Chapter Text
Anthony J. Crowley regretted many things in his life.
That time he’d shaved his head in 1995 because he’d been utterly convinced his punk phase was just around the corner (one look in the mirror had been enough to shatter his punk-rock dreams on the spot). That other time in 2002 when he’d broken his arm and he’d thought mixing Talisker and hospital-grade pain meds would be a great idea. Most of his relationships, if you could even call them that (you definitely couldn’t).
But in that moment, with sunlight unceremoniously shining on his face and Maggie’s cheery voice ringing in his ears, there was nothing he regretted more than giving his manager the keys to his sorry excuse for a flat.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!”
Crowley groaned and rolled over to bury his head under the pillow. “Go away, Mags.”
As a general rule, Crowley refused to learn any lessons from his past mistakes, steering clear of anything even remotely resembling a teachable moment. But, no matter how much he applied himself (for all his teachers had said about him back in the day), there was one thing he unfortunately had learned. Namely, that life was better if one wasn’t awake for most of it. Sleeping his troubles away, that was the kind of goal he liked to set for himself, what kept him occupied on a daily basis.
Naturally, to be even only mildly successful at it, he would need to sleep for the next century or so, but Anthony J. Crowley didn’t concern himself with petty details.
He also wasn’t ready to be conscious yet.
“Sorry, but no,” Maggie insisted. “It’s a glorious day out there and I have great news!”
Had it come from any other person, such a grand declaration may have stirred something in him. Something like optimism, or maybe just vague curiosity. But his manager, well… she had the tendency to exaggerate. Leave it to Maggie to act like the tiniest sliver of a maybe-possibly-good thing was nothing short than a bloody blessing.
So no, Crowley had no intention of waking up to hear what she had to say. Yes, it could be something about his pathetic career as a failed musician, but there was just as much of a chance of it being about a pigeon that had escaped a gruesome death by the skin of its teeth on Maggie’s way to work. Which was far more likely at this point, as well as the reason Crowley burrowed deeper under the covers and drawled a muffled: “Leave me alone!”
Crowley regretted it instantly (see? He just couldn’t help it). In the close quarters of his little cocoon of blankets, his morning breath hit him like a punch in the gut. It smelled like something died in his mouth, for fuck’s sake. That bloody pigeon, for example. His career. His will to live. Take your pick.
He was trying to decide if he’d rather die by toxic fumes or toxic positivity, when Maggie made up his mind for him by snatching away his pillow, leaving him once again at the mercy of the morning sun.
“Give it back,” he grumbled, keeping his eyes closed as he frantically waved his arms in a pathetic attempt to grab it back.
Something hot and cup-shaped was shoved in his hand instead.
“Here’s your coffee,” Maggie announced, before placing something else in his left hand. “And here are your sunglasses.”
“I hate you,” Crowley complained, voice still rough with sleep and general malaise.
The trouble with not having a reason to live was that nothing really mattered, which meant there was nothing worth fighting for. Not even his pity-parties.
So he huffed and puffed, but still caved, pulling himself in what could possibly be described as an upright position, but only if you were feeling particularly generous. He put his sunglasses on (a fashion statement turned into a crutch), and only when he’d gulped down half of his coffee did he deign to open his eyes and look at Maggie.
The first thing that occurred to him was that his stupid Mayfair studio flat looked even tinier with another person in it. The second, that that was a perfectly reasonable explanation not to invite anyone over ever again (not that he did or had, to be fair). Third, that only an idiot would pay so much money for such a cramped little flat, and only because he was too stubborn to leave Mayfair and finally accept the consequences of his Fall from grace.
Although it hadn’t been a fall per se, more of a saunter vaguely downwards from fame to… anonymity, almost-bankruptcy, and self-loathing.
Despite his efforts to block any and all information from the outside world, Crowley couldn’t help but notice that Maggie looked genuinely excited, a beaming smile plastered on her face and an honest-to-God twinkle in her eye.
