Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

For the first time in two months, Fell doesn’t wake up alone.

It’s the early morning and it’s quiet, dark. There’s an arm on his stomach, a leg entwined with his. A light, deep breathing that is not his own. Without opening his eyes, Fell lets his fingers brush a few strands of hair away from the other man’s forehead. He remembers thinking, yesterday evening, how much that hair has grown in two months.

He lets his hand slide down a shoulder, along a ribcage, follow the curve of a slim hip. He is hesitant, delicate: he doesn’t want to wake him up yet. But Crowley is sleeping the sleep of the dead, he is sleeping away two months of endless work and exhaustion.

Suddenly aching to do something (anything), Fell extricates himself from the tangle of limbs and gets up in the near darkness.

He finds his way to the greenhouse, where there aren’t any shutters and a milky light is pouring in from outside. From what he can see, the snow has stopped. He makes his way to the living room, where he is greeted by the same mess from yesterday. He sighs. He wanted to make breakfast, but maybe it’s better if he first…

A sudden buzzing noise breaks the silence, like angry wasps trapped in a jar. Fell casts an alarmed look around and finally pinpoints the horrible noise down to Crowley’s cell phone vibrating on the kitchen counter.

The name bee (spelled without capitalization) is on the display. Fell considers pretending not to notice, but then something occurs to him and he decides to answer.

(Deciding to answer and actually doing it are two separate things, but he figures it out, eventually.)

“Hello, this is Fell.” He keeps his voice down and, when there’s no immediate answer, he glances at the screen. 

Then: “Oh, gimme a break”.

He smiles. “Good morning to you too, Bee.”

Another silence, this time punctuated by what could be a grinding of teeth. “He’s sleeping, then?”

“Like a log.”

“Huh.” It’s hard to say, but there seems to be a bit of begrudging approval in that sound. “Better to let him rest, then. He can take a day off.”

“Yes, well, about that. I have a favour to ask you.”

By the time Bee knocks on the door, he is dressed and has fixed himself a nice cup of tea. He’s fully awake and ready to take action.

He opens the door and smiles again at the sight of the black smudge of a person in front of him. He lets them in, ignoring the caustic look in their eyes. “Thanks for coming. Hope the snow didn’t cause any trouble along the way.”

“Yeah, whatever.” They look at the mess and sniff. “It looks even worse in the light of day.”

Fell grimaces. “I know. I really appreciate you coming here.”

Bee’s scowl could melt metal if it was accidentally spilled on it. “This is not how I was planning to spend Christmas morning. But I guess eating yesterday’s leftovers in front of the telly is just as pathetic. Let’s get to it.”

If it was only up to him, Fell wouldn’t have been daunted by the prospect of tidying up alone. As he had anticipated, though, Bee knows the flat like the back of their hand, and more importantly has worked with Crowley long enough to judge whether a sheet of paper covered in doodles is valuable or can be trashed. 

The owner of the flat sleeps through the couple of hours it takes them to clean up the living room. When they’re done, Fell makes himself another cuppa and asks Bee if they want one, even if he already knows they will decline.

Nevertheless, they follow him in the kitchen, leaning against the isle, maybe considering whether sitting down on a stool could detract from their unfriendliness. “So.” 

Fell, who was half-hoping, half-dreading a conversation, keeps himself busy with the kettle and doesn’t turn.

“You’re staying.”

They’re not talking about him staying the night, or his plans for today. Not just that. “Yes.” He opens Crowley’s tea cupboard and takes a tin out of it. “I’m not going anywhere. If he wants me.”

Bee makes a nauseated sound. “Oh, spare me, please. He’s disgustingly in love with you.”

Dried tea leaves spill out of the infuser Fell is filling and on the counter.

Bee goes on. “I’m not saying that’s good for him. It makes him reckless.”

“He’s an adult. He makes his own decisions.” He collects the spilled leaves and carefully closes the infuser’s clasp. “I am very much in love with him, too.”

The groan he gets in response is predictable and half-hearted. “I really don’t need to know these things.”

Fell finds himself disagreeing. “He seems to be under the impression that your relationship with him is purely professional. That you don’t really care about him. I don’t think he actually believes it, but he certainly fears it.”

With another disgusted noise, Bee looks away. “He is so dumb. He’s like a puppy. Makes me want to kick him, sometimes.”

“And you obviously care, since you’re here on Christmas morning, giving me the talk .”

“I haven’t given anyone any talk .” Bee’s tone is outraged.

“Well, my mistake, then.” Fell opens the dishwasher and picks up a clean mug. There’s no need to add anything. He trusts Bee to be smart enough to understand.

There’s a protracted silence, then Fell finally turns around and sees Bee looking at him with narrowed eyes and a contemplative expression. “If you hurt him, I’ll cut your balls and nail them to the door.”

Fell bites his lips to keep himself from smiling. He knew it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

After Bee has gone home (presumably to eat leftovers in peace, as per their original plan), Fell finishes his tea and looks at the time. If he did the math correctly, Crowley has been sleeping for almost ten hours.

He puts his empty mug in the sink and opens the fridge, finding a box of eggs and an open carton of milk. A cautious sniff at the latter sends it pouring down the sink, while the eggs still seem edible.

