like having fun is a crime or something. He doesn't say anything though. At least you have friends, tell him that.

♡ I don't normally pay attention to appearance when doing sibling matchups (because a lot of bllk characters have natural colourful hair and eyes) but you and Barou totally look like siblings! Your tendency to wear corporate clothing suits the serious aura Barou always has around him. In general, INTJs seem to have rbfs or at least look serious/done with everything so I'm going to assume the both of you have this unapproachable aura. People can usually guess that you're siblings. You having dyed hair is making me wonder what your reaction was to Barou's new red stripes to celebrate his 100 million yen value.

[luckyspike]

Definitely Not a Wizard - A Good Omens Fanfic (or: Crowley breaks several rules of Aziraphale’s bookshop)

Me at 9pm: I’m just gonna write a quick fanfic just to get some of this energy out.

Spongebob title card: Several hours later.......

Anyway look it’s more fic with Crowley and kids because I’m a predictable sap that likes children interacting with eldritch horrors.

--

In the days following the Nahpocalypse, and indeed, the years, Crowley and Aziraphale settled into a routine. They moved out of the city, and set a primary base of operations up in the countryside. Retirement, Aziraphale had initially thought, was appealing. Oh, he’d keep the bookshop open one or two days a week, he had said to Crowley, as the demon drove the Bentley to the chalky cliffs of South Downs, just initially, until he settled in, but probably after a year or so he’d be ready to let it go.

Crowley had nodded and said nothing. He was no Agnes Nutter, but he had known Aziraphale for 6000 years, and he was fairly certain ‘letting it go’ was not anywhere on the agenda in the future.

He was right. Four months in, when the winter was harsh and the weather was hideous, Aziraphale found Crowley in the greenhouse, lounged back in an overly-ornate garden chair, fingers steepled, glaring at the plants lined up before him. An iced coffee rested on the arm of the chair beside him, condensation running down the outside of the cup in the pleasantly warm humidity of the greenhouse. The plants, trembling, steadied somewhat when the angel came in, brushing his hands absently through their leaves while Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“What is the point,” he said, gesturing to the row of comforted plants, “of menacing them if you’re just going to come through and tell them it’ll all be alright? I’ve been working on that aptenia for weeks! I nearly had it!”

“Ah, well, I’ll bring it comfort in its brief life, I suppose. Say, Crowley,” the angel pulled up a chair beside the demon, who was watching carefully as the aptenia stilled for a moment, and then resumed trembling, perhaps more than before. “May I impose on you?”

Crowley paused. “Depends,” he replied, eventually. “Can’t say I’m really in the mood at the moment, angel.”

Aziraphale waved his hands and laughed a little. “No, no, not that, you incorrigible old snake. No, I’m wondering if you might be available to … well, I’m thinking of opening the bookshop a bit more. You know. Just … obviously not selling anything.”

“You’re bored,” Crowley observed, languid and smug, reclining even more aggressively in his chair and taking a leisurely sip of iced coffee. “You’re bored and you need me to drive you to London so you can open the bookshop more and -”

“Yes, that’s what I just said,” the angel answered, peevish. 

“Are you lonely? Not enjoying my company enough?” There was no offense in it, no meanness. He prodded Aziraphale in the side. “Not as fun to intimidate me, eh? Just don’t give the same thrill of customers.”

Aziraphale glared. “Do you want to drive me to London three days a week or not?”

Crowley sipped his drink again and let his head fall back, feet propped up on a potting table. His eyes closed, although he never stopped smirking. “‘Course. Been waiting for you to ask for the last two months.”

“You don’t have to be so self-satisfied about it,” Aziraphale said with a frown, settling back in his own chair with his arms crossed. “Smug.”

“Don’t I? It’s sort of my scene, angel.”

“Hmph.” Aziraphale didn’t argue. Rather, he looked to the demon, dozing to his left, and then to the rows of plants in the greenhouse. And then he smiled, broad and honest and full of mischief. “You know,” he said, suddenly raising his voice to a near-shout, “he really quite likes all of you!” Crowley’s eyes snapped open. “I see the way he looks at you all sometimes! He’ll never say it, but he does like you, all of you, in his own way!”

“Angel!”

Aziraphale rose, and primly brushed the non-existent lint from the front of his waistcoat and pants. He turned to Crowley and smiled with divine beneficence. “I must protect and comfort. It’s my scene.” He started to walk away, back to the cottage, stroking the plants on the opposite side of the row, this time. They leaned toward his touch. “Would you mind tomorrow, by the way?”

“I might,” Crowley muttered.

“Excellent. I’d like to open the store at nine, if you wouldn’t mind.” The doors closed behind him, and Crowley crossed his legs as he glared after the angel, arms crossed over his chest. 

“If you don’t mind,” he repeated, mocking. “He’s lucky I like him.” He raised his voice, and glared over the greenhouse full of plants. “Unlike you lot!” With a grunt, he hoisted himself to his feet and began stalking through the rows of plants. “Surprise inspection! I’d better not see a single blemish, you miserable heaps of pre-compost!”

