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Long slim fingers dug in the too-small pocket of a pair of fashionable tight denims for the plastic baggie kept inside. After a moment or two of struggling, the wearer of said denims snapped his fingers and two googly eyes appeared on the sign stuck on the wall to the left of the elevator.
Crowley grinned as he admired his handiwork. He’d started at the bottom floor and worked his way upward, affixing a variety of sizes of googly eyes to every poster and sign he’d come across that didn’t already have them. Mostly that involved the paper ones hung by convention-goers advertising room parties or other activities, but a few had been the generic “art” such midrange hotels hung to attempt to look classy. He’d even managed, via use of a surreptitious miracle, to place large eyes on one of the banners that hung over the interior fourth floor balcony, visible from the vast open atrium that was the center of the hotel.
He pressed the button for the glass-backed elevators. Time to find Aziraphale and see what the angel had been up to.
The left elevator arrived first, so Crowley used a miracle to delay the right elevator at the top floor, just for a few minutes. Maybe it would mildly inconvenience someone that way.
He slouched in, an enigma of black in the bright lights of the elevator, propping himself up against the side. He took a quick look at the notices in the elevator; someone had beaten him to decorating them with eyes, so he rearranged letters on a couple to spell out hidden dirty words, and made one into a rather rude acrostic if someone looked closely. Then he propped his head against the glass wall and stared out as the elevator descended, searching the mingling crowd below for a shock of white-blond curls.
“I’ll be in the tea-room,” Aziraphale had told Crowley when he’d left their suite that morning, his customary cream dress-coat, worn fawn waistcoat, pale blue button down, pocket watch, and bow tie for once not at all incongruous. This time it was Crowley who looked like an outsider in his designer denims, tight black turtleneck, and wrap-around sunglasses.
A steampunk convention. He'd never even known such things existed, much less that he'd find himself at one, but Aziraphale had somehow stumbled upon mention of it on the new mobile phone Crowley had finally convinced him to get - who knew the angel would adapt so quickly to smartphones? - and convinced Crowley to accompany him. At least he'd let Crowley take care of securing their suite (the hotel was full, but a little miracle and a glitch in the scheduling software never hurt anyone) and hadn't insisted on traveling to America the human way.
Where the heaven is the tea-room? Crowley pondered. He hadn’t been paying attention the evening before when they’d arrived, too busy jamming one wheel on each of the luggage carts while Aziraphale nattered about the weekend’s events.
As the elevator neared the ground floor Crowley finally spied what he sought. Aziraphale was seated with a few humans in a lower level of the central atrium of the hotel, at the table furthest from the elevator. His back was to Crowley, but Crowley felt a small smile touch his face anyway. He allowed it to linger for just a moment, then banished it. Most undemonic to be caught looking fond.
He could see the faces of the other three people at Aziraphale’s table; they were looking towards the angel, smiling and laughing, basking in his presence without understanding why. He had that effect on humans. Crowley, naturally, tended to have the opposite.
Crowley straightened as the elevator reached the ground floor and stepped off, allowing a couple dressed in full Steampunk regalia to sweep past him and get on. They scarcely looked at him. It was a strange feeling, being under-dressed. Being invisible.
Crowley - and his fellow vandals, whoever they were - had already plastered googly eyes on this level, so with a concealed snap he caused all of the eyes to glance around, following people as they walked past.
“Did you see that?” he heard a man in a tall top hat ask his comrade. The bemusement in the man’s tone made Crowley snicker.
Before he headed towards Aziraphale, he stopped to look over at the wall between the elevators. Someone had taped up some cheeky little motivational phrases there, and some of those had already been ‘edited.’
“You are beautiful, and capable of great things,” one read. A hand had pencilled in, “like murder” underneath the phrase. Crowley let out a small amused chuckle and fell in with the slow-moving train of con-goers making their way from the elevators to the registration tables. The path took him along the low wall separating the walkway from the atrium. There were fake plants strewn along the barrier, courtesy of the hotel, but hand-crafted birds of various skill level and recognizable species were also artfully arranged among the plants- some looking almost like robots, others made of odds and ends, many brightly coloured and a few with little moustaches and top hats. On the low wall itself he saw a few tiny resin creatures - axolotls, jellyfish, manta rays, multi-colored ducks - and one bright yellow fuzzy worm, the kind that often came on a string as a cat toy. He remembered the worms were meant for people to find and turn in, particularly children, so he left it alone. Though he did pick up a bright green duck and tuck it into his pocket.
He slipped between two women in bustle skirts and rounded the corner of the low wall. There was a table set up selling official con merchandise, the registration table, and another table where one could purchase tickets for the following year. Crowley, who hadn’t even purchased tickets for this year, simply strode past those. Aziraphale had probably purchased tickets. The angel would likely have been delighted to do that “the human way.”
Further past were the three steps down into the atrium. A man stood there, ready to stamp tea passes as people entered, but Crowley - who hadn’t bothered with a tea room pass either - simply waved a hand at him airily and the man neglected to stop him from trotting down the steps.
The lower level that was being used as a tea room held about ten tables, each with eight seats. None were full right now. It wasn’t a terribly large space, and he could see that the other steps in had been roped off. The elevators at the far end protruded into the lower level which meant the space was an odd shape, not quite an oval. There was a water feature built into the back of the elevator bay. Crowley idly wondered if he could get close enough to glue down a few coins on the side of it without anyone noticing.
