Chapter Text
Tortola, British Virgin Islands
"Dibs!" Anathema's voice rings out in unison with Crowley's. Fighting to rise above the sound of the waves lapping against the hull and the single-engine plane buzzing low over the harbor.
Beside them Bea rolls her eyes and Crowley bumps her with a hip. "Gotta be faster next time."
She sneers, lip curling back and nose crinkling. "Not interested."
Anathema and Crowley's mouths both come unhinged, jaws drooping toward the dock. Anathema reaches across Crowley to swat at her as she waves the other hand in front of them. "You're kidding? Not interested in that?"
"In a doughy baby face that looks like he's never seen a boat? No thank you."
Crowley's eyes land back on the new deckhand walking down the dock. If you could call it walking. He's stiff. Nervous. His steps look calculated. As if he's balancing the weight of the eyes on him carefully, lest they tip him into the sea. His rucksack keeps slipping off his shoulder. And maybe he's a little doughy, but Crowley likes it. Always has. All the better to hang on to, he says. Crowley knows Anathema likes it too. But Anathema likes everything. She finds the beauty in every body. And fucks damn near everything that comes near the boat. Crowley's impressed, really, by the notches on her bedpost. Although he knows that she and Bea have been texting all summer long. And that's the real reason Bea is sneering at the poor guy. Same reason she "accidentally" pushed Newt overboard yesterday. That's going to be a fun love triangle (Rectangle? Octagon? Only time will tell.) to tiptoe around all winter. But then, it isn't really the high season without a little drama, is it?
Gabe claps the newbie on the back as he approaches the end of the dock and turns toward the rest of the crew with a full display of his pearly whites.
"Guys, meet my cousin, Aziraphale."
Bea snorts. Anathema's eyes grow big. Crowley mouths the name silently. It's not one he's heard before. But it isn't one he'll soon forget.
"First time down, but he works hard, aye?"
Gabe turns to Aziraphale with a brow raised and Aziraphale looks at his feet. His rucksack slips again. "It's a pleasure to meet you all."
Crowley's hand finds Anathema's wrist and squeezes. Their eyes meet.
British.
He's fucking British.
As if Crowley's drawers weren't already practically falling off at those wispy blond curls and the way his plain gray tee clings to his biceps. As if his mouth wasn't already watering at his sturdy thighs and muscled calves and thick fingers. Crowley's a sucker for an accent. And despite being in a British territory, he hasn't managed to bed an Englishman just yet. He's had a handful of locals. Australian (too many to count). French. German. South African. Even had a romp with an Icelander whose name he couldn't remember come morning. That was a blow. He's normally so good with names. He whispers Aziraphale's to himself again. All those syllables rolling off his tongue like silk.
Anathema’s breath tickles Crowley's neck as she leans close to whisper to him. "He's so straight. Look at those shoes."
Crowley snorts. Glances at the shoes and then back at Anathema. "Fuck off." He steps away from his fellow yachties and sticks out a hand. "Anthony Crowley. Pleasure's all mine."
One week ago
"I don't know what exactly you're trying to prove."
Aziraphale's jaw tenses. He's tired of having this conversation. "I'm not trying to prove anything."
"You've got a perfectly good job right here."
"And it will be here when I get back."
"Then why do it at all?"
Aziraphale’s furious at the question. Not because of the implication that he is trying to prove something. Or that it would be wrong, somehow, if he were. But because he's afraid of the answer. Of the things he doesn't want to admit. To himself or anyone else.
"I don't want to talk about it anymore, Sandy."
"Oh, that's just like you, isn't it? So eager to impress a cousin you haven't seen since you were a kid. Never just thinking for yourself!"
"I said I don't want to talk about it."
