Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The time was 7:47am, and it was not a nice day.

Perhaps Crowley pushed his Bentley’s gear stick into park a bit more aggressively than was needed, but it helped to eject just a tad of the rage in his bloodstream out through his fingertips. If it had been a good day, he would have arrived at Garden of Eden Elementary School¹ seven minutes earlier and the sun would be out. Instead, a dark overcast had crowded the sky, a harsh wind rattling the trees. As if that wasn’t enough to sour Crowley’s mood, there had been a nasty accident on the freeway, drawing out the already long travel time. Crowley spent the entire stretch of touch-and-go traffic attempting to talk to his day-of contact for the show, only to be met with the irritating grate of their voicemail message each time.

Now, not only was he late to set up his show, he also had no idea where exactly he was going to be performing said show now that the weather had gone south. Wahoo.

Just as Crowley slammed the door shut, a well-dressed man with an eerily straight posture strode down the ramp. He wore a pristine white turtleneck with crisp gray dress pants and a light peacoat to match. His hands were folded in front of him, and he had that tight-lipped smile that meant he was about to become the bane of Crowley’s existence for the next few minutes. Wanker probably had one of those stereotypical middle-aged man names, like Jon, or Jim.

“Excuse me!” the man called out. “I apologize, I’m not sure if you’re here for drop-off or pickup, but this spot is currently reserved for The Downstairs Puppet Theater.”

Crowley had already begun to unload boxes onto the folding cart he always carried in his trunk. “I am The Downstairs Puppet Theater,” he said through clenched teeth.

The man’s mouth fell open. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“Not what you were expecting, eh?” Crowley smirked.

“Not like that, I just—apologies, how rude of me.” The man cleared his throat. “I should have started by introducing myself. I’m the principal, Mr. Gabriel.”

Crowley closed the trunk with perhaps a bit less violence in his bones than before. “Anthony, technically, but just call me Crowley.”

Mr. Gabriel hummed. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that the weather is less than ideal.”

“I’m not doing the show outside still, if that’s what you’re about to ask me.”

Outdoor shows were already a hassle on the best of days. The stage would wobble unless it was on the most level concrete on Earth, and no matter how hard he tried, he always ended up with dirt on his blacks. Trying to set up a show when it was windy was the same as your puppets and props impulsively deciding to take flying lessons.

“I expected as much,” Mr. Gabriel said. “Unfortunately, the teacher who booked you, Ms. Michael, called out sick this morning—”

“Explains why she wouldn’t pick up the bloody phone.”

“—but thankfully, our librarian has offered his space for you to use.”

“Is that going to be big enough?”

“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of space for both classes in the silent reading area.” Mr. Gabriel barked a laugh that Crowley easily could have mistaken for nails across a chalkboard. “Not that I expect you to remain silent, of course.”

Well, Crowley had performed in his fair share of libraries, and he would take anything over attempting to perform in the middle of the playground as the threat of rain loomed overhead.

“As long as no one’s using the space to study,” he said.

“Not this early, no. Follow me.”

And so, Crowley followed Mr. Gabriel through the winding hallways, which were lined with boards displaying students’ projects alongside the typical motivational quotes you would expect. The spinning of the cart’s wheels bounced off the walls. It was only interrupted by the occasional voice of a teacher leading their first activities of the day; there was even one class that had all of the kids—most likely kindergartners—singing a “good morning” song together, a little less than two dozen voices melting together into something akin to harmony.²

The sound made the corner of Crowley’s mouth twitch. He may have disliked people in general, and it had been decided a long time ago that he would never have kids of his own, but there was a reason he started performing for young audiences in the first place. In stark contrast with his punk exterior and “bitter as six shots of espresso” attitude—Beelzebub’s words, not his—he had a soft spot for children. Most of the money he made in high school had come from babysitting, and when he started going to college for the performing arts,³ he had gravitated towards electives on children’s media and childhood development. The average passerby may have been surprised to learn about his career path, but those who knew him even the slightest bit beyond surface-level assumptions would see that he was damned good at what he did. Even if he stuck out like a bruised thumb at every educator event he attended on behalf of the Theater.

Finally, Mr. Gabriel stopped in front of a door labeled “Library,” with each letter a different color to create a rainbow. The wood surface was covered in construction paper clouds and pictures of well-known titles. Crowley clocked Frog and Toad Are Friends immediately,⁴ but he also recognized And Tango Makes Three and The Lightning Thief.

