Chapter Text
To say that Anthony J. Crowley is a mess would be in no way inaccurate. They're a bundle of health issues, eccentricities, and several very noticeable body modifications.
It would, however, be accurate to say that they're leagues better than they used to be.
When they were eighteen, everything seemed like so much. The world was personally out to get them, lobbing shitty joints and chronic pain at a kid who already had weird eyes, anemia, and bipolar depression.
Young Crowley had been so frustrated by it all, throwing themself into anything that'd make them feel alive for a bit. Relying on adrenaline to override the shittiness of living in their own body.
But as the years went on and they failed to die in some hilariously ridiculous fashion, they started slowing down. Stopped rocketing around life as frantically, grudgingly began to accept that they couldn't rocket around life in a way that made it worth the consequences.
Figuring out a stable source of income to support the lifestyle of a 'well adjusted adult' was a pain in the ass, but they got there. Between tutoring part time and flipping antiques scrounged from shady Craigslist ads, they managed to scrounge a small apartment, houseplants, and a decently sized tv.
When people look at them now, they see less a wild eyed dangerously goth twink, and more a pale forty year old with a cane, face tattoo, and sharpened canines.1 Heck, even swearing at whatever new hellish pain their body decided to come up with for the day has become more funny than bitter.2
It's funny how people, when they get to the point where they feel like life has finally calmed down, when they feel that they've learned all the hard lessons and adapted for the better, tend to be suddenly thrown into new problems. Problems completely divorced from anything they've experienced before.
***
The thing is, about Crowley's new neighbor, the thing is that Crowley is very, very gay.3
They don't normally like people. Oh sure, they're polite to them in public, and feel strange warm bursts of kinship in random encounters, but trying to hold a conversation tends to get stressful and overwhelming pretty fast.
The exceptions to this are Anathema, who knew them back when Crowley still had the energy to take part in lunar cycle parties.4 And Tracy, who lives in the apartment above them and provides a steady supply of gossip, food, and hilarious work stories, in exchange for Crowley ignoring all of the very disquieting thumping and wailing that comes from the ceiling.
And now Aziraphale.
Crowley had been vaguely interested, coming home from work, to see boxes piled in front of the door across the hall. The apartment's been vacant for around a month since the Sergeant moved in with Tracy.
As amusing as Shadwell is, Crowley hopes that his replacement will refrain from repeatedly asking about their devil eyes and pointing out how suspicious it is that Crowley’s never shown him their nipples.
Crowley's just unlocking their door when someone jogs up the stairwell carrying a dining room table over their head. Crowley's eyes are immediately drawn to the piece of furniture, which looks like it's made of thick, solid wood, something Crowley would have trouble with even if they had three other people to help.
And then the table carrier's eyes fall on Crowley and they smile, their whole face lighting up.
Oh, oh no.
"Oh hello my dear fellow! Do you live here? I'm just moving, oh one moment, excuse me..." They carefully set the table down against the wall and straighten up.
Crowley sucks at guessing ages so the new neighbor could be anywhere from late thirties to early fifties. They're wearing beige slacks and a worn waistcoat that looks like it belongs in a period piece. Delicate hands lace over a round stomach, and that beaming smile is so bright and makes the skin crinkle up around their eyes -
" -quite alright?"
Crowley startles, realizing that they've been staring and have completely lost track of what was being said. "Mghh, nn, sorry. Spaced out for a sec." They blink, trying to remember what they'd been asked. "Yeah, I live right across the hall." They wave awkwardly at their door.
The man wiggles, which almost whites out Crowley’s brain a second time. "Oh, lovely." They hold out a hand, "Aziraphale, ever so nice to meet you."
Crowley chokes a little. "Crowley, likewise." They reach out awkwardly and the overwhelming feeling of soft skin is almost overridden by the exciting realization that the hand's nails are decorated in light gold nail polish. Yeessss!
Crowley does some quick calculations before blurting, "They/them! Ur, I mean, not a fellow. All that much." Smooth.
Aziraphale gasps, "Oh, terribly sorry, my dear! I generally stick to he/him and they/them myself!"
They're still holding hands. Crowley's brain is so scrambled that they can't really comprehend what's happening as a look of confusion replaces Aziraphale's bright smile. And, as if in a dream, leans forward to . . . sniff?
Thoughts race through Crowley's head. Did they remember to shower today? Did they step in dog shit while leaving the Dowling's?
Aziraphale's gaze wanders to Crowley's mouth and suddenly Crowley’s neighbor is as tense as a livewire, frozen.