He is now sufficiently acquainted with the trappings of Crowley’s kitchen to make some decent scrambled eggs. As he’s looking in the cupboards for plates, he finds a tray where he puts the eggs, cutlery and a cup of tea. He has a feeling Crowley would appreciate coffee, but the coffee machine is still beyond his understanding. One thing at a time.

The man’s still asleep, but he stirs when Fell pulls up the shades and then sits on the bed beside him, moving the hair that’s fallen back on Crowley’s forehead out of the way so he can kiss it.

The sound that comes from the depths of Crowley’s throat is hoarse and surprised. He sniffs once, eyes still closed. “Eggs?”

“Precisely.”

His eyes open, then, and he blinks a few times as he tries to focus on Fell’s face. “Eggs.”

“Good morning to you too, my dear.”

After Crowley has rubbed the sleep from his eyes and put on his glasses, Fell makes him scoot over and sit on the covers. They have breakfast side by side, and as Crowley’s state of awakeness improves they chat a bit, about inconsequential and unimportant things ( “I can’t believe you stayed over because it was Christmas Eve and it was snowing. What a cliché” ).

“Oh, there’s something I… I have something for you.” Fell was aiming for spontaneous but missed the mark by quite a long shot. He feels his face become worryingly warm. He ignores it and bends over to pick up something from the floor. “Uhm, here.”

Speechless, Crowley takes the brown package Fell gives him. It looks even more unassuming in his hands. Crowley’s colours are so much more saturated — his amber eyes, now so wide, his flaming hair. “What… what’s this?”

“You’re supposed to open it and find out, I think.”

Crowley recovers enough to pick at the clear tape keeping the envelope together. When the paper falls open, he holds something wrapped in fabric. He strokes the fabric with his fingertips, almost reverently, then he pulls it apart to see what’s inside.

Fell can’t help himself. “I know it’s not much. I just thought… After what you told me about your godson, well. I thought about it, and then placed an order. For books. Obviously.” He watches Crowley reading the titles of the books in his hands, looking at the back covers. He still hasn’t said anything and Fell has to fill in the silence, or he’ll die of embarrassment. “These are some of them. For young readers, you see. I looked them up on the Internet and asked the kids’ opinion. You know, from the book club.”

Crowley is still not looking at him. “You have queer young adult fiction in your bookshop.”

Fell thinks about the row of colourful spines and quirky titles on the shelf right beside the entrance. He thought they’d look out of place, but for some reason they don’t. Not in a way he doesn’t like, anyway.  “A… a little corner, yes. I had to reorganise a bit, but…”

He has to stop, because Crowley has dropped the books and is pulling him in for a kiss. It starts with so much pressure that Fell can’t feel his lips, then turns into something more tender and desperate at the same time. He puts his hands on Crowley’s, trying to say I’m here, I’m here without words.

When they pull apart, Crowley keeps him close, doesn’t let him go. “You…”

Fell clears his throat. “There’s also…” He gently lowers Crowley’s hands and takes the piece of fabric that enveloped the books. “I, uhm, took up a few hobbies while we were… Well. While we didn’t see each other. This was one of my first attempts, but I’m not… What I want to say is that, if you don’t like it, I understand.” 

While he’s talking, Crowley grabs and unfolds the thing. It’s not a simple piece of fabric, but a patchwork of silken offcuts in different black and dark grey patterns interspersed with floral squares. They’re sewn together to form a large triangle, hemmed on two sides with a heavy black fringe. Crowley doesn’t say anything, but his cheeks turn a violent red.

When Crowley looks at him, he shrugs and tries to smile. “It’s your colour.”

Crowley takes a deep breath. “I don’t… I got nothing for you. You made this and I have nothing to give you back.”

He’s disgustingly in love with you. Bee’s words from earlier echo in Fell’s mind. “Don’t be an idiot.”

And then Crowley is kissing him again, and again, and Fell topples over and pins him on the bed, and Crowley’s hands and mouth make it very clear that he doesn’t want him to move away anytime soon. And that’s perfectly all right with Fell.

Clever fingers starts unbuttoning his shirt. “No bowtie this morning, Mr Fell?” Crowley teases, but his mocking tone is tempered by the fact that he sounds out of breath. He leaves a trail of kisses on his neck and clavicle. “Are you sure our acquaintanceship has gone on long enough to forego such formalities?”

“You… talk too much”, says Fell, when he feels he can speak again.

“And you have far too many clothes on you.” Crowley pulls at his shirt and Fell helps taking it off. He grabs a handful of Fell’s undershirt and then stops. “Do you want…”

“Yes.”

Fell’s complete lack of hesitation does something interesting to Crowley’s face. His expression finally settles on incredulous. “Are you sure you…”

“Yes.” Fell hasn’t been so sure of anything in his entire life. He’s never felt like this before — so completely devoid of doubt or hesitation. “I want you. I want this.”

Crowley looks at him with those eyes, and Fell can’t do anything but kiss him, pressing him into the mattress, which Crowley doesn’t seem to mind at all.

Then Crowley startles and groans, making them both shift. He reaches and pulls a books from under his back. “One of your books just stabbed me.”

Fell rolls his eyes. “Move over.”

They take everything that doesn’t belong in the bed and they put it on the nightstand or on the floor. Fell takes advantage of the situation to get rid of more clothes, and Crowley does the same. When Fell sits back on the sheets, Crowley strokes his arm, making the downy, fair hair stand up.

“Can I look at you?”