Mr. Gabriel clapped his hands together, shattering the silence of the hallway. “Well, this is it. Mr. Fell should be waiting for you inside. Break a leg!”

With that, he disappeared around the corner. Crowley released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Once the echo of Mr. Gabriel’s footsteps faded away, Crowley took one last glance at his surroundings before opening the door.

The first thing he thought was warm: cream-colored walls, dark oak bookshelves with battery-powered candles placed out of children’s reach, eccentric wall decor, the odd round table scattered about the space, loose crayons already littering their surfaces. To his left was a gaping open space with several comfortable-looking cushions spread across it, along with a large chest of what appeared to be blankets and other soft objects. 

It was, for lack of a better word, cozy, and unlike any school library Crowley had ever set foot in. He was certain that whoever decorated it had used a good chunk of their own money to make it what it was.

That ‘someone’ must have been the soft-looking man at the large wooden desk by the door, presumably Mr. Fell, who stood up immediately upon Crowley’s entrance.

“Oh, hello!” he said, brushing off his—bless it all, was this man wearing a waistcoat in the 21st century? “You must be the puppeteer.”

Crowley blinked. Several thoughts flashed through him at once along the lines of wispy hair red nose starry eyes cute cheeks cute bowtie cute everything fuck fuck fuck. He managed to choke out, “Yup, like puppets, me.”

He winced audibly.

Despite this, Mr. Fell giggled, a light and airy sound like the gentle clink of wind chimes. “Wonderful. I’m sure the kids all like puppets, too.”

Crowley couldn’t bring himself to look Mr. Fell in the eyes, so his gaze darted around the librarian’s work area. The desk itself was cluttered with stacks of paper and several old-looking books, along with a still-steaming mug next to an antique-looking fountain pen. The top drawer was labeled in neat cursive Sensory Toys. Several posters had been hung on the wall behind Mr. Fell, including one with the words You Are Safe Here circled by both the rainbow and trans flags.

So not only was the librarian at Garden of Eden Elementary School absolutely adorable, he was also a good person. What a pain.

Crowley must have stood there gawking for one second too long, because Mr. Fell shifted his weight between his feet. “Would you like me to show you where to set up the stage?”

The words snapped Crowley out of his trance. He did his best to remind himself how to function like a normal human being would in this scenario. “That would be great,” he said, his mouth dry. “I take it you’re Mr. Fell?”

“Please, call me Aziraphale. I find it’s a bit of a mouthful for the younger ones, so I give them the option to shorten it.” He held out a well-manicured, notably ring-free hand. “And you are?”

Said hand was just as soft as Crowley had imagined when he shook it. “Crowley. Nice set-up you’ve got here.”

“Oh, thank you! It’s my pride and joy.” Crowley dared to look back at Aziraphale’s face, which lit up, turning light pink. “It wasn’t easy getting it to where it is now, but the children love it, and that’s the most important thing. My hope is that they’ll all come to fall in love with reading, obviously, but even if they don’t, I wanted to give them the safe haven I wish I’d had growing up.”

Crowley could see himself marrying this guy. He shut up that train of thought the second it occurred, replying, “It’s paid off. I can feel the love coming from all of it.”

Was that an appropriate thing to say to a beautiful man he just met? At this point, he had no idea. Still, it made Aziraphale grin, and that was well worth saying dumb shit to a stranger.

He suddenly remembered that he had a cart stacked with crates trailing behind him, and that he was supposed to be performing The Three Little Pigs for an audience of first graders in fifteen minutes. “Erm, would you mind showing me where to set up? I’m a bit behind schedule.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry, I lose track of time so easily.”

“Not your fault,” Crowley said. His smile naturally came to rest on his face in a way it hadn’t in some time. “I’m the one who got us off topic. Lead the way.”

The two of them worked together to make sure the big empty space Crowley had noticed earlier was clear and ready for a crowd. While Aziraphale puttered about ensuring there was a clear path from the door to the silent reading area, Crowley put up his stage in record time. It was nothing short of a miracle that he had it up by the time a line of students began to trickle into the space.

