Chapter Text
Aziraphale was fucked. Well and truly fucked.
He was already late, and now he’s gone and spilled tea all over the front of his last clean work shirt. At least he only dropped one of the drinks. As he rode the elevator up to the 11th floor of the Ninth Circle Publishing’s headquarters, he contemplated how on Earth he found himself in this nightmare of a morning.
The elevator dinged and he bolted off as fast as he could through the cubicles.
“Hey, Aziraphale!” Eric, the intern, greeted him before checking his watch. “Cutting it kinda close, don’t you think?”
“Thank you, Eric,” Aziraphale retorted. His eyes scanned the little desk clusters for a familiar face aaaaand, bingo. Target spotted.
“Hastur,” Aziraphale started, calmly. “I need a favor”
“What for- why are you all covered in tea?” Hastur turned around in his seat and eyed up the brown stain that has now soaked through to Aziraphale’s undershirt. He sniffed. “Is that darjeeling?”
“I need the shirt off your back, literally,” Aziraphale looked around anxiously, hoping The Demon was still on that call with Jameson.
“And why would I do that?” Hastur put his hands together like some sort of Bond villain, smile to boot.
“I’ll do anything. I’ll get you those tickets to that amphibian convention you were talking about the other day,” Aziraphale was getting more anxious by the second.
“Amphibians, Antiques, and Ammo? Tickets are like £150,” Hastur was clearly trying to sound nonchalant, but his beady black eyes were now bright and attentive. He stared at Aziraphale’s face for a few more seconds. “Deal.”
Aziraphale quickly started unbuttoning his shirt and set the second, unspilled drink down on Hastur’s desk. He didn’t have time to worry about the indecency of getting changed in the middle of a very busy office. Besides, he still had on an undershirt, even if it did have a stain now.
After he and Hastur switched shirts (God, has this guy ever heard of deodorant?), he practically ran up to the big door that read ANTHONY J. CROWLEY and took a deep breath. He could do this, this was just another morning at the office where he’s worked for years now. No use crying over spilled tea.
He pushed open the door. Anthony Crowley stood by the large, floor-to-ceiling window, and was holding a phone up to his ear and gesticulating wildly.
Ah, still on the call with Jameson, then. Aziraphale breathed out, grateful for the few moments to further collect himself.
Aziraphale studied his boss as he paced back and forth, trying to convince their client that they needed to lean into the vampire stuff if they ever wanted their YA novel to take off. Crowley was dressed impeccably, as he always was. His red hair was coiffed to perfection, he had on a fitted Armani black suit, which highlighted a lean body that he worked very hard to maintain. Because Aziraphale’s job is to know the ins-and-outs of Crowley’s schedule, Aziraphale knew that Crowley worked out for exactly 45 minutes every morning, reading over manuscripts before leaving for the office. He also had on the sunglasses he insisted on wearing, even indoors.
Aziraphale looked down at his own body. He was wearing Hastur’s light green button up, which was a little too tight and smelled of onion, beige trousers, and loafers that had been worn down almost enough that the sole was pretty much non-existent. He definitely didn’t work out and his hair was probably a mess of curls, as he didn’t have time to brush it or even look at it this morning.
“You won’t regret this, Jameson, I promise you,” Crowley said into the phone. “Yes, call me later to work out the details. Of course. Ciao.”
Crowley hung up the phone and moved over to sit at his desk. Aziraphale shifted from where he had been standing by the door and set the tea down right as Crowley’s hand reached out for it.
“Aziraphale, morning,” Crowley said before turning to look at him fully. “Did you call... That lady, the one with the big wart…” Crowley made a circle motion with his hands.
“Barb.”
“Yes, did you call Barb and tell her we need those edits by next week or else-”
“Or else she’ll never be published, again. Yes, I called her.” Aziraphale moved from beside Crowley to the front of the desk.
“Great, and uh,” Crowley looked at his cup, noticing writing on it. “Who is Marco?”
Crowley turned the cup to reveal the name ‘Marco’ written out in sharpie with a phone number hastily scribbled next to it. Marco was the barista Aziraphale saw every day when he picked up his and Crowley’s drinks. He always did seem very friendly.
“Well, you see, erm, that was originally my cup,” Aziraphale stated, fidgeting with his sleeve.
“Why am I drinking your tea?” Crowley said, eyebrows raising above his sunglasses.
“Because yours spilled,” Aziraphale shifted his weight back and forth and feigned interest at something just over Crowley’s shoulder.
“And you’re telling me that you also drink darjeeling tea, two cubes of sugar, light milk, with an ice cube in it?” Crowley emphasized this by taking a sip of the tea.
“Yes.”
“Is that a coincidence?”
“I wouldn't drink the same tea that you drink just in case yours spilled. That would be pathetic.” Aziraphale said with a sarcastic tone, but before Crowley could say anything further, Aziraphale pressed on. “We have a meeting at 9:30 with Dagon and Beez and that thing with Ligur should probably happen about now.”