And it’s not that Fell has dreaded this moment since the beginning. It’s not. Dread is not the right word. For a start, there are a lot of things that make him feel worse about himself than his less than remarkable physique, and for some reason Crowley accepts them — no, he likes them. But still.

He glances back at Crowley, and there’s that look again. Something warm in his eyes. Fell takes a deep breath and takes off his undershirt. Here he is, sitting on Crowley’s unmade bed, feeling more naked than he’s ever been in his life.

This sensation is increased by the way Crowley furrows his brow while he looks at him. He really looks at him. The sudden urge to break the silence takes over. “I know, I’m not very… Uhm.”

“You are.” Crowley looks up. “Don’t believe me?” He takes his hand and puts it on his chest.

Under his fingers, his mortifyingly damp palm, Fell can feel Crowley’s heart beating furiously. Almost as much as his own. He looks at where they touch, skin over skin, and then further down…

Crowley sees him blushing and looks down too, to the hard ridge that’s clearly visible under his underwear. “Ah, yes. Should have led with that. It’s probably more convincing.”

This startles a weak laugh out of Fell, a laugh that ends in Crowley’s lips when he reaches over and kisses him, slipping a hand on the back of his neck to keep him still. Every point of contact is suddenly electric and Fell can’t get enough of it, the feeling of Crowley’s skin against his own.

Crowley pulls away, licking his lips tentatively. “Would you like to lie down?”

Fell settles against the cushions and puts his palms on Crowley’s thighs when he straddles him. They never break eye contact, they barely blink. They close their eyes only when Crowley bends down for another kiss.

The fact that Crowley’s trembling too reassures Fell in some measure.

“I have been thinking about this for two months. I told you you were distracting. You have no idea.”

Shaken by a wave of pure longing, Fell lifts his hips. It’s nothing, but it makes Crowley gasp all the same. “I may have. Tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

“You, under me, like this.” Crowley licks his lips again. The blush has travelled down his neck, on his torso. He’s almost blushing with his whole body, and Fell wants to touch every inch of his lovely, overly emotional skin. “You, inside me. That is, if you want, we can do whatever…”

“I would like that”, Fell interrupts him. “Very much.” For some reason, that’s not hard to say, not at all. It’s the truth.

Crowley exhales from his nose and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Fell’s. Strands of red hair fall on his face, and Fell brushes them behind Crowley’s ears, stroking his warm cheeks as he does so.

Is this the right moment to tell him that he loves him? Is there a right moment to tell someone that the love you feel for them makes your heart beat in a different way than before?

He says nothing as Crowley turns to kiss his left hand, and then hooks his fingers on Fell’s underwear. Fell lifts his hips to help him getting rid of this last layer, and then it’s Crowley’s turn.

He has seen various parts of Crowley’s body at different moments in time, and has done things to a few of them. But he is somewhat unprepared for the sight of the other man’s naked body, and for the effect it has on his own, equally naked. This is interesting , he thinks.

Let’s just say that, if someone in that room harboured even the tiniest doubt that Fell was absolutely, tragically, unavoidably attracted to Crowley, it would have evaporated in that moment.

Crowley looks at him for a long, quiet moment, then he seems to shake himself awake and reaches for the nightstand drawer, taking out a bottle and a box. When he speaks, he sounds as breathless as he looks. “Uhm… You’ve already…” 

Words. Voice. Yes. He remembers how they work. “I may lack experience, but I know the theory.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he’s unable to keep himself from smiling. “Excuse me for forgetting you know everything.”

As Crowley straddles him again, Fell gently strokes his thighs, his hips, the sides of his abdomen, silently marvelling at how perfect it is and asking himself if he’ll ever get used to this. He aches to find out. “You know how much I read.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. There's an author in particular who writes very explicit content.”

“And you like them?”

“She’s my favourite.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “I thought you said I was.”

“You are.”

“Come here.” With a hand on the back of Fell’s neck, Crowley bends down. They are kissing as if their lives depended on it, their bodies pressing against each other, shifting with slow, languid motions. I know you , it’s what they say. I see you. I know you. Over and over again.

When it becomes too much, there’s a short and to-the-point conversation. Fell finds his fingers slicked and he’s about to ask Crowley what he should do, but the words that come out of his mouth are different. “Tell me what you like.”

If the hitch in Crowley’s breath is something to judge by, that was the right thing to say. He takes Fell’s wrist and moves his hand just so. “Start with one.”

Fell does. His finger slips in easily, with the slightest, lovely resistance. Crowley’s hiss and the flutter of his eyelids are so gratifying that Fell pushes in a little more. He puts his free hand on Crowley’s thigh, to steady them both. “Too much?”

“No.” Crowley closes his eyes. “Move, please.” The groan that escapes from his throat when Fell slides his finger out, and then in again, is indecent.

“This should be illegal.” Oh. Apparently his filters don't work very well in situations like this. The breathless, surprised chuckle his comment causes, though, prompts him to add: “You are positively…”

Crowley’s hips stutter. “Yes, angel?”

“Indecent.” Fell takes one of Crowley’s hands and brings it to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “Lovely. You’re so good…” He hesitates, then parts his lips and bites the tip of Crowley’s middle finger, only the slightest pressure, feeling the soft pad under his teeth, the light salinity of his skin.

Another gasp, a very interesting one. “A-another finger, angel, please. Don't stop.”

