Chapter Text
Summer in London is not unlike winter in London: chill, dreary, and a bit wet. The biggest difference is that during summer, there’s a small chance the clouds will grow bored of their constant circling and decide to bugger off somewhere else for an afternoon or two, thus allowing real, genuine sunlight to grace the gray city. Fortunately for everyone, this afternoon is one of those. Droves of restless, vitamin D deficient people take advantage of the good weather by hustling and bustling about the streets. Some have reason to hustle. Some do not. In the midst of it all is Crowley, currently in male-shape, who slithers along toward a quaint little coffee shop that is not nearly as busy as it could be.
It’s a very pleasant little shop. The exposed wood paneling is warm and rustic, and the smell of brewing coffee and freshly made pastries is incredibly inviting. There isn’t much of a line when he walks in, but as he stands waiting, hands in his pockets, one hip cocked in a posture he couldn’t correct even if he tried, several more people file in to form a longer line behind him. By the time it’s his turn to order, the line is threatening to spill out the door, and the woman at the counter is smiling at him in that way food service workers do when they don’t care about you at all but still want to seem polite.
“What can I get started for you?” she asks.
Crowley places a finger to his chin and pretends to look through the menu. He hums to himself, and several times he raises his finger like he might start to order, but then he sighs, shakes his head, and replaces his finger to continue pondering. Behind him, the line continues to grow longer. Some people have resorted to cramming themselves against the back wall to avoid getting hit by the door, which makes finding the end of the line all the more difficult for new arrivals and leaves everyone feeling wholly uncomfortable. The air is alight with the subtle sounds of impatience: foot tapping, throat clearing, tongue clicking, and, worst of all, disgruntled sighing. Still, Crowley ponders, seemingly unbothered by all of it.
The woman at the counter smiles at him in that way food service workers do when they’re getting fed up but still want to seem polite. “Sir?”
“Just one more minute,” he says, “I’ve almost got it.”
“Sir, there’s a long line behind you--”
“Right, right. Long line. Don’t wanna hold up a long line,” he says dismissively. “But I nearly have it. Just hold on. One more minute.”
He stands there silently for two more minutes, letting the tension grow thicker and sharper and more corporeal until finally he says, “Okay, I’m ready.”
He then proceeds to rattle off the longest coffee order known to humankind. Every single square inch of his coffee is accounted for, from the type of milk to the number of espresso shots to the amount of each available flavor and even the exact temperature he wants. Then he goes a step further by naming, relevant or not, all the things he doesn’t want in his coffee. The whole process takes upwards of three minutes, but to everyone listening, it feels more or less like an eternity.
The champion behind the counter records all of this and, after confirming his order and asking him if he wants anything else, gives him the absurd price of the coffee, which he pays for in single dollar bills.
As the woman hands him his receipt and his change, he peers at her name tag and says, “Thank you very much, ah… Maria.”
Maria, whose name is actually Mariah, smiles at him in that way food service workers do when they hate your bloody guts and would easily bludgeon you to death with whatever is at hand were it not for their stupid minimum wage job that doesn’t even have proper benefits but pays for their shitty little studio apartment and sometimes a full meal but still wants to seem polite, and she says through gritted teeth, “Thank you, sir. We hope to serve you again.”
Crowley grins back at her and saunters off to find a place to wait while the baristas scramble to follow his arbitrary instructions. No better way to evoke Wrath than to make people resent their jobs, if you ask him. Head office, he thinks, ought to be happy with this one.
And if they aren’t, he’ll convince them that they should be.
He finds a plush blue chair right by the pick-up area and sinks down into it. There are several others like it scattered around the shop, along with a few small tables for people who come in with friends, dates, or laptops. Brilliant little devices those are, laptops. They give humans easy access to the Internet, which has the potential to grow into the most efficient temptation tool Hell has ever seen. Crowley’s crunched the numbers. There’s already millions of websites, many of them saturated with content that would make Lord Beelzebub blush, and within the next ten to fifteen years, those numbers are projected to go up astronomically.
He considered taking credit for it, but he decided against it when he realized no one in Hell would have the foggiest idea what the Internet is. Demons are so stuck in the past. The whole lot of them. Angels, too. Well, he only knows one angel personally, but the angel he knows couldn’t tell a pager from a cellular phone if his Earthly form depended on it.
“You’re surely out of your right mind, my dear boy. These two electronical contraptions are entirely identical! No matter. I send all of my correspondences through homing pigeon. I don’t even know what a fax machine is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must put this antique kettle that once belonged to Oscar Wilde’s cat on for a spot of tea, and we’re hereditary enemies, so you must leave, but I suppose you could also stay if you wanted to, which would be totally out of my control and therefore absolve me of any guilt. Pip pip. Jolly good. Mind how you go.”
