Chapter Text
Architect Anthony J Crowley and Engineer Aziraphale Fell
Artwork by Luxxuvixz
Crowley woke up in a foul mood, which was not particularly unusual.What was unusual was the persistent feeling that something was going to go terribly wrong.
His phone alarm had barely gone off before he was already staring at the ceiling of his flat with the same expression he normally reserved for incompetent contractors and clients who used the phrase make it more minimalist without having the faintest clue what it actually meant. Outside, the grey morning sky threatened rain, the coffee tasted slightly burnt, and somewhere in the city, someone had apparently decided to lean on their horn for a full thirty seconds.
Definitely a sign from the universe.
Crowley rested his forehead against the steering wheel while waiting for the traffic light to change and turned Queen up loud enough for the bass to rattle the windows.
He hated meetings.
He hated firms.
And, more specifically, he hated architectural firms that pretended to care about human-centred design whilst treating their employees like replaceable parts. He’d learnt that lesson far too young.
His first firm had promised stability, growth, and “a collaborative environment”. They fired him alongside another forty people over a video call on a Tuesday morning after months of unpaid overtime.
The second had been worse. More prestigious. More famous. More rotten. Luxury buildings erected on bought permits, shady contracts, and executives perfectly willing to sell off historical heritage if the cheque was large enough. Crowley had lasted less than two years before telling them all to go to hell and leaving with chronic migraines, insomnia, and a severe intolerance for anyone wearing an excessively expensive suit.
Working independently had been difficult at first, but ten years later his studio had become one of the most respected in the city.
It wasn’t enormous. Crowley hated enormous offices.
The studio occupied the top floor of a renovated building near the historic centre, all tall windows, dark steel, exposed concrete, and warm wood integrated with almost obsessive precision. The entire space had been designed to feel open without becoming cold.
There were no cubicles, Crowley loathed cubicles. The shared workstations were arranged around long tables covered in blueprints, material samples, and impeccably detailed models. Architectural sketches filled the black walls, pinned up with perfectly aligned metal magnets. Even the apparent mess looked carefully calculated, and it probably was. The office had a reputation for being one of the hardest places to get into and one of the best places to work.
Crowley was demanding to a frankly ridiculous degree, but he paid well, refused abusive clients, and forbade inhuman working hours. Nobody slept in the studio. Nobody worked for free. Nobody sacrificed their health for “artistic passion”.
Most of his team had been there for years.
Including Caroline.
Crowley crossed the studio whilst several architects were already working in front of enormous screens filled with renders and three-dimensional models. A couple of them greeted him quickly before returning to their work.
The door to the main office was open.
“You’re late,” Caroline said without looking up from her tablet.
Crowley dropped his keys onto the nearest desk.
“It’s eight-oh-three.”
“Exactly. Late.”
Caroline Bentley was sitting cross-legged in her office chair, surrounded by folders, material samples, and two empty coffee cups. She was dressed entirely in black, as always, though on her it looked like an aesthetic choice rather than a legal threat, which was generally the effect it had on Crowley.
He strongly suspected Caroline could survive the collapse of civilisation armed with nothing but perfect eyeliner and a terrible attitude.
“What a lovely welcome,” Crowley muttered, removing his sunglasses.
“It would be lovelier if you answered your emails.”
“Emails are a form of psychological torture.”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“Correct.”
Caroline finally looked up, raising an eyebrow.
“You slept two hours again, didn’t you?”
“Three.”
“That’s not better.”
Crowley dropped into the chair opposite the main desk and surveyed the organised chaos of the office. Rolled-up blueprints occupied one corner, printed renders had been taped across the wall, and a half-finished model sat where a functional table probably ought to have been.
Caroline had spent years trying to organise the place.
She had failed miserably. It did not seem to bother her much.
He’d known her since the second firm. Back then Caroline could barely maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds and always looked permanently exhausted. Crowley had never asked too many questions. Neither had she.