Finally, Crowley turned his attention back to his reason for bothering to visit the tea room. Aziraphale was seated at a nearby table, and now Crowley could see him from the front. He’d changed his corporation at some point between leaving the hotel room and sitting down for tea; he was still dressed as he always was, and his hair was still the usual mop of white-blond curls, but now his corporation was female. Crowley frowned; if he’d known he could have gone in for some gender fuckery himself, but he couldn’t very well change things in the middle of the atrium.
Well, he could, but Aziraphale wouldn’t approve.
The chair to Aziraphale’s left was empty save for a small brown coffee-cup and a plate with a single biscuit on it, so Crowley slouched over and dropped heavily into it. Might have belonged to someone else before but it was his now.
“Hullo, angel,” he drawled, glancing around the table under the cover of his dark glasses.
“Oh! Good to see you up, my dear,” Aziraphale beamed. His voice had changed as well; it was up a register from his normal, though the cadence was the same. Crowley hadn’t heard Aziraphale’s feminine voice in many years and knew it would take a little getting used to.
Aziraphale nodded towards the cup. “That’s a Turkish coffee just for you, and a ginger biscuit.”
Crowley nodded and picked up the coffee. It was piping hot and he knew that however long he’d taken to come down, Aziraphale would have kept it so for him.
“Is this the one you were telling us about?” a woman in a purple corset over a white flouncy top asked Aziraphale, eyeing Crowley as though not certain what to make of him.
“Yes, this is my Crowley,” Aziraphale replied, turning his smile from Crowley to the woman. As Crowley set down his empty mug, Aziraphale reached over and patted his hand. Crowley stared at him, momentarily floored by the combination of the touch and the claiming words, then pulled himself back together. He smirked at Purple Corset and the man to her left. That man wore a grey frock-coat over a bright red paisley waistcoat, and a leather top hat with a red brim rested on the table beside him.
“It’s nice he came with you,” Paisley Waistcoat interjected. “Even if it isn’t his scene.”
Aziraphale ran his eyes over Crowley, assessing his appearance. “He doesn’t much go for this aesthetic, but we’ll find him something that suits his sensibilities.”
“The vendor hall has a little bit of everything,” Purple Corset agreed.
The woman to Aziraphale’s other side, who wore a jaunty orange hat with a cameo and a puff of netting, leaned around the angel.
“If nothing else, some goggles and a hat,” she said encouragingly.
“No hat,” Crowley negated, reaching up one hand to touch his perfectly arranged, deliberately tousled hair.
“We shall see,” Aziraphale decreed, and Crowley sighed, knowing he’d be sporting a hat by the end of the day.
He looked at the empty plate beside Aziraphale’s half-full cup. “Need more biscuits, angel?”
“Oh, they don’t want to run out so they’re only giving out three per patron per visit. I wouldn’t want to take someone else’s.” The words were accompanied by the flutter of long lashes over hazel eyes.
That’s Aziraphale-speak for yes, Crowley knew. Under the table, he snapped his fingers. “Don’t think they’ll need to worry about that any time soon,” he murmured so only Aziraphale could hear.
“I hope you folks enjoy the con,” Purple Corset told them as she and Paisley Waistcoat rose. Crowley muttered folks under his breath, sneering at the sheer American-ness of it.
“Oh, I’m quite certain we will,” Aziraphale replied enthusiastically, elbowing Crowley.
“I’m going to go back to my wife now,” Orange Hat said as she too got to her feet. “She’s in a room with the other authors on the way to the vendor hall. We'll look forward to seeing you later!”
“I’ll stop in to check out her novel,” Aziraphale promised. Crowley doubted any self-published work would be up to the angel’s standards, but he also knew Aziraphale would purchase it anyway.
“Ciao,” Crowley tacked on as they left.
Aziraphale sighed happily. “Aren’t their outfits lovely?” he exclaimed.
“That’s why the change?” Crowley asked, gesturing vaguely towards the angel’s corporation.
“Oh, yes, my dear. The men don’t have nearly as many options, and I do remember my corsets fondly.” Aziraphale patted his midsection. “Good back support, and they give one such a pleasing shape.”
Crowley, who had not particularly enjoyed corsets on the first go-round, merely grunted.
“She or he, then?” he asked.
“Oh, either is fine,” Aziraphale said airily. “I didn’t plan on changing everything, just the bits that make the corsets fit better.”
“Right, then,” Crowley said with a small shrug. If Aziraphale didn’t care, then he could still use a variety of different pronouns, have a little fun with things. He wondered if he could get away with using a different pronoun for the angel with each person he spoke to, but then reminded himself that he didn’t really intend to speak to people.
A woman with a cart came past, and Crowley waved her down.
“Can we get a few more biscuits?” he asked, flashing a smile that had a few too many teeth to be quite friendly.
She hesitated for only a moment, but Aziraphale joined him in beaming at the woman and she nodded.
“Is that your real accent?” the woman asked as she picked up a tin and set several biscuits down on Aziraphale’s plate.
“Is this my real…” Crowley began snidely.
“Yes, dear girl,” Aziraphale spoke over him, casting a warning look his way.
“Do you need more tea?” the woman directed towards Aziraphale.
Crowley perked up; he wouldn't mind another Turkish coffee, but before he could make a request Aziraphale declined. The woman wished them a good day and wheeled away her cart. Crowley slouched back, arms crossed, sulking a little.
Aziraphale nibbled at his biscuits, occasionally brushing crumbs from the swell that his rather generous chest created. Crowley found himself tracking the motion out of the corner of his eye and willed himself to stop.
“There are a couple of talks I want to see,” the angel told Crowley as he finished his tea, patting his mouth with his serviette. “But first I want to visit the vendor hall.”
“Whatever you want, angel,” Crowley said as he got to his feet. Aziraphale rose as well, casting a sidelong glance at Crowley’s black denims.