Fell obeys. He’s avoided looking at Crowley's body, so far, because he fears it will undo him, and he wants to make this last as long as he can. He closes his eyes as Crowley brushes his lips with his fingertips.

“Tell me what you're thinking.”

Well. In for a penny… “I want to look at you. But, uhm… I’m afraid the show will be over much too soon, if I do.”

“Oh.” A whisper. “I don’t care. Please, look at me. Look at what you’re doing to me.”

Fell does. A light sheen of sweat is making Crowley’s body shine in the pearly light. His chest and abdomen are in high resolution. A dusting of sparse, fair red hair covers the upper part of his torso, growing thicker between his legs. Fell crooks his fingers inside him, making Crowley’s entire body shiver and his hard, red cock twitch.

“I… can’t… I need you now. Please?”

Something clenches in Fell’s chest, and elsewhere. “Are you sure?”

Crowley has straightened his back and is already fumbling with the condom envelope. “Never been so sure in my entire fucking life. Can I? Put it on you?”

“Oh, God, no.” Fell didn’t mean to speak with such vehemence, so he explains: “If you touch me, I won’t… Let me do it, this time”.

This time. It’s deliberate. He hopes Crowley can tell, that he can feel the implication sit comfortably between them, too.

For a moment he regrets dismissing Crowley’s help, because he’s never actually done what he’s about to do. He fears he’ll fall prey to his usual first-time jitters and all. But everything goes smoothly, in the end, and then Crowley is over him again, looking at him the way he does when Fell says something that really grabs his attention.

“Still want to do this, yes?” 

Fell cuffs his arm, gently. “Do I need to answer?”

“Just checking in.” And then he’s there, and he starts lowering himself, and every remaining scrap of banter Fell has in him fizzles out as his mind and senses focus on one point, one sensation.

He finds himself holding onto Crowley’s hips, steadying him, as he himself keeps completely still. (And he feared he wouldn’t last long before …) He also feels like he’s going to cry, but it’s not ugly or sad. More like something Stendhal would understand.

He is completely inside Crowley, now. When the other man’s hips move — a fraction of an inch, something a seismograph would barely register — a mortifying noise escapes Fell’s throat.

Crowley’s gasp is delighted. “Oh, God, please, do that again.” 

“I won’t.” But Fell is betrayed by his own body: his hands are still gripping Crowley’s hips and they make him shift just so…

Crowley laughs. “Thank you, angel.”

“I’m not… far”, says Fell. He’s been keeping himself from falling apart for an eternity, or what feels like it.

Crowley nods, then he bends down to kiss him. His own cock is trapped between their bellies, and when he moves, the friction makes the both of them gasp.

The orgasm is not unexpected at all, but it still sweeps over Fell, knocking the air out of his lungs. As he comes, he reaches between them to give Crowley something more firm to move against, and also he wants to feel it, to touch him as he comes, to be the one who makes it happen.

It goes on for a while. 

Afterwards, there are more kisses, and heartbeats slowly returning to normal, a towel soaked in warm water and both of them on the dry side of the bed, skin on naked skin under the covers.

“So, you’ve been keeping yourself busy, too, I understand.” Eyes closed, Crowley is laying with his head on Fell’s soft chest, an arm and a leg draped over the other man’s body. Fell is stroking his shoulder with his knuckles.

In the quiet, warm Christmas morning, Fell tells him about everything he’s done since the end of October, and Crowley fills in the gaps left by his emails. They talk about Bee behaving like a debutante’s father, about Fell being more and more at ease with children and teenagers.

They talk about Crowley’s book.

“I wanted to ask you…” Crowley hesitates, then tilts his head until he’s looking at Fell. “Would you like to read it? When it’s done? I’d like it very much if you would. Before anyone else.”

Fell tries to hide how much this question means to him. “Surely, your editor…”

“She doesn’t know what I’m writing.” Crowley shrugs, but his hands are shaking. “They have the novel they were waiting for. If they don’t want this one, I’ll publish it myself. I don’t care, I just want the truth to be out there, on my terms.”

The meaning of these last few words sinks in slowly. After the recent, well… exertions , both his body and his mind feel relaxed like never before.

He knew that, of course. He knew the details of Crowley’s plan, the ones he’d shared after the meeting, two months ago. But it’s quite different to be presented with the actual thing after it’s done. “How far along are you with the writing?” 

“Not much left. It’s hard not to procrastinate, because when it’s done… I’ll have to get ready for the next step.” With a sigh, Crowley stretches. He takes his time, arms going up over his head, his entire body pressing on Fell’s. “I just wish there was a way to do it without consequences.”

Fell is about to reassure him that they’ll be all right, but obviously there’s so much more at stake. “What are you worried about?”

“Adam.” The answer is immediate. “It could easily ruin his career. He said he’s okay with it, that I should do it, but…” Crowley shakes his head against Fell’s chest. “You don’t know how things can get nasty in academia.”

Lost in thought, Fell runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair, gently smoothing out the knots. “ He knows it.”

“Mmm. He’s young and idealistic. And then there’s Warlock.”

“You know he’ll never think any worse of you for this.”

“Still.” Crowley sighs again, moving so that Fell’s finger can reach the back of his head. “I wish there was a way to test it. A… a focus group. Something small and safe.”

