Chapter Text
There is smoke everywhere.
Through me the way is to the city dolent…
The deep, hollow voice echoes in the empty space, sending a shiver down his spine. He feels it rattling in his naked chest and though he should be used to it by now, he can’t help feeling uneasy.
Through me the way is to eternal dole…
He adjusts his position on the throne, a flashy, uncomfortable thing with big ram horns on the back and black skulls everywhere else. So much for subtlety, Crowley thinks gloomily, but, well, that’s what happens when you rise to fame in Vegas of all places and you work with producers that don’t care about your artistic vision, and a manager that tells you to shut fuck up every time you open your stupid mouth to try to change their mind.
Through me the way among the people lost.
Doesn’t matter, really, he gets paid either way and he gets paid a lot. So fuck the producers, fuck Beez and fuck his artistic vision too. He doesn’t give a shit.
Before me there were no created things…
Besides, he’s known for his extraordinary disappearing acts, so who’s to say he won’t do it again sometime soon? Take everyone by surprise, including Beez. Vanish into thin air, just like that. His merchandise – if he sees another one of those stupid t-shirts, he’s going to scream his own head off – would fly off the shelves.
…only eterne, and I eternal last.
Here we go.
He schools his face into a sinister expression, stretches his arms on the armrests and positions himself so that the horns seem to be sprouting from his head. How bloody clever and so on.
There’s a gust of wind and the smoke thins around him.
The voice grows and booms in the empty venue, accompanied by an ominous, eerie music, a sudden crescendo that shakes the stage.
All hope abandon, ye who enter in!
It’s showtime.
There he is, the picture of debauched evil, Virgil’s wicked long-lost cousin ready to accompany his audience through the depths of Hell, with complimentary magic tricks and a thorough assassination of Dante’s masterpiece because fuck him too – he’s been dead for seven hundred years and has no say in the matter.
The music reaches an impossible volume and Crowley smiles like he’s ready to devour the audience, like he’s the most dangerous thing to ever exist. He waits for the flames to flare up behind him, to surround the entire stage and then–
Nothing happens.
He hears shouts behind and over him and the smile dies on his lips.
He stands up with one fluid motion while the music abruptly cuts off and the lights come back on, blinding him. He finds his shades in the left pocket of the long, black leather coat he’s wearing and quickly puts them on.
When his eyes adjust to the light, he wishes they didn’t. Satan help him, the set looks so fucking cheap!
“Someone better fix those stupid flames before tomorrow night! If I have to go on stage and make a complete arse of myself for all the UK to see, you’ll have to find yourselves another King of Hell or whatever stupid title you’ll come up with next!”
Beez, who was sitting in the first row, approaches the stage with their usual gentleness.
“Alright, calm the fuck down,” they snap before barking orders at the team of engineers and technicians working on the set. When they turn back to Crowley, they look supremely annoyed. “Stop being such a fucking prima donna.”
Crowley smiles his sharpest smile and cocks a hip. “Isn’t that what you pay me for?”
“I’m paying you to do magic in front of people who have nothing better to do with their free evenings.”
They always make it sound so fucking stupid – because it kind of is, and Crowley knows that. It’s also the reason Beez is still his manager. He’s already an insufferable prick, best not let the success go to his head as well.
“I’ll stay here and make sure they’ll have it fixed by tomorrow night,” Beez says, sounding bored. “You have stuff to do. Where is Shax? Shax!”
Shax, his PA (or, well, glorified babysitter) emerges from the seats in one of the back rows where she was clearly napping. Which does remarkable things for Crowley’s self-esteem: if that’s who gets paid to assist him then he doesn’t need this fucking stage to go straight to Hell – he’s already there.
Beez rolls their eyes. “Shax!”
Shax stands up and stumbles to them with a planner under her arm and a phone in hand, hair in disarray. “Yes?”
Crowley barks out a laugh, which only serves as a reminder that the stupid fake beard he’s wearing itches like… well, like hell.
Beez shuts him up with a single glare – though they be but, little they are fierce and all that – then looks back at Shax. “His appointments for the day, Shax, if you please,” they say with a smile that doesn’t bode well for Shax’s employment status.
“Oh, yes, of course. Let’s see…” She opens the planner to the wrong day, takes a deep breath and almost starts listing the wrong engagements, then realizes her mistake at the last second and flips back to the right day. “He has that special in-depth interview with the critic from the Guardian.”
Crowley groans. “In-what?”
He fucking hates journalists. Ink-slingers, the lot of them. Not the serious journalists, of course, just the ones writing nonsense for a living, those he has to play nice with if he wants to keep his career in entertainment (which he’s starting to reconsider). And don’t even get him started on the critics.
“They’re sending someone to shadow you for the entire day and then review the show tomorrow night,” says Beez, who seems to know more about this than his PA.
If Crowley wasn’t busy abandoning all hope in this stupid day, he’d ask them about it.
“Her name’s Eve Gardner” Shax offers with a pleased smile. Guess she’s finally waking up. “Then you’re off to the hotel for the final costume fitting with the girls and there’s that photoshoot–”
“Well, where’s this Eve?” Crowley asks, feeling a headache coming. “Let’s get this over with.”
An entire day of… of… pretending. He wants to scream his fucking wig off.
Shax seems to remember something and turns towards the upper-level seats. “She’s supposed to be here somewhere.”
“Hello?” a polite voice draws their attention towards the back of the stage.
Crowley shoots one look at the bloke, then does a double take.
“Who’s this then?” he asks, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “Wouldn’t it be funny if all my tricks were stolen and sold to the competition because someone forgot to close the fucking doors?” he insists with a bone-chilling smile.
The new guy takes it as a joke and gives out an embarrassed laugh. Then seems to catch up on Crowley’s sarcasm and looks horrified.
“N-no, absolutely not, I would never!”
He looks completely out of place – is this what Dante felt like when he saw an angel show up in hell to reprimand the devils and open the gates of the city of Dis?
Also, why the fuck is he thinking about medieval self-insert fanfiction authors and their thought process?
Crowley ends up staring, he can’t help himself.
The angel has blue eyes and pale blonde hair, and is wearing a cream-colored three-piece suit which looks expensive and well-worn at the same time, paired with a light blue shirt and an honest to Go– Satan tartan bow-tie. There’s a pocket watch in his waistcoat and he’s carrying a leather messenger bag in one hand, a brown fedora in the other and a light brown overcoat folded on his arm.