“You could at least try to get into the spirit,” the angel chided him. Crowley rolled his eyes.
“Want me to..." Crowley mimed snapping.
“Duck into the loos first,” Aziraphale told him. “There’s plenty of looks to choose from; just think of something that fits in.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley frowned.
“So are those,” Aziraphale said, nodding towards the denims.
Crowley muttered under his breath but went to the loo as ordered, ducking into a stall and snapping to change his denims for equally fitted black trousers. After a moment, he also brought into being a black waistcoat with deep crimson pinstripes and banished his turtleneck for a black silk button down. Once done he checked his hair again in the mirror and strode out to rejoin the angel.
Aziraphale was chatting happily away with one of the people at the registration booth; they wore a green and gold bustle that stuck out in the back over a men’s green button-down shirt and grey trousers, with a pinstripe bow tie and a cropped jacket with tight-fitting sleeves. The angel gave Crowley a critical once-over as the demon sidled up to him, but seemed pleased with what he saw and slipped his hand into Crowley’s elbow.
“The vendor hall is all the way around, past the convention center and the concessions, as far as you can go,” Green Bustle told Aziraphale, gesturing down the hall, scarcely sparing Crowley a glance. “Just inside and to the right is where I got this bustle.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale told them cheerily, then tugged at Crowley’s arm to lead him down the hall. They passed through the Steampunk crowd, Aziraphale stopping frequently to compliment this person’s dress, or that one’s hat, or another’s corset. Each time the person was happy to tell him who the maker was and whether they were present at the convention. Crowley promptly forgot the name of each and every shop as soon as it was said. He wouldn’t need to know them anyway; he doubted he’d find anything he wanted to buy in the hall.
Crowley and Aziraphale paused together at a large paper triptych of the weekend’s schedule mounted on a wall, the font above simply reading, “Teslacon.”
“Did you ever meet him?” Crowley asked Aziraphale idly as the angel jotted down the names, times, and locations of talks he wanted to attend in a very tidy pocket journal.
“Tesla?” Aziraphale asked. He offered an affirming hum. “Decent fellow; very private, but he could be charming when he wanted. Of course, there was that issue with Marconi, and the…tension between him and Edison.”
“Edison was an arse,” Crowley grumbled.
“Quite,” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Tesla and I talked about philosophy a time or two. Very intelligent man. Why? Did you meet him?”
“Nah. Was too busy prodding Edison into being an arse. Not that he needed much help. Brilliant man, but ruthless.”
Aziraphale hummed again.
Once the hall widened and they could walk side-by-side, they did, but it was slow going. There were more posters on the walls for Crowley to contemplate defacing, and there were displays for photo opportunities. Aziraphale wanted to stop at each one, bullying Crowley into indulging him with a mere flutter of his lashes. Each time Crowley dug out his phone with a put-upon sigh, but each time he took the damn photo. They passed the room with the booksellers and Aziraphale commented that he would like to visit it after he’d secured a “proper” costume.
“And one for you as well, my dear,” he told Crowley loftily. “At least goggles to replace those sunglasses, don’t you think?”
“Whatever, angel,” Crowley drawled. “You know you could just…” he mimed snapping his fingers again and then gestured towards his own miracled waistcoat and trousers.
“I have standards, Crowley,” Aziraphale scowled. “Besides. It isn't the same and you know it. These pieces are made with love by real artists and crafters. That makes them far superior.”
Crowley grinned; he'd gotten the rise he'd wanted out of the angel. Aziraphale seemed to realize it, too, because he harrumphed and drew himself up stiffly, which did interesting things to his corporation.
They finally reached a larger open space, which Crowley assumed from the bank of doors to the right was the entrance to the convention center proper. Cold air filled the room any time the doors opened and Crowley was glad the entire event was indoors; He had no interest seeing any more of Wisconsin’s November weather than he already had.
There were a few more displays set up in the foyer for photos, including a cart frame of some sort with a dirigible attached to the top.
“Ooh, that must be the Popemobile!” Aziraphale clapped his hands together. “Someone told me there’s a Steampunk Pope somewhere here. Isn’t that clever?”
Before Crowley could make a comment one way or another, Aziraphale was dragging him towards an open room. The sign outside pronounced it the Victorian Photography Studio.
“Crowley, we simply must have our picture taken together,” the angel exclaimed with a wiggle as he paused in front of a selection of monochromatic tintypes on display. “It reminds me of the time we met up in the ‘Wild West’.” He even made the little air quotes. Crowley rolled his eyes lest he show how adorable he found that.
“Yeah, yeah. California, was it?”
Aziraphale frowned. “I thought it was New Mexico.”
“Suppose it doesn’t really matter where it was,” Crowley told him. “And sure, if you want to.”
Aziraphale signed them up for a time later in the day.
“There,” he announced when he emerged. “Now I just need to find something to wear. Come along!”
Crowley sighed deeply, but continued down the hallway past a concession stand, around a corner, around another corner, and just when he thought they’d soon circle back around to the entrance, they saw a room with a flow of people entering and exiting. Two men stood outside the room, idly glancing at badges as con-goers passed them.
Aziraphale tugged something out of one of his pockets.
“Here, Crowley,” he said. “I bought our badges this morning before you came down.” He pressed one of the plastic badge-holders - complete with small clip - to Crowley, and clipped his own to his lapel.
Crowley sneered at the idea. “You know you could just…” he raised a hand to snap.
Aziraphale scowled. “Why bother coming if we're not going to support the convention?”
“Good question,” Crowley retorted. ”Why bother coming, indeed?”