Miraculously, he didn’t. Not even a single droopy leaf. Even the aptenia. In the cottage, Aziraphale smiled and turned his page.

It did start as a chauffer arrangement*. Three days each week, Crowley drove Aziraphale into Soho and dropped him off at the bookshop. Sometimes he would come in and spend the day, sometimes he would leave and ramble around London. On occasion he would go on a day trip elsewhere, usually Tadfield. In the spring, he enrolled** in a university physics course. He did homework. It was interesting, and a nice way to spend the time besides, now that he was more-or-less retired.

Well, mostly retired. He did tempt his classmates to procrastination and cheating at times, because old habits die hard, and they were university students anyway so they hardly needed a full temptation. Just a gentle push, really. Also, Aziraphale noted somewhat astutely one night over wine, if everyone procrastinated studying then the average grade for the test would be a bit lower, possibly resulting in a generous curve, which Crowley invariably benefitted from. Crowley, mid-way through an equation, glared at him for the remark, but didn’t dispute it.

“Oh, I need a favor,” Aziraphale said after a minute, and more fevered scratching from Crowley as the worked at the equation more. The demon glanced up.

“Aziraphale, if you’re going to open the shop four days each week, we might as well move back to London.”

“Oh? Oh! No, no that wasn’t what I was thinking of.” 

“Oh.” Crowley propped his chin in his hand and tapped the pencilpoint on the paper. It was a wonder he didn’t have smoke coming out of his ears, Aziraphale reflected, the way he was looking at the paper. 

Well, Aziraphale had said math might be wise to take first, before physics. No one to blame but himself, really.

“I have an appointment tomorrow,” Aziraphale said, continuing when Crowley hummed in distracted acknowledgement. “I’m meeting a woman about a first-run printing of Harry Potter. With the shop only being opened a few days per week, I’d hate to close it down for a few hours in the middle of one of the days for the meeting.”

“Why? Planning on selling something?”

“No, but people do like to browse.” He leaned forward and to the side slightly, so he would poke into Crowley’s field of vision. “Would you mind watching the shop for me for a few hours while I have my meeting?”

“Huh?” Crowley looked up, and then visibly re-wound the last minute of conversation in his mind. “Since when do you buy fantasy?”

“It’s a cultural phenomenon, Crowley.” Aziraphale waved a hand. “And that’s irrelevant, besides. Would you be able to watch the shop? Please?”

Pursed lips as the demon considered the request. More idle pencil-tapping. The point snapped off, and Crowley didn’t seem to notice. “Just … just make sure nobody messes up the books, right?”

“Yes. And don’t sell anything.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows arched as he allowed himself a hopeful smile. “Please?”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, I can do that. Fine.”

During the commute in to London the next day, Aziraphale distracted himself from the no-less-than-twelve near-discorporations by quizzing Crowley on Bookshop Management Principles. “Are children allowed?”

“Only if accompanied by parents,” Crowley recited, monotone. “And they cannot touch anything earlier than a fourth edition, or the books in the children’s section.”

Aziraphale smiled. “And what if someone wants to buy a book?”

“Encourage-them-to-leave-but-please-don’t-terrify-them,” Crowley replied, mechanically. “How long is this appointment? An hour? It’s not like your shop has just huge amounts of foot traffic, Aziraphale.” He looked to Aziraphale and read the expression on the angel’s face. “Two hours?”

“Probably closer to three. I expect there will be bartering.”

“Hm.” The Bentley rumbled on. “I’ll still manage just fine.”

“I’m sure you will, dear.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s arm, and there wasn’t a trace of irony in his smile. “I have no doubts.”

Crowley did leave for a few hours after dropping Aziraphale off - likely to hunt down a decent cup of coffee and spread a few wiles around, which would be typical - but he did return ten minutes before Aziraphale planned to leave for his meeting, coffee in hand. Aziraphale smiled, and looked him up and down, hands clasped in front of him as he appraised the demon before he left.

He looked nothing at all like a shopkeeper. But he looked everything in the world like Crowley, which was, in Aziraphale’s opinion, much better. He laid his hands on Crowley’s shoulders for a second, smiled, and then turned to grab his briefcase. “Remember, keep an eye on teenagers, and don’t let anybody fold the pages or bend the spines, and don’t sell anything.” This last was said in unison with Crowley, who tried to look annoyed but mostly just looked amused. 

“I can handle it, angel. I incited original sin, I think I can manage a shop for three hours.”

“That’s … not reassuring.”

Crowley pushed Aziraphale - gently - toward the door, giving him an extra nudge between the shoulderblades at the threshold. “Have fun getting your letter to Hogwarts, see you in a while.”