“Did someone double park in front of your time machine?” Crowley asks before his brain can get a chance to communicate with his mouth.
The angel gives him a polite, albeit perplexed smile. “No, I’m with the Guardian, I have an in-depth–”
“You don’t look like an Eve,” Crowley says, because he’s still not thinking before opening his stupid fucking mouth.
Is it a trick of the lights or the angel is… blushing? “Er, w-well, no, you see we actually decided–”
“Doesn’t matter,” Beez cuts him off. “Shax?”
Shax jolts back to attention. “Yes, there’s a car waiting for us outside. I’m going to wait for you gentlemen out there.”
Crowley is still staring at the angel who is shyly staring back at him. He probably thinks he’s not right in the head or something – no, wait, he’s wearing his shades, so the angel can’t know if Crowley’s staring at him or not. Thank Go– Satan for sunglasses.
He barely has the time to take in how weird the angel looks with the cheap infernal set as a backdrop and, before he knows it, he finds himself in the backseat of a car with the angel next to him, bag, hat and overcoat sitting pretty on his lap.
Crowley decides he looks both curious and uncomfortable, and feels the sudden urge to ruffle his feathers, make him look less angelic, maybe shock him a bit. Shocking people is one of his favorite pastimes, after all. Especially journalists, especially critics.
It’s going to be a walk in the park, he thinks. The guy is already struggling to look at him for more than two seconds, his eyes trained on on the front seats, where Shax is bickering with the driver, Eric.
Crowley ignores them and casually lets his leather coat open over his naked chest, exposing his hips, then starts peeling off the fake beard with his black-nail-polished hand.
“So you’re here to get the skinny lowdown on, well, me…” Ah, yes, such a proper demon he is. “What happened to Eve?”
The angel seems stuck on the whole skinny lowdown business. “I– I’m afraid my colleague is busy with another assignment, Mr. Crowley,” he says and though he is clearly trying very hard not to look at him, he apparently can’t help himself.
“Just Crowley,” he says suppressing a smile. “And are you?”
The angel stares as Crowley gets rid of his beard and then gasps – an actual gasp! – when he takes off his wig, revealing short red hair under long red curls. He’s so enraptured by the whole spectacle, that Crowley needs to repeat his question. At which point, the angel blushes again, then leans slightly towards him, confused.
“Am I what?”
“Afraid.”
It’s clearly the wrong thing to ask because the angel stares at him for a few seconds, then laughs like an actual angel would if… well, if angels were an actual thing and not a figment of the collective imagination.
Crowley is intrigued.
“Not afraid at all,” the angel finally says. “I mean, maybe slightly afraid. You see, my editor-in-chief doesn’t know I’m here.”
“He doesn’t?”
“I was supposed to review the new production of Hamlet…”
“The one with Ian McKellen?”
“Yes, exactly, but Eve – Miss Gardner, that is – she’s been working so hard and she would love nothing more than to be taken seriously, and she thought Gabriel gave her this assignment for all the wrong reasons, you see – and, between us, knowing Gabriel, I’m quite sure she was right – and, and I realized she needed my assignment way more than I did. So, if you really must know, I just… gave it away.”
“You wot?!”
“I gave it away!” the angel repeats, slightly distressed.
“Let me get this straight. You traded the chance to review one of the most anticipated shows of the year to interview… little old me?”
For Satan’s sake, the guy really is an angel.
“I’m not disappointed at all, of course,” he assures Crowley, following the movement of the hand busy ruffling the hair flattened by the wig. He looks a little bit out of breath. “Magic happens to be a personal interest of mine and I think it’s good to try new things every once in a while,” he says in an obvious attempt to convince himself as well as Crowley. “Do you know how many Hamlets I have reviewed so far?”
Probably hundreds.
“How many magic shows then?”
“None, actually.”
Crowley smiles. “I’m gonna pop your cherry then.”
He expects the angel to go beet red or stammer something in response; instead he falls silent and looks out the window with a thoughtful, pouty expression and a soft sigh.
“I like cherries.”
It comes as no surprise that Anthony J. Crowley, the illusionist/escapologist/entertainer (upon their arrival at the hotel, his PA warned Aziraphale not to call him a magician), is cutting and sharp-tongued. Aziraphale has read several articles about him, has seen the cover stories and the half-naked photos with his half-naked co-stars (not assistants, because he’s not a magician apparently, which is a real shame). He did a little bit of research – he’s a professional, thank you very much – so he knew what to expect.
What he didn’t expect was to find himself in a hotel suite with said Anthony J. Crowley asking him permission to get half-naked (in front of him, no less!) so that Mrs. Sandwich, the show’s costume designer, could give the final touches to his many ensembles (lots of leather, silver, naked skin and a harness which shuts Aziraphale’s brain function down for three full minutes).
He should be retrieving his tape recorder and notebook from his bag, but every time he forces himself to do just that, he ends up looking towards Crowley’s half-naked body and the frankly ridiculous poses he does, much to Mrs. Sandwich’s amusement.
Crowley is standing in front of a full-length mirror and Aziraphale’s sitting right behind him and – good Lord – he needs to get a grip or Crowley’s going to notice and think he’s a creep. Which he isn’t, at all. He’s only slightly embarrassed. Eve was sure that Gabriel gave her the assignment in the hopes of using her as some kind of bait to milk a scandal out of Crowley (he has a bit of a reputation as a womanizer, so to speak), probably counting on Crowley to try and seduce her or something equally nefarious.
Point is, trading with Aziraphale was supposed to prevent that from happening. But now that he’s here looking at the man – at the so-called King of Hell, as stated in the publicity materials they gave him at the venue, with his red hair and his impossible hips – he isn’t that confident.
Mrs. Sandwich fusses around Crowley, who’s currently wearing a long red and black leather coat with a giant snake embroidered on the back. From what Aziraphale has seen, there is a lot of imagery that doesn’t make a lick of sense with the inspiration for the show, but he wisely forbade himself from pointing that out.
When she is done with the coat, she removes it from Crowley’s shoulders, says she will be back with the Horsewomen – whatever that means – and Crowley just stands there with those impossibly tight leather trousers, which sit very low (skinny lowdown indeed) on his hips. He has a few tattoos scattered over his torso, arms and back, and a small scar on his very flat stomach. He’s so lean, he looks taller than he actually is.