“Oh, stop that, you old snake. Quit your fussing and put it on.”
“Absolutely not.” Crowley flashed the badge at one of the men outside the vendor room, then stuck it in his back pocket. Aziraphale slid his hand into the crook of Crowley’s arm, tugging him inside. Despite his vague irritation, Crowley relished the touch.
As they entered the vendor hall, Aziraphale paused.
“Oh, isn’t this fascinating,” he breathed. He drifted towards a stall to the right which had a hanging display of pocket watches along with displayed fans and jewelry. He nodded to the proprietress and exchanged a few pleasantries with her while Crowley eyed the hanging watches and wondered, if he pulled one back and let it go, whether the whole thing would act as a Newton’s Cradle.
“There, my dear! That’s the shop that sells the bustles,” Aziraphale said as he dragged Crowley down the aisle to the next shop. There were bustles and capes on standing displays and two rows of bustles displayed on the wall, creating a veritable sea of fabric towards which now Aziraphale drifted.
“Perhaps we should take a walk-about first, angel. See what all there is to offer before you start to buy,” Crowley protested, but he knew Aziraphale wasn’t listening.
The angel had stopped in front of a long shimmering bustle hanging from one of the standing displays. It reflected different shades of gold as the light hit it, at one angle a champagne colour, and at another more of a true gold. It had ties at the waist and was open in the front, gathering at the sides and back and bunching up over the bum.
“Isn’t this lovely? Shame it would be too long on me,” Aziraphale sighed as he reached out and touched the fabric.
“They’re all adjustable,” one of the sellers said as she approached. She was wearing one of the bustles herself, in a fabric that was blue when the light hit it one way and red when it hit another. The back was scrunched up and showed a number of ruffles, and as she turned Crowley noted she had on a bustle cushion as well. He remembered those, as well as the whalebone dress improvers that once were in fashion. It was interesting what these humans chose to recycle from the past.
Aziraphale clapped his hands once at her words, plucking the bustle from its display, and Crowley knew the angel would be there for a while.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, no small feat given how tight they were. “‘m going to just walk around, angel,” he said. Aziraphale didn’t even glance at him, merely waved his fingers.”
“Do have fun, dear,” he said absently as he watched the woman demonstrate how to shorten the bustle.
Crowley grinned toothily. Those were dangerous words to tell a demon in a place like this. Of course he wouldn’t do anything malicious; the artists and creators didn’t deserve that, but a little mischief couldn’t possibly go amiss.
Since Aziraphale had turned right when they entered, Crowley opted to head down the left side of the vendor hall. It was impossible to get a feel for how many vendors there were; black draperies were arranged to curtain booths off from one another, so while he could see both sides of the row ahead of him, he could not see to the center of the room.
He paused at the first vendor stall on the left against the wall, that of a chainmail artist. He ran his fingers over one of the bracelets, enjoying the smooth cool texture. Behind the tables bearing necklaces, earrings, and bracelets there was a scale-mail pauldron and a handful of tapering cylindrical shapes.
“Tails,” the vendor explained when she saw his eyes lingering.
Crowley scrunched his nose. “Tails for what?”
“Dragons. They’re very popular at Renaissance faires.”
Crowley pursed his lips. Depending on where one had spent it, certain aspects of the Renaissance had been enjoyable, though he definitely didn’t miss the horses. He couldn’t see going out into a muddy field the way Americans seemed to enjoy and play-acting at a mishmash of history.
“Ever worn real chainmail?” Crowley couldn’t help but ask. “Heavy. You wouldn’t like it.”
“Oh, are you SCA?” the vendor asked politely.
“I don’t even know what that is.” Crowley poked at one exceptionally fine bracelet. There seemed to be little he could do to cause mischief at this booth. Then something caught his eye.
“Are those chainmail bow ties?” he asked incredulously. The vendor grinned and nodded. He snorted a laugh, delighting in the idea of showing Aziraphale. Maybe there was a little fuckery here after all.
When the vendor turned away to speak to another potential customer, Crowley snapped. One of the plain blue chainmail bow ties now sported a tartan pattern of alternating lighter and darker blue rings, the colours close enough that most people wouldn’t notice. He’d know, though, and that was what mattered.
He nodded to the vendor when she glanced back his way and crossed the aisle to the next booth, deciding to proceed on in a zigzag fashion. This one was a chocolatier booth with many offerings on display. He picked up one called “The Hindenburn” and studied the package.
“Too soon?” he chuckled to himself. Aziraphale would find it funny, he was certain.
“Want to try a sample?” the man behind the booth asked. Crowley glanced up, raising one eyebrow above his glasses.
“Sure,” he drawled. The man picked up a plastic container and a small pair of tongs.
“This is the Hindenburn,” he told Crowley as he placed it on his palm.
There was just the right amount of spice, counteracted by the sweetness of the chocolate. Despite his overall disdain towards sweets, he appreciated the taste of it. He sampled a few others; he didn’t care for the Mad Hatter, which featured bergamot, though he knew Aziraphale would. There was a dark chocolate he found palatable; he sampled the mint but didn’t care for it; and there was one with peanut butter which he did not opt to try. With an elegant shrug of one shoulder, he picked up a selection of chocolates and some hot cocoa mix. He was certain the angel would want to come back past to get more, but this would be enough to tide him over for the evening.
Crowley switched back to the other side of the aisle. The next stall was full of Moroccan stained glass lanterns and lamps so he didn’t linger. Much more Aziraphale’s aesthetic than his.