As Crowley looked at her, brimming with enthusiasm in the middle of his flat, he was also reminded of another thing, the reason he still kept her on as his manager in spite of everything. It wasn’t just the fact that Maggie was good at her job and knew more about music than most of those big shot arseholes working in the industry. Truth was, he just couldn’t bring himself to fire her and destroy whatever hope she still held out for him. And maybe, just maybe, Crowley wasn’t ready for her to give up on him just yet.
“You have two minutes,” he grumbled.
Maggie’s smile became downright blinding. “Okay, so, I have an idea.”
Crowley grunted. Of course she’d worked herself into a frenzy about a bloody idea. So no record labels were miraculously asking for him. Figured. At this point, he’d have said yes to Celebrity Big Brother too. (This was a lie. They had asked a few years back, when he still had some kind of attachment to his dignity, and he’d said no, told them to fuck off for good measure. Burning bridges was another specialty of his – too bad he couldn’t pursue a career in that.)
“I know you have been working on new songs–”
The mother of all scoffs rattled in his chest. “They’re not songs. They’re… concepts of songs.” Bars he’d written down just to get them out of his head. No lyrics to speak of, and not for lack of trying.
In the past, er, three-to-eight years, Crowley had resigned himself to the fact that words didn’t come to him anymore. While the random chorus or bridge would randomly take shape in his head, whether he was drowsing in bed or nervously rapping his fingers on any available surface, lyrics were no more than a horrible tangle of blurry letters. No matter how hard he tried to focus, Crowley could never seem to reach them.
Which wasn’t surprising in the slightest, considering he had nothing left to say.
“Exactly. So…,” Maggie continued, practically vibrating out of her skin. “I have found you a lyricist.”
Crowley paused. Blinked. Then: “No, you haven’t.” He didn’t need a lyricist, he needed… well, something that was not a lyricist.
“Yes, I have, and he’s good!” she went on undeterred. “I made him listen to one of your new songs–”
“Not songs.”
“–almost songs, and he came up with lyrics!”
“Absolutely not.” Not a chance in Hell. Or Heaven. Or anywhere really. Crowley wrote his own songs, he always had, even when he’d played with Hastur and the others. Urgh, better not think about that.
Maggie fished a folded paper out of her purse. “Here, I have it. I told him all about you–”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did!” she shot back cheerfully. “To make sure it’d be consistent with your usual themes, you know…”
“Oh, come on, Mags,” he groaned. At this point, he didn’t have themes, only issues. The unresolved kind, to be specific.
Crowley tried to resist her as much as possible, pretending there was no paper currently poking him in the forehead, but she just wouldn’t accept no for an answer.
“Jesus, fuck! Give it here!” Crowley burst out, taking the paper from her hands and ignoring her impromptu victory dance. For fuck’s sake.
He skimmed the lyrics, barely taking in what he was reading, fully intending to tear the blessed thing into pieces and forget this morning ever happened.
But something… something did happen, for lack of a better word.
Crowley immediately understood which one of his not-songs the lyrics were meant to go with just by reading every other word.
So he groused and reluctantly went back to the top to read it properly, frowning as he went.
It takes only the smallest of tastes
for my hunger to rage.
I’m half agony
half ache.
Push me down on my knees
have me begging for bliss.
Oh, honey,
over feed me your fire,
over indulge me all night.
It’s never too much (Never too much)
It’s never enough (Never enough).
“Is this…” Crowley let his voice trail off, then tried again. “Is this song about sucking dick?” he squawked.
Maggie’s grin could have lit up the entirety of London during a blackout. “I think so, but I’m no expert, so… What do you think?”
Crowley tore his eyes away from the lyrics – which were admittedly kind of good, bless it all – and looked up at her.
“I think you’ve lost your mind,” he hissed. “I don’t know if you remember, but being outed as someone who likes to suck dick from time to time is what ruined my career in the first place!”
Okay, fine, Maggie wasn’t the only one who tended to blow things out of proportion. But yes, those paparazzi pictures of him drunkenly snogging that random guy’s face back in the late Noughties had definitely been a contributing factor to his demise. Sure, Crowley had also angered the wrong higher-ups, what with him leaving the band and asking too many stupid questions, but that’s the trouble with fame, isn’t it? The more famous you are, the more you’re surrounded by awful people. Powerful people. People who liked to treat others as their pastime. People you should never, under any circumstance, question in any way.