“It’s a first edition Harry Potter book, not -”

“Goodbye, Aziraphale.” The bell over the door tinkled as the door closed. On the other side of the glass, Aziraphale was glaring at him. Crowley waved and, with a sigh, the angel turned and started off down the sidewalk to his meeting. Crowley watched until he faded out of sight and into the throngs of people on the London sidewalks, and then turned to the shop, empty at the moment, hands in his pockets. “Right.” Aziraphale always kept a chair by the window next to the perpetually-unused register, and Crowley dropped into it, appreciating the sunbeam coming through the window and the warmth it provided. He closed his eyes, and briefly considered Going Snake just to enjoy the sunbeam all the more, before his withered and blackened but surprisingly-resilient sense of duty chimed in with the opinion that Aziraphale definitely would not approve of either napping on the job or watching the store in the form of a ten-foot-long viper. And certainly not both at once. He would probably even be cross.

Crowley opted to play a game on his phone instead. 

It was a full 45 minutes into his shift before a customer entered. She was college-age, dark hair and eyes, vaguely reminiscent of someone he’d known in Mesopotamia. Maybe an ancestor, he considered. Probably not, though. That was a long time ago. She looked around the shop, obviously at a loss as to where to begin, before she caught sight of Crowley in his chair. She straightened a bit more, and he sat up slightly, under the pretense of politeness. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi.”

“Do you … have any Ursula Le Guin?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “No idea.” There, that ought to put her off browsing around. She cocked her head. “Just watching the shop for the afternoon, sorry. Not really clear on all the inventory.”

“Oh.” She looked to the shop, and her shoulders relaxed a little as she looked across the stacks of books, the shelves with their haphazard organization. “Is it OK if I look around?”

“Yeah.” Crowley pulled his phone back out and propped his feet up on the table with the register on it. “Of course. Let me know if you need help.” The look she gave him indicated she rather doubted there would be anything he could help her with, and she wandered off into the shelves. Crowley settled back in. Suited him fine. He returned to his game, although he kept one ear on the woman, and would glance up from his game on occasion, just to make sure she wasn’t up to anything, like stealing or worse, trying to buy something. 

She had been in the shop for about fifteen minutes when another customer entered. Crowley almost groaned. Unreal.

At least this one seemed more than passingly familiar with the bookshop. She paused at the threshold and nodded to Crowley, trying not to make a show of looking around the store. “Mr. Fell not in today?”

“He’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Crowley answered, counting down the minutes in his brain. “Had a meeting.”

“Are you a … friend of his? Watching the store for him?” She watched Crowley nod in agreement. “Ah. Er, I’ve been coming in on my lunch for the past few days to read a book.” She glanced to the other woman in the shop, and then took a step closer to Crowley, lowering her voice. “Mr. Fell said it was alright, only I couldn’t afford to actually buy the book.”

“Yeah, some are quite valuable.” Crowley became conscious of the tone of his voice, the sprawl of his knees, and wrenched the temptation knob down to a respectable 5 out of 10***. He looked back to his phone. “If he was alright with you reading over lunch I’m not going to stop you. Just don’t, you know, fold anything or anything.”

She stood back a little, visibly disappointed. “Great,” she said, though her voice was a little flat. “I’ll be careful. Thanks.” The book in question was set to a table to the side, which had no labels but was piled high with books rife with bookmarks, and she took it from the pile before walking softly back through the shop to the little sitting area by the wall opposite the register. Crowley forced a smile when she looked to him, before she opened the book and settled in to read.

Eventually, the first customer of his inaugural shift at A. Z. Fell & Co. left, looking disappointed. He smiled and waved at her as she went. The second customer also left, about forty-five minutes after coming in. She paused at the table after she set her book back down, obviously considered saying something to Crowley, and then thought better of it, leaving with a subdued smile and a little wave, which he returned with rather more enthusiasm than necessary.

Two confused customers in as many hours, he thought. Not too bad. With a little more hostility he might even be able to make them disgruntled. Maybe there was something to this bookshop thing. He continued with his game, and considered it further. One hour to go, he thought, and he started tapping his foot to the game’s music out of sheer infernal cheer.

Two-and-a-half hours into his shift, the bell above the door tinkled again. Crowley looked up, and then down. Faintly, an alarm bell sounded in the back of his brain.

An unattended child.

Oh, sure, they’d established that unattended children weren’t allowed, but Crowley was rapidly realizing that Aziraphale had not told him what to do in such a circumstance. The kid was looking at him, though, all wide green eyes and a messy red hair piled into an attempt at a ponytail. “Hi,” she said quietly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you lost?”

The girl stepped back, toward the door, and then glanced into the street outside. “No,” she answered. “Um, my … my dad is out there talking to a friend, just there, and he said I could come in and look around.” Crowley thought about that. Well, she was just looking. Right? No harm in curiosity, he thought, without a trace of irony. Besides, she was probably … ten? Eleven? Thirteen? Somewhere in there. Crowley had never been good at guessing human ages, and he hadn’t gotten better with time. The girl looked worried. “That’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Crowley made a decision, and secretly hoped that Aziraphale would not mind or, even better, would never find out about it at all. “Yeah, s’fine. Just, ah, be careful with the books. They’re all … very old.” He looked to the children’s section. “Oh, except those back there. You can look at those.”

She looked to the indicated section, and then turned back to him, obviously slightly offended. “Those are for kids.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Which is why I pointed them out.” He paused. “You are a kid, aren’t you?”