It didn’t take long for the quiet library to become not-so-quiet, with children talking about this and that as they squirmed where they sat on the carpet. He expected this age group to be a bit restless, which he was used to by now. Poking his head out from behind the stage, Crowley could see a group near the front fussing with a fluffy blanket as they attempted to tuck as many small legs under it as they could. In the back, he noticed Aziraphale handing a child what looked like a fidget cube, to which the tension in the kid’s tiny shoulders seemed to soften now that their hands were occupied.

The smile Aziraphale wore as he stood up straight—heavens, it was like the sun. The difference was that this sun didn’t give Crowley a migraine. If anything, he felt more inclined to take off his sunglasses and soak up as much light as he could.

With a gentle clap, the entire room froze, all forty-something sets of eyes looking back at Aziraphale. Crowley watched from the crack in the curtain that covered where he sat on a perfect little rolling stool, which Aziraphale had seemingly pulled out of nowhere for him to use.

“Alright, my dears, Mr. Crowley has been very kind and traveled all the way out here to perform a puppet show for you all.” Despite how soft-spoken he was, the children all listened attentively to Aziraphale, several of them nodding along to what he said. “I know we all tend to feel a bit silly when Ms. Michael is gone, but please remember to be quiet during the show and only talk when he asks you to. If you need to use the restroom, just quietly come over and tell me so I know where you’re going, and don’t forget to bring a buddy with you. Now, if everyone is nice during the show, I imagine Mr. Crowley will be so happy, he’ll want to come back and do another show! Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

“Yes!” a chorus of voices replied.

“Wonderful. I’ll be right here if any of you need me,” —He sat down on a plush-looking armchair near the back of the audience— “but do forgive me if I get a bit too engrossed in the show and don’t notice you right away. I’m honestly just as excited as you all are to watch Mr. Crowley work his magic.”

Several giggles rippled through the crowd. Beneath the puppet stage, Crowley’s face was on fire. How the children became at ease with just a few words from the librarian was a superpower Crowley rarely bore witness to since he started doing touring shows. He was, for lack of a better word, an angel.

Yeah, Crowley was going to marry him. Fuck. He didn’t have time to unpack the nauseating fluttering in his stomach. Not now. Instead, he focused on the task in front of him, and shot to his feet behind the stage, grinning as he made himself visible to the audience.

“Alright, who’s ready to see a puppet show?”

It was the most well-behaved audience he had performed for all year, because of course it was. All of the children stayed quiet when they were supposed to and reacted or engaged with the characters at all the right moments. When he offered to let them take a closer look once the show was over, the ones who were interested formed a neat single-file line, and they all treated the wolf puppet Crowley brought out with care.⁵ If it had been anyone else, Crowley would have been concerned about what they did to make these kids act that polite. However, with Aziraphale’s whole, well, everything, he wasn’t all that shocked that they all followed directions effortlessly and without fuss.

The kids had all been led out of the room by their substitute teacher, with many calling out things like, “Thank you, Mr. Crowley,” or “I loved the show, please come back!” as they filtered out. The smile that gave him hurt his cheeks, and perhaps boosted his ego a bit more than was healthy.

As he began to strike the stage, Aziraphale walked over. Crowley, very suddenly, found his heart beating much faster than was necessary.

“Hey,” he managed, attempting to sound nonchalant. This attempt quickly fell apart when one of the latches on the touring stage pinched his finger and he muttered, “Fuck!”

Thankfully, there were no kids left in the room, so Aziraphale only laughed at this. “You were incredible,” he said. “The children absolutely adored you and all of the silly voices you did. Plus, I’m certainly not an expert when it comes to puppetry, but I’m pretty sure yours is some of the best…ah, what’s the word I’m looking for? Your skill, I mean.”

“Manipulation? How I make the puppets move?”

“Manipulation, yes. It’s so dynamic. For a moment, I honestly forgot they were puppets and not their own autonomous beings.”

“Don’t tell them that.” Crowley held up one of the pigs to emphasize his point, which drew another heavenly giggle from Aziraphale. He packed up the last puppet as he continued, “But seriously, it wouldn’t have gone so smoothly if you didn’t have such a stellar audience. How do you get them to listen to you like that? I’ve met teachers who have been in the business for thirty-plus years and still can’t get a room to sit still for that long.”