Sandy rolls his eyes and flips the channel. Slouches against the cushions while Aziraphale gathers empty takeout containers from the coffee table and tosses them into the bin. He rolls his neck. There's a tension that's settled between his shoulder blades that he can't seem to shake. For the last six months it's only grown tighter. It makes him toss at night. It makes working on that salty old fishing boat even rougher. And every time he cleans up or goes to the shop or does the laundry while Sandy watches a football match it gets a little worse. And when he climbs into bed at night after being on the net all day and Sandy rolls away from him, it crawls into his chest as well.
When Aziraphale's cleared away the discarded chopsticks and soiled napkins and sticky fold top boxes, he disappears into their bedroom and pulls out the battered old canvas rucksack he used as a boy. Back when he wasn't so afraid of everything. When life in a small coastal town felt like an adventure instead of a prison. When making your living on the sea didn't mean a constant panic attack about climate change and overfishing and toxic algae blooms. When his mum worked that boat better than all the men combined and Aziraphale longed for the day he would work right beside her. Before she went to the doctor with some stomach pain and came out with a ninety day expiration date hanging over her head. Before he met a charming young man that wanted to kiss him. But wouldn't hold his hand in public.
Aziraphale's flight won't leave for nearly a week, but he starts packing the tattered khaki bag anyway. The two pairs of shorts he bought that match the uniform requirements. And the one pair that doesn't. A bundle of t-shirts. All gray. All still with tags since his old tees all smell like fish and are stained yellow under the arms. An unopened pack of boxers in pale blue and white and, boldly, petal pink. Socks, although he's been told he won't need them. He sticks his pencils and a thin black journal into the pocket in the front alongside a paperback novel he picked up in town. He considers the space in the bag for a moment before packing a second book from his shelf. A favorite. A comfort read. Dog-eared and annotated and taped back together twice. He nearly packs his toothbrush before he realizes he'll need to use it a dozen more times before he leaves.
When he's done, he sits on the edge of his bed and pulls up the email Gabe had sent him last week and re-reads it for the hundredth time. The smallest flicker of excitement catching in the place beneath his heart.
A,
So glad I finally talked you into coming down for the winter! You're going to love it! White sand and blue sky every day! And more than enough bikini bodies to go around ;)
I know you know your way around a boat, but it's a little different here. You'll be taking care of more than just Prophecy. Even the deckhands need to charm the clients. You'll be just as front-facing as the house staff. Don't worry, our chief stew will help you out with that.
I'm attaching a list of what all you need to bring. Plus everything you need to know about Prophecy.
Can't believe you're finally a yachtie! Can't wait to see you, cuz!
-G
Aziraphale scrolls through the photos and specs for the yacht. Designed and built in Italy. Fifty meters, five decks, six cabins, a spa, and a gym. Space for twelve guests and almost €300,000 a week to charter during the high season. It's the most luxurious boat he's ever seen. And he can't wait to get on board. But he's also brimming with anxiety. That somehow he’ll manage to sink the boat even though he'll mostly be a glorified custodian. That he’ll do the wrong thing. That he’ll embarrass himself. The prospect of schmoozing with anyone that can afford to charter the damn thing makes him feel like breaking out in hives. He glances at his meager rucksack stuffed with ASDA tees and pants and chews at his nails. The chief stew better be damn good at her job.
Tortola
Aziraphale takes the man's hand. Firmly. The way his mother taught him. Gabriel is the bosun, so this must be a peer. Another deckhand. His handshake isn't as firm as he’d expected it to be. It's almost gentle. His hair shines like copper in the morning sun and his skin is golden and freckled all over. And Aziraphale doesn't mean to admire the lean muscle in his legs and arms. Or the fragile bones in his feet. Or his narrow wrists and toothy grin. But then, he's only human.
Gabe slaps Aziraphale on the back again. "Crowley here is our chief stew!"
Aziraphale knows that he stumbles. That his head cocks to the side and his lips part in surprise. He tries to right himself. How many times has he been irritated by the traditional thinking back home? How disappointed would his mother be to see him so surprised that a man is chief stew instead of a deckhand? He schools his features into something he hopes is warm. Kind.
