Chapter Text
30 years ago
A shrill, insistent beeping cut through the fog of Ezra’s dreams. He projected himself out of the bed, heart pounding. He stuffed his feet into boots and his arms in his plush robe before he could process that yes, indeed, that was the fire alarm. His mind jumped to the worst case scenario—his precious books up in flames, his clothes turned to ash, his record collection melted and Dalí-esque. He almost pushed against common sense to grab some of his most valued possessions, but self-preservation edged out. He shoved open the door and took the stairs two at a time, joined by other panicked individuals and families. On the other side of the street, the tenants watched the apartment building en masse. Ezra scanned for fire in the windows, but all he could see were lights from Christmas trees.
“Will our presents be okay?” a young boy asked as he tugged on his exhausted mother’s sleeve. Ezra squinted as he looked around at the crowd, certain he could Sense whose fault this was. Discovering the guilty part was simple, though, as there was a man whose eyes kept flitting from person to person.
Ezra pulled his robe tighter as he marched forward to him. The first thing he noticed about him was the mohawk and facial piercings, as they were difficult not to notice. The second thing he noticed was that the man wore a flimsy, hole-y t-shirt with a band on it he didn’t recognize and thin-looking pajama bottoms. It must have been 0C at most. A dusting of snow from a few days ago was still on the ground.
The third thing he noticed was how devastatingly handsome he was, with his dark curls and full lips. But, it was neither the time nor the place.
“How on Earth did you set off the fire alarm?” Ezra asked. He didn’t have to make an effort to sound posh and incredulous.
The other man’s teeth chattered as he responded. “M-making chips,” he said, as if that was a sufficient answer to his question.
“At—“ Ezra looked at his watch, “3 o’ clock in the morning?” he asked, voice rising with each syllable. “On Christmas Eve?!”
The other man averted his gaze and shuffled from foot to foot. Ezra almost felt bad for interrogating him, but now he had a chorus of “yeahs!” from the parents behind him, so he felt obligated to continue. “Is it still burning?” he asked. “We have a right to know,” he said, earning a few more sounds of approval and making him feel Important. It was the same feeling as leading a Homeowners Association meeting.
The firestarter sniveled. “Nnno.” Another sniffle, which Ezra thought could have been for effect. “I put it out.”
Ezra patted down his front again. “Well!” he said, indignant, but the other man looked so miserable by this point that Ezra softened. The sharp December air had cleared his grogginess, and Ezra decided that the person who was making chips in the middle of the night and was now standing in the freezing cold in next to nothing must be having a worse night. The anger of the crowd was still palpable, but Ezra ignored them. “That’s alright, then.”
The alarms halted, and the crowd took a collective sigh of relief. Ezra shrugged off his robe and handed it to the other man. “Tea?”
The robe engulfed the skinny man as he slid it on which made Ezra smile. The man nodded and smiled back. His round, golden, soulful eyes threw off his punk aesthetic, but in a pleasant way.
Inside, Ezra learned that the other man’s name was Anthony-Crowley-but-goes-by-Crowley. Crowley was a brilliant conversationalist. He was a bioengineering PhD student at the same university Ezra had attended for Theology a handful of years ago. Though Crowley’s wit was acerbic, it was clear he was grateful to have company on Christmas Eve. Ezra thought to himself that he had never once regretted being kind and merciful. When it occurred to him, of course.
15 years ago
After the celebratory dinner for the acceptance of Crowley’s paper to the journal, Crowley needed a distraction. He could feel the post-completion panic bubbling up. Then, there was the anxiety about needing a fresh idea… Thankfully, Ezra invited himself over to his flat. He seemed to intuit when Crowley would not want to be alone. Crowley would not tell him how grateful he was for that lest Ezra preen for all eternity.
Crowley grabbed Godzilla off of the shelf, thinking it would be enough giant dinosaur for himself and enough of a thinkpiece for Ezra. Even though Crowley was turned away from him, he knew when Ezra’s mouth was opening to protest.
“Nuh-uh. You picked the movie last time. You cannot complain about Godzilla .”
“I can complain,” Ezra said. “I have both the ability and motivation,” he said, and now Crowley knew he was being obstinate. But, what else was new? Before sitting down, Crowley brought Ezra the nicest bottle of wine he had as a peace offering. Crowley felt an embarrassing amount of satisfaction for making the right choice as Ezra cooed and wiggled with delight.
