Chapter Text
—As rude as always —Aziraphale muttered, biting back a curse.
What else do you expect from someone like Crowley? Still panting from the frantic rush to the elevator, he watched it close three feet away from his elegant loafers. Crowley had not even tried to hold the door; he had just stood there with his arms crossed and raised his eyebrows over his dark glasses in a grimace.
Aziraphale was already running late, and since the HR offices were on the twenty-fifth floor, there was no way to take the stairs.
Holding the door for a second would not have cost him a thing , he thought ss he waited for the next elevator. Petulant, arrogant, self-centered, smug.
A person next to him cleared their throat, interrupting his digression. The CEO of Hangers from Eden , Gabriel A. Silverman, stood rigidly next to him, wearing a clean white Armani suit and carrying a small burgundy handkerchief in his pocket that smelled of lavender and cedar.
—Fell —he said abruptly—. Are you not supposed to be at work?
—Good morning, Gabriel —Aziraphale said, and immediately regretted it; Gabriel hated being addressed by his first name—. I was on my way to the office right now.
Gabriel stepped on the elevator as it opened, leaving Aziraphale in the corridor.
—You should take the stairs, Fell —he said as the door closed—. It will help you lose some weight.
Aziraphale was used to receiving such comments from his superiors, and he unconsciously brought his hands to his stomach, covered by his tan wool vest. When he arrived at the office with the Benefits Coordinator sign on the door, his cheeks were flushed. He took a seat and used his handkerchief to wipe away the thin film of sweat on his forehead. To his dismay, there was a tall pile of applications on his desk that were awaiting rejection. He cherished the infrequent times he had to grant an employee the benefits they were entitled to or approve an annual leave request. Resigned, he began catching up on his work.
He remembered Crowley, and his expression grew more scowling with disgust. He was such an unruly, aggressive, reckless, and disorganized man who behaved as though the world was his. With his ostentatious red-dyed hair, tight black leather pants, and that tattoo beneath his ear, he was dazzling everyone while concentrating solely on himself. Aziraphale was aware that he did not follow schedules and that no one, not even his coworkers, wanted to be close to him. He had once seen him smoking next to his old Bentley, flaunting it like a toy; a girl had approached him seductively as she left the building and asked him for a ride. Immediately dismissing her, Crowley climbed into his car wearing the same expression Aziraphale would have if he had discovered bird droppings on his favorite suit. How can there be such a negligent, immature, boastful, unnerving man?
Anthony J. Crowley was slumped in his chair on the 27th floor, a pen in his left hand and a phone between his shoulder and ear. One of his responsibilities as a Hell's HookR's sales representative was to persuade as many people as possible to place orders for endless quantities of hangers. His seductive personality made his job easier, but he was far from satisfied. Hastur and Ligur were chatting on their phones at his side, enslaving potential customers to their brand. As usual, Crowley paid them no attention. Since Hangers from Eden (HFE™) had taken up residence in this building, his supervisors had grown increasingly exacting and less forgiving of errors. As a result, every report that Crowley gave Beelzebub was a compliment for his meticulous and excellent work. If the Sales Manager did not confirm the information, it was not his fault.
At lunch break, Crowley made his way downstairs to smoke a cigarette. Once more, he ran into Fell by the front doors. Crowley didn’t know much about Aziraphale Z. Fell, who had an office at HFE™. His three-piece suits, pocket watch, elegant manners, and silk handkerchiefs gave him the impression that he was a haughty, conceited person. They seemed to have a terrible habit of tripping over each other every two steps; their paths were always crossing.
After taking long drags from his cigarette, he lit another. His nervous system was demanding more than nicotine; it wanted to be away from his office for as long as possible. He hated his job, as did the rest of the staff, he was certain. He watched Aziraphale walk through the wooden doors, humming softly, taking short steps and carrying a book under his arm.
He was still swearing under his breath when he arrived at his office.
—Pretentious, narcissistic, arrogant, elitist —Crowley muttered—. Of course he eats lunch alone; no one is worthy of his company, right? —he continued absently as he sat down at his desk and popped another aniseed candy into his mouth.
