An open post, in light of several recent developments

Aziraphale had a job, once. In fact, although he had it only once, he had it for a very long time. Heaven's operative on Earth. Quite an important title! No need to strive for promotions with that one!

He had another job simultaneously. Bookshop proprietor and collector of rare tomes. Not such an important title in the celestial sense, but if you were to invent a comical and high-stakes situation in which this angel specifically were to choose between the two occupations, the outcome would be easy to predict, all told.

Now he has no jobs. He's at a mansion between universes, and he's still an angel, but Heaven is muffled. There are no wiles to thwart. It should be bliss -- no evil. Huzzah. No need for him and Crowley to pass notes or meet on buses or wink exaggeratedly at one another in passing.

Aziraphale is in a parlor, trying with increasing fervor to miracle up a single Someone-forsaken copy of Hamlet by William Shakespeare. He'll take anything. A complete works. A folio. Even a Cliff's Notes, at this point, much as the very concept mortally¹ offends him. It's not that his memory needs refreshing, it's that he wants the concrete evidence. It's also that he's growing increasingly agitated as each and every tiny miracle he tries goes awry.

He has a growing pile of non-Hamlet volumes stacking up on a side table. Moby Dick, inexplicably. An abridged edition of David Copperfield. Something atrocious and multi-volumed called Pretty Little Liars (how can there be so many lying teenaged girls?!). So many James Patterson books that he's beginning to non-angelically consider setting them on fire. It's not going well. Something is rotten, but persistently not in the state of Denmark.

¹Immortally?