After that he zagged back to the side with the chocolatiers. The booth next to them had hair-bands with different styles of long hair attached to them on display: locs, braids, curls. The proprietress was demonstrating for a young woman how to gather her real hair into a bun and wrap the band around so that the fake hair cascaded down her back. The addition of a couple of flowers on barrettes completed the illusion. Interesting, but not what Crowley was looking for. If he wanted longer hair, he’d do it for himself.
Maybe he’d do that. Aziraphale had mentioned once that he’d liked Crowley’s hair long.
At the end of the first row there was an elaborate setup, reminiscent of an actual shop, pewter pins and jewelry displayed on and around the wooden walls of a large cart with a canopied top. He edged over to the cornucopia of pins on their display boards and read some of the examples to himself: Rebel Scum. Local Cryptid. Chaotic Bisexual.
There were a couple of empty pegs, and with a snap Crowley created an exact replica of the work present which read Duke of Hell. Then he snapped into existence a second one that said Tickety-boo. He snickered to himself, imagining walking Aziraphale over to see if the angel would find that one. He drifted past the display of pewter rings, stopping to admire one particular snake ring before continuing on.
Next down was a stall selling soaps and lotions, as well as candles, the scents not as overpowering to his senses as he might have thought. Still, it wasn’t what he’d come for, and short of creating cheeky limericks out of the ingredients on a couple of bottles in order to cause some low-level confusion, he saw no reason to dawdle.
There was another booth in that line, and then he could choose between continuing along the wall or turning and going down the second aisle. He paused, tipped his head, and listened. He could hear Aziraphale’s voice, though not his words. At that moment the tingling sensation of a miracle brushed against him. He wondered what the angel was doing, then dismissed the thought. He’d find out soon enough.
The stall next to the soap-seller featured leather goods. Small leather hot air balloons festooned the rack above his head. There were pouches and flat leather half-circles, each with a teacup and spoons strapped to them, as well as loops to attach them to a belt. He picked one up.
“Tea duelling set,” the vendor told him.
Crowley glanced up. “Beg pardon?” he said, certain he misheard.
“Tea duelling,” the man repeated.
“And that is…?”
“You have a cup of tea, and you dunk a cookie in, and you see whose cookie falls apart first. The one whose cookie lasts longest is the winner.”
It was certainly fuckery, though Crowley wasn’t certain whether it was hilarious or dead boring. Would likely depend on what the angel thought of it. He nodded as if in understanding and returned the tea duelling set to the wall.
Crowley glanced back up at the leather hot air balloons with their small leather baskets dangling beneath. As the seller turned away to complete a sale, he snapped his fingers and an appropriately sized action figure appeared, dangling from one of the balloons as though trying to pull itself up and in. Then he turned his back on the leather booth and faced down the aisle.
His eyes lit up at the sight of the next booth. On a stand at the end of one table was a display of goggles. Some were decorated with feathers, some had been painted, and a couple had strangely faceted crystal-looking lenses. A few had rough-looking textures, and he stopped to look more closely at a pair of those.
“They glow in the dark and under a blacklight,” one of the two sellers in the booth told him as she approached. She picked up a small flashlight and clicked it on, revealing it to be a UV light, and indeed the goggles lit up. Crowley raised one eyebrow.
The seller stepped back, clearly content to let him browse on his own. At random he selected a dark red pair of goggles from the table in front of the stand, then moved on along the table. The jewelry didn’t interest him, but as he moved to the back of the u-shaped layout, he found pre-tied bow ties. They’d been decorated with half-pearls or crystals and some had tiny cameos glued on. He picked up one with a gold-on-brown paisley print and studied it for a moment. Tiny gold half-pearls had been affixed to each corner and a larger one marked the very center. It was absurd. The angel would both love and hate it.
“Are you just getting into steampunk?” the other seller asked from her seat behind the table.
“Not even at gunpoint,” Crowley mumbled.
“Sorry? Didn’t catch that,” the first seller who’d approached him said. Crowley actually looked up at her this time. Like him, she was dressed in black, though hers was far frillier. Like many of the women she had a corset, and she wore an elaborate, multi-layer bustle instead of one with a bustle cushion. Under the bustle she wore a longer black skirt and her shirt was black brocade with frills down the front. The only color in her whole outfit were her red velvet high-heeled boots. Those, he quite liked.
“S’not really my thing. I’m here with…” His voice trailed off, and he waved one hand vaguely in the direction from which Aziraphale’s voice emanated.
“That’s sweet,” the other seller said. When he glanced at her, he noted that her costume was a direct contrast to Red Boots. Her layers were white and silver and she had on a grey suede hat with an enormous white feather.
Crowley sneered at the word and moved on, still holding the bow tie. He skipped past the pocket watches - Aziraphale preferred his own - and offered a cursory glance at the painted masks on the last table. He also noticed more of the little resin animals.
“Take a pocket friend,” Red Boots encouraged when she saw him looking at them.
Crowley swept a few more ducks into his hand and deposited them in his pocket. He wasn't sure what to do with them yet but he knew something would present itself.
“Just these,” he said finally, turning towards Red Boots and gesturing to the goggles and bow tie.
“I’ll get a bag,” Grey Hat offered.
“Don’t bother,” Crowley told her, tucking the bow tie into his waistcoat pocket. He half-turned away and slid the goggles on his head, removing his sunglasses in the process and banishing them back to the suite.
“Card or cash?” Red Boots asked. “Or tap to pay?”
Crowley tugged out a wallet that had not been in his back pocket a moment before and extracted a card from it. He tapped it to the reader then put it away. He nodded to the sellers as he left the booth.