Scratch slightly offended, now she was clearly offended. “Yes I’m a kid. But I don’t like to read kid’s books.” She looked around. “What’s the oldest book here?”

Crowley shrugged. “Dunno. Not my shop. I just work here.”

She frowned. After a beat, she turned away, and started to wander the shelves, looking but not touching, studying the dusty spines and the gilded titles. Crowley watched her for a minute, and then settled back into his chair, even going so far as to pull his phone out as if to play his game, but he never started it. As inconspicuously as possible, which was very inconspicuous indeed for a 6000-year-old demon, he watched her. She would pause, now and then, in front of a book. He could see her hand twitch at her side, or clutch at her paisley skirt, but then she would think better of it, and move along the shelves, never touching anything, only looking.

Five minutes in, he asked, “So what kind of books do you read, if not kid’s books?” She looked at him over her shoulder. 

“I like … books about history,” she settled on. “And. Well, and some kids books. If they’re good. If they have like, good magic in them and stuff.”

Ah, magic. Crowley squashed down the urge to nod. That was alright then. He was beginning to wonder if she was truly a human child, and not some kind of supernatural being that looked twelve-years-old but didn’t read kids’ books and had self-control more impressive than some adults. But no, magic was alright. Human kids loved magic. 

“I like Lord of the Rings,” she went on, continuing her perusal of the shelves. “My dad always says he thinks it’s too complicated for me, but I read it anyway.”

“No harm in it,” Crowley agreed. He’d tried to read The Hobbit once, years ago, but he’d gotten bored ten pages in and promptly stuffed it into a shelf at Aziraphale’s shop, never to pick it up again. “Did you read all of them?”

She nodded, and this time when she looked at him, her eyes were a little brighter, a little less wary. “Nearly,” she said, eagerly. “I’m on the last one - The Return of the King. Did you read it?”

“Nah. Just saw the films.” Her face fell. “They were good films, though,” he added, somewhat unconsciously. “Er.”

She serpentined down an aisle, looking the books up and down, her hands alternatively playing with her hair, or picking at her skirt. “I don’t know what to read next,” she said, unprompted, right as Crowley decided she was probably alright, and anyway this level wasn’t going to beat itself.

“Huh?”

“After I finish the book, I mean.” She sighed, the troubled sigh of a pre-teen facing a significant personal crisis. “Mum says I should just re-read them, really savor the parts I liked best the first time around and maybe find even better ones the second go-round. But I want to read something new. I don’t feel like re-reading them right now.”

“Ah.” 

She looked to him. “I was going to ask you for recommendations, since you work in a bookshop, but you haven’t read them.” She shrugged. “My maths teacher might know a good book for next. He gave me The Hobbit in the first place.”

“Maybe.” Crowley stared at his phone for a minute, and then, in a fit of benevolence that made him feel slightly nauseous, he got up, and crossed the shop toward the girl, hands in his pockets, studying the shelves she was in front of as he drew even with her. She watched him, carefully. “You like magic, you said? Good magic?”

“Not like stage stuff,” she clarified quickly, in case he had any designs of pulling a quarter from behind her ear or a length of scarves from his jacket. She did not know how near of a miss she had had in that department. “Like real magic.”

“Right, obviously.” He traced along a shelf of books, which were not organized by any recognizable system at all, and then stopped. He considered the book in front of his hand, apparently - A Brief History of the Sonnet, First Edition - and the girl looked dubious, before he reached between books, and pulled out another one, which had not, prior to that moment, looked like it could have existed. The girl blinked.

“Did you just - ?”

“Stage stuff,” he said, dismissively. “Old trick. Anyway, here. You might like this one.” She looked down to the cover, orange and battered, with a garishly-rendered suitcase on the front. With legs. And teeth. She raised her eyebrows. “It’s got real good, proper magic in it. And it’s funny.” She looked to him, and he shrugged. “I like funny ones.”

“Right.” She turned the book over, slowly, and then looked back to him, suspicious. “It doesn’t have a price tag. Where did you get this from, anyway?”

Crowley beamed. “A magician never tells his secrets, didn’t you know?” She gave him a look that suggested of course she did, and to stop being ridiculous. “Must have been an oversight, missing the tag. I think it was …” he licked his lips, under the guise of thinking, considered the strength of the metal smells coming from her backpack, and said, “Two pounds.”

“I don’t know if I have that.” Nevertheless, she carried the book up to the register, and plopped her bag down on the table to rummage through. “I’ve got ... “ she studied the handful of coins, and then looked to Crowley again, although this time there was an accusatory undertone to her look of amazement. “Exactly two pounds.”

“Lucky coincidence, then.” His watch clicked - three hours - and he glanced to the door. “You buying it or not?”

“Are you a wizard?”

“No.”

“Only you’re wearing all black, so if you are a wizard, you’re an evil wizard.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not a nazgul, are you?”

“I have no idea what that is,” said Crowley, completely honestly. “So I’d imagine not. Listen, you want the book or not? I bet you’ll like it.”

She looked from him - a hint of a glare, which was novel - to the book, and back to him. And then she laid the coins on the table. “Okay. But if I don’t like it, Mum always says I should ask for a refund.”