Fell knows that Crowley’s just voicing what he considers wishful thinking, but two of the words he used — group , safe — plant themselves in his mind and refuse to leave. 

He lets the idea sit for a while, developing, and when he finds no exceptional faults in it, he clears his throat. “I may have a suggestion.”

The light entering from the bookshop’s front windows this Sunday afternoon is pale, but it warms the room in a very pleasant way. As Fell observes, the kids and Anathema take their seats, chatting and laughing and leafing through the books they’ve pulled off the shelves. He loosens his bowtie, just a fraction. His neck is damp with sweat, and he thinks about ditching the blasted thing altogether, but he needs it to keep himself together. He needs some armour, today.

In the backroom, unbeknownst to everyone else except Fell, Crowley is pacing back and forth, picking up stray books and putting them on random shelves. Crowley doesn’t even notice he’s organising them by height, spines perfectly aligned. Since this is Fell’s private collection — half storage, half his own property — and Crowley’s not messing with the shop’s arbitrary, idiosyncratic cataloguing system, Fell doesn’t rush in to stop him.

He clears his voice instead, alerting Crowley of his presence before entering the room.

The man’s all angles and worry. “I don’t think I can do it.” His tone is casual, like he’s telling him that he can’t make it to dinner tonight, unfortunately, something’s come up, sorry, and can they have a rain check?

Hands clasped, Fell smiles gently. “That’s perfectly fine.” He keeps his voice down, both to be comforting and to make sure nobody hears them talking. “Nobody knows you’re supposed to be here, so no-one’ll be disappointed. You can use the backdoor, if you want.”

Crowley’s tilts his head with a reproachful glance, as if he knows exactly what Fell’s doing.

He keeps his poker face on. “Or you can say hello to everyone and sit in the back, listen to the conversation. We’re supposed to talk about one of your books, after all. You may even find it fun. Interesting, at the very least.”

After Crowley hesitantly agreed to his plan, and they talked it out some more, Fell contacted Lori and lifted his veto on Madame Ashtoreth’s novels for the book club. As the self-proclaimed expert in the subject, being in the middle of writing her dissertation on the novelist and all, the next day Lori had already chosen a handful of the author’s more representative work, but refrained to cast her vote in the ballot, stepping in only to break a tie. Her attitude is part enthusiasm and part ruthless determination.

Crowley tightens the shawl around his shoulders. It’s the one Fell made him. He’s never worn it outside the house before. It pairs really well with the dark grey turtleneck and the soft, black velvet skirt he’s chosen, so long it almost pools at his feet.

Fell thinks about armours and realises that, with the possible exception of the dark glasses, Crowley isn’t wearing one today. That’s why he’s so shaken. This is not an alter ego — neither of them, the debonair science author or the enigmatic novelist. This is just… him.

“It’s just that…” With a weak laugh, Crowley takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. Fell lets him do it, something clenching in his chest as he sees how bloodshot they are, the deep shadows underneath. “They’re all tangled together. The good and the bad things. This wasn’t about her. Madame, I mean. But sometimes it is. Sometimes I feel like I’m still mourning her. Even after all these years. Isn’t it stupid?” He lets out a shaky breath, putting his glasses back on. “At first it was… I don’t know, a way to keep her alive. But also vengeance. Retribution. Then I got so used to it that it became its own thing, you know?”

Fell can’t really say he understands. Not all of it. But he knows Crowley has to say it, so he listens. Gently, as if they could break if he’s not careful, Fell takes his hands. They are clammy and cold, and he covers them, trying to warm them. “What are you scared of?”

Crowley looks at their joined hands. A long moment passes before he speaks again. “Sometimes I hope nobody cares. And at the same time this prospect is terrifying. I’m the only one who knows exactly what Madame Ashtoreth really means, and now I’m letting the world know.” He tilts his head, a bit of spirit returning to him. “Well, like, nine people, today, but tomorrow there will be more, and the day after, and the day after that…”

“It’s okay.” And Fell thinks very hard about his next words. Will he be so bold? Is it terrible advice? “You can let her go.”

In that very moment, somebody knocks on the open door of the back room. “Hey, we’re ready to… Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were here too, Crowley.” Anathema looks at him from head to toe. “You look wonderful, by the way. I… Wow. Okay. I’ll leave you to it. Later.”

After she’s gone away, looking a little staggered, Crowley looks at himself and frowns. “Do you think it’s too much?”

Fell laughs. “It’s perfect. I had never seen Anathema speechless before.”

Crowley shrugs, getting his shawl all lopsided. Fell lets go of his hands to fix it for him. “Well, angel. Let’s do it, then.”

They didn’t rehearse it, not properly. There have been conversations, sure. But, as Fell faces the small crowd before him, he suddenly feels entirely unprepared. 

He thinks back to another day, not so long ago, the first time he gathered a small crowd of people in his shop, when he sat there listening to a man he didn’t yet love (not the way he does now, at least) and wondering exactly how and when he put his foot in his mouth. No, it wasn’t so long ago, but it feels like years. Like another life, led by someone else, someone who loved peaceful, silent, lonely days and was loved by no-one in return.

(As he’s thinking this, Fell sees Anathema smiling at him with something inexplicably like pride. No, not ‘no-one’, that’s a bit overdramatic, isn’t it?

But the point still stands.)

He clears his voice. “I hope you don't mind a slight change of plan.”