Crowley’s tendency to question authorities, combined with him being possibly bi in a world that staunchly refused to acknowledge the existence of anything of the sort, had done the trick. He remembered those stupid photos plastered on every tabloid, and the scandal that followed soon after when he’d been photographed with a woman and everyone had accused him of trying to convince the world he wasn’t gay. Then his second solo album had flopped, and the ones that came after that still had a better chance of being used as frisbees to be chased around the park by drooly dogs than anything else (not that anyone listened to actual discs anymore).
“Yes, but listen!” Maggie pressed on. “That was almost twenty years ago. It’s different now, you could lean into it! Make a song, go viral on TikTok, and va-voom! You’re back!”
Crowley gaped at her, eyes flaring behind his sunglasses. “Go viral on TikTok? Are you trying to kill me, woman?!” Him. Anthony J. Crowley. Viral on TikTok. What next? A tv ad for a hemorrhoid ointment?
Maggie crossed her arms, stern now. “You spend the whole day on that thing. I follow you, and I see all of your reposts.”
Crowley scoffed, embarrassed. “I do not!”
“Yes, you do.”
Well, fine. It made that rotting thing he did every day much more enjoyable, and if he tried to go viral and failed spectacularly at it (which he no doubt would), he would have to give it up. Which was not on.
“Please,” Maggie continued, switching back to her usual sweet demeanour. “I know you think the lyrics are good. Just meet him! Az is a good one, I swear.”
Crowley genuinely felt like crying. “I don’t want to meet anyone named Ass.”
“Please, please, please!” Maggie joined her hands in prayer. “I said you’d meet him in an hour at a coffee shop in Soho.”
The world stopped, then began spinning in the opposite direction.
“You– WOT!” No, no, no. Absolutely not. Not a chance in Heaven.
“You have plenty of time to take a shower and brush your teeth!” Maggie insisted. “Humour me, please.”
Crowley leapt out of bed wearing only sweatpants and his many tattoos. “I said no, Maggie!” he thundered. “Forget it! There is no way – listen to me, no way– I’m going to meet this Ass-bloke! In fact, I’m not being dramatic when I say that I’d rather sit naked on a hot grill than–”
“You really do spend too much time on TikTok,” she chimed in, not even slightly worried about his outburst.
“Forget it, I said! ‘S not gonna happen. Never. You might as well let it go now.” And that was the end of it. “You know full well that when I make up my mind, nothing – and I mean nothing – will ever make me change it!”
An hour later, to no one’s surprise, including the man himself, Crowley was sitting in a coffee shop in Soho waiting for this Ass-guy to show up.
He’d been muttering curses for almost an hour now, stopping only to speak with the surly looking woman behind the counter and ask her for death. She’d said they’d run all out of death for the day and that he would have to make do with coffee. So he’d ordered a double espresso, gulped it down to calm his nerves (which fell under the definition of ‘counterintuitive’), and was now sitting half-slumped at a corner table with his legs crossed, picturing the bloke he’d soon tell to fuck right off so he could go back to Maggie and swear to her that he gave it a fair try.
He was probably someone like Crowley – a pretentious, incurable arshole, that is – but younger. They were all younger these days. Someone with too many rings. Probably an earring too. Just one, of course. A cool haircut, maybe a mullet, and a moustache. Wearing second-hand clothes that were more expensive than new ones. You know the type.
The thought of that stupid moustache was enough to make Crowley sneer as he kept staring at the door, drumming his fingers on the table and waiting for the man to materialise in front of him. Ideally sooner rather than later. He desperately wanted to go back to bed and doomscroll himself into a stupor.
To add insult to injury, the day was way too sunny for his taste. Ugh. Crowley just wasn’t made to thrive in this kind of weather. It was completely at odds not only with his mood but also his style, which wouldn’t have looked out of place at a rockstar’s funeral.
The man coming through the door right now, on the other hand, seemed to be a clear-sky and sun-shining kind of guy. He was impossibly blonde, round around the middle, all decked in tans and creams, with a bow tie around his neck and a kind smile on his face. Very cutesy. Very demure. He also looked two seconds away from hosting a children’s program about books or some shite. With a yellow puppet as his sidekick.
