Chapter Text
There was silence in the concert hall.
Ezra’s shoes echoed on the wood with the resonance one could only find in a place devoid of the music it was meant for. Tah-tah-tah-tah: an announcement, an I do not belong here, a sound begging for the accompaniment of a doorman with a program.
Ezra was familiar with concert halls. He adored the symphony. But he was not familiar with empty concert halls. He tugged his bag into his side, fiddling with the fraying spot where the strap met the buckle, and wondered if he should place his bag on a chair or—were they meeting here or meeting here? Would the actual meat of the meeting be held elsewhere? Was this just a spot at which to meet and then reconvene elsewhere?
Meet. Meat. Mete. He’d said the word too often in his head now. It no longer sounded like English.
Oh, this was ridiculous. It was a week. One week. He had no reason to feel so out of place, so nervous. Gabriel had been very clear—he really just needed to lead some exercises today, then a workshop tomorrow, then show up and smile for the rest of the week. He liked listening to music. He liked opera. He knew nothing about it, but he didn’t need to, did he? It wasn’t like he was participating. Just teaching. It would look good for the department. Interdisciplinary, that was the buzzword right now, and it would be a feather in his cap towards the possibility of tenure.
Ezra found himself eddying, circling through the hall like a leaf in a river. A high ceiling. Windows up at the top, large and lithe, letting in sunbeams that caught dust in the air. A door at the back of the stage—it was barely a stage, this was barely a concert hall, if the seating were flatter or had pews it could be a church. There was an organ built into the back wall. Was that typical? Ezra couldn’t remember if that was typical. Perhaps it had been a church once. The university chapel was, after all, fairly modern—oh, this Dr. Zevuv fellow was late. Ezra didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his coat. It was cold in here. But surely if they were meeting here, as in having the meeting in this physical space—
A door slammed behind him.
“Well,” someone drawled, “that went down like a lead balloon.”
Ezra jumped and turned. “I’m sorry?”
Red hair. Sunglasses inside. Snakeskin boots. This man, like Ezra, did not look like he belonged in a concert hall. Unlike Ezra, he was completely unaware of this fact, and belonged there anyway.
“Beez isn’t coming. Sorry. We just had it out in their office. You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry—Beez?”
“Ba’al. Doctor Zevuv.” His tone showed exactly how much he respected the doctor, which didn’t seem to be much. The man strode out like he owned the place, grabbed a couple chairs from the wings, and dropped them on the stage with absolute irreverence. He sat on one in reverse, leaning against the back of the chair as if the furniture had personally offended him. “Beez. Don’t call ‘em that, though, they hate it.”
“Is the workshop off?” Ezra stayed standing.
“Nah, no, uh. They just pawned it off. Sorry. Not sure what got them all in a snit, but you’re working with me this week. My condolences.”
“Thank you,” said Ezra, who was by this point completely out of his depth. “And who do I have the misfortune of working with, exactly?”
An extended hand.
“Doctor Anthony J. Crowley.” He said the title like a joke. “Call me Crowley. Not AJ, that’s for pricks, not Doctor, that’s for students, and you don’t want to know who calls me Anthony.”
“Who calls you Anthony?”
“You’re great at directions.”
Ezra laughed. He took the other chair, finally, although he chose to sit in it like a normal person. He tucked his hands into his lap. “I’m Dr. Ezra Fell, Anthony. Ezra or Fell to friends, Dr. Fell to students. Although from you I expect the entire title.”
For a moment, Ezra was worried. It was hard to read Crowley’s face under the sunglasses. Had he crossed a line, somehow? He’d thought he read the tone as teasing, as playful, but—
“You’re fucking with me,” said Crowley, and he grinned, and Ezra’s chest did something extremely troublesome. That smile. Well. It felt rare. It felt special. Maybe Ezra could blame it on the red hair—he had a bit of a thing for red hair—but that smile felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds.
“I am absolutely not. Ezra Fell. The whole name.”
“Well, Ezra Fell,” said Crowley, with that potentially troublesome grin, “I think we’ll make a great team.”
One week.
He only had to get through a week.