They seem to stutter back into action, flashing Crowley a nervously false smile. "Oh, but don't let me keep you! I really must - m-must, finish up here! Pip-pip and all!" And with that, they scurry off, leaving Crowley to bolt for their own apartment in order to sniff their armpits and check the bottoms of their shoes.
***
Crowley has never, not once in their life, gone to someone's door carrying food with the intention of welcoming them to the neighborhood. The thought to do so had never even crossed their mind, and the only thing that counts as an encounter with the concept was when Tracy brought them a couple of egg sandwiches as the first in a long line of bribes.
It feels a little like a fever dream, Crowley frozen in front of Aziraphale's door, clutching a box of blueberry muffins. They stay there for around five minutes, trying to muster the gumption to knock before they’re saved by Aziraphale opening the door themself.
Aziraphale is technically smiling, but it's tight. Crowley's mind whirls as they desperately try and think of what could have set their new neighbor off so bad - was it drugs? Did they smell like drugs and then Aziraphale noticed the sharp teeth and the face tattoo and -
" - help you with?"
Crowley startles, they really need to stop doing that. "Oh! Yeah, uhm, just thought, got muffins for a-a, welcome. Y'know." And then, before their brain catches up with their mouth, "thought maybe I could help with unpacking?" God, Fuck. Why did they offer that? Aziraphale both doesn't like them, and hasn't seen them with their cane yet. There is no non embarrassing way to say 'actually my body is held together by pipe cleaners and craft glue so can you give me small jobs that don't require any heavy lifting?'
Aziraphale undergoes a full face journey, surprise, apprehension, pleasure5, confusion, and something else - fear?
"Ah, well, I really wouldn't want to impose." Their eyes are flicking between Crowley's face and the box.
Crowley should really shut up and get on out of here. Instead they mumble, "wouldn't be an imposition." They suppress the urge to smack their own forehead.
Aziraphale laughs nervously. "W-well! I can think of literally no reason not to agree then!" Their voice pitches higher, "do come in!" A look of horror crashes over their face the moment the words leave their mouth.
Wow this is going really ridiculously bad actually. What would be weirder now? Coming up with an excuse to leave after offering to help, or going in when Aziraphale so obviously wants them at least thirty feet away at all times?
Indecision ends up being its own choice as Aziraphale steps away from the door, looking pained, but clearly expecting Crowley to come in.
Crowley shuffles past the threshold, looking around the space. Same layout as their own flat, living room, kitchenette, bathroom, and single bedroom. And that's all they can register before their brain comprehends that someone has tried to cram a whole library into a room that is much too small for one.
There are a ridiculous number of books, some still in open boxes but most free-range. Other than a thin path through the room Crowley can’t see the floor, or the kitchen counter, or any furniture, (though there are two piles that suggest that they might be hiding a table and chair respectively.)
The only clear pieces of furniture are three inexplicably empty bookcases lined up against the back wall.
The whole situation feels surreal.
"Oh. Hmm." Crowley stares at the mess, frozen for a moment and then turns to hand over the pastry box. "You need more bookshelves."
Aziraphale accepts the muffins with a puzzled frown, and then turns to the room as if they’re just now seeing it. A blush creeps up their neck and they suddenly becomes very interested in their own shoes. "Oh I-I suppose, yes." They shift uncomfortably. "Only, you see, I didn't quite realize how big my collection had gotten when I was packing everything up.” They laugh uneasily, “I'd start looking for more book stands but I don't have a car, and I already returned the truck." Aziraphale bustles to clear a small spot on the counter to place the muffins, and then nervously begins picking up random books only to put them down in the same spots. "I have to sort them all before I can even begin to shelve them! And I still haven't found my tooth brush..." they grimace. "It is rather a lot, isn't it?"
It is, actually. Crowley stares at the room, fighting the urge to start sorting books by color just to have someplace to start.
Bookshelves.
"Ikea delivers.” Crowley pries their phone out of a very tight pocket, frowning. “Let's..." they pull up the website and trail off to squint at the screen through their shades.. "How about BILLY?" Crowley offers the phone.
Aziraphale looks very confused. They stare at the mobile like Crowley just offered them a moldy orange and they don’t know how to refuse it. Fumbling a small pair of spectacles6 out of a breast pocket, they hesitantly accept the device and frown at the page. "Well that is quite a bit more than they normally go for at the second hand shops." They hum, bringing the phone closer to their face. "It is big though, isn't it? And you said they'll bring it here?"
