Chapter Text
Pregnant women are smug, as Crowley remembered Garfunkel and Oates singing it, and he would have gladly added his own version somewhere along the lines Colleagues in an established relationship are especially smug/Did I mention Ligur the lame and Hastur that mug? Or something like that. A few more afternoons spent in the company of Hastur and Ligur (most disgusting couple on Planet Earth, in Crowley’s opinion) and he would come up with the full lyrics.
Not that Crowley had any problem with romance or relationships—apart from not having any of them in his life at the moment. Which was fine. He was still an eligible bachelor with a decent job and a great car, and currently without a partner. Absolutely not a condition that should call for comments like,
“Still nobody to warm your bed, huh?”
or
“If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll find yourself a frog you can smooch.”
Crowley usually just rolled his eyes and said, “That’s not even funny.”
“It’s funny ‘cause it’s true.”
But it was annoying to discuss this every single workday... and one dull Monday morning Crowley finally snapped.
“Hi, guys. Sorry I’m late—”
“Did your partner keep you occupied?” Ligur teased with a nasty grin plastered onto his face. “Wait, I forgot—you don’t have one!”
Ligur and Hastur laughed, and it was the final straw that broke, well, not the camel’s back, but Crowley’s patience.
In his defense, he had a rough morning which started with a long night and ended with some douchebag almost scratching his precious 1926 Bentley that Crowley had kept in mint condition so far, and his not-so-dear colleagues had been trying his patience for weeks now (ever since they had gotten together). His brain only stopped listening for a minute but his mouth never got the memo and kept running.
“You know what? Yes, he did. He kept me so warm and comfortable I didn’t want to leave the bed.”
Now that left them gaping.
“Bullshit,” Hastur said, licking his lips. “You’re lying.”
“‘M not.”
“Give us the details then. What’s his name? How does he look? How did you two meet?”
“Not your business.”
Ligur snorted and poked Hastur between the ribs. “He’s bluffing, huh?”
“I don’t want to talk about him because this relationship, it’s new.”
“No shit, you invented it five minutes ago.”
“Let’s just say that he is very special.”
“Does this specialty have a name?”
“I told you—”
“Give us a name. We want a name!”
They wanted a name and Crowley thought, fine, you will get one.
“Ezra. His name is Ezra.” It should have been enough. Crowley could have an imaginary boyfriend called Ezra for a few weeks before he would get his stupid ass dumped by him. Easy as anything. But the problem was, he couldn’t stop after saying the name. It was like a dam had broken and the words started spilling out of his mouth. “Like, you know, Ezra Pound the poet if that rings any bells for you. Probably not. My Ezra, he’s a real bookworm. I mean, he carries a book everywhere and when he hasn’t got his arms full of me, mostly he's got them full of books. No wonder, though, he owns a bookshop.”
“Sounds like a total bore.” Hastur faked a yawn.
“And a snob.”
“Pfff, I feel like I’m casting pearls before swine.” Crowley pretended to be offended but somewhere along the line he started to enjoy his little game. He was sauntering towards very dangerous territory. “He is a great conversationalist, and, have I mentioned?, unbelievably kind. Also a bit of a bastard, but it suits him, makes him even more adorable.”
That earned some gagging noises.
“I bet he is ugly.”
“Ooh, thank you for asking!” This was really the last point when Crowley should have known better. He did not. “Because Ezra is just downright gorgeous. He has the softest smile on Earth and he might be a bit shorter than me but it’s also the perfect height for kissing—”
“Ugh, we don’t want to hear it.”
“Wait till I finish. His hair is fluffier than a cloud and it glows in the sun like a halo. Yeah, that’s it. He is practically an angel, my Ezra.”
Crowley felt very satisfied with himself—he was finally giving back some of the torment he had had to suffer from Hastur and Ligur for weeks!—and tried to hide his way-too-suspicious grin.
“What did you say, how long have you been dating?”
Whoops. As much as he invested into improvising the most unlikely boyfriend ever, so not his type, Crowley may have forgotten to think about this little detail.
“Two… weeks?”
“Where did you meet?”
Think, Crowley, think!
“At the museum! I met him at the Rubens exhibition.”
“So like what, the guy was ogling fat naked ladies and you thought, hey, he must be gay, I should hit on him?!”
“I’m surprised you know who Rubens was at all.”
And that should have been the end of it. A tad bit disappointing response for his colleagues’ bullying and maybe a bit emasculating too, but Crowley had his own fun in imagining himself as the sappy boyfriend of a guy with whom he would never fall in love. Never. In no universe.
So not his style, this Ezra fellow.
Honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago, Hozier sang into Crowley’s ears while he was busy trimming the foliage of a Symphytum ‘Hidcote Pink’ (commonly known as comfrey). He liked this innocent-looking clever little devil of the nursery—easily grown but difficult to eradicate once established—although he would have never shown any fondness towards it. In his opinion, plants needed to be disciplined, not mollycoddled, or they would get ideas. But if anyone had asked him, Crowley preferred the company of plants to the company of his colleagues, and taking care of them while listening to some music (earphones forever!) was the favourite part of his job.
“Oi, Crowley!”
So much for peace and quiet.
“What?”
“Guess what.”
Crowley grunted. “I’ve got a to-do list longer than a fucking Leonard Cohen song, so. Just spill it out, Hastur.”
“Your boyfriend is here.”
“What?”
“He’s such a loser. Tried to play it subtle, though, said he came for a package but his name gave him away.”
Bits of their morning conversation started to come back to Crowley. He babbled something about books…. and probably said something about fluffy curls… and invented a poetic name for his non-existent boyfriend but what was it? Robert? Walt? No, Ezra! It was Ezra. Interesting choice, but once he jumped on the train of stupidity, his brain was not to be trusted. No news under the sun, really.
Except for one interesting wee little detail maybe.
“Ezra is here?”
“Yeah. He’s at the pickup desk.”
Very interesting indeed, because last time he checked he hadn’t got an actual boyfriend called Ezra. So. Who was waiting for him?
Crowley tried to saunter to the pick-up desk as casually as possible—like someone who knew what was going on. Or who that man was, standing over there in a beige suit that had gone out of fashion around 1905, steepling his fingers over his soft, round middle. As a matter of fact, his white blonde curls looked softer than a newborn lamb’s wool, he was a bit shorter than Crowley, and all in all, he looked just like Crowley had imagined him. Except for his fashion sense maybe, because creative as he was, even Crowley couldn’t imagine actual people who would stand in front of the mirror in the morning and think, oh, hey, I’ll dress up as Henry James today. The most modern piece around him was his leather handbag, placed on the desk, and even that looked like it had been dug up from 1941. But otherwise he looked every bit like Crowley’s non-existent, entirely fictional boyfriend Ezra.
“So, erm, how may I help you, sir?”
Crowley tried to keep his voice down, in case his colleagues were lurking around and spying on them, which only led to the man leaning closer.
“I’d like to pick up my order; I was notified through an electronic mail that I could come for it. There should be a hibiscus under my name, Fell. You should check it under F. Ezra Fell.”
Well, shit.
“Yes, about that—” Crowley stammered. “Please, follow me.”
He didn’t lead the way, he rather bolted and hoped that this Ezra fellow would catch up. A plan, or something close to it, was rapidly forming in his mind, but they needed to get out of earshot, and that landed them in the parking lot in front of the shining glass-and-steel building of the nursery.
“I need your help,” Crowley blurted out but when he tried to form his mouth around the next words, it didn’t want to cooperate. Mysterious Ezra Fell greeted the request with raised brows, and when nothing followed the opening, politely turned his eyes away and let Crowley struggle freely.
Silence stretched.
In the humid August air and under the pressure of his half-formed plan, Crowley sweated.
Precious seconds ticked by.
“Eden Gardens. You know, I don’t think that’s right.”
“What?”
Crowley followed the direction of Mystery Ezra’s gaze, and found himself looking at the bright green neon sign of the nursery. Its harsh colour was in sharp contrast with the gloomy clouds gathering on the sky, but it couldn’t ease the greyness of the scene. With the paved vastness of the parking lot and the glass walls reflecting back the first dark troops of an oncoming storm, nobody would have suspected an Eden-like plant nursery hiding behind the building.
“Eden was described as the garden of God. Singular, not plural.”
“Yeah, surprisingly that’s just what I want to talk about.” He knew he was grasping at straws here, but he needed to find his footing again and Ezra’s pale, yet piercing eyes returning to his face didn’t really help with that. Fuck Hastur and Ligur, he thought and took a deep breath—the situation had already got out of hand and he decided to just go carpe fucking diem. Why shouldn’t he bollocks up his life with style at least? “I mean, I think we should go plural together.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following, Mr…?”
“Crowley. Anthony Crowley.” Riiight. Good manners first, special requests second. “Look, I’m single and my colleagues apparently think it’s fun to ostracize me for that…”
Then Crowley told Ezra the events of the morning, more or less coherently.
“So, if I understand you correctly, you wanted them to stop making fun of you by describing me, whom you’ve never met before?” Ezra didn’t sound angry or amused—if anything, he sounded interested, judged by the thoughtful, calculating way he had summed it up.
“I know it sounds weird but basically, yes.”