Aziraphale irritated him; he got him climbing up the walls. Always so polite, so neat, so proper, so correct. He was perfect both inside and outside his office. You would not see him in a bar or a nightclub; he never talked about his hangovers or nocturnal conquests. The only things Crowley had heard about the man were heavy books with over fifteen hundred pages and classical music concerts. His kindness and innocence exasperated him, his soft and sweet appearance made Crowley want to bite him.
—Crowley! —Beelzebub shouted from the door—. I can hear you ranting from here; get to work!
—You moron —Crowley spluttered, this time not referring to Aziraphale.
***
It felt like deja vu , but this time the cards were on the other side of the table, and Aziraphale was going to show him who was the bigger man. He held the elevator door open with his loafer and stepped to the side as Crowley entered the small cubicle.
—You are welcome —he pointed out, with a meaningful sneer. Of course, it was foolish to expect a "thank you."
—What? Is not doing a good deed sufficient compensation? —Crowley replied—. You helped a wandering soul into an elevator, quite an accomplishment.
—That is more than you did!
—Of course, I am not you —Crowley clarified—. You are so nice .
He spoke the last word as if it hurt him.
—Thank you —Aziraphale said, satisfied.
—It wasn’t a compliment —he clarified with a sharp tone—. You cannot do the bad thing, even if you want to, can you? —Crowley spoke as he leaned toward him, his voice filling his ear with the smoothness of a Cabernet Sauvignon .
That voice carried Aziraphale away; used to Crowley's harsh, dry clicks, this unusually sensuous tone turned his legs to mush. He realized all of a sudden how close they were in such a small area. His hands began to sweat profusely; Crowley’s presence enveloped him, his personality so intense that it became overwhelming.
—Why don't you return to the Renaissance painting you ran away from? —Crowley whispered, moving his face closer and closer to Aziraphale’s, amused by the effect he had on him. When Aziraphale's back struck the elevator wall, Crowley continued to aproach, captivating him like a snake enchanting a tiny bird.
—Well, in that case —Aziraphale answered, attempting to maintain composure; his eyes landed on the earring that dangled from the lobe a few itches away from his face; he could now make out the lines of the tattoo beneath that ear—; you look like you stepped off the cover of an 80s rock album.
Crowley gave a little chuckle.
—See? That’s a compliment, angel! —he responded with a crooked smile.
Aziraphale was caught off guard by the term and made a valiant effort to respond. Crowley succeeded in overpowering him to the extent that his thoughts accumulated in his mind without structure or direction, rendering him unable to speak or act. Crowley was so close he could feel his breath on his face, the scent of ginger and anise mingled with tobacco. Helpless, he stared at the lights above the door: 20th floor, 21st floor .
—You are so… you are a… —he stammered, and Crowley leaned closer, intrigued to see him so hot and bothered.
—Tell me —Crowley teased, revealing his bright white teeth. His dark glasses dropped an inch down his nose, and Aziraphale gasped in surprise upon seeing his eyes for the first time.
— Wondrous —Aziraphale whispered.
Crowley was startled; his grin vanished in an instant. What the hell did he say? His confusion led him to move away from Aziraphale with automatic movements. Embarrassed by the word that had escaped his mouth against his will, Aziraphale had brought his fingers to his lips. When the elevator tinkled as it reached the 25th floor, Aziraphale sprinted to his office without turning around.
In silence, Crowley watched him leave. Still in disbelief, he made his way to the 27th floor and walked slowly to his desk. What did he say? Woodrun… Gundrus…
—Something like that —Crowley murmured, typing quickly.
Woodrum , he tried. Frustrated, he deleted it and tried Woodrud . A series of entries related to wood appeared. Wondur also failed to produce a satisfactory result, but suggestions appeared below the search bar: wooden , wondrous , wonder , wander . With a gesture of triumph, he selected wondrous , and read carefully.
Wondrous: inspiring wonder or astonishment. Hints of magic and awe.
The root is the Old English word 'wundor', which means 'marvel','miracle', or 'wonder'.