“Alright, alright, let’s get going,” Crowley stood up and walked briskly past Aziraphale, his nose scrunching up in a way that told Aziraphale he had just narrowed his eyes at him.
Aziraphale took another deep breath.
“Did you, by any chance, read my manuscript?” Aziraphale was trailing behind Crowley through the office. Aziraphale had spent the last five years reading and editing manuscripts of all kinds for Ninth Circle Publishing, and he figured why not take a crack at publishing his own? He loved reading, had done since he was a little kid, and wanted nothing more than to be published, himself, one day. He was constantly writing and self-editing during all of the free time he had in the last year and a half, which was approximately ten total hours a week. He did a lot of overtime.
“I read a few pages,” Crowley said, in a flat tone. “It was below average.”
They had reached Ligur’s office. Aziraphale stopped Crowley from opening the door by placing his hand above the handle.
“Can I say something?” He asked, trying to sound sincere. “I think it’s really good, Crowley, and if you would just give it a chance, give me a chance, I really think-”
“No. And, you know what else? I think you do order the same tea as I do just in case you spill it, which is quite pathetic,” Crowley moved his hand to open the door, again.
“Or impressive,” Aziraphale flashed a big, fake smile at him.
“I'd be impressed if you didn't spill it in the first place,” Crowley swung open the door to Ligur’s office. It was an office only slightly smaller than Crowley’s, with the same floor-to-ceiling windows lining the back wall. Ligur was standing by a large, brown desk, rubbing his hand smoothly along the surface when he noticed Crowley and Aziraphale had entered.
“Ah, Crowley and his man-servant!” Ligur greeted. Aziraphale flinched slightly at that and pretended to ignore how it stung most of all due to accuracy. “Hey, how do you like my desk?”
“It’s lovely, is it new?” Crowley asked, putting on a vapid smirk and eyeing up the desk.
“Well, it was originally made in 1924, but it is new to my office, yes. And would you look at the mahogany finish on the-”
“Ligur, I’m letting you go.” Crowley interrupted without pause. “I asked you a dozen times to get Jameson to rework his novel and you didn’t do it. So, you’re fired.”
Ligur’s mouth hung open, hand still poised mid-stroke along the top of his desk. It really was quite a nice desk, Aziraphale observed.
“That was an impossible task, he wouldn’t budge, I tried, and I-”
“Well, guess what, Ligur? He’s doing it. All I did was give him one phone call. You’re lazy, incompetent, and I’m firing you,” Crowley said, sternly.
It was times like these where Aziraphale could really see how Crowley managed to become editor-in-chief for a major publishing company by the age of 40. It was also times like these that reminded Aziraphale of how much power Crowley truly had.
Crowley turned and motioned for Aziraphale to follow. They stepped out of Ligur’s office.
“What’s his status?” Crowley asked, as Aziraphale watched Ligur through the glass windows separating his personal office from the main office area.
“He’s on the move,” Aziraphale responded, watching Ligur’s blood pressure rise in real-time. “Oh dear, he’s-”
Before Aziraphale could finish, Ligur burst out of his office and pointed a finger at Crowley.
“You fucking prick! You can’t do this!”
Heads began turning slightly and everything in the office seemed to come to a standstill. Crowley coughed and motioned for everyone to get back to work.
“Just because you have no semblance of a life outside of this office, you think that you can treat all of us like your own personal slaves,” Ligur continued, still shouting. “You know what? I feel sorry for you. Because you know what you’ll have when you're dying in a hospital bed? Nothing and no one.”
Aziraphale risked a sideways glance at Crowley, who was smiling politely at Ligur as if his outburst was nothing more than a tantrum thrown by someone else’s child at a grocery store.
“Ligur, keep shouting and you’ll have to be escorted out by security and I’ll tell your wife that you’ve been sleeping with Hastur for two years,” Crowley turned and started walking, again. Aziraphale mouthed an apology to a stunned Ligur and followed Crowley. “Aziraphale, make sure to tell maintenance to put Ligur’s desk in my office.”
Crowley was, well, to put it lightly - a bitch. He was cruel at the worst of times and mildly inconveniencing at the best. This is all to say that what Ligur said wasn’t untrue. In fact, it was downright accurate. But, no one wanted to be the next person to lose their job, so they all just pretended to be working and the day would continue down its uneventful trajectory.
Aziraphale caught up to Crowley right outside of his office. Crowley walked in and went straight to his laptop and began typing. Aziraphale stood by waiting for instruction.
“Are you busy this weekend?” Crowley asked without looking up. “I’ll need your help going through all of the clients that Ligur was managing.”
“Oh, well actually it’s my godmother’s 80th birthday this weekend, so I was thinking of going home… and…” Aziraphale trailed off, seeing the look on Crowley’s face. “I’ll just cancel it, then, shall I?”