Aziraphale blushed. Crowley added this to his tally of ‘wins’ in this interaction. “Oh, I don’t know. Some teachers have told me I need to discipline them more, but, well, they’re not technically my students, are they? I’m everyone’s librarian, so I see a bit of every grade level, and each kid always has something unique to share, or something that makes them who they are. Even the ones who are struggling often have a valid reason for it. Anyways, I like to think that they see me as someone they can trust to be kind to them, perhaps when other adults in their life aren’t. At least, that’s what I try to do.”

There was a pause as Crowley stared in stunned silence. The next words slipped from his mouth with far too much sincerity: “You really are an angel, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale froze. He averted his gaze, his face turning redder by the second. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

“I mean it. Being a kid is brutal, you know? You’re experiencing the world for the first time, and yet, the grown-ups who are supposed to guide you are always gettin’ mad at you for not knowing what to do.” Aziraphale hummed; Crowley took this as encouragement to continue, “I work with a lot of schools, believe me, and I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you. It’s admirable. You should start writing books or some shit, start making money off of your natural…good-ness.”

“For someone who works with kids, you don’t seem to have much of a filter on your language,” Aziraphale said, though his smile was audible as he spoke.

Crowley flashed a grin as he loaded the last crate onto the cart and threw his bag over his shoulder. “Ah, as long as I don’t say any naughty words when they can hear me, that’s what matters.”

For a moment, the two of them stood there. Aziraphale wrung his hands while Crowley shuffled his feet, waiting for the silence to accumulate into…something. This is your chance, he thought. Ask for his number. Go get coffee. He’s clearly interested—wait, is he? Is he just being polite because the strange puppeteer just went off the rails a bit? Oh god, he’s just being professional in his own angelic and merciful way, isn’t he? What if—

“Michael took care of your payment, yes?”

Crowley startled; his train of thought shattered like glass. For some reason, he found disappointment sinking into his stomach. “Yup, got the check in the mail from the school yesterday. All’s well.”

Aziraphale smiled again, though this one did not reach his eyes. “Well then, I’m sure you’ve got more shows today, and I should probably prepare for the middle schoolers’ study hall happening in an hour or so.”

Unfortunately, Crowley did have another show at 1:30pm. He would need time to drive back to The Downstairs Puppet Theater, unload this show, pack up the next one, and probably eat something on his way to the school if he didn’t want to pass out mid-performance. “Yup. I’ll, uh, see you around, though?”

Aziraphale’s eyes brightened. “Oh, yes. I’ll be sure to keep an ear out in case any other teachers are looking to book a show.”

“Here.” Crowley pulled a postcard out of the front pocket of his satchel. “This has all the details about our upcoming in-house shows, plus some of the touring info and stuff. Honestly, just go to our website, since that’s always going to be the most up to date. Give us a call if you have questions.”

And then maybe go to the staff page and find my full name so you can lurk on my Instagram account, you know, because that’s a totally normal thing to want or do or expect these days, but then that way you’ll follow me and then I can lurk on your account to find out if you’re actually queer or just a very passionate ally, and maybe eventually work up the courage to message you so we can—

Bloody hell, Aziraphale was so old-fashioned, he probably didn’t even have Instagram, did he? He was far too pure for the cruel hell that was social media anyways.

Still, Aziraphale held the postcard close to his chest. As if it was something precious. “Wonderful. Thank you again, really, it was such a delight to have you. Drive safe, dear.”

“Ngk.”

The word ‘dear’ pushed Crowley to drive the speed limit most of the way back to the Theater. “Somebody to Love” by Queen blasted from the speakers at full-volume. He paid attention to his surroundings just enough not to kill anyone as a gentle downpour began to tap against the windshield, but his brain may as well have been pulled from the gutter and then wrung out.

Right. Two singular thoughts rotated through his head on repeat:

1. He had just met what was probably the love of his life at an elementary school touring show, of all things.
2. He had absolutely fumbled the bag.

1. Which was, surprisingly, not a Christian school.^↑
2. Even if they were a bit off-pitch.^↑
3. Much to his family’s disappointment. The last time he had talked to his mom was over seven years ago, and even then, she couldn’t get over what a great eye doctor he could have been. Considering his long-term struggles with light sensitivity that caused him to wear sunglasses more often than not, the irony of this was especially delicious.^↑
4. It was one of his favorites growing up for reasons that are probably obvious in retrospect.^↑
5. This, as you can probably guess, was not always the case. There was one time after a performance of Rapunzel that a kid pulled a pair of safety scissors out of nowhere (seriously, who let them hold onto those?) and cut off a chunk of her hair. Back at the Theater, when Shax saw Crowley pull out the mangled rod puppet, she turned almost as beet red as her coat.^↑

Chapter Text

“You’re really committed to digging this grave for yourself, huh?”