“Aren’t God’s plans just ineffable?”
Crowley frowned. “I’m sorry if it makes me sound like an ass, but it wasn’t wishful thinking on my part.”
“Pardon?”
“You aren’t my type. At all.” He twitched at his own tone, but he didn’t want to give Ezra the wrong impression— even if the right impression painted him as someone who didn’t know when to shut up and ended up saying shit things. “I don’t think I’d ever date anyone like you, we’ve got nothing in common. It just sounded like a funny idea at the time. No offense, though.”
“None taken. I didn’t mean to suggest that I had walked in here like some God-sent Galatea, searching for their Pygmalion.”
Right, about that. Crowley could appreciate a sophisticated metaphor, and it felt time to repeat his earlier request. “Although maybe you could pretend to be my Galatea? For a while at least.”
His suggestion was greeted with heavy, thoughtful silence, and Crowley wanted to take back his words immediately. Maybe his idea to play it on the funny side was wrong— probably it just made him sound like some arrogant prick. One proper look at Ezra should have told him that Ezra had been a honest-to-goodness businessman who would never take an offer lightly. Not even such a silly one.
“Look, I don’t want to mess with you, I want to mess with them,” Crowley tried to explain but with every passing second it felt more and more like a lost cause. Honestly, he rather expected the Almighty to part the clouds and chide him for trying to taint Ezra with childish ideas. Of course, the clouds knew better and decided to further dampen Crowley’s mood by sending rain down on them.
“Wait, I’ve got this.”
Ezra clicked his bag open, took out an umbrella, shut the bag, opened it again, fished around a bit, pulled out a business card, slipped it into Crowley’s palm, closed the bag again, opened the umbrella and, stepping closer to Crowley, held it over their heads. In mere seconds, the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain hitting the umbrella quickened into a fierce summer shower. Without the umbrella, both of them would have been soaked in a heartbeat.
“I suppose I should say thank you,” Crowley said uncertainly, because where were they standing with each other now?
“Better not yet. We have details to discuss.”
He could practically feel his eyebrows curling into question marks. “What are you—”
“After work, come over to my shop, and we will sort out everything. I live above the bookshop, so just ring the bell if you come after closing time.”
On autopilot, Crowley pocketed the card with the address, still searching for words. “That’s— I mean, it’s— You—”
“Oh, and would you bring my order over, please? If it’s not a big request.”
That snapped Crowley out of his trance. “Sure. I should get back to work now, though.” He shot a glance towards the building and spotted familiar shadows lurking behind the shop window plants. “I think my colleagues are watching us.”
“I don’t think they can see us. Not in this downpour.”
“Better be safe than sorry.” Crowley licked his lips. “I’m going to try something, okay?”
“How could I consent if I don’t even know—”
But the rest of the sentence was lost as Crowley leant down and kissed Ezra on the lips, open-mouthed and sure. His confidence came out of the blue, probably fuelled by Hastur and Ligur spying on them, and didn’t last longer than a single balloon at a kindergarten party. Ezra’s lips were dry and soft— and absolutely unresponsive. Crowley quickly pulled back.
“Sorry,” he croaked, ice-cold panic rising in his veins. Did he kiss a complete stranger just for show? Shit. He wasn’t even drunk. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“I forgive you,” Ezra said, his cheeks slightly pink, voice trembling a little. “But don’t do that again. Ever. Public kissing is indecent.”
“Deal.” Luckily for Crowley, Ezra apparently had the patience of an angel, and decided not to smite him for his boldness—another sign of how much he didn’t fit the picture of a typical partner of Crowley. Every single one of his previous relationships developed somewhere along the line of the enemies-to-lovers-to-couple script. “Does this mean I can still go over tonight?”
“Of course. Don’t forget my hibiscus, please.” Ezra motioned to the building. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
It could never work, Crowley thought as they walked back to Eden Gardens. The man was just too kind to be his partner for real.
Can anybody find me somebody to love?, Queen had sung as Crowley had driven to Ezra’s place, and now, as he was sitting in the backroom of the bookshop, he thought that ironically, he had just found himself somebody without anybody’s help, thank you very much. Of course, it would be fake and wouldn’t last longer than a few weeks, but at least he didn’t need to put in all the usual effort that had never paid off in the end. Maybe his dating days were truly over, maybe from now on that would be all waiting for him in the field of romance—lies and pretense.
Crowley quickly straightened up on the sofa he had been lounging on. Here he was, not even drunk, still nursing his first glass of wine, but already having strange thoughts, with no plant in sight to project them onto it.
Or, actually…
“Where do you want to keep your hibiscus?”
“In the window of the shop. Why?”
“No, no, no, that won’t do it. A hibiscus needs a sunny place.”