Oh, dear, and now Aziraphale’s staring again.
And thinking about… cherries?
Crowley catches his eyes in the mirror and Aziraphale suddenly decides it’s time to open his messenger bag and look for his notebook.
“Haven’t asked for your name yet, angel,” says Crowley with a grin.
“Aziraphale,” he answers before registering the epithet. Angel? Better than pervert, at least. “Fell.”
“Aziraphale Fell? That’s a mouthful.”
“I certainly can be,” he mumbles into his bag, too low for Crowley to hear.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?”
“I said I’m used to it,” he amends quickly, schooling his features in what he hopes is a neutral expression. He is so very bad at lying – which is a shame, because he does it a lot.
Crowley turns around, cocks a hip and looks at him. He has rings on his fingers, three or four silver necklaces falling on his chest, black nail polish and dark shades. He looks way more sinful now, without the wig and the fake beard, and Aziraphale suddenly feels the need to make a suggestion to whoever’s in charge of hair and make-up.
“So, what do you think, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks him with the same infuriating grin, the one that says I know I’m choking your brain cells to death and I’m loving it.
“I think you’re going to need a pair of scissors to come out of those trousers.”
Crowley just stares at him for the longest second then barks out a surprised laugh.
“You’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I hardly think…”
“It’s okay, angel. I meant it as a compliment.”
Aziraphale glances at him, trying to decide if he’s being genuine or not, then quickly decides he has no idea.
He busies himself with his bag, finally finds his fountain pen and his notebook.
“So, are you excited to be back in the UK after… how long were you in Vegas exactly?” he asks and feels much better. This is what he came here to do. It’s his job and he’s going to do it properly so that Gabriel can tear it to bits later. No need to change his routine, now, is there?
Crowley clicks his tongue. “Couple of years.”
“Did you like it?”
“Vegas? ‘S okay, nothing to write home about.” He shrugs and, for a second, Aziraphale thinks he looks kind of uncomfortable. The impression doesn’t last long, and Crowley is back to his usual unaffected self in the blink of an eye.
“Well, they seemed to love you there.” Granted, it was a different show – something vampire related – but Aziraphale has read dozens and dozens of rave reviews. “Do you think you’re going to get the same reception here in London?”
Crowley crosses his arms over his chest, doesn’t answer immediately.
“Do you mind if I record you?” Aziraphale adds quickly. “I usually take notes, but I want to make sure I don’t miss anything.” He already knows he’ll have to fight tooth and nail to keep his focus throughout this whole thing.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Splendid, thank you.” He opens his bag once again and pulls out an ancient tape recorder, which startles a laugh out of Crowley.
“Is there a cassette in there?”
Aziraphale gives him a confused look. “Well, of course. What else?”
“Oh, thank Satan, angel. Thought you had an entire phonograph in there. With wax cylinders and everything.”
Aziraphale frowns. He’s teasing him, that’s obvious – and there goes that angel again.
“Don’t be silly,” he rebukes with a slight blush, then turns on the tape recorder and places it on the coffee table in front of the armchair he’s sitting on. He looks at Crowley and primly adds: “My phonograph is at home, safe and sound. It’s a collector’s item, you know, not something you can carry around.”
Crowley bursts out laughing, then suddenly stops when Mrs. Sandwich comes back into the suite followed by four impossibly beautiful women. Very pretty if you went for that sort of look. They are wearing very short dressing gowns and apparently not much else.
“Scarlett, Raven, Bianca and Didi,” says Crowley, and Aziraphale can’t help but notice that he is not looking at them in any sort of lascivious way. “Also known as the Four Horsewomen of the Apocalypse.”
Scarlett makes a rude gesture and flips her glossy red hair over her shoulder. “Shut up, AJ!”
“Who’s your friend?” Raven asks while Mrs. Sandwich ushers them behind a screen and one of her assistants rolls in a coat rack full of red, white, black and silver dresses.
“I’m not his friend,” Aziraphale says without thinking. “We barely know each other.”
The women share a giggle.
“See?” says Bianca with a blank expression. “Already made an enemy out of him, didn’t you, AJ?”
Crowley rolls his eyes; Aziraphale can tell even with the shades on.
Raven laughs. “Don’t worry, new guy. Our AJ is all bark and no bite.”
“Keep at it and you’re going to be all talk and no job,” Crowley tells her with a predatory smile.
“Come on, loves!” Mrs. Sandwich snaps. “We don’t have much time.” She gestures towards Crowley. “Anthony, come here, lad, I need to see you all in costume side by side, make sure you properly contrast with each other for the final act.”
Crowley snorts but does as he’s told and Aziraphale’s gaze follows him.
There’s a knock at the door of the suite and Shax comes in.
“Are you done yet? We leave for the photoshoot at the garden in fifteen.”
Crowley is pretty sure he has visited every single botanical garden in London, has a bit of a soft spot for plants and flowers, but this is the first time he ends up in one wearing only yellow contact lenses and the most hideous flesh-colored pants he’s seen in his entire, sorry life.
There’s a giant black snake draped on his shoulders and torso, and he’s posing in front of an apple tree while the photographer, a very bossy young woman called Pepper, gives him very precise directions. It’s not that bad, as far as photoshoot companions go, at least this time they don’t have him surrounded by naked people half his age wearing skimpy clothes. That’s usually what they go for.
The guy from the Guardian – Aziraphale, he reminds himself – is around here somewhere, or at least he thinks so. The contacts are cool and everything, they make his eyes look like a serpent’s, but he can’t see shit. He just hopes the angel is looking at him molesting the poor apple tree because he’s giving it his all. He likes to think Aziraphale’s becoming pinker by the minute, looking away every other second like he did at the hotel.
If Crowley didn’t have a reputation to uphold, he’d think Aziraphale was adorable.
But he does have a reputation and adorable is one of those words he can’t be caught dead using. Even thinking about it feels illicit in a very uncomfortable way.
Also, he’s freezing and he can’t feel his bollocks anymore.
“Alright, we’re done here!” Pepper announces after a while.
The snake handler whisks the beast off of Crowley’s shoulders and someone from the magazine, probably a poor intern wondering if all their days are going to be as insane as this one, gives him a fluffy white bathrobe to cover himself and gestures towards the makeshift dressing room (which isn’t a room at all, more like a screen with a small electric heater in the middle of the garden) prepared especially for him.
