azfellandco:

Most bookshops in Soho have back rooms, and most of the back rooms are filled with rare, or at least very expensive, books. But Aziraphale’s books didn’t have illustrations. They had brown covers and crackling pages. Occasionally, if he had no alternative, he’d sell one. 

And, occasionally, serious men in dark suits would come calling and suggest, very politely, that perhaps he’d like to sell the shop itself so that it could be turned into the kind of retail outlet more suited to the area. Sometimes they’d offer cash, in large rolls of grubby fifty-pound notes. Or sometimes, while they were talking, other men in dark glasses would wander around the shop shaking their heads and saying how inflammable paper was, and what a firetrap he had here. 

And Aziraphale would nod and smile and say that he’d think about it. And then they’d go away. And they’d never come back. 

Just because you’re an angel doesn’t mean you have to be a fool. 

The table in front of the two of them was covered in bottles. 

“The point is,” said Crowley. “The point is. The point is.” He tried to focus on Aziraphale. 

“The point is,” he said, trying to think of a point. 

“The point I’m trying to make,” he said, brightening, “is the dolphins. That’s my point.”