Hah, yeah , Crowley thinks fondly, that’s exactly what he’d say.
He’s trying very hard to bite back a smile when he hears one of the baristas call out, “A large hot cocoa and toasted chocolate croissant for, uh… Zira Fell!”
Crowley’s brow crinkles.
‘Uh… Zira Fell.’
Hm.
Maybe it’s just because of the thoughts he’s entertaining, but that name sounds very familiar.
Sitting up a little higher in his chair, Crowley watches as pretty blonde woman in a white cotton sundress approaches the pick-up area. She walks on flat gold sandals with braided straps that match the braided gold belt tied around her middle. Her hair is short, just barely brushing her shoulders, and it somehow manages to look fluffy without looking messy at all. Sort of like feathers. And her face is kind. So kind. The kind of face you’d expect from a doting mother or a patient primary school teacher. She gives the barista a sweet smile as she thanks him for her order, and he smiles back like he just realized he should give his favorite older female family member a call.
Just like that, everything clicks.
“Angel!”
The woman jumps, yelping like she’s been caught. It doesn’t occur to Crowley until she’s already turning to him, a guilty look on her face, that she absolutely saw him as she approached the pick-up area. He’s out in the open. No disguises. No tricks. There’s no way she could have missed him. She just tried very hard to pretend she did, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice. He can’t fathom why. Out of every being on this planet, occult, ethereal, human, or otherwise, Crowley is probably the most likely to understand what she’s doing and how she’s feeling.
But it’s always been this way, hasn’t it? Them and their shared experiences. Ever since the beginning. Not that the angel will ever admit it. Crowley has almost convinced himself to accept that fact, but it still stings. And getting blown off doesn’t make it any better.
As he stands up, he tries to be angry. He tries so hard to be offended, and affronted, and disgusted, and rankled, but he takes one look at her face, her red, flustered, ashamed face, and he can barely muster up enough anger to be slightly miffed. He just can’t stay mad at that face. It’s impossible.
And it’s always been this way, hasn’t it?
After several failed attempts to find the right words, the woman, Zira, says, “I know this doesn’t look good for me, and I can explain.”
Crowley snorts. “I’m sure you can.” Looking past her, out into the rest of the coffee shop, he spots an unoccupied table and gestures to it. “Let’s have a seat, shall we? Since we have so much to catch up on?”
Zira nods and immediately makes her way over to the table. Crowley follows and takes the seat opposite hers, sitting in such a way that his legs stick out between their table and the one next to theirs, creating an obstacle for anyone wanting to get through. Zira makes a face and opens her mouth to make a comment, but Crowley cuts her off.
“Zira Fell? Really?” he says, one eyebrow raised. “Couldn’t come up with anything more… creative?”
She scoffs. “Ah, yes, because Tonya was the absolute pinnacle of your creative ability.”
“Ouch. Point taken.”
She takes a drink of hot cocoa and a bite of croissant, surprisingly literally no one. The world could be ending, and Zira would still insist on finding somewhere to have lunch. Crowley has never known anyone else, human or otherwise, who enjoys food as much as the angel does, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t completely charmed by it.
He gives her a moment to savor her bite before he hits her with the real question. “So, how long has,” he gestures up and down vaguely in her direction, “all this been going on, then? Your experimenting?”
He likes that word, ‘experimenting’. It’s the word he’s been using to describe the state of his gender expression, and he likes it because of its impermanence. Not to say his forays into being Tonya are some sort of phase, because they’re not, and he plans on looking like a woman as often as he wants for the rest of his existence regardless of what anyone else has to say on the matter. It’s more like he enjoys the lack of expectations. Calling himself a ‘man’ comes with the expectations of dressing, talking, and acting like a ‘man’. Same with calling himself a ‘woman’. But experimenting means throwing all those expectations out the window and working with however he feels in the moment. It’s much more… fluid. He likes that word, too. He might have to use it more often.
Zira, having apparently dreaded the question, sighs. She smooths her dress and adjusts the little paper bag her croissant came in so it’s more parallel to her cup. Then she looks up, sees Crowley watching her expectantly, and sighs again. “Well, I suppose it started not long after New Year’s Eve.”
They both take a quiet moment, not quite looking at each other. It was a night to remember, and a night they agreed to be discreet about.
Zira clears her throat and continues, “After hearing how much you enjoy being Tonya, I began to think about my own shape and how it might feel to try something different for a day. So, I tried it, and I found I rather liked it. I felt… oddly fulfilled? Maybe a bit lighter? I’m not sure how else to describe it. And now I walk around in this shape every so often, just for the sake of it. You know how it is.”
“Why, yes, I rather think I do know how it is,” Crowley, with his head resting in his hand, says. “I think I know very well.”
