Chapter Text
'The time is approximately 11:15 when Aziraphale arrives at Avaunt Gallery & Community Art Space. The sun is bright; the breeze is soft, playfully tossing his fine curls to and fro. Not so warm as to go about in nothing but one's shirtsleeves, but cool enough that a light jacket is welcomed. All in all, a lovely spring day in May.
But enough about the weather! Let us get on with the programme, shall we?’
Aziraphale removes his hat and pauses to squint at the somewhat stark storefront, unsure if this is in fact his correct destination. If so, the building certainly held up to the gallery’s name. The corner unit is all smooth concrete and dark-tinted glass. A rather foreboding construction if he did say so himself! A bit too bleak and cold for his sensibilities.
He oscillates at the entrance for a moment, hat spinning in his hands as he shores himself up.
But oh, was he being silly! Yes, rare books and manuscripts were more his forte, and yes, it had been a while since he had been tasked with an acquisition for the auction house. But!! But. Gabriel was trusting him with this, for once, and he could bloody well do the job. Many of those manuscripts were illuminated after all! That had to count for something, right?
‘Right’.
Trusting that this little pep talk would do the trick, he pulls his shoulders back and plasters on his most benevolent smile before opening the door and stepping onto the threshold.
The interior of the gallery is much like the outside; smooth gray concrete walls and all. But...the light from the large west-facing windows casts the room in a warm enough glow. There are artworks, large and small, dotting the walls of the immense open space; a sculpture here and there. The few large potted plants inhabiting the room were not doing nearly enough to make it feel inviting and homey, but at least they were trying!
What was decidedly not projecting a warm welcome, however, was the Man(?) Woman(?) Person(?); he was loath to misgender the jumble of dark clothing behind the reception desk.
Determined not to be dissuaded, Aziraphale takes a step forward with a prim clearing of his throat and begins with a hearty...
“Good Day!” He greets, politely enthusiastic. He holds his hand out to the-oh! It is a person, after all-slouched over the gallery’s reception desk. He pauses as the stranger raises their head to stare at him. At least he thinks that the person is staring, they are wearing dark glasses you see(ha!) so he can’t be quite sure. There is a brief, awkward moment where they simply look at one another--or Aziraphale does, before lowering his hand, shaking his fingers out as he does so.
“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.” He states, an apprehensive tremor shading his voice.
It’s not that he is necessarily nervous per se, just a bit out of conversational practice; having been confined (voluntarily) to the auction house basement and archives in recent months.
“Azzsss…erafellfell? Thahsa bit of a mouthful innit?”
“Aziraphale Fell.” He corrects civilly.
He does not mean to make a stuffy first impression, but Aziraphale’s name had always been a bit of a touchy subject. His primary school days had been hard enough, thank you very much.
“Ngk” Came the stranger’s oddly succinct reply. Not quite a sound, not quite a word. Like a thought interrupted.
“Right,” they say with a punctuating emphasis on the letter T, pushing themselves up from the desk by their forearms in a smooth progression of limbs and angles.
Good Lord, they were tall! Long and lanky. All legs and elbows clad in various shades of black; a beautiful woven silver scarf adorning their neck, shining against the dark material of their tunic.
Aziraphale takes a beat to give the individual a surreptitious once-over. And really, who could blame him! He was only human after all.
“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?”
He frets, nervously fingering the chain of the pocket watch at his waistcoat.
“Nahh,” they reply, “you said you were early, right? I imagine a dandy gentleman suchas yerself must be very timely indeed!” They say, with a tilt of their eyebrows and a lilt of amusement in their voice.
Aziraphale stutters at the remark.
“I... ah-I'm sorry, but just what are you implying?”
“Well....” The figure in black begins.
“The clothing to start,” two fingers lifting and motioning at Aziraphale, tracing him from the tips of his smart-if slightly worn, brown oxfords to the tops of his unruly white-blond curls.
“The pocket watch to continue. Your altogether put tah-gether-ya know, look! Screams punctual to me. Like the rabbit in Alice’s Adventures.” They state, as if it's nothing. As if it doesn't cut Aziraphale right to the quick.
“Astute observation,” he asserts, releasing his breath audibly through his nose. Trying his best not to give in to the embarrassment. Never mind the blush dusting his cheeks, the tips of his ears.
It had taken him a long time to accept himself and his quirks. He was not about to let a well-dressed, alarmingly attractive (Look at that hair! The most astonishing shade of garnet he had ever seen, shoulder length waves half up in a messy bun) stranger take him down a peg!
Not this time anyway. Never mind. To the issue at hand!
“Is. Mr. Crowley. in?” His tone, though steady and calm, is insistent.