He meandered past a stall selling sleeveless long jacket-like outfits. They hung to the floor in the back, but the front was open with three or four buttons over the torso like a waistcoat. He paused for a moment; he rather liked the cut and thought they’d flatter his slim build, but the selection was rather flamboyant in colour. He turned away when the vendor, dressed in one of her own robes, tried to beckon him closer.
At that moment, Crowley heard Aziraphale call to him from a row further down: “My dear, could you come here?”
“Coming, angel,” he replied as strolled down the aisle. Glowing glass under a UV light caught a fragment of his attention and he resolved to wander back by. For now, though, he followed the angel’s voice around the corner to the first aisle and back to the far wall.
Aziraphale stood near a mirror holding two skirts in front of himself, his face puckered in a faint frown. The bustle and cushion he'd picked up from the first stall he'd visited had been draped over a nearby display.
“What?” Crowley asked as he slouched into the booth, hands jammed again in his pockets, bag of chocolate tucked under his arm.
“Which of these do you think matches the bustle better?”
Aziraphale held up the first skirt, which was an off-white creamy color with faint gold stitching. The front had two channels sewn in and ribbons dangling from them, which hiked the skirt up in the front in the same manner as most of the women wore.
After a moment displaying the first skirt, Aziraphale lowered it and raised the other. This one was a darker brown than he ever saw Aziraphale wear, and there were no interesting pleats or hikes on the front. It was rather plain, though very well-made, but Aziraphale had scarcely shown it to Crowley before Crowley shook his head.
“The other one,” he said gruffly. “I like all the…” he gestured helplessly towards the skirt. “Nice details,” he finished vaguely.
Aziraphale beamed at him and handed the plain skirt back to the hovering vendor. “Oh, thank you,” the angel trilled. To the vendor he said, “I knew he'd be so helpful. He has an eye for these things.”
The vendor cocked his head as he looked Crowley over. “If you're interested, we do have more than just skirts here,” he began. Crowley shook his head once, slight sneer affixing itself to his face, and the man turned his attention back to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale pouted, but this time Crowley ignored it. He'd given in on the goggles and he'd at least looked at hats, but he drew the line there.
Those hazel eyes flickered quickly to Crowley's face as though checking to see whether he'd get his way.
“Lovely choice in goggles, my dear,” he said as he stepped closer for a better look.
“Whatever,” Crowley grumbled. He started to lean against the wall, but to his surprise Aziraphale shooed him with the hand not holding the cream colored skirt.
“I'm not ready to show you yet,” he said primly. “You'll have to go somewhere else for now.”
Crowley muttered under his breath but pushed off the wall and stalked out of the booth.
He headed back to the stall with the UV reactive glass. There were necklaces with glowing pendants, baskets with what looked like marbles, and even a full tea set.
“Uranium glass,” the vendor told him. He nodded absently, picking up a lone teacup and saucer. He remembered the tea duelling sets with a wicked smile.
“Just the one,” he told the seller, tapping his miracled credit card to her card reader. She wrapped the pieces carefully, and then Crowley set them in the bag with the chocolates. He’d go back to the leather booth in a bit.
He skipped the next two booths across from one another. One sold multi-layered bustles with ornate bejeweled pins on the back which did not match Crowley's aesthetic, and the other sold beard and moustache care products that he did not need.
He'd reached the end of the row. Across from him and up just a little was the bustle stall Aziraphale had shopped at.
His eyes lit up at the stall directly across from himself. It was full of metal insects made from clockworks, filigrees, and a myriad of findings. He drifted closer, looking over a very well made Luna moth before his eyes were caught by a praying mantis. The lower body was made from metal petals over a wire frame, with coiled wire forming the upper thorax. The bent arms were coiled wire and beads, and there was a heart-shaped bead upside down as the head. The legs were more coiled wire with long thin beads marking where the joints on a real insect would be. From one of its wire forelimbs dangled a spare bead shaped like its head. Crowley grinned.
“Had to have her devouring her mate,” the artist interjected from nearby. He half-turned and offered a small nod.
“s’ good,” he told her. It was the kind of thing he would probably have done if he'd thought of it. When the artist turned to help another customer, Crowley stuck one of the purple ducks from his pocket in the forelimbs of one of the other mantises as though it had caught itself a meal. He moved on to look over the beetles and the butterflies, but he kept thinking of the mantis with her grim trophy. Finally he turned back around, plucked one of the mantises off the display, and handed it to the vendor.
“Need a box for it?” she asked. “It’s actually a pin, so you can wear it or stick it on a hat.”
Crowley gestured yes to the box, completing the transaction with the vendor’s assistant while she packaged up his mantis.
He stepped out of the booth and glanced to the left. He could see the stall at which Aziraphale had been looking at skirts, though he didn't see him there any longer. There was one more row to look down before the end of the room.
The booth next to the one with the insects sold woodworks, which at first he dismissed. He doubled back, however, when the text on one round item with raised scalloped edges caught his attention.
“Stupid should hurt,” he read aloud. He glanced at the man, grinned toothily.
“You look like the kind of fellow who needs one of these,” the man replied, holding out a wooden token. Crowley accepted it; it was in the shape of a cartoony bomb, and there was a capital F burned into it.
I like this one, Crowley thought. Aloud he replied, “Have any more of these for sale?”
He paid the man for several more, then strolled towards the next aisle. As far as he was concerned, everyone he interacted with when he went back to London was going to get an F-bomb.
The first booth he came to in the next row sold stones and minerals. There were fossils and carved shapes, geodes and small pyramids. He surreptitiously slid two smaller half-spherical shapes beside a long thin rod, snickering at the phallic imagery before he turned away.
There was another leather-works stall next, and on the outside of one of their displays were leather-wrapped bottles with loops to hang from a belt. A snap placed a rainbow of resin ducks and tiny sea creatures inside a couple of bottles.