“Don’t make me look too bad,” Crowley tells Pepper as he moves past her.
She looks up from her camera. “Can’t make any promises, serpent,” she retorts with a smile and Crowley decides that he likes her. She looks at him like he’s a silly old idiot, which means she’s smarter than most.
He’s ready to jump back behind the screen to remove these stupid contacts, hug the heater for dear life and put some clothes on, when he suddenly realizes the angel is talking to the snake handler.
No, wait, not only is he making polite conversation with the snake handler, he also has a giant yellow snake looped around his arms and shoulders and looks absolutely delighted.
Crowley’s feet bring him towards Aziraphale even before his brain can make a conscious decision to do so.
“Trying to steal my thunder, angel?” he asks.
It’s a bad idea, because Aziraphale turns to him with a blinding smile, and his eyes are glittering like stars and yes, his cheeks and slightly upturned nose are the most perfect shade of pink.
“Oh, Crowley!” he exclaims and it sounds soft and warm like an old jumper (another one of those things Crowley can’t be caught dead in), well-worn and cozy as the suit Aziraphale’s wearing. Familiar, like something he’s said a thousand times before.
Which it isn’t, Crowley sternly reminds himself. It’s the first time the angel’s said his name without that “mister” nonsense in front of it, that’s all.
“Aren’t you gorgeous?” coos the angel and for a horrible (read: glorious) second Crowley thinks he’s talking about him.
But no, he realizes, heart beating like crazy in his chest. Aziraphale’s talking to the snake while petting it with his soft, elegantly manicured hands. “Her name is Sunshine,” he tells Crowley like a proud dad. “Isn’t she pretty?”
“Didn’t take you for a snake enthusiast,” Crowley says, trying to hide his surprise and especially his heart attack.
“She’s yellow!” Aziraphale says, as if that explained everything, and maybe it does. “Would you mind taking a picture for me?”
“Sure, where’s your phone?” Satan help him, is he about to fish inside the angel’s pockets to look for his phone? He’s going to need all the cool in the world to pull that off.
“No, my telephone doesn’t take photos,” Aziraphale says with a grimace. “But I do have a disposable camera in my bag.”
“Come again?”
“A disposable camera,” he repeats, unfazed. “I like to be prepared. You never know when you might need to take a picture.”
Crowley stares at him, speechless, and realizes he’s probably developing a ridiculous crush on this ridiculous man. The thought is destabilizing at best, world-ending at worst (he doesn’t have crushes, what the actual fuck?), so he just swallows his shock and turns towards Pepper – or at least, the blurry smudge that’s supposed to be her.
“Hey, Pepper!” he shouts. “Can you take a picture of–” My friend? My angel? My time-traveling interviewer?
He points to Aziraphale and she comes up to them.
The angel immediately starts fussing. “Oh, no, there’s no need to bother Miss Moonchild. I just need my disposable camera and–”
Pepper snorts. “A disposable camera? What are you, one hundred and fifty?”
“I’m forty-seven.” It’s a rhetorical question, but the angel answers anyway, then clearly regrets it a moment later.
“Should have photographed you two together,” Pepper muses, surveying Aziraphale then glancing back to Crowley. “You have completely opposite vibes.”
Crowley immediately starts thinking about the naked angel with his own pair of hideous flesh-colored pants, and Aziraphale…
“Well, my nieces will be thrilled to know I do, in fact, have vibes.”
…so, Crowley’s officially the only one with his mind firmly stuck in the gutter. That’s new.
“Come on,” he mutters, “before Sunshine here chokes on your pocket watch.”
Aziraphale hints at a protest, but Pepper tells him to strike pose and the angel does, and he doesn’t look even remotely embarrassed. No, sir, he’s one hundred percent feeling himself.
Yeah, Crowley is pretty much fucked.
They end up on a bench, the tape recorder between them and Shax hovering in the background.
The good news is that Crowley is back to being fully clothed. The bad news is that no amount of fabric seems to be capable of tamping down his… well, someone – not Aziraphale, of course – would probably call it sex appeal.
“Did you always want to be a magi– an entertainer?” Aziraphale asks him, notebook and pen in hand.
Crowley smiles, delighted, sprawling on the bench in a way that can’t be comfortable. “No, not really. Did you always want to be a journalist?”
“No, I wanted to be a bookseller,” he says without missing a beat. “How did you end up doing it then?”
“Well, my mom gave me the idea. Always telling me to go away and disappear once and for all.” He shrugs. “Why aren’t you selling books then?”
“In this economy? I’m not a fool.” Aziraphale frowns, goes back to Crowley’s answer, “That doesn’t sound very nice.”
“Not really, but she worked a lot, my deadbeat dad wasn’t in the picture, and I asked way too many questions. Super annoying kid I was, so there’s that. I decided that disappearing was going to be my specialty. Purely out of spite, you know how it goes.” He smiles again and though Aziraphale can’t see behind his shades, he knows that it doesn’t reach his eyes.
He jots down a few words on his notebook and Crowley suddenly straightens his back, his mouth a thin, grim line.
“Please don’t turn the article into a sob story. I didn’t mean to say that, I’m just exaggerating,” he adds quickly. So quickly that Aziraphale feels the need to reassure him.
“Of course. I’ll let you read the interview before I send it to my editor and if you don’t want something printed, we’ll just edit it out. How does that sound?”
Crowley looks away, pretends to look unaffected, but his ears turn pink and give him away.
“Sounds like you’re a proper angel, angel,” he mumbles. “Are you sure your colleague hasn’t sent you here to thwart my evil wiles? With me being a demon and everything…”
“I thought you were the King of Hell.” Crowley snorts, avoiding his eyes. “Would you like to talk about the inspiration for the show? Why Dante’s Inferno?”
“My manager thought it was a good idea, that’s all.”
“Did you have any input in the way the source material has been combined with the acts? Did you read the poem first and come up with the tricks second, or the other way around?”
Crowley crosses his arms and finally turns to look at him. “Do I look like someone who’s read Dante’s Inferno?”
Aziraphale is perplexed. “Yes…?”
“I would never. What’s the point? It’s a magic show, angel, not a university lecture.” He shrugs, looks away again. “I skimmed the Wikipedia entry and played the videogame.”