Related to the Proto-Germanic 'wundiz' and Proto-Indo-European 'wend-', implying being turned or bent in awe.
Frequently used in the works of William Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and J. R. R. Tolkien.
Used to describe something with a unique, strange, or bizarre beauty.
Authors have used this term to describe the haunting majesty of the Universe's mesmerizing vastness, which both beckons and intimidates with its breathtaking spectacle of cosmic beauty.
Crowley became even more confused. It turned out that Fell had insulted him in the most bizarre way he had ever heard, and it was not even an insult. The angel was unable to properly insult; he had to express himself as if he had stepped out of a Shakespeare play or something. And those messy curls, rosy cheeks, and dimpled smile; Crowley recalled how close his face had been to Aziraphale's, the vanilla scent escaping from his hair, the blush that had tinted his skin.
—It is like a cream pie came to life and dressed itself in a vest and bow tie —Crowley blurted out without thinking—. He is so... so... adorable —he exclaimed, as if it were the worst insult in existence.
***
Crowley sneaked through the hallways an hour before his shift ended, excited to get home and lay in front of the television while sipping a glass of whiskey. As he had done every Monday since he began working there, he would take the reprimands for leaving his desk out of turn during the Monday morning meeting. A shiver went down his spine as he passed the HFE™ offices. With pictures of lions, tigers, and wolves in their natural habitat, motivational posters proclaimed, Together we can do great things and To serve is our mission, to satisfy is our destiny. Beyond that, a mural read, We are one big family, encircled by pictures of staff members standing side by side in the same hideous hat. After searching the crowd mechanically for Aziraphale, Crowley discovered him in a corner, nearly avoiding the picture, his blond curls crushed by the small hat with the halo and wings logo. Crowley despised the hallways because he knew they were a lie. The workers were forced to pretend to enjoy their jobs, were routinely taken advantage of, and had their needs ignored. How repulsive . All in order to generate income for individuals such as Beelzebub or Gabriel.
—At least on our side, we admit that this job is shit —he muttered aloud—. And that we hate each other.
When he saw Maggie on the 25th floor, his rage disappeared at once. The only exception to his general contempt for HFE™ workers was Maggie, a kind and gentle woman with a refreshing sense of humor. They had been friends since they were stranded on a joint business expedition by their respective companies, where they ended up eating stale sandwiches and venting to each other about their problems at a gas station. Every time they encountered one another in the hallways, they would exchange greetings and jokes. Maggie's eyes were swollen and red at the moment.
—Maggie, what happened? —he asked, concerned.
—Oh, hello Crowley —Maggie said softly, wiping away a tear running down her cheek—. My son, Tom —Crowley nodded to indicate that he remembered Tom—, was mugged on his way to work, stabbed twice —Maggie explained, and she burst into tears again.
Crowley hugged her awkwardly.
—’M so sorry —he mumbled.
—It’s fine, the doctors are optimistic, and he will be out of the hospital in a few weeks —Maggie said, and Crowley gave her an awkward smile.
—That’s good —he said, unsure what else to say—. You are on your way out; are you going to see him?
—No, I have to stay until six —Maggie said, shaking her head.
Crowley looked around and eventually spotted A. Z. Fell's office.
—Go see your son —Crowley urged—. "I’ll talk to them.
—I can’t —Maggie insisted.
—Hey, do you trust me? —Crowley inquired, and Maggie nodded curtly—. Then go; I’ll fix it.
Maggie hugged him, ‘ Thank you, thank you, thank yo u’, she exclaimed before sprinting towards the elevator. Crowley walked briskly in the direction of Aziraphale's office, but before he could open the door, a quiet voice said, ‘Come in ’. Aziraphale had a complete view of the scene through the glass panels of the door, and his curiosity about that long-legged, pointy-smiling mystery, A. J. Crowley, was piqued.
—Fell —Crowley spat—, enough of the games and weird words, this is important.
—It must be, for you to just walk into my office like that, without an appointment —Aziraphale remarked— and without even saying hello .
Crowley raised his brow, his entire face expressing disdain.