Her blue hair piled on top of her head, Tara narrows her eyes. “I’m not having this discussion again. We’ve gone through the Hunger Games to pick the book this month. If we’re changing it, I’m leaving.”

Her flatmate Alex, who manages to look twice as tall as her even if they’re both sitting, looks excited. “This is very extemporary of you, Mr Fell.”

Meanwhile, Lori is shuffling her papers. She is ready to step up and take the stage. “Uhm, Mr Fell? What's happening? I had prepared my questions and everything. I planned to put today’s discussion in my dissertation. You knew.”

Fell is taken aback by the alarm in her voice and tries to sound soothing. “I think you’ll have some material for your dissertation nonetheless. I have a little surprise for all of you. You'll like it, I think.” How to introduce it, though? “You see, this is a bit of a long story. In the beginning, I was in the bookshop…”

In the backroom, Crowley clears his voice.

“Oh. Well. Uhm. We were about to discuss one of Madame Ashtoreth’s novels today. How would you like to meet the author instead?”

Human emotions are many and variegated and he thinks he sees almost all of them play out on the faces of the people before him. Anathema, understanding, sits straighter as if she’s keeping ready to answer to an emergency. Some of them are sceptical, others just plainly confused.

Once again, Lori's hands are restless as she smooths her papers. “Is this a joke?”

It’s time. Fell turns to the back room door. “Come in, dear.”

Everything is quiet for a few seconds. Anathema covers her mouth, probably without noticing. Everyone else sits very still.

Standing before them, Crowley — not Madame Ashtoreth, not Dr. Crowley, just Crowley — clears his voice. Fell can almost feel him vibrating with stress. “Uhm, hello.”

After a few more seconds, the silence is broken by Tara. For the first time since Fell knows her, the girl has lost her composure: mouth open, she leans forward, gripping Alex’s arm with so much force that he grimaces (but he’s wise enough not to say anything). “Holy shit. You’re her.”

Someone in the back rows whoops, and then everyone is talking at once. Fell turns slightly, smiling, and Crowley returns the smile to the best of his current abilities. Then he sees the first smartphones being raised and he steps forward to establish the ground rules (something he should have started with, really).

It’s in the middle of all this that he notices that Lori seems about to cry. He frowns and makes to step towards her, when she suddenly gathers her things to her chest and gets up, shaking her head. “No.” Her voice is so soft that no-one except him hears her. “No. I can't. I'm sorry.” She doesn’t even stop to wear her coat before she’s out the door.

The sound of the bell above the door makes the room go quiet again, at least until Tara swears through gritted teeth and grabs her coat. “I’m going after her. You.” She points at Crowley. “Don’t say anything until I get back. God, if I end up miss this because of her, I’m going to skin her alive.”

As soon as the door closes behind her, in the stunned silence, Alex turns to Fell and Crowley. “We’re not really waiting for her, are we?”

Fell’s idea to use the book club as a focus group confirms two things. The first is that, as soon as he overcomes his nerves, Crowley is an incredibly good talker. People naturally take to him and he knows how to grab their attention effortlessly. Even as he explains how and why he wrote his latest book, the most revealing and personal thing he’s ever written by any standard, he is open, steady and calm, and his audience eats straight out of his hand.

The second is that kids these days are too nosy for their own good. The third time someone asks them So are you together-together? he has to repress the urge to run away.

He is about to deflect the question when he catches Crowley’s questioning look. Despite the sunglasses, Fell knows exactly what he’s asking. He sighs and shrugs. He didn’t want to make today about him at all, but if they really must…

Crowley lifts a corner of his mouth. “Yes, we are. Next question?”

Alex raises his hand, as if he’s attending a lecture. “What will the title be? Not the novel’s, I mean. The autobiography’s.”

( “An autobiography?”

“Sort of.” Crowley is lying on his couch with his eyes closed and a hand on his forehead, like he’s nursing a headache.

Fell gingerly puts his cup of tea down on the coffee table and turns towards him. He doesn’t say the first thing that comes into his mind (this is madness) . He doesn’t say the second (you know there’s no turning back from this) , either. “This will completely change your life.”

Crowley tilts his head and cracks one eye open. “Yeah, sometimes change is good.”)

The bookshop is quiet once again. 

“You see, the thing about the titles is that the author rarely has the last word on it. But this time I insisted.”

(The bookshop door opens and closes. Fell looks up from his desk and sees Crowley, in black jeans and a black shirt, sunglasses on, looking so much and not at all like the first time they’ve met. It’s something in his posture, maybe. Something about the spring in his step. Or maybe it’s just the hair, now so long it can be plaited in a braid.

Instead of the biggest box a person can carry without toppling over, he has a large white envelope in his arms. Crowley lifts it up to show it to him and Fell almost jumps off his chair. Inside the envelope there’s a thick wad of unbound A4 sheets of paper.

“Here it is.” Crowley gives the envelope to Fell. “First draft. I’m calling it An Absence of Stars .”)

What’s left to say?

Fell is the first person to read Crowley’s manuscript. The second one is Pepper, Crowley’s editor, the cryptic woman from the meeting, who fights for the book to be published by the main imprint of the publishing group she works for, pitching it as the non-fiction book of the decade. If Crowley’s daunted by this, he doesn’t let it show.

“It’s out of my hands”, he tells Fell. “Whatever happens, I’m good.”

