Chapter Text
Aziraphale’s every bit as nervous about this as he is excited; it’s something he’s been feeling a lot lately. It has to do with the fact that he’s finally, after years (since he was in his childhood, really) getting to fulfill his dream of owning a bookshop — his own actual, genuine and honest to God bookshop.
It means he’ll be in charge of everything; the type of books for sale, staffing, hours, interior decor, etc. — it’ll all be up to him, and only him. … Oh, good Lord, he’s almost giddy with anticipation.
When he pulls up to the building that contains the space he’s managed to lease for the bookshop itself, he parks and gets out of the car before glancing over at the flower shop next door. Above the front door of said shop, there’s a large green sign that reads, in golden letters, Eden Floral Co., and on either side of the door itself are two large windows that both showcase a varied array of potted plants and flower bouquets right off the bat. From his (albeit few) years spent as a gardener, Aziraphale can already identify bouquets of ranunculus, gladioli, anemone, alstroemeria, dahlias, and a few others, among a few potted succulents here and there as well, and even some ferns hanging on display. There’s also what appears to be two different pride flags hanging on display inside each respective window, one being what Aziraphale already knows as the progressive pride flag, with the brown and black and transgender pride stripes, and the other being… one he admittedly doesn’t recognize, with pink, white, purple, black, and blue stripes.
In the window displaying the first pride flag, a figure appears with a rag and spray bottle to begin wiping it down. Said individual is tall and skinny, and attractive, donning all black with the exception of an apron the same shade of green as the sign above the door, and red hair done up in what looks like a half bun. When he looks through the window to see Aziraphale standing there in front of the building itself, that’s when the bookseller realizes he’s staring. He gives a little bit of an awkward wave, to which the individual nods back to him in acknowledgement before returning his focus to the task at hand, and Aziraphale feels a little bit of a — anxious? — tug in his chest. Oh, Lord.
Good job, Aziraphale. Go ahead and just stare at your neighbor the first time you see him, why don’t you.
Well. Aziraphale only hopes that it at least wasn’t too awkward of him to be caught staring. He wants to feel like he belongs here, after all, and it simply won't do for another shop owner's first impression of him to be a rude one.
It simply won't do at all. Perhaps he should go in and introduce himself, instead. That might make a better, more polite first impression than staring. Mustering a smile (one that he only hopes manages to hide the anxiety that's got the feeling of butterflies swarming in his stomach), Aziraphale heads towards the door. There’s the rather pleasant sound of a jingle as the bell above the door itself goes off when he opens it and lets himself in, and Aziraphale glances around to take in the shop’s interior.
The walls and flooring are both a muted grey, with black countertops and shelves that all hold the floral merchandise; vases, and even more bouquets and succulents just like in the windows, and the like. They aren’t exactly colors Aziraphale would have particularly chosen, himself, for a shop like this; nevertheless, it all still rather surprisingly works as far as a color scheme goes, with the grey and black both serving as a nice contrast to the many colors of the flowers and plants scattered around the shop itself. The overhead lights provide a rather pleasant ambiance; they aren’t too bright, but not too dim either. There’s even a skylight to allow natural lighting in, as well. The overall atmosphere of the shop isn’t as cozy as a bookshop would be, of course, but Aziraphale can still tell that it’s a well-looked after and cared for business.
There’s not a lot of patrons in at the moment, however; there’s just himself; the other man he’d seen in the window; and a young boy, appearing to be no older than ten or eleven years old, seated on a stool behind the register and reading a comic.
The second the bell above the door had given off its little jingle, the individual at the window had glanced over in Aziraphale’s direction before setting the window cleaning supplies aside and turning to face him immediately.
“Welcome in,” he greets now, and Aziraphale pauses. Because oh, no. Because this particular individual is somehow even more attractive up close than he was through a window, and that particular attractiveness does not, whatsoever, serve to ease the butterflies in Aziraphale’s stomach. In fact — it seems to make them worse. “You looking for anything in particular?”
Aziraphale blinks. Say something. “Yes, hello.” He gives another smile. “I’m— new. I’m actually the owner of the new bookshop that’s going to be opening up next door.”
“Honestly, everyone was wondering when that space was going to be taken up. It’s about time.” He looks Aziraphale over. “So you’re Mr. Fell, then?”
“You can call me Aziraphale.” He has to force himself to snap out of… whatever trance it is that this man’s looks are putting him in, and hold out his hand for the other to shake. Thankfully, the other is quick to return the gesture and give his own name in response.
“Crowley. Nice to meet you.” Crowley. Certainly not a common name, but… Aziraphale would be one to talk, wouldn’t he? His own mother named him after an angel, of all things. He repeats Crowley’s name, causing the redhead to smile a bit, and — oh, Lord, those butterflies in his stomach begin to flutter even more so than they had been already, if that’s even possible. Because even if it’s a small one at that moment, Crowley has a very pretty smile. “And this is Warlock—” Crowley gestures to the boy behind the register counter, “— my godson. He hangs around here from time to time.”
Warlock. Again with the unusual name. Hmm. Nevertheless;
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
Warlock glances up in their direction once and gives just a single wave in acknowledgement before immediately turning his attention back to his comic. Crowley looks Aziraphale over a second time and then speaks again. “Are you new to Soho? I don’t think I recognize you from anywhere around.”
“I am, actually, yes.” Aziraphale offers a somewhat sheepish look at the fact, even though he knows that there’s genuinely no reason he should be feeling embarrassed by it in the first place. So what if he’s not originally from here? It’s not a bad thing. So then why does it make him feel self-conscious? … Maybe it again has to do with wanting to feel like he belongs among all these other shop owners who’ve long since already established their place here. Aziraphale has to tell himself that it’s alright, that he’ll fit in just fine.
It’ll just take a matter of time. He knows this.
“This bookshop is my first ever business endeavor,” and oh, Lord, why did he admit that just now? He has to look like he actually knows what he’s doing—
To Aziraphale’s relief then, however, Crowley seems to be compassionate rather than, say, judgemental; he nods in sympathetic understanding before giving a response of “If there’s anything you need, you can always ask. The majority of us in this area have been running our businesses for a good while now, so I’d say we’re all pretty reliable in terms of advice or feedback — if you ever need or want it, that is.”
Aziraphale can’t help the expression of pure gratitude that melts across his features, his butterflies dying down finally out of relief. “I appreciate it.”
“‘Course. In that case… welcome to Soho," Crowley tells him kindly, warmly, and — oh, no. The butterflies from before return, swarming even more furiously this time, somehow, and…
Aziraphale begins to think that he may or may not, right off the bat, be developing what could easily be considered a crush on this florist, which… all things considered, is not ideal. Not in the slightest.