31 Days of Kisses: A Good Omen Advent Calendar

This Bibliophilic Greed

"Bit rich, isn't it? I'll offer you two and a half."

"Absolutely not." Aziraphale's eyes had started to sparkle in that intriguing way. "Three million pounds is a perfectly reasonable valuation, even if it was for sale."

Crowley signed, feigning reluctance, and pulled out a credit card. It twinkled, discreetly platinum. "Three million it is. Now wrap it up for me, there's a good fellow."

Aziraphale made a quick, annoyed gesture, and the Folio vanished. "You're not as amusing as you think you are, Crowley."

"Now, that's a lie," Crowley drawled, and Aziraphale turned pink. Interesting.

"Some things are not joking matters. Now, let's head out for lunch. I fancy lamb."

I fancy you, Crowley thought, but it was a comfortable, old thought and not a useful one, and he knew it would only get him a reproving glare. He wouldn't mention buying books for a bit. No rush.

It was enough that Aziraphale suspected that hostilities had been announced.

2.

Aziraphale didn't get email, but his lawyer--a literally Hell-approved one picked out by Crowley, which Aziraphale tried to make up for by sending him nice little homilies on occasion--did. So eventually the proposition to purchase his 1725 copy of the Abremalim magic grimoire made its way down his phone to his shell-like angelic ear, which began to tremble.

With that impossible money, Aziraphale could buy--what couldn't he buy? Any manuscript he could track down. His wildest dreams would be child's play. He could do good in the world, too, he reminded himself hastily. He had several foundations that could do with an injection of cold hard cash.

And he would still have his own two original manuscripts, signed and dedicated by Abraham of Worms.

Not that Aziraphale should have possibly Satanic grimoires at all, he supposed. But they had been a gift from Crowley--

Crowley.

"It's an offer from a private foundation?"

"They wished to remain anonymous."

"I'm sure they did. My dear, do you know of such things as private investigators? I need to know who has made this proposition." Aziraphale remembered the magic words that influenced humans better than any angelic power or Satanic spell. "Spare no expense."

It took a few weeks, but eventually the name of the secretive organisation was tracked down through several shell companies was revealed. Sechs, Sechs and Sechs Limited.

"Thank you," Aziraphale said calmly. "Tell your agent, no sale." This, he reflected, was important. This was books. This was war.

And then he invited Crowley out for lunch and said nothing at all about it. Really, he thought, looking at Crowley's handsome face, flushed with wine and laughter, if Crowley set that brilliant brain and capacity for hard work to it, he could rule the world. Probably a good thing he chose to devote it to petty mind games instead. No one could be as petty as a demon trying to prove a point.

Except, possibly, an angel set on thwarting him.

Mind games. Aziraphale was right. They were clearly mind games. And if Crowley was stooping to trying to buy books through agents, then anyone who came into the shop was suspect.

Normally, Aziraphale reluctantly sold a book every now and then, to someone who would really appreciate it, to keep up appearances and stop being inspected as a money laundering outfit. Now, he didn't dare.