“There’s a videogame of Dante’s Inferno?”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t like it.”
Aziraphale scoffs, he can’t help himself. “Why wouldn’t I?” Many reasons. For starters, he hasn’t played a single videogame in his entire life, but Crowley doesn’t know that. Right?
“I bet you’re a fan of the poem. Maybe you’ve even read it in the original Italian version, probably know it by heart. Am I wrong?”
He actually wrote his thesis on Dante’s Divine Comedy but he’s not going to fess up to it. “So, was today’s photoshoot supposed to follow the theme?” he asks him instead.
“More or less, you know the whole garden of Eden, earthly paradise stuff. Couldn’t really ask the magazine for an allegorical procession, would have been overkill.”
Aziraphale beams. “Thought you said you only skimmed the Peekymedia article about it.”
Crowley looks affronted. He straightens again and blurts out a long series of sounds which don’t make much sense at all, then decides to cherry-pick (cherries!) Aziraphale’s words. “Peekymedia? Are you doing this on purpose?”
“Afraid not.” He totally is.
Crowley shivers dramatically and shakes his head while Aziraphale struggles not to look as smug as he feels. Anthony J. Crowley is an illusionist all right. He’s about to tell him as much, when he realizes that Crowley is still trembling.
“Are you cold?” Aziraphale asks out of the blue.
“Nah,” he lies and now that Aziraphale knows that he’s a liar, he wonders how it took him so long to notice.
“Take my coat, I’m not wearing it,” he says, offering it to him with no hesitation. “I also had a hat here somewhere…” Uh-oh, he probably left it at the hotel.
Crowley’s eyebrows shoot to the sky. “Absolutely not!” He shrieks, as if Aziraphale had suggested he climbed onto his lap for warmth.
“A cup of tea, then. Something warm.”
Without waiting for an answer, he rummages in his messenger bag and produces a tartan thermos flask. He uncaps it and pours tea in the small plastic cup, offering it to Crowley, who is clearly too stunned to put up a protest.
“Do you bring tea with you wherever you go?” he asks flummoxed, but grips the small cup with both hands, the black nail polish stark against the beige plastic.
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeats in a mocking tone, then reluctantly takes a sip. He doesn’t say anything, but his appreciation speaks for itself – yes, even with the sunglasses on. “Thanks, angel.”
“You’re quite welcome.” A pause. “Are you sure you don’t want my coat?”
“Shut up!”
He should be offended, but he laughs instead. “Alright, no need to be so rude about it.”
Crowley gulps down the tea and suddenly stands up, turning towards Shax, who’s playing some kind of game on her mobile. “Hey, I need to go to Soho.”
“Soho?” she repeats, confused.
“Yes, my dealer’s there,” he adds, then gestures towards Aziraphale with an ominous smile. “Come on, angel, take that two-hundred-pounds recorder and let’s go.”
Aziraphale waits for Shax to fuck off only Satan knows where before turning to Crowley.
“Are we really here to meet your dealer?” he asks anxiously.
And Crowley is such an arsehole, because the only thing he cares about right now is the relief he feels knowing he has the upper hand.
It’s not his fault, really. He basically had no choice.
For fuck’s sake, he was supposed to be the one shocking the angel, not the other way around. What was he thinking, talking about his childhood of all things? No, thank you.
“Yes, I have many. All over the city.” Which is a gross mystification, but he’s going to play it up a bit for a little while longer, just to make the angel sweat and himself feel better.
It’s not even dinner time yet, so the club is mostly empty, but there are half-naked dancers and servers lounging everywhere. Crowley’s never been here before, but a quick glance is all he needs to know that Maggie wasn’t lying when she told him that The Small Backroom had something for every taste.
When was the last time he went to a queer club? Probably before Vegas.
Aziraphale darts his eyes around and fidgets with the strap of his messenger bag.
“Don’t worry, angel, I’m not going to leave you alone, alright?”
“Is that a threat?” the angel asks with a surprisingly steely glance.
“Do you want it to be?”
Someone kill him, what is he even saying? He sounds like the wanton villain in a James Bond movie, and the only Bond character he wants to be is James fucking Bond himself. Ugh!
Aziraphale is still reflecting on his answer and looking around like he’s afraid his granny might pop up from under a table, ask him what the hell is he doing in this den of iniquity, then trap him in a giant doily and drag him to the nearest church in search of absolution.
“Come on, let’s go grab a drink,” he says and, to his credit, Aziraphale doesn’t turn on his heels and run.
Instead, he follows Crowley to the bar, where a woman is drying cocktail glasses with a tea towel. She casts a suspicious glance towards Crowley and a small smile in Aziraphale’s direction, which – ouch.
Luckily – or unluckily – she leaves him no time to dwell on it and decides to shit all over his carefully crafted plans to ruffle the angel’s feathers.
“Hello, Mr. Fell, back again so soon?”
Aziraphale looks embarrassed and Crowley suddenly suspects he is the source of his embarrassment – which, again, ouch.
“Hi, Nina, dear. I’m actually working.” He gestures towards Crowley. “This is Crowley, I’m writing an article about him and his upcoming show. Crowley, this is Nina, she makes the best cocktails in London.”
Nina takes one look at Crowley and doesn’t offer her hand to shake and, despite himself, Crowley likes her already. Nothing makes him feel at home like some degree of rudeness. He should probably talk to his therapist about it.
“What can I get you?”
“Gin martini for me.”
Nina turns to Aziraphale. “Let me guess, you want me to surprise you.”
The angel beams and fucking claps his hands. “That would be splendid, dear.”
Crowley takes out his phone and googles mixology courses London because he’s never wanted anything in his life as much as he wants to be called dear by this random man he’s met less than four hours ago.
“Do you come here often, then?” Crowley asks him as casually as possible (read: not even remotely) as they make their way towards a free table. He may be biased, but The Small Backroom doesn’t really seem like Aziraphale’s scene.
The angel puts his bag on an empty chair, drapes his coat on the back, then proceeds to remove his suit jacket and Crowley suddenly wants to scream.
“Maybe once or twice a month,” he answers in an icy tone.
He clearly hasn’t forgotten about the whole dealer thing and Crowley desperately wants to take it back. Anyway, he may be a first-grade arsehole, but annoying questions are where his true talents lie.
“For the entertainment?”