“It’s a classic, Ezra. You’ll love it,” Crowley said. Ezra huffed, but he seemed placated enough as Crowley poured them both glasses. Crowley turned it on.
—
“Not a far cry from your melancholic literature, is it?” Crowley asked as the credits rolled, making sure to enunciate literature with every syllable in the way he knew drove Ezra mad. He grinned as Ezra’s face pinched before relaxing again.
“I must admit, it had more gravitas than I would have imagined.”
“Do you think there could have been another approach? Other than the Oxygen Destroyer, I mean,” Crowley said.
“What do you mean, my dear?”
Crowley sat up all at once, and then immediately regretted it as his head swam. “I mean, maybe they could have fought it?”
Ezra laughed. “What, and be stampeded?”
Crowley flapped his hands. “No, I mean that they could, er, build something.”
“Like what?”
“A… robot? A big robot. Something that could physically fight him. Like… building a Mothra, so to speak.” From Ezra’s blinking and uncertain nodding, it was clear Crowley was now speaking to himself, but he was on a roll. “It would need a lot of power, and it would need fast reaction times… But, the power would be too much for the brain—it’d have to be—”
Ezra interjected, his hand wagging his glass unsteadily. “Two people?”
Crowley grinned wider and snapped his fingers. “Two people! Ezra, you’re a genius,” Crowley said, and Ezra rolled his eyes as Crowley blew him a kiss.
A notebook materialized from a gap in the couch, and Crowley scrawled some basic figures off the cuff, like second nature.
Crowley didn’t notice Ezra’s frown.
“Should I let myself out…?” Ezra asked.
Crowley waved him on without looking up, and then startled himself by doing so. “Sorry, angel. You know I’ve been searching for a new idea, even if it’ll be stupid in the morning.” He gave Ezra his best winning grin that had wiggled him out of many arguments and miscommunications.
“I understand, dear. I’ll leave you to it. Do give me a ring if you’re not too hungover for lunch?”
“Sure thing.” His fingers twitched, aching to write more. As soon as Ezra gathered his things and left, Crowley flipped on another light and pulled in a rolling whiteboard in from his office.
Crowley sketched in the abstract, more of a storyboard than a diagram. He imagined a hulking mass, but one capable of grace. The project he had just finished focused on restoring mobility with spinal protheses and nerve stimulation. Seeing people walk again had been incredible. However, they had slow progress, and the worst was when it didn’t work. This project would be a celebration of the human body and mind. Man and machine would move together in a symbiotic dance, pushing the limitations of both. He drew a magnified section highlighting the connection between the mechanical structures of the robot and human neural activity. It could be done. He knew it. He laughed as the drafting pencil made a sure line right to the edge of the paper. Three o’ clock rolled around without his noticing.
—
Crowley flipped to the last PowerPoint slide, which featured an embedded movie clip of Godzilla sinking back below the ocean.
“And that is how the world would survive Godzilla using the power of the drift,” he said. He took a sip of water from the stool ahead.
There was a brief lull before a smattering of applause, which turned into more applause, and then evolved further into a standing ovation. He was glad his sunglasses hid how wide his eyes went as he looked around the lecture hall.
Half of his audience was younger than he would have expected for a lecture on bioengineering. Also, more casually dressed, as in, several of them were in t-shirts with Gundams on them. He didn’t know what to make of their presence, but they were certainly enthusiastic.
He took some questions, and it seemed the portion of the audience with Gundam shirts had more detailed questions on his theory of neural linking and drift compatibility than even his colleagues. He was over the moon with how things had fallen into place, as silly as it was.
When he was younger, mohawk-ed, and a bit more naive, he wanted to combine science with art. The human body and the human mind—those were art to Crowley. In a dancer, he could see the muscles and bones working in ways that his own never would; in a professor, he could see a dignity and stability of purpose he never thought he was capable of. He wanted to bring people closer to their ideal selves, to make them capable of things they had never dreamed of. So, he’d chosen cybernetics through bioengineering.
And yes, he may have gotten off and away on science fiction, but he knew his theory was sound. It could, potentially, have other applications. And, he had seemed to interest some people that had probably never entered a stuffy lecture hall before. They may have never considered the wonderful, terrible capabilities of cyber enhancement. A sense of purpose bloomed in his chest.
When he went back to his office, Ezra was waiting for him with a smile. “Congratulations, Crowley,” he said, holding out a small, exquisitely wrapped box. He sounded so proud that Crowley’s ears pinked.
