Chapter Text
‘If you were to ask for Anthony J. Crowley’s business card it would look just like this:
A heavy thing with embossed bronze lettering and expensive black card-stock.
But he was not in the habit of carrying them on his person, nor of handing them out.
It's just that, most of the time, he simply couldn't be bothered.
So! If you happen to receive one, good on you.
And if you find yourself in possession of one with a phone number, all the better. Congratulations! You’ve passed the test! Though it was impossible to know what Crowley had tested you for, as it changed with his moods. And who happened to be in front of him at the time.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like people, either, though he would deny it if you asked him directly.
As a matter of fact, Crowley found his fellow man, woman, they/them, et al, etc.…. exceedingly interesting. He did not like to admit it (and he wouldn’t unless explicitly threatened), but he was quite fascinated with his fellow human beings. His studies of them, anyway. Their inerrable, ineffable? Intentional design.
It was important to him as an artist, he would say. If the threatening actually came to pass.
In truth, he had spent many peaceful afternoons in a park somewhere simply observing humanity. All its colors, facets, charms…and rough edges.
While there, he would also, from time to time, observe the ducks. If the feeling struck.
He likes to bring them frozen peas to snack on, you see. Never bread. Bread is NOT good for them.
This is-again-something he would never admit to, not even under oath to King and Country.
He had an image to uphold after all.
Anyhow. Though his card stated his job title as a ‘Creative’, he had not felt like one in quite some time. Especially today.
No, today he was in a mood. The dumps were down, and he was in them.
The time is 11:13.’
“Aurrghmph,” Crowley groans into the crook of his elbow.
He is slumped, as is his Monday morning custom, over the front desk.
He is exhausted and nursing a rather nasty hangover, another time-honored Monday tradition. He had stayed out too late the night before, and he was absolutely paying the price for it. Head aching, lights too bright. Though they were always too bright now, weren't they?
Thank the Cosmos for his glasses. He would be a bit lost without them on his best days-useless on his worst. They were honestly miracle workers.
In this case, that was not a metaphor. If you thought he was down now, you should have seen him before he had acquired them.
While it is true that he enjoys the way they make him look oh so mysterious and unapproachable, they also serve a very practical purpose.
Some years ago, he had acquired a case of Tritanopia Dyschromatopsia and Photophobia. The result of a life-altering fall—a part of his history that he didn't really feel like reliving right now. Thanks, brain.
If you liked, he could go into a long science-y explanation, but what it really boils down to is: certain colors not looking quite so colorful. Yellows and blues in particular give him the most trouble. All washed out shades of bleh. He is also extremely sensitive to bright light.
Simple enough explanation, yeah?
It isn't ideal, him being an artist and all, but the point is that the glasses did wonders to improve his quality of life.
Before he had gotten his hands on them, it had been labeled color wheels and marked up palettes, notes on all the paints and spray cans, and and and, blah blah. Bah.
Regular sunglasses had worked well enough for the light issue, but these let him see color as well. Technology could be absolutely belter sometimes, eh?
Anyway, where was he?
Oh, right, in a mood.
He would have stayed upstairs in his flat, called Anathema in to take over for him, maybe called in a favor to Beez, if not for the damned meeting with that dull Empyrean dolt. Sal-something. He couldn't think of their name right now; thinking was hard.
He wished he could have cancelled or rescheduled, but he needed this piece to sell well, and that wasn't going to happen without it going to auction. And that wasn't going to happen without this meeting.
No. Best to get through it quickly, and then he could close up early.
It wasn't like it would inconvenience anyone if he closed anyway. There was hardly any foot traffic, and those who used the rented studio spaces had keys of their own.
No. No one would miss him if he disappeared for the rest of the day. The foreseeable future, even. Once the painting sold and he could afford to keep the lights on a little longer anyway.
That's really the only reason he went to the trouble of selling any big pieces at all nowadays.
However much Crowley resented the gallery, he needed to do his best to keep it running.
It was a roof over his head at the end of the day, a basement car park for his Baby (hard to come by in SOHO), and a place to house his many, many houseplants.
Perhaps the most important reason, though, was that the space had become a second home for many of the local artists; one of the few affordable studio spaces left in the area. Crowley didn't like people very much, mind you, but while he may be in an extended creative slump, he didn't mind being able to provide a place where others could come to create if they wished.
Crowley is roused from his wallowing by the sound of the small bell above the gallery door tinkling lightly, heralding that the dreaded meeting was about to begin.
He did not move from his position on the desk, head still resting on his forearms.