The angel doesn’t even seem flustered – how fucking dares he!
“For the cocktails, mostly. I used to frequent the establishment where Nina worked before, and I fell in love with her cocktails. So, when she started working here, I followed.”
“Because she’s the only bartender worth her salt in London.”
Aziraphale looks affronted and Crowley is delighted.
“I have standards.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Are you doubting me?”
“I would never, angel.”
Aziraphale sniffs and sits down. Then, much to Crowley’s horror, makes quick work of his cufflinks and rolls his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, his signet ring shining under the club lights.
Crowley stares at him and his stupid forearms, and wants to throw his stupid fucking shades to the floor and scream, because the angel looks so soft and delectable, and he desperately wants to hug him and keep him close and tell him how pretty and perfect he is–
Well, fuck.
“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks him with a worried expression.
Crowley gives him a quick nod. “Just need the loo for a second.”
He disappears in the gender-neutral toilet, locks the door, removes his shades and turns to the mirror.
He looks terrible. His hair is still full of product from the photoshoot and the eye make-up they gave him is all smudged. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He does his best to remove it, then fishes the black eyeliner out of the inner pocket of his leather jacket and applies it again. Nothing as laid back as bringing make-up wherever you go just in case.
What the fuck is he doing? Is he really touching up his make-up to impress a critic?
Yes, that’s exactly what he’s doing.
He suppresses the urge to remove his make-up altogether, puts the eyeliner back in his pocket, undoes way too many shirt buttons, refrains himself from messing with his hair, then exits the bathroom and makes his way towards their table.
He stops in his tracks when he spots a very tall, very tattooed, half-naked server with lime green hair and towering platform heels talking to Aziraphale and touching his shoulder like it’s no big deal.
Unprompted, Crowley suddenly remembers that, only a few hours ago, he was jealous of a fucking snake.
The good thing is, even though his eyesight sucks, Crowley can tell that Aziraphale looks pained and embarrassed. It’s like he can’t wait for the server to leave him alone.
Ha! He knew it! The angel is a bit of a prude.
When the server leaves with their tray, Crowley finally makes his way towards Aziraphale and artfully drapes himself over the chair next to him.
“Everything okay, angel?” he asks nonchalantly . He can do it, he’s in control.
Aziraphale flushes the most delicious shade of pink. “Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Not used to it?”
“I am, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?” So definitely a prude.
“Yes. You’ll think I’m a big old silly, but it makes me quite furious.”
Crowley straightens in his seat, and he’s suddenly not amused anymore. “Furious?”
For fuck’s sake, is the angel a homophobe? No, it can’t be, he’s too perfect for it. Besides, he doesn’t look straight in the least. Maybe he’s still in the closet. Or, even better – Crowley reminds himself – he should not make assumptions on other people’s sexualities based on appearances, or at all for that matter. He knows firsthand how annoying it is, so why is he doing it?
Ah, right, because he’s an arsehole.
“Oh, yes, practically livid,” Aziraphale continues. “And to Oscar no less! It should be a crime.”
“Oscar?”
“Yes, I hate all typos equally, but typos in tattoos?” He grows more and more outraged. “Typos in tattoos quoting Oscar Wilde?” He looks back towards the server, who’s talking to Nina at the bar. “The poor dear, they should ask for a full refund.”
Crowley’s eyes are about to fall off, which, coincidentally, makes him realize he forgot to put his shades back on.
“That’s what that face was about?” he asks pointing to the server, and Aziraphale looks confused.
“What face?”
Crowley throws back his head and barks out a laugh.
Aziraphale gives him a look and, despite everything, he seems quite pleased with himself; his cheeks are flushed, his eyes shiny and surprised. “What’s so funny?”
“You are,” he says before he can think of a better answer – which shouldn’t be that hard, since there are exactly zero answers worse than that one.
“Don’t be silly.” Aziraphale gives him a stern look that seems playful at first, then turns into something different, harsher. He sips on his cocktail – a pink monstrosity with a little rainbow umbrella in it – and casts a casual glance around the club. “Found your dealer yet?”
Ah, yes, that nonsense about his dealer.
“Should be here somewhere,” he mumbles and has the grace to look sheepish. He looks around and squints his eyes because he can’t see shit. “She’s blonde, always wears red lipstick, has great taste in music.”
Aziraphale gasps, forgets all about his frilly cocktail. “Are you talking about Maggie? Nina’s Maggie? She is your dealer?”
All things considered, Crowley should be over the moon right now. He wanted to shock him, after all, and Aziraphale looks about ready to fall from his chair and straight into another dimension. Maybe back to heaven, where he belongs.
Crowley drums his fingers on the table, lets out a long string of consonants, then takes a big gulp of his gin martini. “She’s my record dealer,” he grumbles into his glass.
“She’s your what?”
“She sells me rare and vintage recordsss, alright?” he snaps and – for fuck’s sake – his face is burning. He chances a glance towards Aziraphale, who’s looking at him as if he had just sprouted a second head, then looks straight towards the DJ station and decides that, yes, there’s a very strong possibility that the blonde blur over there is actually Maggie, so he stands up and says: “I’ll be back.”
Fifteen minutes later, when Crowley comes back to the table, Aziraphale is writing something on his notebook and sipping on his cocktail, and Crowley’s face has wisely decided not to go up in flames.
“Hey, angel,” he says, so cool and unaffected the Oxford Dictionary could probably trade their definitions with one of his photos and get the message across just as efficiently.
He sits down, places the signed record on the table.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, closing his notebook and capping his pen. He’s wearing a ridiculous pair of… of… spectacles. He’s surprised it’s not a monocle. “Got your record, then?” He glances at the vinyl and scrunches his nose. “What’s a velvet underground?”
“You wouldn’t like it,” he says nonchalantly, and takes another sip of his gin martini.
Aziraphale turns to him. “Be-bop then,” he deadpans, sending Crowley’s world spinning.
He spits his drink all over himself and coughs, trying not to choke and die (such a shame, James Bond would never).
Aziraphale smiles and pats him on the back. “There, there. Probably drank too fast.”
“You’re such a bastard,” he accuses him, breathless. He’s pretty sure the cocktail just went straight into his brain.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale says all prim and proper, and yes, it’s official, Crowley has a big fat crush on him.
