Chapter Text
The phone had been ringing for more than a minute. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. The fourth was about to ring...
"Are you going to fuckin' pick it up?!" An angry shout caused the secretary in the next room to gasp and answer the call hurriedly. At last, there was finally silence.
Crowley was in a bad mood. For a few hours now, the shrill ringing of the device that had been bombarded by calls from different clothing brands trying to contact him and his team had continued non-stop. The reason? Social media had worked its magic in the previous days, and suddenly the internet (and some other media) was full of comments and suggestions (actually more like criticisms) about some of the redhead's designs. He hadn't thought anything of it at first and just let it go; he couldn't have cared less about what people thought. But the topic at hand in those days was one that could not be ignored, and this time he had been compelled to pay attention.
He looked at the watch he wore on his wrist, a Maitres Du Temps that had not exactly been cheap ($450,000 was certainly not a big deal for someone like him) and sighed when he saw that it was not even eleven o'clock in the morning. It was no exaggeration to say that he had not had five minutes of quiet since he had arrived. He was working from his studio in the heart of London that day. His routine had been the same, and he had enjoyed breakfast at A.Z. Phell, as he did every day of the week. But on this occasion, a barrage of messages and emails had forced him to leave the establishment early and set off for where he was now. That had been the first reason for the terrible bad mood he was now in, and which the rest of the staff were suffering from at first hand. The second reason, the news he encountered on his arrival.
"Your name is on every social network, Mr. Crowley."
"Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, online newspapers, blogs..."
"We haven't made a statement yet because we first wanted to ask you how to proceed."
"Don't worry, it shouldn't affect you too much. Actually..."
"Shut the fuck up!"
The welcome and the accompanying overwhelm they caused him was the third reason. He had barely set foot in the office when his whole world had been turned upside down. With bad words and letting everyone know that he did not want to be disturbed, he had locked himself in his office to try to work out what was going on. The rest of the staff had returned to their work and Crowley had given direct orders that he did not want to be bothered unless it was strictly necessary. His desk was once again in chaos. Taking advantage of the space of a larger desk, he had sketchbooks and the desktop computer occupying the entirety of it. The new batch of new designs was already on the catwalks and would soon be arriving in the chosen (and lucky) clothing shops. But he never needed time for a break, so the new collection was already churning around in the designer's mind. And therein lay his biggest problem at the moment.
With his hands on his forehead and his hair slicked back, he scrolled through posts and comments from people. The aforementioned collection, which was already on sale, had been spectacularly well received and, precisely because of this, the comments that could be classified as complaints or negative were now numerous. Too many.
"The designs are amazing, but I went to my favourite shop and no size fits me!
"I've always been able to barely wear the largest size, but this time I can't even button my trousers. Do something!"
"I've always been one of those people who cry longing for those shirts and jackets. But if they were fleeting dreams before, now that the prices have gone down the suffering of not being able to buy them is even greater."
"Why don't big brands ever think about plus sizes?"
"They could make more money if they gave us the opportunity to wear their clothes."
"The ‘Heaven and Hell’ limited collection is amazing. I would buy everything! Please hear our prayers!"
He could spend not just hours, but days and days reading what Internet users were writing. And he knew they were right. As a general rule, and perhaps even under social pressure, their sales target had been directly focused on bodies considered to be normative. To put it mildly, because far from being so, fashion catwalks and other sectors were increasingly promoting or verging on anorexia. Times were changing and Crowley was more than aware of that. Although he would not have taken the plunge, why should there be any criticism if a plus-size person walked the catwalk in his clothes? Maybe, as happens with everything, there were dissatisfied people, but on the other hand, it could increase the market for all those people who had been waiting for a change in their products. He didn't know, or hadn't really considered, why he would not dare to make a change that everyone was almost begging for. For once, perhaps the best option would not be to ignore the criticism and just keep doing what he had been doing, but to make that turning point to try to make everyone happy.
His gaze wandered over the designs he was working on. Winter clothes were still predominant, as the cold weather would not be gone for a few months yet, but there were also cooler things on display, in anticipation of a spring that would come sooner or later. Dark colours were giving way to lighter ones, and at the sight of brown tones he couldn't help but think of a particular person wearing them.
