immortalized | up all night

[ This message is left on Ambrose's voice mail, ready for him when he wakes up to greet the day— or rather, the night. Does the creature leaving the voice mail know about this expected discrepancy? A better question might be: how could he not? ]

Hello, Mister Sinclair. This is the man— [ not a man, of course, but how many little white lies can he stack up on his heavenly scales? surely at least one more ] —who sold you The Prophecy of Dante, the original by Byron from 1821. Which was a lovely choice! Did I tell you how I came across it? I was just about to leave the Commoner, which was a wonderful restaurant on Thames Street that sold—

[ It's probably fortunate for both of them, unlimited voicemail length be forgotten, that Aziraphale ends up distracted by a knock at his office door and decides perhaps he ought to wrap this up a bit more quickly. ] Well, we can discuss that another time. What I'm calling you about, sir, is that if you're finding yourself in need of more texts of the, well. The decidedly— [ The voice in the message drops, almost too low to be heard except for the ethereally clear quality which makes sure no syllable can truly be lost: ] —demonic inspired, I do have others in my shop.

Just. Try to see to it that you keep your diet in check. [ There's a chuckle, muffled by the fact that his smile can't quite keep in place perfectly the entire time. A vampire, really, in his shop! Being so polite! Oh, but aren't they always, the poor damned things? Aziraphale has always had a bit of a soft spot for them, especially the readers. ]

Anyway, Mister Sinclair, have a lovely evening whenever you awake, and keep in mind that the shop does still close at 8pm.

{ charmed. literally charmed — and thoroughly unexpected. Ambrose had been bemused and enchanted from the moment he had stepped into the majestic shop of the curious but delightful Mister Fell, until the moment the vampire regretfully departed (because it had been half an hour since the shop had closed for the evening), and finding a voicemail waiting him from the pleasant warden of rare books this many weeks later is an exciting late-arriving bloom on the branch. no joke: Ambrose listens to the message twice, so amused and heartened by the lengths given by another avid literature enthusiast that he thinks he must hear the excessive offer a second time.

...however.

it's two minutes past eight, when Ambrose lifts his phone up to his ear, the dial tone cooing rhythmically its song of effort to connect two disparate people. Ambrose hopes that perhaps Mister Fell hasn't packed up and gone home just yet... please still be in your shop, and ideally, close enough to the phone to hear the call coming in for you. }

[ Well, what could one expect, visiting an angel's bookshop? But then, Ambrose hasn't any idea-- rather, he must have some idea that the man owning the bookshop is a touch eccentric. But knowing what a vampire is, and being a messenger and soldier of God, are two circles on an oddly-specific Venn diagram with very little natural overlap.

But back to the shop itself. Aziraphale, as it happens, is a creature who's so used to living in and out of time that he often loses track of it, as one does with things one has plenty of. Meaning that he's still rearranging money he doesn't expressly need in his little old-fashioned till when the phone rings. ]

Oh! [ And then, as he gets closer to it, he glances at the clock and...hasn't he heard that humans ought to be trained about shop hours, lest they grow evermore demanding? It's a similar issue about the whole prayer bit, and how few of them get specific responses from Heaven.

But-- He bites his lip. He does so enjoy taking calls for the shop. ]

A. Z. Fell and Company, Antiquarian and Unusual Books. And this is an unusual hour, but I'm fortunately still in the shop. How can I help you?

[ His smile, even while startled, is the sort of expression so powerful that it can be heard through his words. ]

{ the voice is none other, recognizable only immediately with minute authenticities that even any mortal could recall. doesn't always take a preternatural's sense, really.

there is relief that echoes like an aria in a chapel when Ambrose goes to speak, accepting being chided for the lateness of the call...all three minutes, now. }

It seems imprudent, I realize, and I pray you'll forgive me. { Ambrose wonders if Mister Fell recognizes his voice, but that hope is not from the soil of ego, but in some dark underbrush where softer things lie. }

Ambrose Sinclair. I received your message, and I wanted to thank you for the thoughtfulness you extended me. { and there is...a little more, but he'll get to that. } I've only just risen, you see, but I heard your message first thing.

Oh! [ With an expression of stunned surprise and then a smile — with all this inviting behavior he directs towards demons, you think he'd stop being shocked when the occasional rare one takes him up on it.

But no. Six thousand years later and surprised he's ingratiated a vampire, as if it weren't his own fault. ] Mister Sinclair— Ambrose. What a nice surprise. [ As if! He didn't! Instigate!! ]

I'm flattered, though I hope you realize it takes more than flattery to get me to budge on prices. [ It's a joke! Sort of! (It takes bribery. Via cake.) ] Had you need of something in particular?

