The Trouble with a Keen Manager-Ch 12
A little relationship development in the 1990s pre-Antichrist when Crowley lost his demonic powers to a hellish Accountability drive. This chapter is almost a one-shot from Aziraphale's POV-sweet, pining, a might conflicted while Crowley takes refuge in the Bookshop after a long and eventful 24 hours. Not that he's going to tell Aziraphale that's what he's doing.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
For the second time in the last week, Aziraphale did not immediately recognize Crowley when a nattily dressed young man sauntered into his shop. With the irritant of his demonic wiles nearly absent, and the camouflage of a young Scottish lad overlaying his corporation, Crowley just felt different, but also achingly, hauntingly reminiscent of other times. Aziraphale’s heart flip flopped a bit. Silly old angel, he remonstrated himself. Those days when they were both angels together were long over and done.
Putting his feelings aside, Aziraphale sang out in greeting, “Hallo young sir! How might I be of assistance?” then dropping the affectation, said, “I do like this new outfit on you! You pull off old-money-goes-to-University, quite dashingly,” the angel said, coming around to close up the shop.
“Hey yourself, angel,” Crowley sounded amused at Aziraphale’s over-the-top antics, “I could do with a sandwich. I’m famished,” Crowley replied, looking unusually stiff, as he lowered himself gingerly onto the Chesterfield.
Aziraphale couldn’t get over the unexpected enjoyment of sharing food with Crowley and it put everything else out of his mind for a moment. “Oh!” he beamed and clasped his hands in anticipation, “I laid in an afternoon tea! You’ve never wanted to try one with me before and I thought…” he was starting to natter, it did happen when he got excited.
“Yeah, angel, that would be great,” Crowley smiled fondly at him, resting an elbow on the arm of the couch, hand dangling nonchalantly, but Aziraphale thought he looked rather done in. Nevertheless, Crowley offered, “What can I do to help?” probably trying to keep their accounts balanced, well, he’d let the demon do the dishes or some little thing that could be wrangled into compliance as a ‘fair exchange’.
Holding his hand out to forestall Crowley gathering himself to get up, Aziraphale said, “No, no, no, just sit! You’ve been serving people all week.”
Crowley said, “Okay. I’ll just sit here then,” before leaning carefully back into the couch with a little sigh. Aziraphale hurriedly bustled off to the kitchen.
Aziraphale wondered why Crowley wasn’t responding to his nattering on with the demon’s usual snarky remarks, until the angel came back into the front triumphantly carrying a three tiered tray of sandwiches, quiches, scones, clotted cream, jams, and of course, a pot of tea. Crowley was fast asleep on the couch, tie loosened, head resting in the crook of the couch, his hands crossed loosely over his stomach, with his feet still on the floor like the nap had snuck up on him.
“Crowley?” the angel set down tea and trays, a bit deflated that Crowley missed his big reveal but the demon didn’t wake.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale said a bit more loudly.
“‘M awake!” Crowley sat up abruptly and blinked at the angel and the food. “Wow!” he breathed, wreathing Aziraphale’s face with a smile before an audible grumble from around his midsection made the angel chuckle. Aziraphale smiled at himself for a sleep rightly disturbed. Loading a plate, he passed it over, enjoying Crowley’s inhaling of the food almost as much as he enjoyed the repast himself. The way the demon’s eyes lit up as Crowley greedily accepted each plate of goodies nearly made up for him sleeping through the initial “Ta-da” moment.
Why had Crowley fallen asleep during mid-day? Aziraphale thought Crowley had gotten his corporation better sorted out than this.
Something else was amiss despite Crowley’s complete reticence on the subject of last night. A subject that had been on the lips of nearly every Whickber Street shopperson Aziraphale had spoken with today. All that couldn’t be true? Surely Crowley wouldn’t have actually gotten hurt? He was a wiley demon! He could talk his way out of almost anything!
While sipping his tea, Aziraphale looked Crowley over critically. Oh, dear…
“I heard around the neighborhood, that the Dirty Donkey’s new barkeep caught some ruffians trying to slip the mickey into the drinks of a couple of young ladies. He threw them out on their ear and the Dirty Donkey’s owner banned them! Upbraiding his clientele to mark these ne’er-do-wells that he might call the constabulatory should they show their faces again!” he said, pinky raised just before taking another sip.
“Didn’t know you listened to neighborhood gossip so much, angel,” Crowley went rather still while side-eyeing the angel.
A hit.
“And, the same young gallant notified the local brothel, so that they might protect themselves from the frustrated rakes!” continued Aziraphale.
“You’ve been reading that Empire era stuff again, it always does this to your language, angel,” Crowley groused, not making eye contact.
Another hit.
“I also heard that the same group of ruffians were turned off the neighborhood patch by a group of daringly dressed young ladies who came to the aid of an unfortunate young fellow whom the self-same ruffians were attacking.” Aziraphale gossiped.
Crowley stopped breathing for a beat.
Gosh, another hit.