“Ask not for whom the bell tolllls...” he breathes into his elbow, entirely over everything for the day. Until his visitor speaks, that is.
“Good Day!” Comes the cheery greeting, Capital Letters blaringly audible. Entirely too enthusiastic for his hungover state.
This did not sound like Sallysomthin. No, that bloke usually sounded how Crowley imagined sandpaper did to a piece of wood. Grating. Off-putting.
This voice, however, sounds light. Genuine. Warm.
Crowley lifts his head and squints at the vision just inside his doorway.
Even through the tint of his glasses, Crowley can see how brightly the man before him is shining. His eyes(blue-grey), his smile. The sunlight from the windows casting a warm glow through pale curls. Like a halo.
Ethereal.
He feels his eyes moisten with an emotion he can't quite place. Thankfully, they are currently hidden from view.
Crowley is so caught off guard that he doesn't even notice the gentleman's hand outstretched in introduction until it’s bashfully lowered.
‘Oh, good job, Crowley.’ He berates himself. ‘Great manners there. Well done.’
“Aziraphale Fell of the Empyrean Auction House and Antiquary. I have an appointment to see a-uh-a Mr. Um...Crowley? I am a few minutes early.” The gentleman says anxiously.
Aziraphale. There was something so lyrical about that name, a song entering his ears, clearing the cobwebs left by his hangover, and traveling straight to the center of his chest.
He means to say something smooth and interesting. Something charming. What comes out, however, is:
“Azzsss…erafellfell? Thahsa bit ovah mouthful innit?” His own mouth not having caught up to his brain, voice hoarse from disuse.
Christ on cracker, he was really mucking this up.
He would swear off alcohol forever if he could get through this encounter without making himself look like an even bigger git than he already has.
“Aziraphale Fell.” He is corrected.
He can admit that it is deserved. He just can't seem to get his brain and mouth to work together very efficiently right now.
Crowley wants to apologize, explain himself, and start over. Introduce himself properly. Instead, he only manages a rather weak-
“Ngk.”
Hell, he was really out for a duck. What was WRONG with him today??
Right. A hangover and a handsome, glowing stranger. Obviously.
Time to rally. Play to his strengths. Fall back on the tried and true. Act cool. Flaunt his assets.
“Right,” he says, slowly pushing himself up with his forearms.
He knows the figure he cuts and how to accentuate it. He also knows that it's working. He feels Aziraphale’s eyes on him as he stands, drinking him in. So, he takes a minute to do the same.
Aziraphale is standing ramrod straight. Stout and broad-shouldered, radiating a quiet strength and grace. His plush frame is clad in various gentle colors and textures. Well-worn and well-loved. His waistcoat, made of…what was it? Velour? Velveteen? Looked so soft that it was taking all of Crowley’s self-control not to reach out and touch.
Is this really what gets him going nowadays? Antwacky gents sporting honest-to-goodness beige-y tartan bowties? And so much khaki! Or was it Ecru? Didn’t matter. Various and sundry shades of tan-y white. Honestly. The man before him is the very caricature of a librarian! Was that the chain of an actual pocket watch he spied glinting from a waistcoat pocket? Unreal.
Crowley can’t help but chuckle. The whole look was charming if he had to slap on a label... which he didn't. Have to, that is.
“Is Mr. Crowley in? I do believe the appointment was for 11:30? You see, I'm a bit of a stickler when it comes to timing. On matters of business, anyway. I double checked before leaving the office. Twice! Which would make it a quadruple check, I suppose. I didn't get it wrong, did I?” Aziraphale inquires, interrupting Crowley’s very important thoughts on fabrics and how soft they looked and how tempted he was to touch.
He watches Aziraphale’s fingers as they subconsciously play with the chain of his pocket watch for a moment or two before realizing that an answer was usually expected when a question was asked. He says the first thing that comes to mind, his more sardonic side naturally slotting into place.
“Nahh, you said you were early, right? I imagine a dandy gentleman suchas yerself must be very timely indeed!”
Crowley watches Aziraphale’s face fall a bit, nose crinkling in a small frown. Wrong thing to say then? He had been going for sassy flirt, but he was aware that he could sometimes come off as a bit of a bastard.
“I... ah-I'm sorry, but just what are you implying?” Aziraphale asks, a little flustered.
‘Ok! Fix this, Crowley. Turn on the charm.’ He tells himself, raising two fingers into the air, tracing Aziraphale, starting at his toes and working upwards.