Crowley opened the box to find an iPod. When he started to shake his head and say it was too much, too expensive, Ezra protested. “Please, turn it on. I don’t want all the asking around at record stores to be for naught.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow, but did as Ezra insisted. On it were his favorite albums, from The Buzzcocks to The Who. Crowley, for the second time in an hour, was glad he was wearing sunglasses. He didn’t know how to say this was the nicest thing someone had done for him, so he gave Ezra a solid hug around his middle instead.
“Thank you,” he said. “You big sap. You paid for all this?”
“I may or may not have paid one of my students to teach me how to use Limewire,” he admitted. Crowley laughed, and he loved seeing Ezra’s sheepish smile in return. “You told me you didn’t want to ‘forget your roots’ when you ‘hit the big time’, and while you may not have the mohawk now, I know how much of a punk you still are.”
Crowley grinned. “You’re right.” Crowley wanted to kiss him, he wanted to take him home and show his appreciation in interesting and toe-curling ways. One day, he’d get the nerve. For now, he said, “Let me take you to dinner?”
“I can live with that,” Ezra teased, and they left Crowley’s office again.
Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he felt this elated.
They went for Japanese and got it for take-away.
Inside Crowley’s flat, everything was neater and cleaner than it had been in months. Insomnia could help keep your house tidy, at least. His stomach growled, and Ezra raised an eyebrow.
“Have you eaten today?”
“Er. Well, you know how nervous I get before speeches,” he lied. In truth, he had forgotten. Soon, Crowley would get something to have the iPod playing, but for now he started one of his CDs on his oversized stereo and hummed along. He smiled and moved his head with the beat.
Ezra was giving him a funny look. After fifteen years, Crowley could read Ezra like a book. Even when he was stingy with words, his face said so much. Right now, as Ezra looked at him, he saw “worried” written plain as day.
“You seem very happy,” Ezra commented. “Been sleeping well?”
Crowley knew this particular line of questioning, and right now it was getting on his nerves. “Yes, angel, I have been sleeping,” he lied again. Why did he keep doing that?
Ezra narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything. Now his face said “I absolutely don’t believe you.”
“Hey—don’t look at me like that!” Crowley snapped.
“Like what?” Ezra said, baffled.
“Squinting at me. I don’t like it.”
Now Ezra looked more worried than before. “It was unintentional, my dear. I promise.”
“Why are you so worried about me?”
Ezra chewed on his cheek and looked away. “You don’t seem like yourself.”
“But, I feel great,” Crowley said with a frown. “Don’t you want me to feel that way?”
“Of course I want that. But sometimes,” Ezra started, twisting a thread in his lap blanket, “well, sometimes it leads to… mania. The hospital. I just—I just worry. And I don’t want you to hide it from me again.” That look again, showing Crowley he knew he was lying. Crowley felt angry, like he’d snap again, but he knew that would only cause Ezra to worry more.
“I’m fine. It’s the project. Gosh, Ezra, did you see how excited they were?” he asked, now bouncing in his seat. “It feels so good to share something like that.”
Ezra relaxed and smiled. Shakily, but he still smiled. “I really am proud of you, Crowley,” he said, and for the briefest of moments his hand squeezed Crowley’s knee. But after that he stood up to throw away their dinners. Crowley cursed under his breath, knowing he wouldn’t get up the nerve now that Ezra thought he wasn’t in his right mind.
Long after Ezra had left, Crowley was wide awake in his bed, convinced he could change the world with a snap of his fingers.
—
Ezra stood outside of Crowley’s flat with the key in his hand, trying to filter out the worst case scenarios that kept scratching at his mind. Deep breaths were helpful to a point, though the smell of pizza drifting over from the flat opposite Crowley’s was so incongruous to Ezra’s mood that it felt ridiculous. He felt dizzy and nauseated and wished he had skipped lunch.
He hadn’t known where Crowley had been for the past week. He had no legal right to, of course. He hadn’t seen the ambulance pull up to campus, but he’d heard students telling rumors soon after. Not only Crowley’s students, but it appeared almost everyone knew what had happened. He wished he hadn’t been at a damned conference. He would have canceled it had he known Crowley’s state, but Crowley was like a cat. He would hide his emotional distress so well that even his best friend of fifteen years didn’t know what was happening.