“You won’t get one here.” He pointed to the ‘Returns welcome,’ sign, and then miracled it to say ‘No refunds, no returns,’ hastily, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

“Wait that sign -”

Crowley didn’t hiss. He didn’t growl or do anything menacing. He’d already broken two rules of Aziraphale’s bookshop, and he’d be blessed if he’d break any more. Instead, he looked to the street, where the girl’s father apparently suddenly realized his daughter had been missing for the last twenty minutes, and looked into the shop, wide-eyed and bewildered, before he caught sight of her through the glass doors and waved.

“Oh, would you look at that! Looks like your dad’s looking for you, well, so sorry to see you go, but hope you enjoy the book -”

“You are a wizard!” the girl said, a broad grin spreading across her face, even as Crowley placed his hands firmly on her shoulders and started pushing her toward the door. “That’s not stage magic, I know it can’t be -”

“Not a wizard!” he interjected with forced cheerfulness. “Don’t tell anyone that! Definitely not a wizard! Goodbye!”

“Dad, this guy’s a wizard!” she said, pointing to Crowley, before he pointedly shut the door behind her. The girl’s father looked to her, and then to Crowley, through the glass of the door, and then smiled a tired smile, offering up a shrug as if to say, Kids, right? Crowley nodded, and then turned on his heel, heading straight back to his chair and his blessed game and the quiet bookshop where there were no children or customers and certainly no wizards.

He’d have to look up nazgul or whatever later.

When the bell tinkled again - again - five minutes later, Crowley did groan in exasperation, a little, but he bit it off before it hopefully became too noticeable. He looked up and Aziraphale, briefcase in hand, met his eyes. He looked, confused, from Crowley, to the change on the table, and back to Crowley.

“What did you do?”

Crowley stammered for a second and then managed, “Nothing.”

“You sold a book,” Aziraphale said, in a low voice. He looked back to the change. “You sold a book for two pounds.”

“I didn’t.”

“You sold a book to a …” he closed his eyes, and Crowley winced. He could feel the angel’s energy stretching out, feeling the space, reading the recent past as easily as Crowley might read a gossip magazine in the coffee shop checkout. Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open. “You sold a book to an unattended child!” He dropped the briefcase, the better to put his hands over his face. “Oh, Crowley.”

The demon sank into the chair a little. “Wasn’t one of yours,” he muttered, defensive.

“You’re going to tell me next the child saw you conjure a book out of nowhere?”

“No,” Crowley said, and it wasn’t a lie. He honestly had no intention of telling Aziraphale anything of the sort. “No, just, ah, said I’d nip around the back and get it. I got it from … somewhere else. Another shop.” He paused a minute, and considered that. “It was stealing. Very demonic.”

Aziraphale was looking at him with weariness, and possibly frustration, but that seemed to be softening to amusement more and more by the minute. “But it definitely wasn’t one of mine, was it?”

“Definitely not,” Crowley confirmed. “So really, I only broke one rule. And I did get two other customers to leave without buying anything, so overall a net win for my first day, don’t you think?” Aziraphale didn’t roll his eyes - not quite - but he did smile. “You get your book?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “It has a coffee stain in the middle of the fourth chapter. It’s going to take time to get it out. No miracles,” he said quickly, when Crowley opened his mouth. The demon’s mouth clicked back shut. “And would you believe the woman didn’t want to come down on the price at all, even with that? I spent the better part of the time negotiating with her over the value of a coffee stain on a book versus the value of the cup of coffee itself.” He sighed. “Honestly.”

Crowley nodded sympathetically. “The absolute gall.” He stood, made a show of stretching, and asked, “Since you’re back and all, I have a little errand of my own I need to run. Mind if I step out?”

Aziraphale frowned, and then nodded. “Of course not. Thank you,” he went on, his face softening into a smile, “for watching the shop, Crowley. Even if you did sell something.” He glanced behind him. “And … and changed the sign. What did you do?” He blinked when Crowley kissed the bridge of his nose, and then watched as the taller of them walked out the door with his typical swagger, without another word. He watched him go, smiling all the while, and then turned back to the change on the table. “You’re ridiculous,” he sighed to himself, in the bookshop, his smile never fading, before he swept the change into a donations tin by the register, and set about his new book.

Two blocks away, Crowley ducked into one of the chain bookshops, glancing furtively around before he did, in case Aziraphale had tailed him. With no puffy, wonderful, probably extremely judgy angel in sight, he slid through the door, and made a beeline for the sci-fi/fantasy section, careful not to make eye contact with anyone on his way through the store. 

His personal collection was down by a book. He needed a replacement. He found it, there on the shelf, with the rest of the series, and picked it out, thumbing through the pages and not smiling when a favorite passage caught his eye. Definitely not smiling. He closed the book - probably time for a re-read, he thought - and turned to the door (certainly not the register - he might be going a little soft in his retirement, but not that soft), but he paused. Just a minute, he thought, and he wove through a few more shelves, pausing in front of a rather impressive display of The Lord of the Rings and all associated paraphernalia. He frowned. And then, under his breath and inaudible to anybody else within earshot, he said, “Oh, why not. Isn’t as if I don’t have time,” before he grabbed The Fellowship of the Ring off the shelf, and slithered out.