"Lovely to meet you, Mr. Crowley."
Crowley arches a brow at Aziraphale. His grin gets bigger. His hand lingers in Aziraphale's. "Just Crowley."
Aziraphale takes a deep breath of warm ocean air. Tries again. "Lovely to meet you… Crowley."
"Here, let me help you with that." In a breath the rucksack slipping down Aziraphale's shoulder is in Crowley's hands instead. He sweeps his opposite hand in front of him at the ragtag assortment of men and women watching them. "My crew. Anathema and Bea, second and third stewardesses." Aziraphale doesn't miss the eye roll from Bea at their stations being laid out so plainly. Or the twinkle in Anathema’s. "That's Ligur, our chef. And" -Crowley points to a fellow with shaggy hair and horn-rimmed glasses approaching them- "Newt here is lead deckhand."
Newt steps forward and shakes Aziraphale's hand as well. And again Aziraphale tries not to let his eyes wander too far down the stretch of his sun-kissed legs. "Your cousin’s told me a lot about you. Glad to have you on board!" Aziraphale has to wonder what stories Gabe could have told. They only spent a handful of summer days together as kids. Exchanged the occasional email or Facebook message in the meantime. If he’s being honest, Aziraphale sometimes felt a bit like a sideshow oddity to Gabe. The English side of the family he could brag about visiting when he went back to his prep school peers. He was never callous, but the distance and the differences in their upbringing made them feel more like acquaintances than family at the best of times. He was surprised when Gabe invited him to the Caribbean when he'd only just turned eighteen. And even more surprised that he invited him again and again until finally, seven years later, he'd finally taken the leap.
Newt gestures to a slight man that must be only barely able to legally work on the yacht. "This is Eric and the one with the hangover over there" -he points to a woman with tangled blonde hair leaning against the boat wearing dark sunglasses- "is Hastur." She nods so subtly that Aziraphale isn't sure it isn't a trick of the sunlight reflecting off the water.
Aziraphale’s surprised again, despite his own family history, to see a woman deckhand on a boat like this one. He's overcome with a wave of guilt and shame at the knee-jerk response. Twice in as many minutes. His mother must be rolling in her grave. He's been too long without her. Too long surrounded by fishermen that grumble and avoid being alone with him. And that cross their chests when they see Aziraphale and Sandy standing too closely together at community meetings. Every time Sandy steps away it makes Aziraphale wish he were brave enough to step closer. But he never does. It isn't worth the fight when they get home. He feels guilt and shame about that too.
While Aziraphale is trying to claw his way out of his own spiraling thoughts back into the moment, Crowley tosses the rucksack over his shoulder and drapes the other arm around Aziraphale's neck. Heavy and familiar despite Aziraphale having just met the man. Fingers nearly brushing his cheek as they point toward the yacht.
"Let me show you around."
Aziraphale catches twin eye rolls from Anathema and Bea. Crowley flashes them his teeth and sways toward the boat, his hips sashaying against Aziraphale's with every step. Aziraphale's always heard Americans are more touchy. More friendly. But even then, the arm over his shoulder and the tickle of crimson hair against his neck as Crowley leans in feel more intimate than he was expecting. Especially in comparison to his day-to-day. Where Sandy will touch him, but only as a means to an end before he turns away. Where a kiss when he gets in the door at the end of the day leaves him suspicious. And where a handshake from his fellow fishermen is as rare as a sunny day in his gray little seaside village.
Despite his nerves and the unfamiliarity of the situation, stepping onto the boat feels a little like coming home to Aziraphale. He's spent as much time on the water as he has on land. And though the land here is particularly beautiful with its noisy broad-leafed palms and towering spires of cacti and delicate pink flowers like paper lanterns, after so many hours in the sky and sitting in tropical airports where everyone is tan and smiling and, at times, still speckled with saltwater, it feels good to be home.
Crowley finally lets his arm slip away as they descend a narrow staircase. He waves fingers that Aziraphale should have immediately realized are too smooth to belong to a deckhand in front of them.