He put on a brave face and pounded at the door. Predictably, no answer. Alright, no need to panic. Not atypical. He unlocked the door and called out. “Crowley?”
Ezra didn’t hear him, but he did hear something faint coming through the bathroom door. As he walked up, he could make out Joni Mitchell’s voice. Oh, dear. So this was a Joni Level Crisis, then. Ezra had encountered a Joni level Crowley crisis once before, and it had ended in an ambulance ride.
Ezra tap-tapped the bathroom door. “Crowley?”
“Nuh?” Ezra heard from what he imagined was approximately toilet-level, and Ezra opened the door.
Crowley’s face was smushed against the porcelain. Above him, Joni played from his iHome, one of Crowley’s brand-new technologies. He looked clean, though more than a bit miserable, but Ezra didn’t see anything immediately alarming.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” Ezra said.
“S’ry. It’s in—“ Crowley’s eyebrows knit as he considered. “The depths of hell, for all I know.”
Ezra sighed and leaned back against the counter. “I had to hear from Professor Device, you know.”
Crowley, not in a position to easily turn, squeezed his eyes shut like he could make it go away.
“Crowley… Why didn’t you call me after? I could have at least helped you clean out your office.”
Crowley sighed and muttered, “Didn’t want you to be disappointed,” which was the sort of vulnerability that indicated an alarming level of intoxication. It seemed his body had sorted out its blood alcohol content out on its own, though.
Ezra had the strongest urge to run his hand through Crowley’s hair. Selfish, really, wanting to wash his unruly hair, set his head in his lap, and soothe him… He folded his hands behind his back as a measure against his desires. He also felt helpless, seeing his best friend in the floor like this. Crowley belched, then dry-heaved, and Ezra managed not to wrinkle his nose. He gave Crowley the most platonic pat on the back he could manage.
“I promise I’m not disappointed, Crowley. But what happened?”
“Ungh.” Crowley looked at the door, or tried to look past the door. He then worried his lip. “Alka-Seltzer first?”
Ezra nodded. “Of course,” he said, secretly thrilled he had an opportunity to leave the room. He was elated that Crowley was alright, but seeing him this upset again broke Ezra’s heart.
As he walked to Crowley’s kitchen for a glass, he straightened up what he could. Trash had piled up by the back door, and when Ezra opened the cabinet, the shelves had no clean glasses. He looked straight ahead, steeling his resolve, as he washed one from the overflowing sink.
He brought Crowley his Alka-Seltzer. Crowley reached up from the floor, but Ezra realized he had a little leverage now. He didn’t hand it over despite Crowley’s whining. “I’m moving in,” he said, flat and definitive.
“What? No! You—you love your space. This is—you don’t want to live here,” he said . “Definitely not with me,” he added. He croaked as he talked, eyes looking elsewhere, and Ezra could see him working out how much housework he’d left to the wayside.
“I am. I’m moving in, at least for a little while to help you stay on your feet. I’m not going to see you live like this.” Crowley reached for the Alka-Seltzer again, but Ezra held it higher. “Crowley. Let me.” Usually when Ezra had Steeled his Resolve he didn’t end up with a huge lump in his throat or wet eyes. This wasn’t one of those times. “Please,” he said.
Crowley crumpled forward before rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “Yeah, alright, just let me—“ He grabbed for the glass again. Ezra finally handed it over, and Crowley knocked it back. “When?”
“Ah, well, I packed an overnight bag in case you needed someone to keep you safe. And I daresay you do, so I will be on the sofa.”
Crowley looked cross, and Ezra knew he wanted to say something from his face, but he sighed instead. “Yeah. I do. Let me at least help you get the clothes off of it—“
“There’s no need. It’s not as bad as all that, dear. Take that glass and get more water, and then take a shower.”
Crowley nodded, in no position to argue. Ezra helped him to his feet. He wobbled and grimaced, which made Ezra worry again. “I need pain pills,” he explained. “Can’t take ‘em right this second, but I will.” Ezra nodded and held him under his arm to get him to the kitchen, unpleasantly surprised by how little strength it took to carry him.
After sorting himself out, Crowley collapsed onto the couch and Ezra sat with him, stock-straight. Ezra knew the gist of the situation from Professor Device, but he needed to hear it from Crowley himself. “Tell me what happened, Crowley.”