“Well... the clothing to start…the pocket watch to continue. Your altogether put tah-gether-ya know, look! Screams punctual to me. Like the white rabbit in Alice’s Adventures.”
“Astute observation,” Aziraphale says, releasing an exasperated breath through his nose.
The reply is short, but it does earn Crowley the blush he can see creeping from beneath that starched collar and reaching the tops of Aziraphale’s ears. The apples of his cheeks.
He counts it as a win.
“Is. Mr. Crowley. In?” Aziraphale asks, with a pause at each word. Crowley can tell he’s getting a bit impatient, so he smiles, raises one eyebrow, and says,
“You arrre lookin’ at ‘im!” with a slight nod of his head. And he really should not be surprised by the next words out of Aziraphale’s mouth.
“Oh, Bother.”
Of course, a guy dressed like that would say ‘oh bother’ unironically. Crowley laughs under his breath as he steps away from the desk and asks,
“Who are you? Winnie the bloody pooh? ‘S no bother, Ezerafellah. How were you to know? I’ve only ever dealt with Gabriel and that Sandysomething chap. You Empyrean lot with your long-winded names. Where is he, by the way?”
“Aziraphale…” he is corrected again. Crowley notices that Aziraphale has trailed off, eyes focused intensely on his footwear. He had chosen the black snakeskin, high-heeled, red-bottomed Louboutin ankle boots today. He wears them when he wants to feel powerful, and he knows exactly the effect they can have. He internally pats himself on the back for his choice. “Imsorrywhereiswho?”
The question comes out all in one word as his eyes slowly return to Crowley’s face.
“Gesundheit,” Crowley says with a knowing smirk and a cheeky wink (though the glasses hide it, it's the thought that counts). “Ya know, Sandy! The usual guy! Sneery? Balding. The literal definition of off-putting? Sandy.”
He’s rewarded with a giggle and a small smile.
“I think you must mean Sandalphon, my dear fellow. He was called away on personal business. A Family matter, you see. And my boss-Gabriel that is-thought me a fit substitute for this inquiry.” Aziraphale replies, smile reaching his eyes.
“Good grief. You know you sound like a dictionary when you speak, right? Anyone ever told you tha?” Crowley asks, good-naturedly. “Big Guy couldn't come himself, eh?”
“Oh, he is terribly sorry! Busy season, you know. Simply could not get away from the office. He does send his warmest regards, however. And I assure you I am more than up to the task!” Aziraphale rushes out before pausing again, shoulders slumping just a little.
“And yes, to answer your other query.... they have.” Dejection obvious. Something he had said had struck a nerve with Aziraphale, and oh, that was not on. Crowley did not want to be the cause of that look on his face.
That is his only thought as he lowers his glasses, brows furrowing as he gently says,
“I dinnae mean anything by it, Angel, ‘s just a joke.”
“Oh, it's quite all right, my Dear Boy. No harm done. Really! It's just that...” Aziraphale rushes out before trailing off again. Eyes Crowley knows to be a startling steely-blue (currently just grey without his glasses), blinking rapidly as he stares into Crowley’s own amber. His blush from before violently returning.
“A-angel? Wherever did that come from, Mr. Crowley!?” Aziraphale manages to ask around his shock.
Crowley stands frozen for a moment, brain gone completely offline.
‘ANGEL?! Had that just come out of his mouth??’
Yes, obviously, he had been THINKING it very loudly from the moment Aziraphale had stepped through his doorway. But how was he going to explain that in a way that didn’t make Crowley look like an absolute nutter? This is a business meeting! Not a meet-cute.
‘Get it together, Crowley. You can fix this. Think!’
He had been so wholly focused on Aziraphale that he had failed to notice (consciously anyway) he’d been standing in front of ‘Angel Wing (VV 689)’. Celestial wings perfectly framing his broad shoulders.
‘Yes!’ He thinks, neurons firing off once more.
He leans back against the desk, arms crossing his chest, and nods toward the painting, indicating that Aziraphale should turn around. Casual as can be.
He hears Aziraphale’s small, awed inhale, just as he releases a breath of his own. Only now realizing he had been holding it.
He comes to a decision then, pushing himself upright and turning towards the hallway.
“Alright”. He says, prompting Aziraphale to turn back to face him. “Shall we discuss then?” He pivots again in the direction of his office, boots clicking on the marble floor.
With eyes again unshielded, he stops to look back at Aziraphale.
“Crowley,” He states.
“You can just call me Crowley. No need for the Mr.”
Decision made. Test passed. He turns back again, grinning widely as he turns the handle and hears Aziraphale hurrying to follow after.