Poor Babies! (open)
There were things that were extremely important to Aziraphale. Saving souls had been the highest point on the list until Armageddon had loomed. Stopping the Antichrist from destroying the world had then taken precedence.
Just below those two ethereal priorities, were his books.
His bookstore had always been a front. It wasn't so much a place to sell books as a place to keep them. His collection held only first editions, and rare books that were not only out of print, but that few, if any, knew had ever been printed in the first place. One of the greatest challenges of his long life was to avoid selling them. There was the necessity of money, and occasionally he had been forced to part with a dear friend or two in order to live comfortably, but somehow or another he always managed to get them back. And when other collectors contacted him regarding a specific volume, Aziraphale always convinced them it was in their best interest not to pursue the search any longer.
For an angel, he could be very persuasive in ways that were far more Crowley's style.
When the storm hit, Aziraphale at first thought little of it. Spending over 6000 years on Earth had put the angel in the face of many storms, and they had done little to concern him. But as the hours passed, he began to realize this was no ordinary storm. It rather reminded him of Noah and he wondered what was going on. Yet even this seemed to be beyond anything that Himself might conjure up. Not to mention that a promise had been made, and Aziraphale knew it was not one that would ever be broken.
It seemed the City had a god complex. Aziraphale almost pitied it, for nothing could ever hope to prove itself more powerful than Himself. He just hoped he still wasn't around when everyone got turned to stone. Then again, it would be just like the Ineffable Plan to allow something like this. One never knew with ineffability. He had little time to really think on it when he noticed something...a distinct sound.
plip. Plip. Plop!
Aziraphale stood in such a hurry, his chair fell to the floor. He had to find the source of that sound! Tracing it through the bookstore, he found the problem quickly. A leak, falling on a stack of his treasured books. His beautiful, irreplaceable books! He moved them quickly out of the line of assault, only to hear it was happening elsewhere. And so it went, for two long days and nights.
When the storm finally ebbed, the bookstore looked rather the worse for wear. Not that it had ever been pretty. It had always been a dark, musty smelling shop, a bit run down which had fit with the rest of its original neighborhood back in Soho. Now it was a complete hodge-podge mess. Books were stacked in weird uneven rows, some in plastic bags, looking rather like a child's play fort. Umbrellas and buckets were everywhere. Those that had received the brunt of the rain's forced entrance were laying out on his desk and on counters in an attempt to dry them. Aziraphale looked on them in pity and heartbreak, knowing they would never come out of this without visible proof of water damage.
With a sigh, he sat in his desk chair, looking down at his hands. Hands that had been powerless to protect his great treasures. Hands that he noticed were a bit rougher for the attempt.
It seemed the next thing on his to-do list was going to be a manicure.