Dreadful stuff, really.
Crowley’s gaze idly followed the guy as he approached the counter to greet the unfriendly woman. They seemed to know each other. Crowley felt a little betrayed when she unexpectedly smiled at him, but he had no time to dwell on his disappointment, because the man suddenly turned and looked straight at him.
Crowley’s breath hitched, and he quickly tore his gaze away, hissing out a string of consonant-heavy curses through his teeth.
What the ever-loving fuck was that?
Did he just… bloody Hell. He’d completely forgotten how to act around people, hadn’t he? You couldn’t just stare at strangers like that! It was rude, and– well, he usually approved of rudeness in every shape or form, but in this particular instance–
“Excuse me?” a soft, prim voice asked somewhere in his vicinity. “Are you Anthony J. Crowley?”
Crowley turned towards the voice and, sure enough, bow-tie-guy was standing right next to him with a tight smile on his face. And Crowley must have really forgotten how people behaved, out in the real world, because he had no idea why this frothy-cappuccino of a man was talking to him. Had he come up to Crowley to ask him why he’d been staring at him just a few seconds ago? What happened to politely ignoring the weirdos around you?
Wait a second. How did bow-tie-guy even know his name? He didn’t look like someone who would recognise a washed-up rockstar out and about.
“Er, yes,” Crowley grumbled when he realised he’d been silent for too long. He draped an arm over the back of his chair and pushed his sunglasses on his nose to make sure they were still there.
“Oh, splendid.” The man smiled a bit awkwardly and gingerly took a seat across from Crowley. “Maggie told me I’d find you here.”
Time stopped for a second as Crowley’s brain struggled to make sense of what was going on. Then he huffed out a laugh and shook his head.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself.
“I’m sorry?” the stranger inquired with the same bizarre inflection he’d used so far. He was sporting a bewildered look on his face too, which irked Crowley even more.
“You’re telling me that your guy couldn’t even show up on his own? That he’s sent… who are you? His manager?” Crowley asked, irritated. Anyone hiring someone wearing a bow tie as their manager certainly couldn’t be trusted, and it had recently come to his attention that he knew something about untrustworthy managers.
The frothy-cappuccino-shaped-like-a-man seemed puzzled, the polite smile faltering. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
Crowley slammed the piece of paper Maggie had given him a mere hour ago down on the table. “The poor sod that wrote this,” he hissed through his teeth.
The stranger leaned forward to inspect the crumpled page, understanding finally dawning on him. “That would be me,” he said. “The poor sod you were mentioning, I mean.”
“No, you’re not,” Crowley retorted, as easy as anything.
The man straightened and clasped his hands in front of him. “Yes, I rather think I am,” he countered a touch defensively.
Crowley couldn’t believe his ears.
“You wrote these lyrics,” he repeated just to make sure he’d understood correctly. “The lyrics about sucking dick. You wrote them.”
The stranger wrinkled his nose, a blush appearing on his rounded cheeks. “Well, it’s actually meant to be an exploration of taste and touch as a way to connect with another person, as well as a metaphor for–”
“Sucking dick,” Crowley completed for him.
“Mmh,” the man hummed noncommittally, lips pursed in both annoyance and embarrassment.
Crowley could not, for the life of him, replace the young, moustached bloke haunting his bitter musings with the soft late 40s, early 50s looking man sitting in front of him.
He looked down at the lyrics. The lyrics responsible for his presence here, in this God-forsaken coffee shop. The lyrics he’d read just an hour ago. The lyrics that had been written especially for him. Those lyrics. Written for him. By this man.
No, the two things – the man and the lyrics – could not coexist. Simple as that. It was like trying to make two pieces from two different jigsaw puzzles fit together. Pointless and also kind of embarrassing for everyone involved.
“Well, have you ever done it before?” Crowley asked, belligerent.
The man frowned, hands disappearing under the table. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you have any past experience?” he insisted, enunciating every syllable.