Crowley groaned, burying his face in his palms and winding his fingers in his disheveled hair. “It’s not like I can just saunter back up to the school to see him, or, blessed all, call the office and ask to speak to their librarian for totally non-creepy reasons.”

He jabbed his fork into his salad with a vengeance.¹ Beelzebub shrugged from where they sat across from him. They were drinking a cold brew concoction from a mason jar, most likely mixed with the most bizarre combination of homemade syrups imaginable. Probably blueberry and brown sugar or some shit.

“What school did you say he was from again?” they asked.

“Garden of Eden Elementary.”

“Garden of—ugh, you’re kidding.” Beelzebub rolled their eyes so hard, their head swayed with it.

“What? They seemed nice!”

“Don’t get me started. Gods, what a piece of work. Have you met the principal?”

“Unfortunately.”

There was a long pause after that, then, “Well, it’s not like Aziraphale is the most common name in the world.” Beelzebub set their jar down. “You haven’t found any of his socials?”

Crowley sighed as he poked at a soggy leaf with his fork. “Nothing. You should’ve seen him, Beelz. I bet the guy doesn’t even know how to take a screenshot on his phone.”

Beelzebub scoffed. “That doesn’t seem to have deterred you from pining over him non-stop when you should be working on show repairs.”

“Oi, shut it.” Crowley shoved a fork full of salad into his mouth. “I can mope and work,” he said around the food. “Watch.”

Just as he swallowed, the phone from the office in the next room over began to ring. They both made eye contact.

“Furfur² had to run to the bank,” Beelzebub said.

“And you’re not going to go answer it,” Crowley stated plainly.

“Nope.” They popped the ‘p,’ which somehow made Crowley groan even louder than before.

“Fine.”

He slammed his salad down on the table, sending a rogue crouton flying in Beelzebub’s direction. Good, he thought. It’s what they deserve.

The phone was on its fourth ring by the time he stormed into the office and took it off the hook. “Downstairs Puppet Theater, can I help you?”

“Crowley?” a gentle voice chimed through the speaker.

No fucking way. In no universe was Crowley this lucky.

“Aziraphale?”

Except Crowley must be that lucky, because a familiar melodic laugh rang in his ears. “That’s me!” Aziraphale said. “What luck, you’re just the person I wanted to speak to.”

Crowley swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “Am I now?”

Aziraphale hummed. “I’m actually calling on behalf of a colleague, Nina. She teaches fourth grade and had a guest speaker from the art museum lined up for early next week, but the speaker backed out last minute, and now Nina’s scrambling to find something to take their place.”

“Can’t she reschedule with the original speaker if there was a schedule conflict?”

“I’m afraid not. You know how the district is sometimes. She was told that date was her date to invite a guest speaker. If she misses it, well, that’s it for the whole year, and that funding goes down the drain.”

“Of course they’d do that. Slimy bastards.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you. Just don’t tell Mr. Gabriel I said that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, angel.”

Angel. The name came out effortlessly, which was terrifying, but also something for him to panic about when he wasn’t on the phone with the angel in question. He cleared his throat. “You mentioned it was paid, though? That’s pretty much all I needed to hear. What day is it?”

As he spoke, Crowley frantically looked around for the nearest computer, seeing as his laptop was still in the other room. He ended up hijacking Furfur’s desktop, which was left unlocked as usual, and sliding into the leather rolling chair that had seen better days.

“Oh, did I forget to tell you? My apologies,” Aziraphale said as Crowley frantically flipped through Furfur’s baker’s dozen of tabs to find the company calendar. “It’s next Tuesday, the 21st, at 11am. Just before lunch.”

Aside from a Zoom meeting at 2pm, Crowley was free that day. “Sounds perfect. When do you want me there?”

Apparently, Beelzebub decided that was the perfect time to waltz into the office, Frankenstein’s Monster-esque cold brew in hand. Just as they opened their mouth to speak, Crowley pushed his finger to his lips, giving them a glare that translated to something along the lines of, “IF YOU INTERRUPT ME RIGHT NOW, I AM GOING TO DISMEMBER YOU, STRING YOU UP, AND THEN HANG YOU LIKE A DECORATIVE MARIONETTE FROM MY BEDROOM CEILING.”