He had simply noticed how she disappeared for suspiciously long breaks, how her hands shook on certain days, and how the department squeezed everything out of her until there was nothing left. So when he resigned, he offered her a job almost impulsively.
Caroline had done the rest.
Now she was probably the only person on the planet capable of managing his schedule without murdering him.
Probably.
“You’ve got a meeting this afternoon,” Caroline said, checking her tablet. “Four o’clock.”
Crowley made a noise of absolute suffering.
“Cancel it.”
“Can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You’re terrifyingly efficient.”
“Gabriel arranged it personally.”
That managed to make Crowley grimace even harder.
“Oh, brilliant. Exactly what I needed to improve my day: businessmen with saviour complexes.”
“Contractors,” Caroline corrected. “And apparently the community centre project is being taken quite seriously.”
Crowley dropped his briefcase onto the desk.
“I should bloody hope so.”
Caroline lifted an eyebrow slightly.
“Well. That sounded dangerously optimistic coming from you.”
“I’m not optimistic.”
“Of course not.”
Crowley began pacing through the office whilst speaking, as he always did whenever an idea started gaining momentum inside his head.
“Most community centres look like depressing government offices,” he said. “Grey corridors, horrific lighting, uncomfortable furniture… spaces designed for surviving a few hours and getting the hell out as quickly as possible.”
Caroline smiled faintly.
She’d heard that tone before.
The architect.
“And you want to do something different?”
Crowley looked at her as though the answer were obvious.
“I want people to walk in there and feel welcome.”
He stopped in front of one of the renders pinned to the wall.
“I want open spaces. Natural light. Places where you can sit without feeling like you’re in the way. Rooms where people can gather without constantly feeling as though they have to hide.”
His voice lost some of its irony.
“Queer people spend far too much time feeling like they need to make themselves smaller just to fit somewhere. I don’t want to design another building that reminds them of that.”
Caroline watched him silently for a few seconds.
Crowley rarely spoke like this around other people.
With clients, it was sarcasm and carefully calculated arrogance.
With contractors, pure irritation.
But when he spoke about architecture properly…
Well...It was impossible not to understand why he’d become famous.
“You do realise you’re going to become completely obsessed with this project, don’t you?” she asked.
Crowley dropped back into the chair again.
“Already am.”
“Excellent. That usually comes right before a nervous breakdown.”
“Nervous breakdowns build character.”
Caroline snorted a laugh and looked back at the screen.
“Well, speaking of future nervous breakdowns…”
Crowley narrowed his eyes immediately.
“What did you do?”
“Me? Nothing. Gabriel did.”
Pause.
“The structural engineer on the project is Aziraphale Fell.”
Absolute silence.
Crowley closed his eyes slowly.
“I am not working with that man.”
“Mhm.”
“Caroline.”
“Anthony, I already confirmed the meeting.”
“Cancel it.”
“No.”
“An unforgivable betrayal.”
“You’ll recover.”
Crowley let his head fall dramatically against the back of the chair with a long groan.
“This day just keeps getting worse.”
Aziraphale was not having a good week.
Which was particularly irritating because he normally put quite a lot of effort into having good weeks.
He had left home before five in the morning to supervise the progress of an urban development project on the other side of the city and, eight hours later, he was fairly convinced someone was deliberately trying to provoke a nervous breakdown.
The sun beat down against the concrete with an absurd intensity for that time of year. The air smelled of dust, overheated machinery, and freshly laid asphalt as Aziraphale walked between metal structures, exhausted workers, and safety tape fluttering in the wind.
Construction work began at six in the morning. At six-oh-five he had already identified three mistakes.
At seven he was arguing with the main contractor. At nine he had discovered the fleet assigned for material transport was insufficient for the scheduled workload.
And by eleven someone had attempted to tell him they could “sort it out later”.
Aziraphale deeply hated the phrase sort it out later.