"Aziraphale", that name popped into his head before he even noticed it. He could perfectly visualise him. That smiling man wearing a pair of brown corduroy trousers with some frills, and a light blue shirt that matched the sky in his eyes. His blond hair would match a champagne-toned trench coat and, no doubt, a tie or bow tie would make the perfect outfit. He always wore an apron that covered most of his body in the cafeteria, to avoid splashes or stains when preparing his products, but even so, whether it was during the day or when he left after closing time, he knew he would look perfect with the things the designer was working on. He picked up one of his notebooks and began to make notes, jotting down ideas, patterns and prints that would make for a more classic and stylish look. He stayed like this for what he thought was a few minutes (actually almost two hours), totally engrossed and caught up in the inspiration of the moment. At least, that is, until there was an insistent knock on the door, dragging him out of his own bubble.
"Mr Crowley? I know you told us not to disturb you, but you have an urgent phone call. They want to talk to y--."
"If I said not to bother me why the hell are you doing it." The door opened, giving the newcomer an angry look. He had no interest in answering or picking up the phone at that moment.
"I know, sir, but it's important..."
"Do I look like I care about what you're telling me?" He raised an eyebrow.
"B-but..."
"But what?"
"Ducci's creative director is on the phone, sir, mentioning something about a collaboration they had talked about some time ago."
"Oh. Uhm. Okay. Bring it," he held out his hand, waiting for the other guy to hand him the mobile phone. He took it and held it to his ear, gesturing for him to get out of there. "Good afternoon, Mr. Barno," he corrected himself alarmed, seeing that it was after noon. At what point had it become so late. "How can I help you?”
"Good afternoon, Crowley. I imagine you're aware of the uproar that's been going on in the networks because of certain comments people made. We've been monitoring all this morning and we're slightly concerned."
"I'm aware, yes," he spoke nonchalantly, stifling a yawn. The last thing he felt like doing was broaching the subject with him. "Is anything wrong?”
"What do you mean by 'is anything wrong '? We would like to know what kind of decision you are going to make concerning the events. You have a significant number of sales with your current market, and we would like to continue the collaboration with our products. But that involves a number of details to be considered that are likely to be to the displeasure of those who are talking...."
“Yeah, right," he was getting less and less convinced about wanting to continue with this conversation. He knew how it was going to turn out, and if there was one thing he didn't like, it was being asked for exclusivity, “yet I repeat, are there any negative points or anything you want to tell me in particular?”
“That you should bend to one decision or the other. You can't make everyone happy.”
“Why not? In fact," he stood up, knocking over his chair and banging on the table. The more he spoke, the more he could visualise Aziraphale wearing those clothes. His clothes. He smiled behind his dark glasses, "I want to please everyone. Whether you like it or not, I'm going to do it. Talk to you another time, I'm too busy now!”
And he hung up without giving any chance to carry on the conversation. He had totally lost interest in all those incoming calls, in the comments or attacks that would arise in the near future if, sooner rather than later, he turned the ideas he had in his head into reality. He stood for a few seconds, staring into nothingness, and dropped back into his chair. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Memories hit him hard.
"The clothes you design are a real work of art to anyone's eyes," Aziraphale had once told him, sitting down next to him when the coffee shop was empty. "One can tell you put a lot of care and originality into everything you do."
"It's no big deal. It's what I've been doing all my life."
"And don't you realise how many sales you have? Your name is in every magazine, on every TV channel. Famous people scramble for exclusivity when there are significant events."
"Petty details of no importance. The only thing to point out here is how delicious this Finci... Finan... Fanin... is..."
"Financer" the blond had corrected him, letting out a chuckle, "its name is French, as is the origin of its recipe."
"That! Clothes can be made by anyone, but your cooking skills are out of this world."
"Anyone can do it, Mr. Crowley. There are more bakers and cooks than fashion designers."
"Nonsense!"
“Not from the very moment I knew your work myself without even knowing you," a radiant smile had lit up his face. That had been the first time he had been totally breathless at it. "I'd wear something if I only could."
"And why don't you?" He had asked innocently, raising an eyebrow. It might not be the most appropriate thing to work in a café where he also baked homemade desserts, but he took for granted that the man had a life beyond his job.
“Because I can't wear it even if I want to.”
He remembered the moment when Aziraphale had unconsciously clasped his hands on his belly and lowered his gaze, full of sadness. He had not understood at first what he meant. His price range ranged from the affordable to the expensive, and perhaps the latter could only be purchased by a small group of the population. Still, he was sure that was not the case for the blond, as he could afford some things. Hours later, at home, it dawned on him what he really meant. Time passed and the topic never came up again.
"I'm going to do it," he decided. He knew what and how he wanted to do it. He just lacked a model from which to take the measurements to start working on something more personal and particular. And he had the right man in mind. Convincing him to do so would undoubtedly be difficult.
Yet something was working in her favour. Crowley always got what he wanted. And this time would be no exception.