They'll probably come back out, he reasoned.
There were belt attachments there with fake books; he considered one for Aziraphale, but decided against it. He’d show the angel later and let him decide for himself.
He made his way back to the leatherworks stall with the tea duelling sets and looked them over. Crowley selected one with a spoon meant to hold loose-leaf tea attached to it. The teacup and saucer in it were forgettable, but that didn’t matter because he didn’t want that part anyway.
“I want this, but you can keep the tea set,” he told the seller. “‘ve got my own.”
“They’re made to fit the teacups in them,” the seller replied. “Your cup may not fit.”
Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped; the man blinked, then took the teacup out of the leather straps and handed that part back to Crowley. He snapped again and the uranium glass teacup and saucer appeared, snugly strapped in place. Then he tapped his card on the card-reader. A final snap as he turned away changed the leather of the set from black to white.
Still hand-made, he justified to himself as he slid it into his bag.
He retraced his steps to where he’d left off, finding himself at a booth selling suncatchers, jewelry - including some made with uranium glass - and sundry other items. Hanging on the front was a little collection of glass bottles labeled with different scents. One caught his eye: Demon. The card beneath it listed the scents: ___. Curious, he picked it up and sniffed.
“Doesn't smell like any demon I've ever met,” he mumbled, returning it to the peg it hung from.
He finished out that aisle and headed across to a stall that took up the whole corner of the room. It was a hodgepodge of things: clothes and hats, goggles and gloves, belts and knickknacks.
He wandered in, picking up random items and setting them down just slightly out of place from where they’d been, though he wasn’t sure anyone would even notice. There was a set of ladies’ gloves on one table, so he folded the fingers so they made a rude gesture.
After he ducked out of that booth he stepped across to one selling knitted, or maybe crocheted, goods. He'd never learned the difference and wasn't interested in doing so now. He eyed one of the little handmade squids, and with a snap miracled a tiny toy ship into its twisting arms.
There; instant kraken, he thought.
The booth across from the fiber artists was the skirt booth. He didn't bother going back to it, instead heading for the next one over. That booth was clearly a clothing booth as well. There was a square display of pouches with clips on pegs, each embroidered with different images. There were also boxes with strange fabric panels in a couple of different lengths on a table. Hanging on racks at the back of the booth were some dresses, tops, and corsets.
“Corset panels,” a voice told him as he touched a finger to one of the fabric panels in a box. He glanced up at the seller, eyes drawn to her vibrant blue hair. “You can swap ‘em out for your different looks. The corsets also have D-rings at the bottom where you can hang the pockets.” She gestured towards the display of pouches.
Crowley turned back to the pouches again, glancing through a few of the pegs at the different designs, snickering when he found one which read “I like big books and I cannot lie.” Another behind it had the constellation of the Big Dipper stitched onto it. On a whim he changed the star patterns and lines to a remembered constellation from ancient Sumer..
That’ll cause a little consternation, he thought with a private grin..
“Crowley?” he heard Aziraphale call. He turned; the angel was beckoning to him from the last stall in the row and the only one he hadn't visited yet.
“Yeah?” he asked as he sauntered over.
“I think I've found all I need except for a corset and panel,” Aziraphale said as they met up. “You, however, don't have a hat yet.”
“Angeeel,” Crowley whined. “Can't I just…” he mimed snapping his fingers.
“No,” Aziraphale frowned. “Go into the milliner's stall like a good chap and find something you like. I'll let you know when I'm dressed.”
“Are you going back up to the room?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale shook his head. “There's a pop-up changing area just between these two booths where I can get changed.” He then tugged Crowley’s arm to guide him into the milliner’s booth before crossing the aisle to the corset seller Crowley had just left.
Crowley sighed as he slunk into the booth to which he’d been directed. He paused for a moment to look at a fez on a head display, then a top hat with a blue ribbon on the band. There were a few wide brimmed hats and a couple where he knew the styles were post-Victorian. He poked at a fedora, knowing Aziraphale wouldn’t appreciate it if he chose such an anachronism.
He felt the brush of an angelic miracle and wondered just what Aziraphale was doing at that moment while he poked disconsolately at the hat choices around him.
Finally, on a head display at the far end of the booth, he found one he could tolerate. The hat had a round crown but a diadem point in front. It was black velvet, with two black silk ribbons streaming from the back and a small puff of black chiffon above them. It was meant to sit close to the head. If he had long hair, he would pull it into a chignon and the hat would rest atop it, angled forward. He’d owned something similar in the past.
He wasn’t certain this was what Aziraphale had in mind for him, but he plucked the hat off its display and put it on. The milliner chatted to him across the booth about the hat, but he wasn’t listening.
“I’ll take it,” he finally cut in smoothly. He reached into the bag he carried and took out the box with the mantis. He extracted the pin from the box and affixed it to the hat at the chiffon, then put it on.
“Do you need a box for it?”
Crowley shook his head, then slid out his wallet.
“The woman who was here, is that your wife? Partner?” the milliner asked as she fiddled with her point of sale.
Crowley blinked at her; she couldn’t see it through the dark lenses of the goggles, he knew, but the question had been so unexpected it had rendered him speechless.
“Ngk,” he managed to get out. Then, “We’re…” he began, unsure of how he’d continue the sentence.
“I’m only asking in case you want to pay for her hat as well.”
“Oh. Course. Put it with mine.” Crowley breathed in a sigh of relief. He tapped his card, paying for the hats without any further attempts at conversation.
“Crowley, my dear, could you come take a look?” Aziraphale’s voice summoned from beyond the booth.
