Work Text:
Somehow, Crowley, as the “responsible adult” of the group, is placed in charge of getting Campbell new clothes.
Aziraphale having decided that Miles and Campbell were staying, and changing the man’s opinion was harder than moving goddamn Mount Everest.
So here he was, having a very one-sided argument about throw cushions. Crowley was arguing for them, of course. In reality he was very neutral on the opinion of extra cushions on couches and beds. But Aziraphale and Campbell seemed to hate them, and who was he if not disagreeable?
They had reached a street Campbell had dubbed fashion street,
“It’s got all these clothes! and colors, ‘n it’s full of bull shit.” he had stated, Crowley had not the heart to argue, throw cushions were enough for today.
But of the colors aspect, at least, Campbell seem to never find clothes with enough colors. Crowley, who was wearing a blue tie and pocket square with a solid black suit today, was never one for colors.
Miles was much easier to shop for, blues and neutrals. Crowley would almost feel jealous of his ability to make an outfit out of nothing if he wasn’t aware of the background of rich people he would have to endure.
Campbell, in the meantime, had started a speech about capitalism ruining the clothes industry. Crowley looked on proudly, the shopkeeper looked on in fear.
They ended up leaving fashion street with several white shirts, a white waistcoat, boots, and a deep blue coat. The first two of which were bought under the premise of acquiring dye from the corner store on the way to return to the bookstore.
Crowley ushered the kid in, leading him to the small selection of the store filled with all things one may need for sewing, including a nice array of dye.
Campbell seemingly looked over them, like an artist picking a brush, and picked the obvious primary colors, orange, and purple. Presenting them to Crowley with confidence, he almost felt like the kid deserved a compliment or ten for picking the strangest array of colors money could buy.
Damn the kids puppy eyes.
Campbell was all fidgety on the final stretch home, changing his walking pattern, folding and unfolding the hem of his shirt, a whole collecting of things Crowley had noticed in the kid. But he didn’t seem any more dim, just exited.