"Crew cabins down here. Lucky boy, you'll be under me this season."
There’s a mischievous glint in Crowley’s eye as he says it and Aziraphale feels his throat warm. He can't tell if he's being teased or if Crowley is flirting or if he's completely misreading the situation. He tries not to think too hard about it. It's never gotten him far before, after all.
Crowley pushes open a narrow door and sweeps his arm in front of him. “Home sweet home.”
The cabin is as small as Aziraphale expected it would be. Two twin beds stacked one on top of the other. Wardrobes at their heads and storage drawers beneath. There’s a sink in the rear attached to what must be the world's tiniest loo. In front of him is enough room to turn around in. The bunks don't have curtains. Aziraphale swallows nervously as he imagines getting undressed with Crowley in the room. And worse, Crowley getting undressed while he's in the room.
Crowley sets Aziraphale's rucksack on the bed. "Uniform shirts and pants are already pressed and in your closet. You're welcome, by the way. Dress whites to greet guests. You can change into your polo and shorts again when they have drinks in hand. No uniform requirements today." His eyes drop to Aziraphale's feet and then back to his face. "Except those. Kick off those horrible, horrible things you call shoes, we don't bother around here, and I'll show you the upper decks."
Aziraphale hurries out of his shoes and stuffs his socks inside. He didn't think they were horrible. They're just trainers. Better than the wellies he wears to work. He wiggles his toes and cringes. His feet are even paler than his legs. He feels oddly self-conscious about them next to Crowley, who looks to him a bit like a bronze statue. Crowley doesn't seem to notice Aziraphale’s insecurity as he flits out the door and down the narrow corridor, gesturing in the air as Aziraphale hops off the bunk and hurries after him.
"Crew splits cabins. Captain has his own at the bow. Crew mess here in the middle. No guests below deck. No exceptions." He gives Aziraphale a wink that Aziraphale can't quite decipher.
Crowley leads him through each deck. The salon. The dining room. The other dining room. All decked out in blush and champagne with ornate hand-carved designer furniture in a vaguely rococo style. The spa and the sauna. The gym. The guest suites, each with beds bigger than the one Aziraphale has at home and linens he's thankful he doesn't need to know how to wash. The sun deck and the sea terraces and the air-conditioned skylounge, all with clean modern teak and crisp cream upholstery. Like whoever outfitted the interior forgot which boat they were decorating when they stepped outside. It’s all rather overwhelming.
Aziraphale's relieved when he finds himself back with the deck crew, even though he has to admit he didn't mind Crowley's company. Not even a little bit. He didn't mind his gentle hand every time it landed on his arm or the small of his back. Or the way he slipped his sunglasses up onto his tangle of red waves to look Aziraphale in the eye when he spoke to him. Or the way those same sea glass amber eyes swept over him from head to toe now and again, his face set with a grin.
Crowley rests against the doorframe as Aziraphale steps back into the sunlight. "First guests arrive tomorrow. Late morning. Planning meeting with the captain tonight at seven in the crew mess. Ligur's making roti. I hear you Brits like your curry, but I hope you can handle spice. Ligur doesn't hold back the fire for crew meals like he does for the money crowd."
Aziraphale's relatively certain he's never had a well-seasoned dish in his life. His mother was a lot of things, but she was no cook. And he isn't sure Sandy knows how to turn on an oven. His mouth is watering, but he can't say he isn't a little nervous about the prospect of fire. He gives Crowley an anxious smile as he runs his hand over the nape of his neck. "I don't expect there will be a pint to wash it down with?"
Crowley smiles back. Pats his chest and gives him another wink. "Oh, Angel… Didn’t Gabe tell you? Alcohol is against the rules when we're on shift."
Crowley's fingers slide across Aziraphale's collarbone as he walks away and Aziraphale hopes he can blame the pink blooming on his cheeks on the tropical sun.