— Good afternoon, angel —he said, mimicking a sweet voice—. Now listen, Maggie is going to see her son at the hospital, and —he raised a finger in warning— she will not face any consequences.
—Maggie requested sick leave to care for her son —Aziraphale stated, lowering his gaze.
—That’s better —Crowley acknowledged.
—I am afraid —Aziraphale added—, that I had to refuse her request.
—Whot? —Crowley exclaimed—. Why would you do such a thing? You are supposed to be the good guy.
—Company regulations prohibit me from... —Aziraphale let out a sigh—. Tom is already eighteen; he will not be covered by the leave.
—Ah, you are that kind of good then —Crowley said, with a hint of disgust in his voice—. Just like your bosses, it’s all a facade.
—Well… —Aziraphale admitted, and Crowley noticed a sparkle of wit in his blue eyes—. I had to decline sick leave in favor of maternity leave; she will be able to miss work while still receiving pay and benefits.
—But Maggie is not pregnant —Crowley replied, perplexed.
—You and I both know that —Aziraphale said with a smile—. But my bosses do not notice employees like Maggie. That is the benefit of not being noticed, you could say.
—Do you believe it will work? —Crowley inquired, amazed though he refused to admit it.
—By the time they notice it, it will be too late —Aziraphale said, gesturing with his hand to emphasize the triviality of the situation— and it will be blamed on a mistake of mine. And that is one of the benefits of always assuming that I will be wrong —Aziraphale continued, his eyes gleaming with intelligence once more.
Crowley desired to capture that sparkle between his fingers, preserve it in a glass box.
—When the leave ends —Crowley attempted—, Maggie could develop cancer.
—Oh no! —Aziraphale exclaimed in horror, and then understanding dawned on him—. Oh! —he laughed at the joke— It is true —he said, smiling mischievously—. Or she could remain pregnant for a couple of years.The mechanics of it are beyond Gabriel's comprehension, between you and myself.
As Crowley let out a loud laugh, Aziraphale observed the slack in his throat and the movement of his chest under his jacket. To his ear, his laugh had a peculiar, hissing tone; it was hypnotic and fascinating.
After their brief conversation, Crowley left his office; Aziraphale's eyes followed the elegant motions of his swaying gait. As he turned off the nightstand light at his bedside and wrapped himself in the fresh sheets, the aroma of anise surrounded his thoughts. He did not pay attention to the book on his bedside table. For some reasob, he had not been able to focus on reading that evening.
***
Crowley awoke with a start; saliva had dried around his mouth, and his neck ached from his poor posture. After more than three hours of bending between the toilet and the door, he straightened up inside the cubicle, his long legs numb. He was going to lose both his spine and his health by taking naps at work. He exclaimed as he glanced at his watch. He ought to have departed some time ago; he did not think he had been so worn out when he fled from his desk in the direction of the restroom. His sleepless night had been interrupted by persistent vanilla scents, which repeatedly woke him up drenched in sweat.
His shoes' heels echoed through the empty hallways; distant, high-pitched voices directed his steps toward the partially open office door. That voice was unmistakable to him: Beelzebub was complaining with his usual buzz. She argued with a deep, masculine voice, using derogatory language, and they ultimately came to a compromise that favored both parties at the expense of everyone else.
Half of what Crowley heard was obscured by ironies and ambiguities, and he did not understand it. But he did learn a few pertinent facts. Hangers from Eden and Hell’s HookR’s were laundering money and evading taxes. Two fools were to be chosen to bear responsibility for the fraud, and his name was immediately mentioned. An outsider to the company culture, he had no friends and many enemies, did very little work, but filled out the reports as though he were the employee of the month each month. An arrogant person who would sign the required paperwork and talk endlessly about his alleged promotion. He was ideal.
Crowley suppressed his anger by biting his lip. Then Gabriel began to talk. He also had the ideal candidate for the job: a lonely, vain fool with a soft heart and a head in the clouds. He planned to propose to him the position of Director of Administration and Human Well-Being at the next Coordination and Planning Meeting .