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The thing about cities, Crowley muses as he weaves through the bustling crowd on the sidewalk, is that a decent place to grab a quick bite is always just down the block. Despite having moved to London many years ago, Crowley’s childhood in rural Scotland keeps his appreciation of the crazed hub of humanity fresh.
Right now, however, Crowley is on his lunch break and is headed to Castiel’s, a specialty coffee shop a few minutes’ walk away from Cage Tailoring, the tailor shop where Crowley works as a manager. Crowley has yet to find a better shop than Castiel’s; they’re the only place he’s found that carry strawberry-and-chocolate twisted scones, and they are simply divine. He’s lost in his musings a bit, so he arrives at Castiel’s faster than usual. He orders his usual scone and lo-fat caramel mocha latte before sitting down to eat in the back corner, opening a newspaper to effectively shut out the rest of the world for a glorious twenty minutes. He chews slowly, smiling every now and again as chocolate laced strawberry burst across his tongue, mixed with the buttery softness of the scone.
Mycroft Holmes was in the gossip column again, of course. Who did the tabloids think this man was, anyway? Last week Holmes had been the only deciding factor in the Korean elections, and the week before that he had apparently been involved in a very delicate situation with the economies of the Commonweath. And now he has his fingers in the metaphorical pie of Prime Minister Cameron's security detail? Preposterous. Where do they get these ideas?
At least Prince William and Kate finally had their baby. He's sure it's very adorable, if you like children. Which he doesn't. But at least the world will shut up about it for a little while.
He pursues the Sports section idly, sipping his latte as he fails to recognize any of the team names. He's a tailor, not an athlete, and it's not something he's ever deemed important. The last of his scone disappears behind white teeth, and he dabs at the corner of his mouth primly, taking off any minute traces of strawberry and chocolate that may have escaped. He flips the page over and skims the funnies idly. Sports he may have no interest in, but comics are something a person could never grow out of.
He pursues the Politics and letter to the editor sections until his latte cup is half empty, and then he folds up the newspaper. He stands up and tugs his suit jacket straight before picking up the cup and making his way through the shop, dropping the paper in the bin before opening the door into the warmth of London in early afternoon. Deftly avoiding bumping into people, Crowley shields his latte with his body as he makes his way back to Cage Tailoring. He's not really looking where he's going, and when he goes to move around person standing in front of him, he finds his way blocked. He looks up.
The woman standing before him is someone he recognizes as a regular at Cage Tailoring. Miss Irene Adler is looking stunning as usual, her hair carefully crafted into a mass of curls, her face painted just enough to make her look like the Mona Lisa's younger sister. She's wearing a short green dress with matching jewelry, and Crowley secretly marvels at how confidently she balances on thin heels with a large duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She smiles at him.
“Mr Crowley,” she greets him, holding out her hand. He accepts it, the two exchanging a firm shake.
“How are you, Miss Adler?” he asks, his grip tightening on his latte. Truthfully, Adler is a striking woman, and she makes him feel things that are oddly uncomfortable, if not entirely unpleasant.
“I'm good, thank you Crowley,” she says. She looks down and raises an eyebrow at her hand, which he is still grasping. He drops it quickly, scowling at himself for forgetting such a thing.
“Ah, that's, good, yes,” he replies coherently. The bag over her shoulder must mean she's going to meet a client. He tries and fails to imagine the equipment she must be carrying to have such a large bag.
She tilts her head, smile stretching even further. Nngh. Does she even have any idea what she's doing to him?
Actually, given her profession, she probably knows exactly what she's doing to him. Damn her.
“What are you drinking?” she inquires, and Crowley glances down at his cup, Castiel's logo peeking through his splayed fingers.
“Caramel mocha latte,” he answers gruffly. A manicured hand appears in his line of vision and wraps around the cup, gently prying it from his grasp. He watches, slightly dumbfounded, as she raises it to her lips and takes a generous sip. She lowers his cup and swipes her tongue across her top lip, catching the last drops on her skin. It takes Adler pressing the paper cup back into his hand for him to wake up from his stupor. The cup has a bright red stain from her lipstick in a ring around the rim.
“It's delicious,” she says, and he nods his head to agree. “Where did you buy it?”
“Castiel's,” he replies on autopilot. “It's just down the street.”
Adler hums, frowning and tapping a beautiful finger against her lips in thought. “I don't have time to go there now,” she decides, “but I'd certainly like to try it myself. Are you free on Saturday?”
Saturday. He doesn't work Saturdays. Is she … asking him for a date?
“Saturday's fine.” Any day is fine. “Eleven o'clock?”
She blinds him with another smile. “Excellent. I'll meet you in front of Cage Tailoring. Good day, Mr Crowley!” She sweeps past him and quickly disappears in the crowd, leaving him feeling fairly gobsmacked. Did that just actually happen? Shaking his head, he continues his way up the block.
He's late coming back onto his shift.