The stranger floundered for a second. “To be perfectly honest,” he finally managed to utter, glancing away from Crowley, “I fail to see the pertinence of this line of questioning.”
The man was completely cuckoo. What a surprise. It might have been a long time since Crowley had last interviewed for a job, but he could swear questions were a crucial part of the process.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, “you don’t have any experience and you’re trying to convince me it doesn’t matter?”
“I didn’t say that,” the stranger clarified, growing more agitated by the second, eyes flicking everywhere but Crowley’s direction.
“So you do have previous experience…?” The man only gave him the smallest of nods, doing everything in his power to avoid Crowley’s eyes. “Any references to speak of? Someone I could call and–”
The stranger’s awkward yet polite demeanour shattered into a million pieces. “How dare you!” he burst out, scrambling to get back on his feet. He was blushing all over the place, eyes flashing with barely contained anger.
“Where are you going?” Crowley asked him, dumbfounded.
“I’m leaving!” the stranger announced haughtily. “I won’t stand here to be– to be– to be bombarded with such intrusive questions!”
Crowley’s mouth fell open in shock. “What the fuck are you on about?”
“At least do me the courtesy of not playing the fool,” the man accused him. “Maggie said you’d be prickly, but this–”
“She said what?” Crowley shot back, before remembering he didn’t have the faintest idea of what was going on. “Did Maggie put you up to this? Is this a joke?”
“Wouldn’t I like to know!” the stranger huffed, hands clenched into fists at his side. Crowley couldn’t stop himself from thinking he looked like a disgruntled, beige M&M.
“What is that supposed to mean?” He could already feel a headache brewing behind his eyes.
“Don’t look so surprised!” the man cried out. “You’ve just asked me for, what, my past partners’ numbers so you could call them and inquire about my previous experience in su–” He cut himself short and blushed even more. “In giving them pleasure using my mouth,” he amended.
Crowley blinked. Paused. Blinked some more. Then, dismayed, went back through their conversation to try and understand what could have possibly gone so wrong. At which point, he opened his mouth to explain that he’d asked no such thing.
Except that what came out of it instead was more cackle and less explanation.
Against all of his expectations for the day, Crowley laughed like he hadn’t done in a very long time, slapping his knee and desperately trying to catch his breath, until he had tears streaming down his face and an unfamiliar ache in his abs and sides.
“Well, I’m glad you find harassment amusing,” the stranger said coldly, pink still dusting his cheeks.
Crowley tried to get his bearings. “Hng. Jesus. I– I meant previous experience in writing lyrics,” he wheezed. Why would the man even think he was being asked about his previous experience in sucking dick?
The stranger raised a finger, all signs pointing to him mustering all of his indignation to tell Crowley off. He puffed up his chest, wore the most petulant expression Crowley had ever seen in his sorry life, and… deflated before he could utter a single word.
“Oh. That makes more sense,” the man admitted, visibly embarrassed. He wrung his hands and glanced around, not knowing what to do.
Crowley took pity on him, something he’d no doubt regret later (how does the saying go? No good deed goes unpunished? Whoever had come up with it had done so with Crowley in mind). “Take a seat,” he said. “Ass, right?”
The stranger, who was in the process of sitting back down, jumped to his feet once more. “Excuse me?” he said, voice inexplicably deeper than a few seconds ago. Which was… a choice.
“Maggie said your name is Ass?”
Fine. It was most definitely not Ass, but something that sounded enough like it, so… plausible deniability, right?
The man rolled his eyes and huffed. “It’s Aziraphale. Not Azi and certainly not Az.”
Crowley squinted at him through his sunglasses. “Aziraphale,” he repeated. His parents must have not liked him all that much.
“You got that right.” Then he added under his breath, “For once.”
Far from feeling offended, Crowley grinned in response. As it turned out, the human cappuccino wasn’t all froth and no bark. “Will you sit down, Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale looked him up and down, then seemingly made up his mind and took a seat in a somewhat lofty manner. A kind smile suddenly bloomed on his lips, which would have been worrying had the grumpy woman not appeared beside their table to place a chamomile tea in front of Aziraphale and reveal herself as the smile’s intended recipient.