Crowley nods, mentally ticking their age estimate for Aziraphale a bit higher. "Yeah, it'll be unassembled but it comes with instructions.” They think for a moment. “My car can maybe fit some smaller shelves from a thrift shop but you'd have to be the one to carry them."
Aziraphale stares at Crowley. "You would transport me to and from a shop?"
Crowley shrugs uncomfortably, it’s a fairly ridiculous thing to offer considering they just met and how much Crowley hates other people in their car, but, "I got nothing else on for today.” They hunch into themself a bit. “Totally fine if you don't want to though, I'd feel weird about being trapped in a small space with someone I just met too."
Does Aziraphale know how to blink? Crowley shifts uncomfortably until Aziraphale speaks. "But my dear, you did just meet me." There's something complex happening with his face, something hopeful but wary.
Crowley flushes and bites back their automatic response of yeah but you're pretty and I'm gay in favor of an embarrassed shrug, "s' different."
Aziraphale doesn't speak for a long moment and then hands Crowley's phone back. "I will think on it.” They brighten. “Now, show me how to make this infernal device send me a bookshelf."
Crowley does, and discovers several things in the process. Aziraphale only has a bank card because the rental office wouldn't accept cash, has no problem with handing strangers over said card as long as it means they don’t have to deal with the 'information servers', and finally that they can eat quite a lot of muffins very slowly while making a lot of very obscene noises.
Crowley might be in love.
***
“That’s called infatuation, dear.” Tracy is attempting to hide her smile and seems entirely too sober considering she’s had just as much to drink as Crowley.
“Nnnn, noo, n you don’ understand!” Crowley flings an arm in the air to try and convey the point, “is, is, hes jst, they’re jis” Crowley pinwheels the arm, “did I tell you about the table? I told you about the table right? And the dears and the pipping, pip-pip? Smile, told you?”
“Yes, around three times I think, they sound just wonderful!”
Crowley sniffs, overwhelmed. “Tracy, do I smell bad?”
Tracy spit-takes some highball back into her mug, “I haven’t been smelling you!”
Crowley rolls off the couch and scrambles over to sit by Tracy’s knees pouting up at her, “Tracy, do I smell bad?”
Tracy has the same look on her face that she adopts when Shadwell calls her a harlot, a kind of indulgent frustration. Leaning down a bit she takes an exaggerated sniff of the top of Crowley’s head. “Oh! You’re using the lavender shampoo, very nice.” She considers for a moment, “maybe they’re allergic to lavender?”
Crowley hums as they try and drunkenly work out what that expression reminds them off. “Oh!” They point an accusing finger at Tracy, “crackpot!”
She stares at Crowley before taking another long pull of her drink. “Excuse me?”
Crowley frowns, Tracy gets enough random insults they don’t want her to think that Crowley’s adding to them. “Nn, not you! Shadwell, how’z it going?”
She snorts into her drink. “Oh, as well as it ever was going to.” She rolls her eyes. “He had someone in his network do a background check on me and now he keeps trying to call me Ms. Potts.”
Crowley gasps, “bastard!”
She smiles fondly. “Oh yes, a bit, very paranoid at least. But he’s been good about buggering off when I have appointments, and he does the washing up.”
Crowley scrunches up their nose. “He can stay, but he’s on thin fucking ice.”
She whaps their head lightly. “He can stay.”
***
Crowley's next interaction with Aziraphale is... strange.
It's another evening in which Tracy had caught Crowley coming home from tutoring and quite kindly invited herself over, offering a gallant arm for Crowley to take.
Aziraphale seems to be heading home themself and freezes at the sight of Crowley and Tracy, caution in their face and body language.
A bit disappointed at the lack of a warmer response after Crowley came over the other day, they offer them a hopeful wave.
Tracy, giving Aziraphale an appraising once over, lights up. "Oh! You must be the new neighbor, so sorry that I haven't been round to welcome you over. I'm in the flat right above Anthony!"
Crowley shoves her arm lightly, she only calls them Anthony when she's making fun of them. "It's Crowley, harlot." Realizing a second too late how that might come across if you're not in on the joke they glance from Tracy to Aziraphale anxiously, relieved when Tracy just laughs.
"O-Oh! Well, quite lovely to meet you as well!" Aziraphale trots forward to shake her hand, glancing nervously from Crowley to Tracy and back again. "I'm, ah, Aziraphale."