-

* No capital ‘A’ required.

** Meaning he showed up and nobody questioned his presence there.

*** He generally rested at a natural 9, but was capable of levels between 12 and 15 when pressed.

[celinamarniss]

Mara Jade meets Winter Retrac

The full scene from The Last Command novel: 

Behind the medic the door slid open, and a tall woman with pure white hair glided into the room. “Hello, Mara,” she said, smiling gravely. “My name is Winter, personal aide to Princess Leia Organa Solo. I’m glad to see you on your feet again.”

“I’m glad to be there,” Mara said, trying to keep her voice polite. Someone else associated with Skywalker. Just what she needed. “I take it you’re my guide?”

“Your guide, your assistant, and anything else you need for the next few days,” Winter said. “Princess Leia asked me to look after you until she and Captain Solo return from Filve.”

“I don’t need an assistant, and I don’t need looking after,” Mara said. “All I really need is a ship.”

“I’ve already started working on that,” Winter said. “I’m hoping we’ll be able to find something for you soon. In the meantime, may I show you to your suite?”

Mara hid a grimace. The usurpers of the New Republic, graciously offering her hospitality in what had once been her own home. “That’s very kind of you,” she said, trying not to sound sarcastic. “You coming, Ghent?”

“You go on ahead,” Ghent said absently, gazing at the computer display. “I want to sit on this run for a while.”

“He’ll be all right here,” Winter assured her. “This way, please.”

They left the anteroom, and Winter led the way toward the rear of the Palace. “Ghent has a suite right next to yours,” Winter commented as they walked, “but I don’t think he’s been there more than twice in the past month. He set up temporary shop out there in the recovery anteroom where he could keep an eye on you.”

Mara had to smile at that. Ghent, who spent roughly 90 percent of his waking hours oblivious to the outside world, was not exactly what she would go looking for in either a nurse or a bodyguard. But it was the thought that counted. “I appreciate you people taking care of me,” she told Winter.

“It’s the least we could do to thank you for coming to our assistance at the Katana battle.”

“It was Karrde’s idea,” Mara said shortly. “Thank him, not me.”

“We did,” Winter said. “But you risked your life, too, on our behalf. We won’t forget that.”

Mara threw a sideways look at the white-haired woman. She had read the Emperor’s files on the Rebellion’s leaders, including Leia Organa, and the name Winter wasn’t ringing any bells at all. “How long have you been with Organa Solo?” she asked.

“I grew up with her in the royal court of Alderaan,” Winter said, a bittersweet smile touching her lips. “We were friends in childhood, and when she began her first steps into galactic politics, her father assigned me to be her aide. I’ve been with her ever since.”

“I don’t recall hearing about you during the height of the Rebellion,” Mara probed gently.

“I spent most of the war moving from planet to planet working with Supply and Procurement,” Winter told her. “If my colleagues could get me into a warehouse or depot on some pretext, I could draw a map for them of where the items were that they wanted. It made the subsequent raids quicker and safer.”

Mara nodded as understanding came. “So you were the one called Targeter. The one with the perfect memory.”

Winter’s forehead creased slightly. “Yes, that was one of my code names,” she said. “I had many others over the years.”

“I see,” Mara said. She could remember a fair number of references in pre-Yavin Intelligence reports to the mysterious Rebel named Targeter, much of the politely heated discussion centering around his or her possible identity. She wondered if the data-pushers had ever even gotten close.

They’d reached the set of turbolifts at the rear of the Imperial Palace now, one of the major renovations the Emperor had made in the deliberately antiquated design of the building when he’d taken it over. The turbolifts saved a lot of walking up and down the sweeping staircases in the more public parts of the building … as well as masking certain other improvements the Emperor had made in the Palace. “So what’s the problem with getting me a ship?” Mara asked as Winter tapped the call plate.

“The problem is the Empire,” Winter said. “They’ve launched a massive attack against us, and it’s tied up basically everything we have available, from light freighter on up.”

Mara frowned. Massive attacks against superior forces didn’t sound like Grand Admiral Thrawn at all. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s bad enough,” Winter said. “I don’t know if you knew it, but they beat us to the Katana fleet. They’d already moved nearly a hundred and eighty of the Dreadnaughts by the time we arrived. Combined with their new bottomless source of crewers and soldiers, the balance of power has been badly shifted.”

Mara nodded, a sour taste in her mouth. Put that way, it did sound like Thrawn. “Which means I nearly got myself killed for nothing.”

Winter smiled tightly. “If it helps, so did a lot of other people.”

The turbolift car arrived. They stepped inside, and Winter keyed for the Palace’s residential areas. “Ghent mentioned that the Empire was making trouble,” Mara commented as the car began moving upward. “I should have realized that anything that could penetrate that fog he walks around in had to be serious.”