Zira sighs for the third time. Not that anyone (Crowley) is counting. “I understand if you’re upset with me for avoiding you, but-”
“I dunno if upset is the right word,” Crowley drawls. “Insulted? A bit. Betrayed? Maybe. But upset? I think I’ve moved past that.”
“However you want to call it,” Zira says, already exasperated. “I know you’re not pleased with me, but it’s just safer this way. Heaven hasn’t caught onto me, yet, but there’s no saying they won’t notice eventually--”
Crowley laughs sharply, his hand falling to the table. “Safety? That’s your excuse?” he says, maybe a bit too loudly. “You weren’t so worried about safety when you took Tonya back to your bookshop and spent the whole night--”
“Would you please quiet down?” Zira says in a low, pointed voice. She looks around briefly to ensure no one is looking at them, then she leans in a bit closer and says, “If you must know, I’m not just worried about safety, although that is an important aspect of it and I’ll thank you not to dismiss my anxiety.”
Still riled up but unwilling to seem like the jerk in this situation, Crowley sits back in his chair and crosses his arms moodily. “Go on, then. I’m all ears.”
Zira fiddles with her drink for a moment before saying, “Well, you see, the thing is, while this is not the first time I’ve been in this shape, it’s the first time I’ve been so… adventurous with my clothing choices, and if I’m being totally honest, I’m a little bit, ah… you know…” She brings the cup to her lips, mumbling the rest of her sentence into it before taking a drink.
Crowley, however, refuses to back down. “What was that?”
“You knooow… A little…”
“Angel.”
“Embarrassed!” she blurts out. She and Crowley look at each other dead-on for one stunned second before Zira decides the middle of the table is the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen. “I’m embarrassed! This is my first time ever wearing a sundress, and I like the way it feels, but it’s so different from slacks and vests and jackets and everything else I’m used to, so I’m a little self-conscious about it, and… and I didn’t want to introduce myself as Zira Fell before I felt completely confident. I just…” She glances up at Crowley briefly, knocking the wind out of him as she says, “I just wasn’t ready yet.”
“Angel…” Crowley breathes, instantly softening. Zira goes back to staring at the table, and he tries to think of something to say. It makes so much sense for her to be unsure of herself. Experimenting is brand new to her, and the angel has always liked to take things slow. Painfully slow, sometimes. But that’s beside the point. He thinks back to when he first started experimenting and what he would have appreciated hearing. “Well… Personally, I like the sundress. I think it suits you.”
Zira’s head snaps up, her expression dripping with relief. “Oh, really? You think so?”
Crowley, trying to play it cool, replies, “Of course I do. That’s why I said it.”
And when Zira smiles, a genuine, happy smile, Crowley swears he feels his heart burst.
“Thank you, my dear,” she says. “I was so worried it might not look right, but that makes me feel much better.”
“Any time,” Crowley says with a shrug. “I’ve been in your position before. If there’s anything else you’re worried about, I can probably give you some advice about it.”
Taking another bite of her croissant, Zira chews thoughtfully. Then, after she swallows, she says, “There is one other thing I’ve been thinking about.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“I… Is it… Am I … Am I strange?”
Crowley furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”
“For being this way,” she clarifies. The way she looks at him, sad and afraid, is downright heartbreaking. “For wanting to look like a woman as much as I want to look like a man. For liking it. Does that make me strange?”
“ No ,” Crowley says, tenderly and emphatically. “No, angel. Heavens no.”
Without thinking, he reaches across the table and takes Zira’s hand. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture. It’s meant to be a sign of his support. Nothing more. Nothing less. But Zira looks at their hands. And Crowley looks at her face. And time freezes.
It’s like the entire rest of the world disappears. All that’s left is Crowley, Zira, the place where their hands meet, and the sound of their rapidly beating hearts.
And as Crowley looks at the angel, he thinks to himself, Please, someone, anyone… Please, make her stay.
But since when has anyone ever listened to his prayers?
The moment, their moment, like any other moment, passes. Zira, bright red, pulls her hand away and quickly stands up, spouting out some excuse about how her books need dusting so she really ought to get going. Before Crowley can think to stand, or speak, or even reach for her, she grabs her things, turns, and rushes out of the coffee shop, the other patrons parting for her like the Red Sea parted for Moses.
He stares after her, his hand half-raised, his voice failing before it even gets a chance to start, and he slowly deflates into his chair, overcome with the thought that no matter what shape they’re in, he’s going to have to watch his angel leave.
It’s always been this way, hasn’t it?
He takes a deep breath, and as he exhales, he hears one of the baristas call out his name and order. Standing numbly, without pushing in his chair, he goes over to the pick-up area and grabs the cup he finds waiting there. The barista barely has time to warn him about how hot it is before he drops it into the trash bin and leaves.