Crowley sighed and collapsed further. “Well, I lost my mind, is what happened. I told the dean there is a government conspiracy to eradicate everyone who had worked on the Jaegar Project. Of course, I didn’t have evidence—couldn’t’ve, because it was a delusion—but I told him ‘they’ had been tracking my mobile.” He scoffed at himself, like he’d been ridiculous, even though Ezra knew Crowley had thought it was true.
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad, all things considered.”
Crowley winced and flopped away. “I—I threatened him. I accused him of leaking information. To, uh. To MI6. I said I would have to kill him, Ezra.” He covered his face with his hands in shame.
“Oh, Crowley…”
“I’m not in jail because the dean knows I’m bipolar and I wasn’t armed. The police and the psychiatrist determined I wasn’t dangerous, despite fighting a few EMTs.” He swallowed. “It was ugly. There were students present. The dean didn’t have a choice.”
Ezra knew a pat wouldn’t suffice this time. He picked Crowley up and embraced him. Crowley relaxed against him and cried against his shoulder. Ezra pet through his hair, wishing he could kiss his temple, wished to do a million things to show him the depth of how much he cared for him. He ached to make things better, to fix it all for him. He ached to love him. Instead, Ezra rocked him gently as Crowley hiccuped.
11 years ago
“… Yes, yes. I’m fine. Honestly. Stay at your Jesus party as long as you want. I call it as I see it, thank you. Hell, take a trip to Amsterdam—God knows you could loosen up. I’ll see you when you get home. Yes. Okay. Yes, I’ll take care of it. I’m eating now. Okay. Ta.” Crowley munched on some cereal out of the box, which he noticed Ezra had gotten more of without him even requesting. Ezra could be a mother hen, though Crowley suspected guilt was the real crux of any mother instinct. Still, he was thoughtful. Crowley couldn’t think of another person that was thoughtful to him in particular, especially these days. But, he wished his damnedest that Ezra didn’t pity him. Prayed, almost. He wished the circumstances were different, and Crowley didn’t need someone to help him. He wanted Ezra to know he was capable, stable.
Crowley had built a routine, at the suggestion of his therapist. First thing in the morning, he would stretch, often popping ominously. Then, he ate at least some breakfast with his coffee so he could take his medicine. Right after, he did nothing but sit still while he nursed the rest of his mug. Stillness remained alien to him. But, he had kept up the habit for a few months now. As he looked out the window, he considered his Situation.
Ezra had been living with him for four whole damn years now, almost to the day. His heart still felt heavy when he considered what had happened, despite the distance of time. Ezra had helped Crowley get back on his feet and maintain gainful employment with a florist. His job didn’t make use of his PhD, but it was the pace he needed. Ezra had been the one who had paid more than his share of rent so they could have more space. In a million lifetimes, Crowley could never repay him.
His five minute timer, labeled “don’t do shit”, went off. Damn. He was supposed to clear his mind of thoughts, not ruminate more. Still, ruminating had been his modus operandi for as long as he remembered; he’d need a hell of a lot more time to let go of the habit. Now it was time for his allotted fifteen minutes of news.
Crowley clicked on the TV. Oh, another Godzilla remake? This one looked terrible—too many glowing bits for his taste—although the fact they’d gotten the BBC to agree to use their logo was impressive. He turned the channel, only to find the same remake on… a local British news station? He watched, fascinated, and then checked his pill organizer to see if he had taken the right things this morning. Check. He flipped to another news channel to see the same blurry clip, apparently from the cell phone of a crew member on an ocean liner.
The scientists were calling them kaiju, like they had already been dubbed for decades now. He could make out the Golden Gate bridge in the distance, though it was still relatively close in the shot. His simple fascination turned to horror as he watched the very real-life kaiju slash apart the ocean liner, and he heard the screams of mortal terror from the crew members.
Eyes still glued to the screen, Crowley picked up the phone to call Ezra, who was away to the Netherlands for a theology conference. No answer. Odd; he knew Ezra wouldn’t get started for a few hours. He almost always picked up when Crowley called.
Crowley had imagined this scenario much more than the average person, but nothing could have ever prepared him for seeing a kaiju in real life, television clip or no. Just like Godzilla, nothing the military threw at it was working against the kaiju, and it was approaching land so rapidly that they wouldn’t be able to use nuclear weapons. His allotted fifteen minutes of news turned into thirty, which expanded to an hour. Crowley became increasingly grateful that the Netherlands were landlocked.