Crowley did a slight nod and Aziraphale turned to leave. Right. Mildly inconveniencing.
Aziraphale stepped just outside of the office to make a quick call to his cousin. She picked up on the third ring.
“Aziraphale!” Anathema exclaimed so loud that Aziraphale had to move the phone slightly away from his ear. “What’s up? I thought I wouldn’t hear from you until you got in this weekend.”
“Hello, dear girl,” Aziraphale couldn’t help the warm smile that settled on his face. Anathema wasn't just his cousin, but one of his dearest and bestest friends. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it this weekend, actually. Something, er, came up… at work, you see.”
Aziraphale hated disappointing people and he could almost hear Anathema deflate.
“Work? Is it The Demon, again?” Anathema had taken to calling Crowley by the nickname Aziraphale gave him once when talking about work to Anathema at a pub around last Christmas. “Aziraphale, it’s Tracy’s 80th. Not many chances to celebrate an 80th birthday.”
Aziraphale sighed. He wanted to go, he had been looking forward to it all month, really, but…
“I know, dear, but I can’t, I’ve- I’ve worked too hard for this promotion to give it all up,” Aziraphale felt terrible, but he had given so many years of his life to this job and he desperately needed to be on Crowley’s good side. “I’m sorry, truly.”
Anathema didn’t put up much of a fight, knowing as well as Aziraphale that The Demon got what The Demon wanted. They said their goodbyes and Aziraphale hung up.
“That your family?” Crowley asked from behind Aziraphale.
Oh no, did he hear that? Aziraphale thought, slightly panicked.
“Uh, yes, just updating them on the new arrangements for the weekend,” Aziraphale glanced at his watch. “Time for that meeting with Dagon and Beez.”
Crowley walked to the conference room alone, leaving Aziraphale to continue working, to find Dagon hovering over Beez, who was typing something furiously on their laptop.
Dagon raised her arms in greeting.
“Crowley! Welcome, have a seat,” Dagon motioned to the long line of chairs sitting along the conference table.
“Is this about another raise,” Crowley joked. Well, he joked how only Crowley could joke, which was with a small, evil-adjacent smirk and a tone that was probably supposed to be playful, but sounded far too stern.
“No, you idiot,” Beez started, rolling their eyes. “Do you remember when you applied for a work visa?”
“Yes,” Crowley said, picking at some unseen lint on his pant leg. Although, to the untrained eye, Crowley seemed as British as biscuits and the Queen, herself, he was actually born and raised in Cape Town, South Africa. He had come over to London for school and ended up liking it much better. For one, there was far less sand and for another, the air wasn’t tainted with a fishy aroma and seagulls trying to steal your chips every five minutes.
“And do you remember that we told you not to go to that conference in Paris because you weren’t allowed to leave the country while the visa was still processing, but you went anyway like the great pillock that you are?” Beez said, getting more annoyed with each word.
“Maybe,” Crowley finally looked up to see Beez’s expression. “Beez, we were going to lose the Robertson account, you know how important they are for business.”
“Well,” Beez rolled their eyes, again. “Guess what? Your visa application has been denied.”
“What?” Crowley’s mouth had fallen open involuntarily.
“And you’re being deported,” Dagon added.
“ Deported?” Crowley gasped. “Deported? I’m not even, like, a real immigrant. I’m from South Africa, for God's sake, that might as well just be South England.”
“We tried to warn you,” Beez started, but was stopped by Dagon.
“Listen, Crowley, we would do anything to try and reverse this, but what’s done is done,” Dagon sighed. “You can re-apply, but while that happens, you’ll have to leave the country for at least a year. And you can’t work for a British company when you’ve been deported.”
Crowley sat back in his chair, sifting through his brain for any possible scenario that could get him out of this mess. He was coming up blank.
“Look,” Dagon continued. “It’s fine, we’ll get Ligur to replace you while we wait for the new application-”
“Ligur?” Crowley asked, incredulously. “The guy I just fired? No, Dagon, please, there must be something… ”
It was at this moment that Aziraphale poked his head through the door. He could tell something tense had just been discussed judging from Crowley’s posture, but decided to charge forward anyway, since he already interrupted.
“What, Aziraphale?” Crowley snapped.
“Ah, yes, terribly sorry, but Jameson is back on the line,” Aziraphale motioned to the phone in his hand. “I told him you were otherwise engaged, so…”
Engaged.
Crowley lit up. He might just be able to make this work. Crowley walked over to Aziraphale, whispered “Follow my lead,” to him, and pulled on his hand until he stood in the center of the room with Crowley, facing Dagon and Beez.
“Listen, I know that we are in a predicament, so I guess it’s only right to share this information with you right now,” Crowley announced to Dagon and Beez while still holding Aziraphale’s hand, which Aziraphale was only distantly aware of, as he desperately tried to follow along with what Crowley was saying. “Me and Aziraphale are getting married!”