He walked towards the exit of the site carrying his hard hat beneath one arm, his safety boots coated in a thin layer of grey dust. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and the heat had slightly dishevelled his blond hair, though he still maintained that almost irritatingly tidy appearance some people seemed capable of preserving even after spending hours beneath the sun.
One of the junior engineers hurried towards him holding a folder.
“Engineer Fell? The contractor says they can send more units by Friday.”
Aziraphale closed his eyes for exactly one second.
Breathe.
Remain civilised.
Do not commit homicide.
“The schedule does not magically extend itself until Friday,” he said with a dangerously pleasant smile. “And if they delay material delivery again, I shall personally write a report so detailed their superiors will require therapy afterwards.”
The junior engineer paled slightly.
“Understood, sir.”
Aziraphale sighed and continued towards the car park.
He liked engineering. Loved it, in fact.
He loved structural calculations, historical restoration projects, urban designs intended to last decades. He liked building things that were useful. Things that were safe. Things people could inhabit without fearing they might collapse on top of them.
What he did not love were incompetent contractors.
Or negligent construction companies. Or people who seemed to believe infrastructure existed through divine intervention.
By the time he finally arrived at the corporate building where he worked, it was nearly two in the afternoon and the air conditioning in the lobby felt dangerously close to a religious experience.
Aziraphale walked through the corridors greeting several employees distractedly whilst carrying his hard hat against his side. A few people moved out of his way the moment they saw him approaching.
Not because he was unpleasant.
Because he had a reputation for identifying structural mistakes with the precision of a sniper rifle.
His office was at the end of the main corridor, behind a frosted glass door where someone had placed a small metal plaque bearing his name.
Reed Ledger looked up immediately when Aziraphale entered.
“Oh, thank God, you survived.”
Aziraphale placed the hard hat on a chair and loosened his tie slightly.
“Barely.”
Reed smiled faintly from behind his computer screen. He was considerably younger than Aziraphale, suspiciously calm, and absurdly efficient. Aziraphale was fairly certain the entire office would have collapsed organisationally without him.
Quite literally.
“How dreadful was it?” Reed asked.
Aziraphale let out a tired laugh whilst pouring himself a glass of water.
“They sent less machinery than agreed, an incomplete crew, and someone had the audacity to tell me ‘we can sort it out later’.”
Reed grimaced immediately.
“Ah. Fatal phrase.”
“Precisely.”
Aziraphale took a long drink of water before dropping into the chair behind his desk.
His office was far more traditional than the rest of the building: bookshelves filled with engineering manuals, carefully organised blueprints, small models of historical bridges, and an electric kettle resting in one corner beside several boxes of tea.
Reed insisted it looked like the office of a university professor accidentally trapped in the corporate world.
He was probably right.
“I need to draft a report against the contractor before someone attempts to convince me to be ‘understanding’,” Aziraphale muttered whilst turning on his computer.
“Before that… you’ve got a meeting with Gabriel at four.”
Aziraphale let his head fall backwards.
“Why?”
“Community cultural centre.”
That managed to recover some of his attention.
Aziraphale had heard rumours about the project for weeks. An LGBT+ cultural centre funded partially by the city and several private organisations. Ambitious. Expensive. Extremely important.
And also exactly the sort of project capable of turning into an administrative catastrophe in the wrong hands.
“Have they chosen an architect yet?” he asked.
Reed hesitated for exactly one second.
Bad sign.
“Yes.”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Reed.”
“Anthony Crowley.”
Silence.
Aziraphale slowly placed the glass down on the desk.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Gabriel cannot possibly be serious.”
“Unfortunately, he absolutely can.”
Aziraphale sank into the chair with the expression of a man experiencing profound suffering.
He had heard far too many stories about Crowley.
The star architect.
The darling of design magazines.
The man who apparently considered the laws of physics an optional suggestion.
“That man designed a thirty-metre cantilever and called it ‘emotionally liberating’,” Aziraphale said, horrified.