What happens is that An Absence of Stars enters the bestseller list (doesn’t reach the first spot, though. That cookbook has no intention to budge), it gets talked about and reviewed, several think pieces about gender and societal expectations are written and shared on the Internet, and a few weeks later the ebb flows and other events and scandals take its place. 

While it lasts, Bee mostly handles things, including a press conference where they act as diplomatically as they could be expected to. Everyone gets out of the room alive and no legal complaints are made, so all in all a success. Crowley declines every interview, saying that everything he needed to say is in the book and that the author is, if not dead, certainly very tired. 

Fell carefully cuts the articles from the papers and prints out those online, just to be safe.

He wouldn’t call it a happy ending, in the way it doesn’t feel like an ending at all. The feeling of being in the eye of the hurricane is stronger than ever, but it still doesn’t bother him. He can wait for the storm to pass, and he’s in good company.

Their lives slot together with less effort than Fell had expected when he started thinking about the logistics of it, that morning on a beach in the South Downs. It helps that Crowley is not throwing himself back to work right away. Apparently the man has a bucket list and is determined to do everything he was too busy to do before. He spends an entire day at Kew Gardens, from opening to closing times. He goes to matinées almost every day and drags Fell with him to walk through parks and museums and art galleries.

First of all, though, they have dinner.

Fell has to admit the Ritz has a nice ambience, an even nicer selection of wines and an excellent menu. By the time they reach dessert, though, a few things happen.

Mainly, they talk.

Fell waits for the waiter to pour the wine in both of their glasses and to go away before he asks: “So. What’s next, my dear?”

Delicate fingers take the glass by the stem and make the wine inside swirl, contemplating the way the light plays on the Vermentino. The movement makes the sleeve of Crowley’s black shirt shift enough to reveal a white wrist, lilac veins underneath the skin. Fell knows exactly how that pulse accelerates under his fingers, his lips. “I want to take a vacation.”

As he lifts his glass, Fell keeps his tone purposefully even. “Where did you have in mind to go?”

“Anywhere, I don’t care.”

The wine is light. The first sip doesn’t go straight to his head, unlike other things. It should pair well with the seafood of their main course. “What about your job? Will you write? Do research?” 

He expects a flippant answer, like the one he once got. Eyebrows raised. I’m always writing. 

What he gets instead is this.

“I’ve… been thinking about it.” Despite being at the bloody Ritz, Crowley’s sprawled like the student who always gets sent to the principal's office, an arm slung over the backseat, facing towards Fell, who's at his right side. His hair is up in a bun, and he’s looking at him though clear lenses. He’s started wearing his other glasses more and more often even outside of his flat. He is relaxed, and so is his tone. “I won’t be writing for a bit. I’m not quitting altogether, I don’t think. I just want to live a little, you know. Go places and don’t think about how they’ll fit in a novel. Don’t worry whether Adam is looking for the right things at the observatory. Forget about deadlines for a while. I just want to be there. With you.”

Looking away from him, Fell smiles in his glass. “Oh, I’m invited too?”

“And he thinks he’s funny.” Crowley rolls his eyes, but his heart’s not in it. “Just… think about it.”

Fell allows himself to picture them elsewhere, somewhere sunny, somewhere they've never been. “I will.”

There will be other dinners, and lunches, and breakfasts, both alone and with other people. Anathema will invite Crowley over to a Saturday brunch (a one-time-only type of arrangement, she specifies. She and Crowley joke about sharing custody of Fell and he begs them to stop. He loves them so much his heart feels about to shatter).

But this is the dinner where they Talk. About the Thing.

It’s very anticlimactic, all things considered. The thing is, they both already know. They have already started living as if the Thing wouldn’t go anywhere anytime soon, and when they put a name to it there are no anxieties, no doubts, no but will he return my feelings? Come on. They know.

It’s still nice to make things official, though. Especially for Fell, who likes it when things are properly signed and sealed. But he suspects Crowley — his partner — is at least as pleased as he is by the arrangement.

There are, of course, books. Talked about, borrowed, even planned (though Crowley really takes a break for a time, he can't exactly stop his brain from thinking, and so Fell starts listening to and weighing in on his ideas, on long walks, over dinner, during lazy mornings in bed, and if the bookshop opens late that day nobody will really mind).

That autumn, An Absence of Stars gets reprinted and Crowley presents Fell with a copy, “for your collection”. Fell waits to be alone before opening the cover and flipping to the first page. He knows there will be something there.

(“Why do you always open them?”

It’s a Thursday. They are in the bookshop. Fell is arranging his new arrivals and Crowley lounges in his armchair, a leg draped on the armrest, looking all casual and distracting. At least he’s wearing trousers today. He has picked upon Fell’s habit of opening books and looking at the title page before putting them on the shelf.

“It’s just a tic. From handling used books, you see. I always expect to find something written inside.”

“These books are new.”

Fell laughs self consciously. “I know. Like I said, it’s a tic.”

“Looks time-consuming.”

“Are you in a hurry?”

Crowley smiles and rests his head on his hand, making himself more comfortable. “Not at all, angel.”)