“ ‘Serious’ is an understatement,” Winter said grimly. “In the past five days we’ve effectively lost control of four sectors, and thirteen more are on the edge. The biggest loss was the food production facilities at Ukio. Somehow, they managed to take it with its defenses intact.”

Mara felt her lip twist. “Someone asleep at the board?”

“Not according to the preliminary reports.” Winter hesitated. “There are rumors that the Imperials used a new superweapon that was able to fire straight through the Ukians’ planetary shield. We’re still trying to check that out.”

Mara swallowed, visions of the old Death Star spec sheets floating up from her memory. A weapon like that in the hands of a strategist like Grand Admiral Thrawn … She shook the thought away. This wasn’t her war. Karrde had promised they would stay neutral in this thing. “I suppose I’d better get in touch with Karrde, then,” she said. “See if he can send someone to pick us up.”

“It would probably be faster than waiting for one of our ships to be free,” Winter agreed. “He left a data card with the name of a contact you can send a message through. He said you’d know which encrypt code to use.”

The turbolift let them out on the Presidents Guests floor, one of the few sections of the Palace that the Emperor had left strictly alone during his reign. With its old-fashioned hinge doors and hand-carved exotic wood furnishings, walking around the floor was like stepping a thousand years into the past. The Emperor had generally reserved the suites here for those emissaries who had fond feelings for such bygone days, or for those who could be impressed by his carefully manufactured continuity with that era. “Captain Karrde left some of your clothes and personal effects for you after the Katana battle,” Winter said, unlocking one of the carved doors and pushing it open. “If he missed anything, let me know and I can probably supply it. Here’s the data card I mentioned,” she added, pulling it from her tunic.

“Thank you,” Mara said, inhaling deeply as she took the card. This particular suite was done largely in Fijisi wood from Cardooine; and as the delicate scent rose around her, her thoughts flashed back to the glittering days of grand Imperial power and majesty.…

“Can I get you anything else?”

The memory faded. Winter was standing before her … and the glory days of the Empire were gone. “No, I’m fine,” she said.

Winter nodded. “If you want anything, just call the duty officer,” she said, gesturing to the desk. “I’ll be available later; right now, there’s a Council meeting I need to sit in on.”

“Go ahead,” Mara said.

Winter nodded. “If you want anything, just call the duty officer,” she said, gesturing to the desk. “I’ll be available later; right now, there’s a Council meeting I need to sit in on.”

“Go ahead,” Mara said. “And thank you.”

Winter smiled and left. Mara took another deep breath of Fijisi wood, and with an effort pushed the last of the lingering memories away. She was here, and it was now; and as the Emperor’s instructors had so often drummed into her, the first item of business was to fit into her surroundings. And that meant not looking like an escapee from the medical wing.

[mtwy]

Mark Bego Interview 

Madonna was interviewed on the set of Desperately Seeking Susan by entertinament biographer Mark Bego

 Mark - Everybody was talking about you on the MTV Awards! Madonna - That and my underpants! (rolls eyes) If I ever see those cameramen, I will personally kill them! They unleashed cameramen on the stage; I had no idea they were going to be there. When I rehearsed, there were two cameramen: one was center stage and one was off on the side. When I did the actual show, there were, like, six all over the place. A camera up my dress! A surprise for everyone! Mark - How is it to work for Nile Rodgers? Madonna - Great! He's wonderful - real smart and a great musician. There are some dance songs on the album, but I have two ballads on it, and it's a lot more pop-oriented. Nile did it, so everything's got that beat to it. I used a lot of live drums on this album, whereas on the first, everything was synthesized on drum machines. Mark - What about your role in Desperately Seeking Susan? Madonna - Some scripts you read and you can just see yourself in the role. I can see myself in the role of this really free-spirited, adventurous girl that people follow around. This girl causes trouble - she's exciting and unpredictable, irresponsible, vulnerable. We're not exactly alike. She doesn't have any goal, it seems, except to complicate everyone's life - and I did! I want to be somebody, I have goals and directions. Susan doesn't have an occupation or any skills. She just appears and disappears. That gives her a real enigmatic feeling, a sense of fantasy. I think I have more of a definition about myself. Mark - Did you perform a song for the movie? Madonna - I'll be dancing, and the song we'll be dancing to is a song that I've written. I definitely want to write the title track and maybe one other song. They want someone to do background music, but they want one song that's the theme. I've already written it, and I'm waiting for the moment to give it in. Mark - Did you ever answer a personals ad in the newspaper (like the characters in the movie)?

 Madonna - No! Please - I've read them from curiosity. Mark - How do you interact with Rosanna Arquette in this film? Madonna - We don't actually meet until the end. I find her and she's got all my stuff. She takes over, from about ten minutes into the movie. Everyone thinks she's me because of a jacket of mine she gets from a thrift shop that I've traded for a pair of boots. In it is a key to the locker that holds all my personal worldly belongings. Rosanna gets amnesia after she gets the jacket, so when she wakes up she thinks she's me and goes and gets that stuff and starts dressing like me. She's completely the opposite of me. She doesn't smoke cigarettes, but she becomes me. In the end we meet up and we become friends and go away on a vacation together. Rosanna's husband, played by Mark Blum, his name is Gary Glass. I do most of my scenes with him. We connect because he wants to find his wife, and I want to get my stuff back. We become detectives together. Of course, I intimidate him and flirt with him all the time. I move into his house in New Jersey .