Aziraphale gets the attention of the server with lime green hair and asks them for a glass of water for Crowley, who’s too embarrassed to put up any kind of protest. He drinks the water and looks miserably at Aziraphale’s notebook, wondering about the terrible and accurate things he’s probably written about him.
“You’re going to tear the show apart, aren’t you?” he can’t help but ask, then curses himself for not wearing his shades before opening his stupid mouth to ask sensitive, life-altering questions.
Aziraphale looks surprised. “How would I know? I haven’t seen it yet.” And whatever he reads on Crowley’s face forces him to add: “I’m very hard to impress, but quite easy to please. You shouldn’t worry about it.”
“What does that mean?”
Aziraphale puts his hands on his thighs and gives a little shrug. “I think you know.”
And just like that Crowley decides he will know no peace until he has found a way to impress the angel.
Crowley asks him out to dinner (no, not that way) and brings him to a very fancy, very expensive French restaurant in Mayfair.
Aziraphale knows he should probably excuse himself and go home, but, you see, not only he’s a bit peckish, but he also has an assignment to complete and he’s rather sure that, if he were to write the article with the information he’s gathered so far, he’d write the wrong one. Something about public personas and masks and soft-hearted magi– entertainers with slinky hips pretending to be rude and unaffected when they’re anything but.
So he says yes and that’s how he finds himself perusing a French menu while Handel’s Water Music softly plays in the background.
“Are you a French cuisine enthusiast then?” he asks. Everything looks so scrumptious, he doesn’t know where to start! And don’t get him thinking about the dessert menu or he’s going to faint.
Crowley snorts and fiddles with his fork, one arm casually folded over the backrest of his chair. He hasn’t even opened his menu yet. “Not really.”
“Uhm.” Aziraphale nods. “Have you made up your mind?”
“I’ll get whatever you want to try.”
Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say, torn as he is between gratitude and suspicion. Is Crowley trying to bribe him? No, surely not, he would never…
Fine, they’re practically strangers, but there is something to be said about gut-intuition, and Aziraphale trusts his gut, even though he often doesn’t listen to it. Besides – and this may be the silliest thought he’s ever had in his entire life – being with Crowley feels, er… right.
He turns to him, their eyes meet and they both startle.
Aziraphale can’t help but think, and not for the first time since Crowley came back from the club’s bathroom, that his eyes are very, very pretty, of the lightest brown he’s ever seen. So he keeps looking at him, while Crowley immediately opens the wine menu, frowning and squinting his eyes at the elegant script.
Aziraphale is about to ask him if he happens to be too cool for prescription glasses, then thinks better of it. It would be nothing more than a rhetorical question at this point, and he may be a bit of a bastard, but he’s not cruel, not if he can help it.
“Very well, I’ll order for us both then. The wine too. I’m a bit of a connoisseur.”
Crowley looks relieved, gives up trying to decipher the menu. “Fine by me, angel. Whatever you want.” He puts the menu down and goes back to pretending he has everything under control.
The waiter comes back to take their orders and Aziraphale is so chuffed by the pleasant turn of the evening, that he decides it’s as good a time as any to brush up on his French. He points to what he wants on both menus and rattles off their order in what he thinks is good enough French.
The waiter looks positively shocked (or maybe appalled?) by his prowess.
Unperturbed – he thinks he’s done a pretty good job, if he may say so himself – Aziraphale hands him back the menus with a beaming smile, then turns towards Crowley, who can’t stop sniggering.
“Something funny?” Aziraphale asks, straightening his waistcoat and giving him a look.
“Where did you learn your French?”
“I’ll have you know, I took private classes in Paris.” Monsieur Rossignol was very pleased with his progress.
“And when was this?”
“Twenty years ago, give or take.” Crowley grins like an idiot and Aziraphale struggles to look affronted instead of charmed. “Your point is?”
“Me? I have zero points. I hate points, absolutely despise them.”
Aziraphale sniffs primly. “Foreign tongues are a passion of mine, you know.”
As expected, Crowley’s ears turn a very nice shade of pink, eyes as big as saucers. He starts coughing and fidgeting with the napkin, and Aziraphale pretends he hasn’t noticed, but can’t hide the smug smile playing on his lips.
“I’ve studied Latin at university and I still remember it perfectly,” he adds.
“Well, next time we’ll take your time machine and go back to ancient Rome for oysters, what do you say?”
Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, decides to tease him a bit. “Is this where you bring your countless dates then?”
Crowley stutters a protest. “Who said anything about dates?”
“As far as I know, you have a bit of a reputation.”
“As a what?”
“As a… womanizer?”
“As a slut, you mean.” A pause, and then, “Was that a question?”
“No, I’m just not sure of the terminology you young people prefer to use nowadays.”
Crowley laughs. “Angel, you’re only four years older than me.”
“I know, but you don’t look a day over thirty-five and you seem one of those people who are young at heart,” he says, which makes Crowley laugh even more.
“As opposed to what?” he manages to ask.
“As opposed to those of us who have a time machine and a phonograph in their living room.”
The waiter comes back with their wine and, without asking who’s going to taste it first, he pours for Crowley and waits for his approval. Crowley silently pushes his wineglass towards Aziraphale (kindest King of Hell he’s ever met). He wastes no time tasting the Bordeaux he’s chosen, then nods at the waiter, who’s doing his best to avoid his eyes while filling both of their glasses.
“So,” Crowley says, raising his wineglass. “What do you think, angel? Am I a slut or not?”
Aziraphale scrunches his nose; he really doesn’t like that word. “Doesn’t matter what I think, does it? You can be whatever you want to be and it would be just fine.”
“I’m not saying it matters, I’m just asking.”
Aziraphale takes one long look at him and thinks back to the articles he’s read about him, the sultry pictures, everything he has witnessed in the past hours. The way Crowley didn’t really look at his half-naked co-stars or even the young man with the big biceps who helped him during the photoshoot at the botanical garden and kept shooting him hopeful glances without Crowley ever noticing.
“I think you’re really good at illusions.”
Crowley smiles, and it’s a soft, precious thing with way too many teeth, and Aziraphale wants to put it under glass and display it in his living room, along with all the knick-knacks he can’t bring himself to throw away.
“So good, in fact, I get paid for them,” Crowley says, a bit smug, a bit sheepish.