From then on, every book Crowley gives Fell has something written in it. The scribble on the first edition of An Absence reads: Here it is. The most reckless thing I’ve ever done.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

There are changes. Some of them are plain and huge, such as Mz White’s arrest following a huge Guardian investigative piece about an ugly story of pollution and cover-ups. Other people’s misery has never made Fell happy, even when they deserve it, and he’s too involved in this complicated story to follow its developments with equanimity. The important thing is that, even if she wanted to hurt them, Carmine Zingiber doesn’t have anything to threaten him or Crowley anymore, and if the whole affair tastes a little like justice, well. Fell will take it and leave the rest of the world (or, well, the rest of England) to discuss it.

Other changes include Crowley wildly mixing and updating his wardrobe. It’s adorable, really, the enthusiasm he puts in it. Fell, who doesn't wear the same clothes he had when he opened the bookshop only because he’s gone a bit soft around the middle in the twenty years in-between, looks with amusement and affection at his partner’s experiments. He still wears only dark colours — not everything has to change —, but spots of red and purple appear among the black and the dark greys. Sometimes it’s jeans and leather, sometimes skirts and dresses, often a bit of both. Fell always likes what Crowley comes up with, but then again he thinks Crowley always looks lovely, so his judgement may be a bit partial. (Sometimes Crowley makes him look at his chat with Anathema on his phone. Fell is sure they don’t talk exclusively about clothes. They’re just the parts Crowley lets him see. He’s sure.)

That summer, Warlock comes over during Pride Month. With his black clothes and the eyeliner, he looks like a pocket version of Crowley. They put rainbow pins and flags on and go to the parade together. For his part, Fell hangs rainbows everywhere he can in the bookshop — which must be a bit startled by all these colours all of a sudden, and suffers it with grace —, but crowds are still very much not his thing. When Warlock comes around, he gets promptly adopted by the book club kids, whose company Fell has come to expect almost every day.

And then there’s the post-it.

Fell finds it stuck on the title page of An Absence ’s reprint. There’s a string of numbers on it. At first he thinks it’s a telephone number, but it’s too long. They’re not times nor dates, too incoherent. He takes the post-it out of the book and sticks it carefully above his desk, always in sight.

He thinks about it on and off. Coordinates? No, it should be alphanumeric. What, then? The first time Crowley comes by and sees the post-it, he chuckles, then shrugs. His lips stay sealed.

It finally occurs to Fell thanks to Lori's dissertation. 

The girl has turned around quickly: she came to the bookshop the next day, almost in tears, apologising Fell for the way she reacted.

Her cheeks were bright red and she looked everywhere but in Fell's eyes as she explained. “I couldn't stop thinking: this is the end. The focus of my work, of my future career is Madame Ashtoreth, and now everything will have to change. Every theory, every hypothesis, every interpretation, everything will have to be rediscussed.” She exhaled and finally looked at him, and something she saw in his eyes softened her own expression. Suddenly she wasn’t so tense anymore. “But I’d never forgive myself if I put these things in front of real people. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. I can never undo it, but I can apologise. Please tell him.” She tilted her head. “Or is it ‘them’?”

“‘Him’ is fine, thanks for asking. And I’m very happy you’ve come. I’ll tell Crowley, but he’s not angry with you. He’s never been. I’m sure he’d love to offer some insights, if you want.”

His tone was casual, but Lori reacted as if he’d offered her a million pounds. Her eyes were wide and she looked like she had stopped breathing, but… in a good way, sort of? “Are you sure? Are you serious ?”

“Yes, of course. We talked about it and he said that scholars usually appreciate hearing from the source itself. My dear, are you all right?”

Instead of answering, Lori covered her face with her hands. “When? Shall I go to his place? Or maybe we should meet in a café, neutral ground. Or we could come here! Would it be all right, Mr Fell? I will have to go through my edits faster…”

Long story short, it’s night and Crowley is reading Lori’s dissertation in bed. They’re at Fell’s, because Crowley doesn’t mind being at close quarters in Fell’s small apartment. (Fell asked. A few times. Crowley told him to stop fussing, and Fell did with a smile he didn’t mind to hide.) Fell closes his book, keeping a finger between the pages, and turns to Crowley, who’s started reading aloud a particularly clever comparison between two novels (something to do with structure and plot devices), holding a pencil and gesturing as he speaks. Fell admits he gets a bit lost, because when he looks at Crowley he has to take a metaphorical step back and reassure himself that yes, Crowley is really in his bed, and he reads with his glasses a bit too low on his nose, completely absorbed, and Fell would like to pick this moment and press it in a book. 

Then, as Crowley goes on, reading the page numbers Lori quotes in her dissertation, something clicks. Eureka.

He has enough self-control to wait until Crowley’s asleep to get out of bed and tiptoe downstairs, where he feels his way in the dark until he can turn on the desk lamp. He grabs his new copy of An Absence of Stars and verifies if his theory is correct.

It is. The numbers on the post-it are page numbers, and then line and column. He takes pen and paper and stars jotting down the words they mark.

It doesn’t take long. It’s a question, four words long, and his self control is tested once more as he doesn’t wake Crowley up to tell him the answer. Instead he goes upstairs and slips under the covers again, sliding towards the man who wants to be his husband, waiting for him to wake up in the morning to tell him that his answer is, of course, yes.

Most importantly, they are happy. Fell never gets completely used to it, not even when he has spent years with his husband by his side. And he thinks it’s the same for Crowley as well, judging from the way he looks at him, sometimes. Judging from the little everyday things and the big ones alike.

He has everything he could ever desire.