Crowley stepped out, nodding slightly to the milliner. He looked around, then froze, eyes widening behind his goggles.
Collarbones? was his first, somewhat incoherent, thought, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Aziraphale’s. Likewise, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen the angel’s forearms, but there they were on display as well. The button-up shirt was gone, likely already miracled to the suite upstairs, and instead Aziraphale had on an off-white blouse with cap sleeves and a scoop neckline. Over the blouse he wore a white corset, one of the ones with the removable lace-up panels. The center panel on the angel’s was a damask pattern, the background off-white and the pattern gold. He also had on the colour-shifting bustle with its cushion underneath, which - paired with the corset - accented his current, female corporation’s curves. Beneath the bustle was the off-white skirt with the gold stitching Crowley had helped him choose. The front of that skirt was hiked up just high enough to show a pair of very light brown flowered bloomers, which ended just above his knees with a little flounce of lace. Below his knees he wore thin white socks held in place with sock garters, though he’d likely been wearing those before the costume change. He also wore brown leather ankle-high boots with a row of buttons and loops in place of laces. On his head he wore an off-white hat with a taller crown than Crowley’s, with the sides turned up. The front came to a diadem point over his forehead and on the left was a long ostrich feather with a white peacock feather in front of it. He had also donned white kid gloves that Crowley was relatively certain had been miracled straight from the angel’s personal collection.
“What do you think?” Aziraphale asked, turning in a circle so Crowley could see the ensemble from every angle. At Crowley’s continued silence, the angel faced him again; an uncertain expression crossed his face, and he twisted his fingers anxiously.
“‘s good. Great. Looks great. On you.” Crowley managed to stammer out.
A smile blossomed across Aziraphale’s face. “Thank you, my dear.” He fidgeted with the corset as if feeling for the buttons of his worn waistcoat, then laced his fingers together at his middle. “Isn’t this corset lovely? This kind person always makes black ones, but for some reason had made up a white one and happened to bring it to this show.”
“How lucky,” Crowley said drily. That must have been the miracle he’d felt.
Aziraphale reached up with one hand, touching his throat. “I must confess, it feels a little…revealing.”
“s’ that, too,” Crowley agreed absently, then shook his head. “Got something for you, angel. Couple things.”
First he extracted the paisley gold and brown bow tie from his waistcoat pocket.
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Is that pre-tied?” he demanded.
“Yeah, but it was decorated by the artists,” Crowley shrugged. He passed the tie over; Aziraphale smiled at the little added touches, then put it on like a choker.
“That’s better,” Aziraphale declared cheerily. “Even if it is pre-tied.”
Crowley wasn't sure if that was better or worse, as it drew even more attention to the line of the angel's neck and those distracting collarbones.
“There’s also this.” Crowley stuck his hand in the bag to take out the tea duelling set, snapping his fingers out of sight of the humans. Rings appeared on the leather loops meant to hold the set to a belt, and then the same kind of clip as the pouches he’d looked at earlier. He could see the D-rings attached along the bottom of Aziraphale’s corset; it could hang from those.
“Oh, how charming!” Aziraphale said as Crowley extracted the tea duelling set and presented it to him.
“‘s uranium glass,” Crowley drawled, aiming to recover his nonchalant air. “Glows under UV light.”
Aziraphle clipped the tea duelling set to the bottom of the corset, then patted it with one gloved hand.
“Now, let me look at you,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley dutifully turned to show the angel the back of the hat.
“Oh, I do like that,” he told Crowley. Then he cocked his head to one side. “What is…is that an insect?”
“Praying mantis,” Crowley grinned. He took off the hat to show the piece to Aziraphale, who looked delighted.
“I want something like that,” the angel sighed, touching a finger to the tiny beaded head.
“Anything you want, angel,” Crowley told him, striving for casual but certain he missed the mark. “Did you pay for everything already or…?”
“Oh, not yet. I suppose I should go settle my accounts,” Aziraphale said, though like in the tea-room he fluttered his lashes.
“Already bought your hat,” Crowley grumped, though there was no force behind the words. “Why don’t you walk me around so I can take care of things.” After a moment’s hesitation, he offered the angel his elbow.
Aziraphale laced his gloved hand through Crowley’s arm, beaming.
“How nice of you,” the angel chirped.
Bastard. “Not nice,” Crowley snapped, but the words lacked any heat.
“Of course not.” Aziraphale brought up his free hand and patted Crowley’s chest. “Come along, my dear. There are a handful of shops we need to settle accounts with.”
Crowley heaved a mock put-upon sigh, but allowed Aziraphale to tow him to the corset-seller’s booth.
-------------------------------------
Finally. Closing time. The vendor at the far corner of the hall offered a small wave to his last customers, a woman in creams and whites and a tall man dressed in black whose concession to the event seemed to be a pair of painted goggles and a hat. The woman giggled as they left, patting the pewter Ginger Wrangler pin she’d affixed to her decolletage.
The vendor moved through his racks, checking his jewelry and the pins on display to see if any need to be refilled. Time Lord could use a couple more. His eyes slid past several of his other creations. The row of airship designs looked good, as did the pegs below them: Tavern Wench. Dungeon Master. Tickety-boo. Plot Armor.
He paused, then flicked his eyes back. Tickety-boo? He hadn’t made that one, had he? He picked it up and studied it. It was his work, on one of his cards, with the right shape and size. He just had no memory of it whatsoever.
He shook his head and silently returned the pin to the rack. “Someone thinks they’re funny,” he mumbled to himself. On that note he left his booth, resolving not to think about the mysterious pin any longer.
He had a room party to attend.