 Mark - What is it like making videos compared to movies? Madonna - The only difference is the movie takes longer, and there's dialogue, but in a lot of videos now, people are talking. A video is like a silent movie. Mark - What about the movie Vision Quest? Madonna - I just sing in it. I sing, I perform in a nightclub that the lead actor and actress come into. They dance a slow dance to a song. I have three songs, but I don't know what they're going to cut out of it. Mark - Have you always written songs? Madonna - I didn't start writing songs till about four or five years ago. Mark - You went to U of M? Madonna -  For a semester. I graduated from high school early. I came to New York , I got a scholarship to the Alvin Ailey School , I studied there for a summer. I got a scholarship at U of M and went there for a year and went back to the city and got back into the Ailey school, and that's when I met Pearl Lange and started dancing with her. Mark - What were your earliest ambitions? Madonna - I wanted to be a movie star, but when you grow up in some hick town in Michigan , there's nothing you can do that will make you feel like you're going to be a movie star. I was taking dance, ballet, and jazz classes, and I said, 'I know I can be a dancer.' I was always the lead in every musical and every play in high school. When I graduated I got the thespian award. That's my claim to fame. I was a rebel in school. I didn't really fit in. I hung out with all the misfits and freaks that nobody wanted to hang out with. My father thought it was immodest. He kept telling me how immodest I was. There were talent shows in high school, and I'd perform in them every year, and I'd do one outrageous thing after another. My father would sit and be horrified. One time I put a bikini on and painted my body with fluorescent paint. I painted weird designs all over my body and danced to a Who song with black lights flashing and the lights off. I was in all the plays, and I sang in choir at school. My father, up until about two years ago, was bothering me about going back to the University of Michigan . Mark - So you came to New York and went back to U of M? Madonna - I only went back there because there was a ballet teacher who said he would devote all his attention to me, to prepare me so I could go to New York . They had a dance company there, and I took advantage of the situation. Kind of like training for the Olympics!

 Mark - If you had a preference between videos, records or movies, which would you choose? Madonna - All of the above! Right now I'm enjoying making movies more than anything, but I miss singing. On my days off, I go work with this guy that I write songs with. I have a deal with Warner Brothers, I have to make several albums, or else! But I give people songs. I write songs for other artists, for other soundtracks. I wrote a song for Jellybean's album (Sidewalk Talk). There's a French singer named Natalie. RCA gave her a worldwide deal. I wrote her next song that they'll release in America . And I'll write the song for this movie (Desperately Seeking Susan), and another movie Jellybean's producing the soundtrack for (Fast Forward). I like to keep my hands in everything. My video from the new album (Like A Virgin) will be released, and I'll do one for the second single (Material Girl). I have decided on the director: Jean-Paul Goude. He was married to Grace Jones. Mark - Who directed the Like A Virgin video? Madonna - Mary Lambert. She did Borderline. She did Sheila E's video (Glamorous Life), the Go-Go's video (Turn to You). If I didn't have video, I don't think all the kinds in the Midwest would know about me. It takes the place of touring. Everybody sees them everywhere. That really has a lot to do with the success of my album. If I didn't make great songs and didn't make great videos...That's not the only thing that will guarantee your success, but it does allow exploitation. I think that I make consistently good videos. Mark - Will there be a video album? Madonna - Yes, for Christmas. Borderline, Lucky Star, and the new video, Like A Virgin. I just made the deal a couple of weeks ago. Borderline is my favorite video so far and in Lucky Star, none of the dancing was planned - I just did it! Or the black-and-white section in Borderline, and the part in Burning Up when I'm on the road. None of that was planned. I don't have MTV. I do see videos, I go to Private Eyes (a video club on West 21st Street ). I haven't seen any good videos lately. I like Sheila E's video (Glamorous Life). The last video I went crazy over and wanted to see over and over again was Billie Jean (Michael Jackson). The director (Steve Baron) did my first video, Burning Up. Mark - What about a concert tour?

 Madonna - I have to admit I'm not really thrilled about it, because I'm making a movie, and my attention's on that. If I go on tour, it means I have to go start auditioning all the musicians, sit for hours and hours and listen to a bunch of awful musicians, and then I have to get them to play all my songs right! And I don't like traveling when I'm working. I like to travel, but not in a van with a bunch of people! Mark - If you did tour, would there be a concept to the show? Madonna - Yes, definitely! Up to now, I've sung live to tape and used dancers. I'd combine dancing with it. I will do a tour eventually. I think I'll go to Japan and Australia in the beginning of next year. It's really bad to tour America in the winter. It's the worst: you get stuck everywhere! I'll probably do a major-city American tour in the spring. Mark - Do you have a vision of a stage concept? Madonna - Yes, but I'm not telling anyone. It's a long way off!