Chapter Text
There was a point in Crowley’s life when he wouldn’t have been caught dead aboard the Metro-North Railroad commuter train bound for the hell that was Connecticut.
And yet.
And yet.
He was dragging his dumbass bicycle out of the quiet car, maneuvering the best he could down the stairs onto the station platform as the low sun cut right through his dark glasses. It was early October, and just starting to get into that season where it was too hot in the afternoon and too cold in the evenings.
It was really just the worst.
Fuck! He couldn’t help himself. He cursed the cold, the stupid leaves falling off the ugly trees, and the lazy good-for-nothing sun for starting to set at 5pm this time of year. All of this could’ve been avoided if he still had his stupid goddamned gorgeous car.
But he didn’t have it. Wasn’t even his anymore, was it?
He hit a pothole head-on, just barely managing to keep a hold on the handlebars where the leather was crumbling to pieces under his white knuckle grip.
Fuck this.
Fuck this entire fucky, fucked up situation.
And fuck New England, too, and their godawful fuckin’ roads.
But they weren’t even the worst part. No, the worst part — the worst part — was that the commuter train didn’t allow bikes during peak hours, and they tended to be assholes about sneaking them on, unlike the 4 train. So instead of showing up at 6pm for rehearsals, he arrived in Greenwich at 4:23 frickin’ PM.
And then he had to dick around for an hour and a half before it was time to actually work.
It was his own fault really. He’d chosen to stay in New York City. Sure, maybe he’d lost literally everything else, but he wasn’t going to lose his home.
Well, he had lost his home, technically speaking. That’s how he had ended up in Crown Heights, swapping Upper West Side for Brooklyn. But this was still his city. No matter what. No matter who tried to say otherwise.
Twenty-five years.
That’s how long he’d been here. Back then he’d had to share a one-bedroom with two roommates just to make ends meet. “Garden level,” they’d called it. What they had meant was it was mostly underground and damp, and the walls were always sticky for some reason.
The things one does for theater.
Like take the 3:39 PM train from Grand Central, arrive at half past 4 for a 6pm rehearsal in Greenwich -fucking- Connecticut.
Crowley sighed, hopping off the bike and heaving his backpack to the ground in one smooth movement. He rifled around in it for his monstrous U-lock; it was certainly overkill for this bougie area, but what could you do? He wasn’t going to buy a separate lock for Greenwich. That’d be ridiculous. But there was nothing stopping him being irate about the whole thing.
It slotted through the center of the black chipped powder coat frame and hooked around the signpost. Apparently this town was too uppity for proper bike racks. He snapped the lock together with a heavy click and turned the key, whistling as he dunked the keyring back in his backpack and made his way into the library.
Once again, in-his-20s Crowley would have balked at these plans.
But 43-year-old Crowley wasn’t wasting any more time, money, or burnt taste buds on Dunkin coffee, and the library had a cafe that was open til 6. And if they kicked him out when he finished his coffee, he could just go pretend to read a book upstairs. There was a nook on the topmost floor that caught the last of the sun’s warmth before it disappeared for, practically speaking, another 20 hours.
At least out here in the suburbs, there was a bit of joy to be found in watching the streetlamps and houses light up one by one like stars, as opposed to the chaotic, inauthentically-colorful and light-polluted nebulous mess that was the city itself.
Maybe he could get used to it.
If he ever left the city. Which he never would.
The hour passed peacefully, with his giant headphones keeping most of the other visitors away. He had the same page open as he did an hour ago. Not that anyone knew the difference. Tossing it back on the nearest shelf, he stood up to go, yanking the audio adapter and aux cord out of his phone before shoving everything roughly back in his backpack.
Time for work.
The cold hit him harshly as soon as the door swung open ahead of him. Oh, fuck it. His leather jacket was buried underneath the headphones and a few mangled protein bars and frankly… it just wasn’t worth it for the ten minute ride to the–
FUCK.
There was someone next to his bike, wrestling with the U-lock.
“Oi! Git–”
He couldn’t afford a new lock, nevermind a new bike — at least not until this show goes up.
“Is this your bike, sir?”
Sir? Oh go straight to hell.
“Is it my– course it’s mine. Whose else would it be? Go on then, get.”
A second voice piqued behind him.
“Well,” it huffed. Which was irritating enough on its own, Crowley thought, had it not continued. “Must be from the city.”
Crowley whirled around. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“Some nerve — locking your bike up here, and oh, but then to be rude about it.“
“It’s a library–”
“Oh yes, very observant–”
“–where else am I meant to–?”
“–I suppose you also didn’t notice–”
Why was he even wasting his time with this nosy busybody? Crowley turned his attention back to the locksmith, putting on his best fake-friendly grin.
“Listen, I just left it for a minute but I’m back now. No harm, no foul.” He rummaged through his pack, unleashing a feral streak of cuss words internally as his keys were inevitably at the bottom underneath old receipts, spare sunglasses, and of course, his leather jacket. “If ya don’t mind, I’ll just–”
Crowley jammed the key into the lock and yanked it free, holding it up sarcastically in the air between them.
“Mmkay?”
He swung a leg up over the seat, catching the pedal and propelling himself forward, somewhat aware that he had run over one of their feet in the process.
“Fiend.”
“Thief,” he called back. Serves them right.
“Well, I never–”
But Crowley was already gone.