“Is everything alright?” she asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Quite alright, Nina. Thank you,” Aziraphale reassured her.
Nina glared at Crowley as if to threaten him with bodily harm if he dared hurt Aziraphale. When Crowley raised his hands in exasperated surrender, she retreated behind the counter.
This would teach him to get out of bed in the morning, Crowley thought sullenly.
When he was sure he had Crowley’s attention, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I have minimal experience in writing lyrics,” he said, all business now. “But I am a bit of a writer.”
“What does that mean?”
“I do ghostwriting, mainly. And some original work too.”
“Like what?”
“Poetry. Novels… that sort of thing,” he explained, before adding: “Not very successfully, to be fair.”
He seemed embarrassed, almost afraid he was going to be judged for it. He clearly had no idea that the only thing Crowley was doing successfully these days was being a certified loser.
And it wasn’t– Well, it wasn’t terrible to have someone look at him like he was a regular arsehole as opposed to a monumentally pathetic one. After such a long drought, the unexpected spark of self-esteem went straight to Crowley’s head, because the next thing he did was not thank Aziraphale for his time so he could go back to rot in the depressing sanctity of his studio flat.
“What did Maggie say to you?”
Aziraphale shrugged and took a sip of his chamomile. “That you were having some issues with your lyrics.”
“And…?” How had Maggie even found him if he didn’t have any past experience? Crowley vaguely knew she had other clients, jingle writers, local artists and some such, but he still couldn’t see how Aziraphale fit into it.
“She made me listen to some of your, er, excerpts, and I offered–”
“You offered?” he squawked.
“Yes, I mean… some of them were quite intriguing, and I felt inspired, so to speak.” Aziraphale fussed with his cup. “It’s not my preferred genre, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Which would be… what? Chamber music?” Church choirs? White noise? Celestial harmonies?
“I like classical music, yes,” Aziraphale confirmed with a little smile. “The more temperamental the composer the better. I also don’t mind something more modern, like jazz. But none of that be-bop nonsense.”
The disdain Aziraphale had managed to infuse into the word be-bop made Crowley chuckle. “What do you know about rock?” he asked, trying to block out the fact that he was actually interviewing this guy. Granted, out of a strange sense of fascination more than an actual interest in hiring him as his lyricist (had Maggie even talked to him about compensation?), but still…
“Not much, really,” Aziraphale admitted candidly. “I listened to some of your previous work, though. To make sure the lyrics sounded like you.”
For the first time since the man had sat down in front of him, Crowley was the one to avert his eyes, feigning a sudden interest in a random menu board on the wall. It was a stupid reaction, no doubt about that, but the idea that this stranger had listened to his music made his skin prickle with anxiety.
Crowley writhed in his seat, pretending he was just trying to find a more comfortable position (great practice for that haemorrhoid ointment ad he would soon be forced to star in if he didn’t want to actually go bankrupt).
“Did you–” Crowley began and stopped, horrified by how shrill he’d just sounded. “Ngk. What did you think?”
“As I said, rock isn’t really my genre,” Aziraphale said. “It was…”
Awful? Pathetic? Rubbish? A crime against his saintly ears?
Crowley was barely breathing. Why did he even care about what this literal stranger thought of his music?
“...very angry,” Aziraphale said. “But kind of philosophical and hopeful at the same time. And sensual too, of course. Also unexpectedly romantic at times.”
Crowley, who was side-eyeing the man in an attempt to look nonchalant, whipped his head towards him. “Romantic?” he groused, as if Aziraphale had just disrespected his entire lineage (actually, he was quite welcome to do that. Crowley couldn’t stand those wankers).
Aziraphale gave him a little bashful smile. “Yes, that’s the impression I got.”
“There’s no romance in my music,” Crowley protested.
“There’s quite a lot of yearning though. Longing too.”
“Yeah, for sex . It’s horny, not romantic.”
Aziraphale arched his eyebrows and shrugged again. “Yearning for connection seems… quite romantic to me.”
Crowley scoffed. “Says the man who wrote a song about sucking dick.”
This made Aziraphale bristle and blush in equal measure. “To be quite honest with you, I’m starting to regret it.”