He’s very proud of himself.
“You arrre lookin’ at ‘im,” The dark-bespectacled fiend replies.
“Oh Bother,” Azirapahle blurts unbidden, practically exhaling the words.
“Oh Bother?!” Mr. Crowley incredulously exclaims; his(!) voice going a full octave higher.
He takes his first swaying steps out from behind the desk; thumbs hooked into the front of his very tight (honestly, are those really workplace appropriate??) jeans.
Bloody Hell. Mr. Crowley is also sporting a flashy pair of high-heeled snakeskin boots, and my were they doing wonders to accentuate the lofty lengths of his legs.
“Who are you? Winnie the bleeding Pooh? ‘S no bother Ezerafellah. How were you to know? I’ve only ever dealt with Gabriel and that Sandy-something chap. You Empyrean lot with your long-winded names...where is he by the way?”
“Aziraphale,” he corrects again out of habit, “I’msorrywhereiswho?” He asks a bit too quickly. Reluctantly lifting his gaze from his careful study of Mr. Crowley's boots and back to his dark glasses.
“Gesundheit,” Mr. Crowley says with a smirk.
“Ya know, Sandy! The usual guy! Sneery? Balding. The literal definition of off-putting?? Sandy.”
Aziraphale cannot help the small giggle that escapes at that description. It was apt after all! And, he had to rather guiltily admit, that it was nice having that sharp observational skill of Mr. Crowley aimed at someone who was not himself.
“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.”
“Good grief. Ya know you sound like a dictionary when ya speak, yeah? Anyone ever told ya tha?”
And though the words sting a bit, his tone is not unkind. A tinge of good-natured laughter softens them.
“Big Guy couldn't come himself ey?”
“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.
“And yes, to answer your other query...they have.” He says after a pause, some dejection sneaking out unbidden.
Mr. Crowley lowers his glasses down his nose at the despondency in his voice, revealing perhaps the most gorgeous shade of amber eyes Aziraphale had ever had the pleasure of seeing. Like the light at golden hour or a freshly harvested honeycomb. A sliver of something warm and sweet, with the danger of a bee's sting lurking just beyond the periphery.
Dangerous. Enticing.
And there it is! Cheek forgotten. At times Aziraphale could be forgiving to a fault. He hoped that this was not one of those times.
“I dinnae mean anything by it Angel, ‘s just a joke.” Mr. Crowley says. Eyebrows furrowed, some of his gallusness receding.
Aziraphale is quick to shake himself from his sunset-beekeeping daydream.
“Oh, it's quite alright, Dear Boy. No harm done. Really! It's just that...” He trails off suddenly, words dying on his lips.
Aziraphale feels himself blink. Once, twice, in rapid succession. Entirely unsure if he had heard correctly.
“A-angel? Wherever did that come from Mr. Crowley!?” That blush from moments earlier reappearing with absolute gusto.
If Mr. Crowley is at all fazed, he does not outwardly show it. Simply folding his arms across his chest and leaning back to perch on the edge of the desk. He does not give him an audible answer, simply gesturing vaguely to something behind Aziraphale. He smirks and watches as he turns.
Behind him, hanging previously unnoticed just to the right of the Gallery entrance, is an absolutely massive painting depicting a pair of wings. They had been perfectly bookending his shoulders as he’d stood in the lobby talking with Mr. Crowley. A mixed medium riot of texture and color; stars and planets interspersed between feathers.
Oh, but they were breathtaking! And Aziraphale was taken.
His breath was taken; that is.
Gracious was he flustered.
“Allllright.”
Aziraphale whips his head back around at Mr. Crowley speaking once more. He is upright again and has pivoted toward a hallway. “Shall we discuss then?”
He does not wait for an answer; simply struts toward what Aziraphale can only assume is Mr. Crowley's office.
His gait is easy and ambling. Heels clicking with every step. Shoulders back, pelvis leading. Fingers hooked once more into the belt loops of those impossible jeans.
He stops and turns just before reaching for the door, glasses again at the tip of his nose. Honeyed eyes visible once more.
“Crowley.” He announces.
Aziraphale tilts his head a bit to the side, frowning slightly in confusion.
“You can just call me Crowley. No need for the Mr....” he says before turning again toward the door and turning the handle.
“Angel,” Aziraphale scoffs after a moment. “Indeed.”
He hurries to give chase before the slim retreating form of (Mr.) Crowley disappears through the office door.
In his haste, Aziraphale fails to notice the artist's signature hidden amongst the brightly painted feathers. A highly stylized snake, curling itself into the vague shape of the letter ‘S’. A Samael piece. The very painting he was here to negotiate the sale of.