Their orders arrive – roast lamb and poached lobster – and for a while they don’t talk at all. Crowley goes all stiff and weird as soon as Aziraphale can’t contain his appreciation for the food, wiggling happily in his seat.
“Sorry,” he says, but he’s not sorry at all. He won’t apologize for taking his pleasure wherever he can or for making Crowley blush like that. He would never say it out loud, but Crowley’s very cute when flustered.
“You did say you were easy to please…”
“Fiend.”
Crowley snorts, pokes at his lamb, but mainly drinks the wine and enjoys looking at Aziraphale savoring his dinner. And Aziraphale realizes that, instead of feeling embarrassed (he usually doesn’t like when people watch him eat), having Crowley’s eyes on him only adds to the pleasure. It’s like they’re both getting something out of this, like they’re in this together.
“What’s your favorite food then?” Crowley asks.
“Well, I’m partial to savory crêpes and sushi, but I like good food in general,” he says, taking a sip of wine. “I’ll try everything at least once if it looks scrumptious enough.”
He lets the words stew in the air between them and meets Crowley’s rapt gaze.
“What about you?”
“Oh, not a big fan of food, me. Picky eater, really,” he drawls. “I eat only because I must. If I could survive without it, I would probably stop eating altogether.”
“So nothing ever whets your appetite?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“What did you say then?”
“It happens sometimes, but it’s very, very rare.”
“What do you do when it happens?”
“Don’t think I need to spell it out for you, angel.”
Fine, they’re not talking exclusively about food, are they? And Aziraphale should definitely know better, or at least he thought he did, because the next thing he asks is, “Why do you keep calling me angel?”
Crowley shrugs. “That’s what you looked like when you showed up at the venue,” he says as cool as a cucumber. “With your curly little… and your neat cream suit…” He makes a weird gesture with his hands. “A time-traveling angel in a very cheap-looking hellish landscape.”
Aziraphale is about to say something, secretly quite pleased with himself and his fashion sense, but Crowley cuts him off with a long rant about the show’s set design and prattles on undeterred for almost half an hour.
The waiter comes back for their empty plates and Aziraphale takes the opportunity to ask for the dessert menu. He can feel Crowley sniggering beside him and he reprimands him with a stern look as soon as the waiter is off towards the kitchen.
“You said magic is an interest of yours, didn’t you?” Crowley asks before Aziraphale has the chance to transform his silent reproach into something slightly more pointed. “Are you as good at magic as you are at French?”
“Funny you should ask, dear fellow. I can confidently say that I am no stranger to the art of prestidigitation.”
He fishes a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and starts waving it around. He hasn’t noticed that the waiter is coming up behind him and he accidentally hits him with his arm, knocking the menus from his hands.
“Oh, dear!” Aziraphale spins around on his chair, absolutely mortified. “Je suis déshabillé!”
The waiter looks horrified.
Crowley chuckles and grabs Aziraphale’s arm to prevent him from standing up and retrieving the menus himself. And if this wasn’t the first time Crowley has touched him, Aziraphale wouldn’t let that stop him. But it is, so he just goes stiff and turns towards Crowley with what he hopes isn’t a dazed expression on his face.
“Let’s do dessert and then leave before you start the second Hundred Years’ War, angel.”
They leave the restaurant and walk aimlessly for what feels like an hour but it’s most likely three. And even though the October night is quite cold, the company is very good, and Crowley would rather freeze to death than be the one to end it.
Aziraphale seems to share the sentiment, because he keeps talking about the most random subjects, and they’re both a bit tipsy, so they don’t make much sense and aren’t worried about it. Most of the time, Crowley suspects, they don’t even listen to what they’re saying, but they sure seem to like the sound of the other’s voice.
They end up back at the hotel and Crowley pretends that it’s no big deal at all – it’s not like he purposefully brought them there or anything. That would be weird, right?
His attempt at nonchalance fails miserably as soon as Aziraphale realizes where they are, and his stupidly blue eyes go wide.
“This is me,” Crowley says, as casually as he can manage (read: not casually at all). “Do you maybe want to–”
Aziraphale’s eyes dart towards him. “I think I left my hat up there.”
“Do you want to come up?” Crowley asks way too quickly. He bites his tongue and curses all the saints he can think of and even makes up a few more on the spot for good measure. “So you can take it. Back. Ngh. The hat, I mean,” he stammers. “So you can take the hat back,” he repeats, breathless.
Flawless. Someone call MI6 so they can offer him a job.
The angel is staring at the hotel’s entrance and fidgeting with the strap of his bag, and if he doesn’t give Crowley an answer and put him out of his misery in the next five seconds, Crowley’s probably going to self-combust.
“Er, why not?” Aziraphale says, clearly going for breezy and missing by a few miles. He gestures towards the door. “After you.”
They enter the lobby and Crowley’s so stuck in his own head that he barely registers Shax snoring on a settee, much to the receptionist’s disdain.
They reach the lift and climb in as soon as the doors open, then stand side by side. It’s just a few seconds, but it feels like six thousand years.
Crowley glances towards Aziraphale and finds him looking straight at him like he’s that stupid passion fruit soufflé he ate at dinner. Crowley preens under the attention and suddenly realizes he won’t be able to tamp down the urge to bask in the angel’s softness for much longer. He’s cold and tired and Aziraphale is a warm, cozy presence and Crowley desperately wants to touch him and just be close to him. Doesn’t matter how.
Aziraphale’s blue eyes turn a shade darker and…
Time stops.
The angel leans towards him, one of his hands moves as if to reach Crowley’s cheek and then…
The doors ping open and Aziraphale quickly stumbles back like he’s just woken up from a magic spell, visibly shocked at finding himself so close to Crowley.
“I-I think I better go,” he stammers.
“N-no, wait.”
Crowley moves to touch his arm and he must look way too desperate, because Aziraphale takes a step back and everything goes to shit. And what kind of shit magician is he if he can’t even materialize his stupid fucking sunglasses when he needs them most?
“W-what about your hat?”
“It’s– it’s just a hat,” he splutters and Crowley’s so mortified that he lets himself be delicately pushed out of the lift. “Good luck for the show tomorrow night.”
“A-angel, w-wait,” he repeats, but Aziraphale is already pressing the ground floor button and offering him a distressed little smile.
“I-I’m sorry, my dear,” he says, and it’s a shot straight to Crowley’s heart. “I just can’t.”