“By all accounts, the young fellow was giving as good as he got,” Aziraphale indicated Crowley’s battered knuckles. “But I do hope he’ll make a speedy and full recovery,” the angel laid his hand over his own collar, mirroring where the chain had bruised Crowley’s throat, eyebrows wrinkled in concern.
“You’d think the neighborhood watch would notice that the “unfortunate young fellow” was in a kilt, just like the new barkeep,” Crowley said sourly, flicking his hand in a, ‘forget it’ motion.
Dropping out of his light tone, Aziraphale replied, “Yes, they jolly well did! No one has seen you, him, leave Madame’s, so there’s all sorts of rumors about him either being rewarded by epic lovemaking or secretly having gone to hospital.” Aziraphale tipped his head. “Have you been able to heal yourself at all? That’s excellent make up, but you’re fairly beat about and your ribs are cracked!”
“Damn! An’ here I thought they might just be bruised!” groaned Crowley, arm to his side, leaning forward over his knees. “It hurts more when you diagnose it, you know!”
This was wretched, thought Aziraphale, always having to dance around the requirements of their opposing positions! Crowley was hurt, why wasn't he asking for help? But they didn't ask and they didn't tell. Anything more was just inviting trouble.
Biting his lip, then looking determined, Aziraphale made a little gesture.
Crowley took his hand off his no longer sore side and touched his throat in surprise, looking up at the angel, “You healed…”
“The gallant young benefactor of a couple of innocents!” Aziraphale sat up primly, straightening his waistcoat, suddenly a buzzing bundle of nerves, “Just helped things along a bit! That’s certainly allowed!! Anyone would do it!!!” he bustled anxiously, putting more food on Crowley’s plate. “Have another sandwich! Got to keep your strength up!!”
Looking at the nervous angel, askance, Crowley, nevertheless, kept his mouth shut, except to eat every morsel he was offered.
When they had finished the pot of tea and demolished the entire tray of tea treats, Crowley announced, “I can pay you now for my clothes, angel. If you’ll take a check, that is,” he pulled out a brand new chequebook from his blazer pocket..
Aziraphale held out his hand for the chequebook, eyebrow raised, but refraining from commenting yet.
Inspecting it closely, he exclaimed, “These are real! My, but you did pick up a benefactor quickly. Good for you!” Aziraphale remarked, handing back the chequebook, then caught Crowley's pained expression. “Anthony, good for Anthony. Very bad of you, grift and forgery and whatnot, I've no doubt,” catching the demon’s devilish grin and muttered, “You don’t know the half of it. Humans!”
“But how does Anthony have any money in the account? Other than his work money, that is?”
“My benefactor gave me a ‘micro-loan’ while I’m getting back on my feet,” Crowley explained.
“Micro-loan? Fascinating! I’d like to hear more about those,” said the angel while directing Crowley on making out the cheque.
“I’ll introduce you sometime. Agatha Christie reader’s club member,” Crowley cherished the idea of the angel and the Madame talking about micro-loans to help raise up local people. Damn, was that doing good? Was it making trouble for an angel? It was making his head hurt, so he probably needed yet another rest. Bloody bodies were a lot of maintenance without unlimited miracles.
Aziraphale had succeeded in cleaning some of Crowley’s clothes, but several had become ‘regrettably tattered’. Crowley assured him that he didn’t much care, just glad to be able to sleep in his own pajamas tonight. Getting into the spirit of the ruse, Aziraphale considered that the tattered black suit was perfect! With the addition of just a dark cap to cover his red hair, Crowley could walk down the street with a little wrapped parcel to a place where men often stopped.
Anthony walked into the front of Madame's, dressed in an outfit she hadn’t yet seen, sharp dark jacket and pants, fine craftsmanship, bespoke even, but sadly tattered. Madame was working the front, but marked him immediately, “Thank you for coming by tonight! Do come through.”
Taking his free hand and putting it into the crook of her arm, she was near enough to whisper, “A bold entrance. Well done, Anthony!”
Anthony gave her a cheeky smile, “Mr. Fell sends his regards, and another book,” sounding surprised.
“You know the bookseller’s reputation, then? Mr. Fell doesn’t go in much for ‘selling’ books, does he? In this case it’s something of a hostage exchange. I have some books that he’d very much like me to show him, so he’s trying to butter me up by lending me some of his extensive collection. Let’s see what he sent.” she held out her hand for the bookseller’s offering, “Ooo, Poirot! With the author’s annotations! Quite the master of temptation, that man!”
“Uh, not temptation. Really, not his strong suit,” Anthony said.
“Maybe not to you,” Madame chucked the lad under the chin, “But to a bibliophile like myself, quite the sweet, sweet temptation.”
Turning at the entrance to her rooms, which she unlocked for him, Madame laid a hand lightly on his cheek. “Go see to those injuries, there’s another meal laid out for you, and get some sleep. I’m sure you’ll insist on working at the Dirty Donkey tomorrow. Plus the neighborhood gossips are about to explode with curiosity.”Anthony gave her another stately bow, more graceful than last night's, perhaps his ribs had only been bruised, before closing the door behind himself. When she stopped by the infirmary door later that evening, Anthony was well and truly asleep.