“That’s why I’m putting it in the window.”
“Nope, definitely not enough sun.” Crowley shook his head. “The opposite building is too close; not enough sunny hours.”
“Fine.” Ezra huffed, putting down his glass and reaching for the hibiscus. “Take it then,” and he promptly handed the plant to Crowley. “I presume you have a sunny window.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, it’s fine. I didn’t buy it to kill it, after all.” He shook the pot a little, prompting Crowley to take it from him. “There. Now we can say I gave it to you on our first date.”
Clutching the perplexed hibiscus to his chest, Crowley gaped. “You would bring me a flower for our first date?”
“It’s customary, and I personally think it’s a nice gesture.”
“You know I work in a plant nursery, right?”
“Yes, so?”
The genuine puzzlement on Ezra’s face made Crowley laugh. “If you got me a flower for real, I’d probably bend your ear about the proper treatment of plants, and you’d never want to go on a second date with me.”
Something dangerously close to mischief twinkled in Ezra’s eyes.
“Who isn’t whose type now, Anthony?”
Crowley almost choked on his wine. “Oh, no, shit, you should absolutely call me Crowley. Get used to it right now, please. Everyone calls me Crowley.”
“Even your partner?”
“Especially my partner.”
“What about endearments?”
“Just roll with whatever comes to your mind.”
A few minutes passed in silence. Crowley relaxed back into his previous posture on the sofa, while Ezra was inspecting the wine in his glass with such a heavy, concentrated frown like he had been trying to read his future from it.
“There is something I don’t understand, my dear.”
The pet name earned a surprised but appreciative glance from Crowley. He really enjoyed the hint of possessiveness in it.
“Shoot.”
“Why don’t you just, you know, go on a real date with a real partner?”
“As if it was so easy.”
“I’m fairly certain for someone so bold and aesthetically pleasing it can’t be a hardship.”
“Don’t mistake idiocy for boldness,” Crowley said with a snort because nearly blowing it all off with one kiss was an idiotic move, he could see it now. The trouble was that he could only see the stupidity of his decisions after he had made them and suffered the consequences. “I think I’m out of the dating game for a while. For a long while, probably. It’s not really worth the effort if I only keeping bollocksing everything up.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Yeah, then how about this? My last partner practically cast me out of his life. Heck, they defenestrated me. Sent all my things into a freefall through the window.”
Ezra gasped. “What did you do?”
“Asked too many questions.” Crowley grimaced. “Or one too many at least.” Seeing that his words were greeted by a blank face, he explained, “I proposed.”
“Ohh.” Judging by Aziraphale’s expression, he felt sympathetic for Crowley—sad, even—but his only comment was, “There must be a long story behind it.”
“It doesn’t really matter.” Because Crowley was not used to people being sad about his pathetic romance rate, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to start getting used to it. Honestly, it only put him into an ever more pathetic light. “So. What about you?”
“Nowadays I’m not anyone’s type, as it seems.”
“Where does that leave us then?”
“Perfect candidates for pulling your plank?”
“It’s prank, angel,” Crowley said, grinning and letting the first endearment that came to his mind roll off his tongue. Although barely noticeable, Ezra acknowledged his choice with a passing smile on his face. “And while I appreciate your willingness, I must warn you that playing along would entail coming to my boss’ annual garden party.”
“When is that?”
“Last Saturday this month.”
“I’ll pen it down then.” And much to Crowley’s amusement, he took a desk calendar from behind a stack of books and cluttered papers and circled the day in it. “But I’m afraid I’m rather hopeless when it comes to method acting, therefore I suggest we should practice beforehand.”
“Practice what?”
“Being around each other.”
“Like what, actual fake dates?”
“Naturally, we could leave the nuisances of courtship out of them, but yes, we should spend time together while exchanging information necessary to make our story believable. So, yes, we would be faking dates.”
“Fair point.” Crowley hummed. There was logic behind the suggestion, he could see that, and so far Ezra had been a pleasant company. Not to mention his impressive collection of wine or his comfortable sofa. “But what will you get out of the arrangement?”
“Well, one or two nice dinners, I hope, and possibly a ride to Oxford next Saturday.”
“To Oxford?”
“I’m meeting an associate.” Ezra raised an eyebrow. “I presume you own an automobile.”
A true businessman, indeed. “Bastard.” Crowley grinned. “I haven’t been to Oxford in ages.” He leaned forward, extending a hand towards Ezra. “What do you say? Will you help me with giving hell to my colleagues?”
After a moment of hesitation (it couldn’t take longer than a heartbeat but it felt like eternity for Crowley), Ezra took the hand, his soft fingers curling into a warm, firm handshake around it.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”