Chapter Text
“Crowley is a demon on set,” Adam says, swirling his iced coffee menacingly. “I did a benefit with him once. He got a man fired for bringing him a sandwich with the wrong type of cheese.”
Aziraphale nods. “And what’s the correct type of cheese?”
“Black Truffle Brie.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Pepper says, looking at Aziraphale. “You do realize you’re the only one who believes he ever worked with Crowley, right?”
Aziraphale is standing at crafty with what seems to be every other production assistant on set. It’s only his first day working in the film industry (what a strange thing for him to be doing!), but he’s having a grand time. There’s free food (steak, even!), endless coffee, strange people, and lots of places to hide and not do any work.
He may not be overly familiar with having a job like this, but he always expected there’d be some sort of training involved. Instead, he walked on set, was handed a walkie-talkie, and treated like he already knew what to do. Neat! He had—and continues to have—absolutely no idea what’s going on!
He shrugs.
“Well, it all sounds pretty believable to me. I’ve heard those Hollywood types can get pretty intense,” Aziraphale says.
“Depends,” Pepper admits. “Sometimes they’re so rich that they don’t have anything to be mean about. That’s pretty cool. Hugh Jackman’s in that category. Remembers everyone’s names and is always giving out gifts. Sometimes, though, their souls have rotted straight out of their body.”
“Yeah? And who falls under that category.”
“Patri—”
Brian, another PA, waves around his arm and shushes Pepper before she can continue.
“We don’t talk about her.”
Pepper nods sagely. “You’re right. She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named aside, Crowley does have that reputation. His name certainly isn’t doing him any favors. I just don’t believe Adam’s seen it firsthand.”
“Right.” Aziraphale cuts in. “Crowley. The man who starts filming tomorrow.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“And does he have a first name?”
They all shrug.
“Bit like Cher, innit? Or Beyonce. Having one name is in these days,” Pepper eventually says.
“Makes sense! Well, I’ll look forward to meeting him.”
“You’re not meeting Crowley.” Pepper responds. “You’re not getting within ten feet of him unless something tragic happens to the first team PAs.”
Aziraphale nods like he understands what any of that means.
“That’s too bad. I’ve always wanted to meet a soulless person with one name.”
A voice comes through all of their walkie-talkies.
“Where the absolute fuck is everyone?” It crackles. “This isn’t an ice cream social! I better see every PA at a lock-up in the next five seconds.”
“Speak of the devil,” Pepper whispers, then claps her hands together. “Alright, then. The AD has spoken. Let’s get to it!”
“Fab!” Aziraphale says. “What’s a lock up?”
Pepper looks exhausted.
***
Let’s start at the beginning.
Aziraphale was born wealthy.
Obviously.
He spent his entire adulthood never having to make money, instead choosing to make money on his own terms by running a bookshop.
If you can call what he does 'making money'. Refusing to sell vintage books in a never-open piece of prime real estate isn’t exactly a way to make life-sustaining amounts of money.
It's nice that some magical things called stocks and land-owning worked wonders with what his family already had! His money makes money for him.
So Aziraphale sold books sometimes, but mostly didn't. He'd sit alone in the shop and occasionally visit the bank where they'd tell him the numbers were continuing to go up and up and up. And he wasted his days away.
But also, every once in a while, they’d film a TV show on the same block as his bookshop. Trucks would roll in and park overnight. There’d be postings on all the lamposts and walls about parking and hours and God-knows-what. Paper signs indicating BG and BASECAMP littering the street like a ticker tape parade.
Since Aziraphale had nothing but time and too much curiosity for his own good, he began wandering straight onto set to watch the various teams, sneaking peeks of crew guys and actors in the distance, thinking about how wonderful it must be. They’re making magic! Like what he reads about in books, except tangibly. In a way you can touch.
With their friends.
Without fail, there’d always be young people in lanyards and headsets surrounding the filming area, and he’d think about what an adventure this must be for them.
One day, he decided to throw caution to the wind and speak with one.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Do you work for the film?”
“Yes.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
“How did you get into this line of work?”
“Why? You interested?”
Aziraphale thought about that for a second. Then decided thinking is overrated.
“Yes.”
“Give me your number, then, and it can be your line of work, too.”
And, thus, Aziraphale was offered his first shift as a production assistant. He’d always assumed it would be more difficult to get a job, especially one in an industry like film, but there you go. Life’s funny like that.
And that’s where our story begins.
***
A lock up, Aziraphale learns, is when a production assistant is tasked with stopping the public from walking through shots while something is filming on location. Sounds easy enough.
“I’m going to place you at one with Eric,” Pepper tells him. “He’s been a PA almost as long as I have and it turned him bitchy.”
“Is that a good thing?”
Pepper shrugs. “Usually it turns people evil. If they don’t quit the industry first, that is.”
“Right. Very good.”
Pepper looks at him out of the corner of his eye, almost like she can’t understand what she’s seeing, then sends Aziraphale over to an intersection where a young man in tastefully torn skinny jeans is standing.
“Hello!” He says, walking over towards the man who must be Eric. “I’m Aziraphale. It’s lovely to meet you.”
Eric looks him up and down, then groans.
“Christ,” he says. “They always saddle me with the green ones.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re new, aren’t you?’
Aziraphale expected that his age (he feels like a dinosaur in comparison to most everyone else) would cause them to have the opposite assumption about him. He's certainly an old man in a young man's game.
“How can you tell?” he asks with genuine curiosity.
“That.” Eric points at him.
“My face?”
“Your smile. Only new people are happy to be here. Plus you don’t have a surveillance.”
“A what now?”
Eric levels the most patronizing look imaginable at him. “I see. Well. This is going to be a very educational day for you.”
Aziraphale claps his hands together. “I sure hope so!”