Edited 2019-06-24 15:34 (UTC)

{ on the other end of the line, Ambrose is willing to accept the surprise is wholly earned. he had seen Mister Fell's antique phone, after all...one would have to be psychic to glean the luxury that caller ID provides. } I'm surprised as well, I'm not very efficient on returning calls. { he doesn't mean to be this way...

a soft laugh trickles into the phone line, low but airy, too gentle to sting with a predator's chill. still warm as sunlight. } What purpose would there be to waste flattery when your prices are so perfectly fair? { hmm, is that? more flattery? really, even Ambrose doesn't realize.

but here we are, at the core of the matter, moreso than returning a courtesy whose arrow caught itself right in Ambrose's heart. too good an offer to rescind.

however— } In fact, I'm unsure, but I will tell you why I was so prompt to return your call.

We are now in midsummer, and I've no doubt you're aware. Night fell only just half hour ago, I imagine. { there isn't much irresponsible sleeping-in for a vampire when the night doesn't really start until this late into the day. when Ambrose had made his first visit, it was still early summer, giving Ambrose a narrow gap to make Mister Fell's acquaintance, and was the cause of his late stay that night. Mister Fell hadn't noticed in their enthusiastic chattering, until Ambrose had pointed the lateness of the hour out himself. } I fear I won't be able to make it in time to visit your shop for some weeks from now, since I could not currently make it to your doorstep in time and abide by your hours. It's something I very much regret. { #vampireproblems }

Well. [ Goodness, the cheek of this one, continuing to lay praise! It absolutely works, for the record, although what exactly it works to do remains a bit of a mystery. The temptation of the demonic, at it again!

Except— oh. It isn't the demonic that causes the changing of the seasons. God wouldn't outsource that bit quite so fast, it's not like her at all. Aziraphale looks out the wide front windows right on cue, taking in the gathered dusk. The just-barely-gathered dusk. ]

You've got— a good point there. A good point. [ The tether of his phone cord won't allow Aziraphale to walk to the window for a proper wistful stare into the night, so he'll have to make due with sighing in front of his collection of Transcendentalism authors. Is he disappointed? He thinks the low feeling in his stomach means that, yes, he is. Rather like when he accidentally gets the decade wrong and can't quite excuse another miracle to get to the right restaurant at the exact right time.

Except— oh. Perhaps that's it... ] Well, I suppose if I...knew to expect such a schedule change, I could...make exceptions.

For al my customers, you understand. I couldn't play favorites with Satan's children, after all. [ A friendly smile and tone as he slanders you, Ambrose! ] But I should think that, given how late everyone is out this time of year, that...staying open until ten might befit the summer. At least on, um...

[ Give him a second to casually leaaaan over and check his calendar... ] ...on Thursdays. Yes, a perfect day of the week for extended hours. No one will expect such a welcome surprise on that day.

{ Ambrose would not be so self-righteous as to demand Mister Fell make any accommodations for him — hell, he didn't expect the man would call him up and leave him a message welcoming him back to purchase, especially after pegging Ambrose for exactly what he is. a revolutionary business tactic perhaps, and hopefully a measure made by a kindred heart with their shared love of the arts, because it never hurts to wish a little.

but what Mister Fell offers is more than what was presumed to be possible; Ambrose might have expected an offer to have some options available by September, if there is anything in particular he can think of, or exchanging money online and have his books delivered by mail. what the shop owner creates instead is...unprecedentedly generous.

though the gracious exception isn't made without a small cost, afforded to Ambrose's petal-soft self-image. understandably, the stunned silence that the vampire carries may feel a little bit like the one that grows inside a tomb. it's a blow he deserves, and he can hear no malice behind the words, but Mister Fell, whether by design or accident, always manages to lay them with a bruising power.

Ambrose's belief, however, is that all of him is genuine, including and especially so, his kindnesses. } I would hate to make you wait up so late once every week... { does it sound self-defeating, gilded in an old-fashioned Catholic's guilt in the face of charity? or does it sound argumentative?

in fact, he sounds...pensive. } I suppose I will have to come keep you company on Thursday nights, to make sure your time isn't paid in vain. ( honestly, what else is Ambrose going to do on a Thursday night?better question: who else is going to listen to his ramble about Shelley for upwards of two hours? )

[ Did this work? Delightful! He isn't always so good at the plotting and scheming. That's really more the wheelhouse of downstairs and everyone inhabiting it. Perhaps moreso Crowley than the others. He's always been a touch odd, even for a demon.

Aziraphale's smile is immediate and resonate and woefully wasted on his collection of silent books, who have all seen this show before. ] I suppose you rather will! What a sense of duty in you. [ Said just about the same way a grandmother might congratulate a teenaged grandchild on so glad you got a job busing tables, sweetheart, one must start somewhere, hmm? Patronizing, blind to it, and wholly sincere. ]

Does that mean you'll be coming 'round tonight, then, or shall we wait until next Thursday? [ Is he making himself too obvious with the date he picked? The thought doesn't even occur to him. ]

Edited (icon) 2019-06-24 19:46 (UTC)

up all night

h-hewwo? mistuh vampiwe?

you could say this voicemail was — heaven sent 😎

how did you come back w something MORE cursed

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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make sure you check on your shelley every five minutes lest it get caught in the bath and...well