Over the breaking news, a major update — the kaiju was within miles of the California coastline. Crowley called Ezra again, and again heard no answer. Despite the distance between Europe and San Francisco, the news made Crowley incredibly anxious. For one, the news was making him feel that he must be delusional again, and he desperately wanted to know if Ezra was seeing the same thing just to confirm it was real. For another, the subject matter reminded him of his dramatic rise and fall, which he actively tried to forget. And Ezra not answering made him anxious, too: it was still a couple of hours before the presentation of his paper.
It was time for his bag of tricks, as he liked to call it. He kept a list of coping mechanisms on his Blackberry, as panic always made him forget every last one of them. He didn’t feel like taking a shower. He’d just eaten. He tried hydration, but chugging a glass of water didn’t last long enough to keep the edge off. He wouldn’t be able to focus on a book. TV was the thing making him anxious. His forearm already hurt from the force of using his stress ball. Then he saw “take a walk” on his list, and that he could do. He kept his Blackberry’s ringer on high just in case Ezra called back.
Going for a walk took his mind off the news, but it brought him back to his morning’s previous dilemma: complicated feelings for his best friend-slash-flatmate. They had eaten everywhere within walking distance, after all. Every block had memories. He touched the bistro table they’d sat at when they’d celebrated Crowley’s new job. He looked into the window of the bakery he’d gotten Ezra’s birthday cake from. Crowley knew all of his most and least favorites. Before Ezra’s return, he could stock the fridge with patisserie, maybe even spring for a box from Patisserie Valerie. Ezra would gripe at him if he bought it too far in advance, though, so perhaps he’d wait until Thursday…
Ah, but if he did that, he may as well confess when Ezra returned, right? Thinking of the perfect moment was a frequent exercise for him. Why not in the middle of a major world event? Even considering making his feelings known exhilarated and terrified him. He had Plans. He would take him to dinner first, perhaps for foie gras—Ezra’s very favorite—or maybe somewhere more down to earth and easy on the wallet like the Lebanese restaurant on Maddox. He would have a Bordeaux Merlot or a nice port chilling for them at home. And he imagined wrapping his hands around Ezra’s and telling him, point blank, that… He always stopped short when he reached this point. How could words be sufficient to explain? He needed a way to show Ezra beyond gestures, beyond poetry, beyond physicality.
He checked his phone. No missed calls or messages. Damn. He resisted the temptation to check the news again, or to approach someone on the street about it. The newspaper stands were the same, of course; nothing could be printed so quickly. He noticed he was about ten blocks from home, so it would be a good time to head back and figure out what else he could do with himself.
A few big, black SUVs with deeply tinted windows passed, the kind that made him instantly paranoid. Great. Exactly what he needed. He walked a little faster. The cars didn’t turn on any side streets despite him fervently wishing they would. He walked so fast that he halved the time it took to get back, only to see the cars parked outside of his flat. Fuck, now he really was paranoid. He was about to turn around, when he saw a familiar face come out of the car. Oh, he was losing it. Maybe he should call 999—
“Crowley?” It had to be Ezra. But he was supposed to be in the Netherlands! No, this was too eerie, but it was him, his familiar chubby cheeks and stout, definitely tangible body in front of their flat door. And behind him, a person that could only be described as an agent stepped out, dressed in sunglasses and a smart-looking suit, and then another man in what appeared to be an American military uniform. This was all of his nightmares conveniently wrapped in one package, Crowley thought. Yet, warily, he walked up to them. The American shook his hand, much to his shock.
“Anthony Crowley?” the man asked. Crowley nodded dumbly. “I’m Marshal Luther Kelley. I hear you know a lot about giant robots.” Crowley nodded again, no smarter than five seconds ago. The American had a big, broad accent Crowley would later know as Texan. “I’m here to offer you a job.” Crowley looked back at Ezra with apprehension, and Ezra nodded.
“I, uh. Me?” Crowley wanted real pants to materialize on his person, but it was not to be.
The marshal smiled and pretended to look around. “I don’t see any other experts in giant robots, do you?”
“I suppose not. Uh. Tea?”
The agent and the marshal both laughed. Crowley laughed back nervously. Ezra finally reached him and touched his arm, which did ground him a bit. Ezra’s fingers then dug into his bicep forcefully, though, causing Crowley to wince. He leaned into Crowley’s ear. “You listed me as a co-author?”
“Ah. About that.”