Now there was going to be a ‘kids can’t drink, Crowley!’ joke but also I like to headcanon that Crowley is good with kids and would know that. So alas I cut it. Thank you for this request! Hope you enjoy!
She goes to the bookshop because it’s raining and the snow that’s only been there since very early morning has been turned to slush underfoot making every surface dangerous. She’s trying not to cry because the cold already hurts and adding salt water trails on her cheeks to the mix doesn’t seem like it’d help any. So she hugs her arms around her chest, trying to make up for the lack of a coat. Or scarf. Or hat or gloves. It’s with little trepidation and a lot of exhaustion that she opens the door, the bell ringing loudly.
It’s warm inside. Not sweltering like the owner has the radiators on full whack to overpower the outside. But comfortingly warm. Her face hurts at the sudden change, stinging. And her glasses fog up. She stands stock still until they clear slowly. It’s empty. The only other occupant of the room being a blond man smiling down at his phone behind the desk, his back to her. He doesn’t turn to greet her. A small blessing, she thinks.
She stays in the shop for half an hour. Browsing the shelves without touching. She catches the man looking at her only once. There’s pity in the slant of his frown. She turns away and he doesn’t so much as call out a goodbye as the door closes behind her.
The next time she visits, a week later, she stays for an hour. The man watches her this time. She watches back. She’s fourteen and looks younger. It makes sense for him not to trust her. She admires the hanging plants in front of his one unblocked window for a while. He smiles at her then.
She visits the very next day and finds the doors locked. Not wanting to go home, she sits down on the front step to think through her options. Anywhere else she goes there’s the expectation of her buying something in exchange for spending time there. Here, the owner, who she assumes to be Mr Fell, seems more than happy for her to not spend her meagre savings on books she probably can not even scrap 1% of the cost for. The other option is the park. Where it’s cold. And windy. And exposed to all sorts of people even though it’s only nine in the morning.
She’s still sitting there when a very old looking car roars up to the pavement and stops in speeds that she’s not sure should be possible and definitely aren’t safe. A lanky man gets out. Red hair. Dark clothes. He steps onto the pavement and stops dead when he sees her.
She waves, awkwardly forcing a smile. He smiles back, a little sarcastic in nature.
“You looking for someone?”
“If you’re waiting for him,” he nods at the shop doors behind her, “to open up, I can pretty much guarantee he isn’t going to.”
She sighs and stands, brushing off her jeans. He steps out of her way as she crosses the street in the direction of the park.
She’s been in the shop for an hour, just like yesterday, already as the clock chimes 5pm. Mr Fell knows she’s here. He’d given her a cup of earl grey tea without asking her anything or saying much beyond “please don’t spill it”. She’s still sipping at the last dregs of it, wanting to make it last as if it would be a good enough excuse for Mr Fell to not kick her out. She just doesn’t want to go home. It’s getting worse there and another night spent under that roof seems like hell to her. So she lingers long enough to see the red haired man stalk into the shop.
“Angel! You fucking stood me up! We had plans! You better be discorporated or something, Zira.” The man is clearly covering his distress with the anger, it’s a painfully familiar tone.