"Oh I know love, Crowley here has told me quite a bit about you! You can call me Madam Tracy. Please drop in sometime if you want your tarot read or are interested in any embarrassing stories about our dear neighbor here." She winks, “I would offer you my other services but you don’t seem quite the right type”
Crowley yelps and uses the hand already at Tracy's elbow to tow her away from Aziraphale. "Welp, quite enough of that, ciao!" Before shoving her inside the apartment trying to ignore the quiet “'oh dear” that comes from Aziraphale right before the door clicks shut.
***
Crowley and Tracy are three glasses of wine in and halfway through a story of a seance going a little too well, with a client trying to convince their dead spouse to take over Tracy's body and possess her permanently when there's a nervous little rap on the door.
Crowley stumbles up to get it, remembering that their own alcohol tolerance is pretty shit despite how much they tend to go through when Tracy visits. Opening the door to blink down at Aziraphale's very wonderful face.
"You have a very wonderful face!" It seems a perfectly sensible thing to say even though they can tell that sober Crowley will probably be embarrassed about it.
Aziraphale looks shocked, then confused, then nervous. "Oh my, ah, thank you?"
Crowley grins goofy at them and attempts a wink, before remembering that they're still wearing their glasses.
Aziraphale shifts back and forth indecisively before glancing around Crowley at Tracy who's waving at him with a grin. Suddenly Aziraphale looks determined, looking Crowley straight in the sunglasses. "I was wondering if I could borrow some sugar. I seem to be out."
Not understanding the serious tone but very excited about their beautiful neighbor asking them for something, Crowley enthusiastically beckons them in. "Yes, yeah I've got that somewhere - sit wherever, one mo’".
Smiling tightly Aziraphale nods and perches on the other end of the couch that Tracy's occupying.
Tracy smiles impishly at him, "Alcohol dear? You look a bit tense."
Crowley glances at Aziraphale from where they're rummaging in the cupboards trying to remember if they actually have any baking supplies, to see that it's true. Aziraphale is rimrod straight on the edge of the couch and examining Tracy with an odd kind of intensity.
Tilting their head they hum, mouth a grim line. "If it's not too much trouble."
By the time Crowley finds a dusty unopened bag of sugar at the back of a cupboard Aziraphale has a glass of wine in hand, which means they'll hopefully be sticking around for a little bit.
Crowley presents the bag proudly. "Sssorry it's a bit dusty, don't really bake much."
Aziraphale gives them a tight lipped smile, "Ah. No. I suppose you wouldn't."
Crowley frowns, trying to work out what about their appearance would lead to that impression before shrugging and reclaiming their own mug of wine and laying back down on floor.
Tracy is being oddly quiet now too, carefully examining Aziraphale, still smiling politely but more on guard than she was before.
Crowley frowns, trying to figure out if they're going to have to kick their crush out of the apartment. They like them, but they trust Tracy’s judgment more than their own.
Eyes still trained on Tracy Aziraphale keeps up their stiff smile. "So, do you two do this often? Or is this new?"
Crowley doesn't think that's directed at them because Aziraphale is looking at Tracy but they prop themself up on their hands anyway, trying to get their fuzzy brain back in gear to figure out why Aziraphale is being weird.
Tracy has gone stiff, squinting at Aziraphale cautiously. And then sitting up straight and smiling at them, professionally polite. "Oh me and Crowley are old friends, aren’t we, love?”
Crowley nods awkwardly. “You do pressure me into irresponsible drinking on the reg- regu, normal. Which is as good a basis for a friendship as any.”
And suddenly Aziraphale relaxes, posture slumping a little and face relaxing in relief. “Oh, lovely. well I’m terribly sorry to intrude then, I’ll just be on my way!” They chug the rest of the wine and bustle to the kitchen to rinse the glass and put it in the sink. And then, before Crowley can fully process what’s going on, they’re out the door.
After a moment of blinking at the place where Aziraphale just disappeared Tracy is the first to speak. “Well that was bloody bizarre.”
1. And black lipstick and sometimes a leather jacket, but at least they’ve stopped dying their hair in black and purple stripes. [ ▲ ]
2. it's all about familiarity and coming up with increasingly bizarre things to yell. [ ▲ ]
3. Well pan, agender, and an all around queer - but who are you, the lable police? [ ▲ ]
4. And who Crowley is fairly sure keeps them around to mooch off all the assorted herbs and poisons potted on the apartment's tiny balcony [ ▲ ]
5. When glancing down at the muffins. [ ▲ ]
6 . Crowley really wants to think of them as glasses, but they’re spectacles. They just are. [ ▲ ]