“Why? ‘S good,” Crowley said in a sudden bout of sincerity.
Aziraphale’s frown was quickly replaced by a beaming smile. “Is it really?”
“Y-yeah,” came Crowley’s startled reply. The gratitude radiating from the man was… kind of unnerving.
“Oh, thank you. I’m really glad you liked it,” Aziraphale said, chuckling a little.
Crowley grumbled something in response, embarrassed by his own embarrassment at being thanked for something as trivial as a compliment. Besides, he hadn’t even meant it like that. It was a simple fact. The lyrics were good. The music, though? Not so much.
That particular thought sobered him up real quick.
Yes, he liked the lyrics, but he didn’t even have a complete song to pair them with. Just a verse and a chorus. And even if he did, what was he supposed to do? One song would hardly resurrect his career, would it? And he certainly couldn’t work with a man he didn’t know – a man he clearly had nothing whatsoever in common with – when he could barely get out of bed in the morning, no matter how peculiar and interesting Aziraphale seemed.
He just couldn’t.
Exhaustion washed over him, the air suddenly thicker and harder to breathe.
“Listen,” Crowley began, making a show of being quite taken with his empty coffee cup. “I don’t know what Maggie told you, but I can’t exactly hire anyone at the moment. Besides, I’m not in the right headspace to work on anything. Honestly, I’m starting to think I may never work on music again, so…” He shrugged as if it was no big deal, because it wasn’t. He’d had months – years – to come to terms with it and it was fine. Completely fine. He’d had a good run, and five solo records weren’t that bad of a legacy.
Aziraphale pursed his lips in a little pout. “Oh.”
He’d sounded very disappointed, which was a relief. Disappointed was miles better than grateful. Disappointment Crowley could deal with, he was used to it, but gratitude? Nope, no way.
“Sorry,” he muttered, surprised to find that, for once, he really meant it.
“It’s perfectly fine,” Aziraphale rushed to reassure him. “Maggie told me it was a long shot anyway. It’s just a shame about that nice cottage on the Isle of Skye,” he said with a wistful sigh, heedless of Crowley’s confusion. “I was sort of looking forward to it.”
Well, Aziraphale had certainly lost him there.
“Wot?”
“It’s just that it’s been such a long time since I could afford to take a vacation,” Aziraphale explained, or at least he thought that’s what he was doing. “It’s one of the main reasons I said yes.”
“What are you on about?” What cottage? And what had the Isle of Skye got to do with any of this?
Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide. “Maggie said we’d be going to Scotland to work on your music…?” he said, letting his voice trail off.
“No, she didn’t.” Were they even talking about the same Maggie?
Aziraphale huffed, slightly irritated now. “Yes, she did. She said she’d take care of all travel and accommodation expenses. She even sent me pictures.”
He fished an ancient smartphone out of his coat pocket and clumsily tapped his finger (yes, singular) on the screen until he found what he was looking for. When he did, he turned the phone towards Crowley. And, sure enough, there was a picture of a lonely cottage in what definitely looked like Scotland.
“She said a client of hers had agreed to put it at your disposal,” Aziraphale added warily. “Did you really not know anything?”
Crowley tore his eyes from the picture, mind still reeling from the preposterous idea that he’d somehow agree to a Scottish getaway with a complete stranger, and to write new music no less.
“Oh, she is way out of order,” he hissed, indignation simmering under his skin.
“Well,” Aziraphale chimed in. “She seemed worried about you, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I do mind it, thank you very much.” He was quite welcome to mind his own blasted business.
Aziraphale snorted. “Either way, no harm done. You said no, and I’m saying goodbye to you and my free vacation. It’s tickety-boo!”
Crowley stopped what he was doing – taking out his phone to call Maggie so he could tear her a new one and possibly fire her – and glared at him. “It’s definitely something.” He wouldn’t know about tickety-boo, specifically.
There was no way, absolutely no way, he was going to Scotland to write songs with a human cappuccino in a bow tie.
None at all.
And if the following Monday found him grumpily slumped on a train headed to Edinburgh, while Aziraphale sat in front of him reading a book… well.
No one was less surprised than Crowley himself.