Their mouth promptly closed.

“Oh, probably just 10:45 or so, give you some time to get settled in,” Aziraphale said. Crowley nodded to himself, grabbing the nearest blank notepad and pen he could find as he pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “I don’t expect you to do a whole show, of course—besides, this crowd is probably a bit old for Three Little Pigs. The goal in this part of the curriculum is to get the kids thinking about the arts and how it all ties back to their local community and culture. The previous speaker was going to talk about the origin of the museum, how they got a job in the arts, some other relevant art history fun facts, you know how it is. Just, you know, bring yourself, talk to them for a bit about what you do and why it matters to you, answer their questions, all that fun stuff. Does that sound alright to you?”

“Easy,” Crowley said, clicking his pen with a flourish. “Ad lib about why we should give artists more money for an hour give or take. I’m sure I can make something up by then. Want me to bring a couple of our, let’s say ‘cooler’ looking puppets for them to look at?”

“Would you? Oh, that would be wonderful!” The relief in Aziraphale’s voice was audible. “Thank you so, so much for this, Crowley. I know it’s last minute, but this is going to take such a weight off of Nina’s shoulders. Oh! I almost forgot: our auditorium is undergoing some repairs right now, but there’s about as many students in fourth grade as there are in first, maybe even less. We’re not a terribly big school. Would you mind doing it in the library again?”

With the luck he was having, maybe Crowley should stop by the convenience store and pick up a lottery ticket on his way home. “Sounds perfect, angel.”

Aziraphale giggled. “‘Angel,’” he cooed.

It sounded more directed at himself than Crowley, who nearly choked.

“Sorry?”

“What was—oh, nothing! Just—” Aziraphale’s voice sounded smaller, more bashful, as he spoke, “It’s endearing, that’s all. Nobody’s ever called me that before. My apologies.”

Was Crowley having a stroke? He didn’t smell anything burning. “You like it, though?”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. “I suppose I do. It’s sweet.”

You’re sweet, Crowley would have said if he wasn’t actively having a breakdown. Since when did the office get so stuffy? He stuttered out, “Great. Awesome. See you then, Aziraphale.”

“Thank you again, Crowley! I am looking forward to it.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Excellent. Bye-bye, now.”

The line went dead. Crowley collapsed forward and folded into his lap. He made a muffled sound into his pant legs that was something between a squeal and a moan.

From above him, Beelzebub said, “Did you just book yourself as a guest speaker?”

Crowley pushed himself back up to sitting and exhaled loudly. “Sure did.”

A beat. “We don’t do guest speaker presentations.”

“We don’t do free guest speaker presentations,” Crowley corrected, pointing a finger at them. “This one’s paid.”

“Mm.” Beelzebub took a tentative sip of their cold brew. “And I’m guessing that was your little librarian crush booking it?”

“For someone’s—I’m well into my forties, Beelz. I don’t get ‘crushes.’”

“Sure. Say, how much money was it again?”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Crowley’s lips drew into a thin line. He could feel burning heat rise to his face.

“You forgot to ask, didn’t you?”

“Piss off. You’re going to get a check, the kids are going to have a great time—”

“And you are going to get to see your boyfriend.”

“You want to see if your stupid coffee has hair benefits? Because I’m about ready to take that jar of yours and—”

“Fine. Whatever.” Beelzebub threw up their free hand in defeat. “Just ask him out while you’re in that part of town so that I don’t have to hear about it anymore. No matter how well you say you can mope and work at the same time, I’m only paying you to do one of those things.”

Before Crowley could reply, they left, shutting the office door behind him. Crowley looked back at the calendar, which was still pulled up on the monitor, where his name had been added for 10:45am at Garden of Eden Elementary the following Tuesday. He couldn’t tell if the nausea that gave him was from excitement or pure terror.

1. He only ever ate the cheap, slightly floppy salads from the grocery store. Any attempt to get him to eat something fancier would inevitably end up in the compost bin.^↑
2. Not his real name, but honestly, they had all been using the nickname for so long, Crowley had kind of forgotten what Furfur’s actual name was, or where the nickname even came from.^↑