Reed attempted to hide a smile.
“I understand it won awards.”
“That does not make it reasonable.”
“Nor does it mean he’s going to kill you.”
Aziraphale stared at him.
“Well,” Reed said carefully, “at least it won’t be boring.”
Aziraphale released a long, deeply exhausted sigh whilst removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.
He had a horrible feeling about that meeting.
The silence lasted only a few seconds before Reed looked back down at the tablet in his hands.
“Although… the project itself does sound rather good.”
Aziraphale glanced up slightly.
“Hm?”
Reed turned the screen towards him.
“Gabriel sent over the preliminary documents this morning. I barely had time to look through them because you were at the site, but apparently they want something much larger than originally expected.”
That captured Aziraphale’s full attention.
He adjusted himself properly in the chair.
“How large?”
“Five levels. Open community spaces. A public library specialising in queer literature. Rooms for workshops and legal support. Auditorium. Café. Recreational areas. They also want to integrate offices for civil organisations and a small historical archive.”
Aziraphale blinked slowly.
“That is… ambitious.”
“Very.”
Reed walked over to the desk and began flicking rapidly through the digital pages.
“They also want to prioritise universal accessibility from the initial design stage. Integrated ramps, tactile signage, quiet spaces, wide evacuation routes, and areas designed for neurodivergent people.”
That made Aziraphale raise his eyebrows slightly.
Most projects added accessibility at the end, like an irritating obligation.
Designing around it from the beginning was different.
Far more complicated.
And infinitely better.
“Who drafted this?” he asked.
“Not sure. Possibly an external organisation.”
Aziraphale took the tablet and continued reading silently for several seconds.
The specifications did not feel corporate.
Not really.
There were strangely human notes scattered throughout the technical language: spaces designed for long-term use, prioritise sense of safety, avoid cold institutional layouts.
There was even one line underlined several times:
> THE BUILDING SHOULD FEEL WELCOMING BEFORE IT FEELS IMPRESSIVE.[1]
Aziraphale slowly placed the tablet back onto the desk.
That was… unexpected.
Because most community projects eventually got reduced to minimal budgets and depressing designs disguised as functionality.
Reed leaned against the edge of the desk.
“They also want to preserve part of the original structure on the site.”
“The old building is still standing?”
“Partially. It used to be a community library before it was abandoned.”
That stirred something strange in Aziraphale’s chest.
He liked old buildings. He liked structures that survived long enough to accumulate stories.
“Hm,” he murmured, far more interested now. “And what’s the architectural approach?”
Reed hesitated for exactly one second.
“Well… according to Gabriel, Crowley wants to avoid making it look like ‘another bloody shoebox’.”[2]
Aziraphale closed his eyes. Of course he had said that.
Reed glanced back at the screen.
“There are several notes about rest areas, warm lighting, and spaces designed so people can stay without feeling constantly observed.”
Aziraphale remained silent for a few moments.
That… did not sound like the egotistical architect he had expected.
It sounded like someone genuinely thinking about the people who would use the building.
Which was inconvenient.
Because it was significantly easier to dislike someone when they were a superficial arsehole.
“Well,” he finally said, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt, “I suppose he at least has a decent understanding of humane urban design.”
Reed smiled faintly.
“That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
Though, somewhere very deep down, Aziraphale was beginning to feel something far more dangerous than irritation.
Curiosity.
“Reed, working with architects is already complicated enough. Working with Anthony Crowley will be a logistical nightmare with an unlimited budget and suicidal tendencies.”
Crowley arrived twenty minutes early to the meeting.
Which, honestly, ought to have been considered a medical emergency.
Caroline barely looked up from her phone as they entered the corporate building.
“I’m taking a picture of the clock for historical evidence.”
Crowley shot her a tired look whilst they crossed the lobby.
“Do shut up.”
“No, seriously. This is important. The universe may finally have collapsed.”
Gabriel’s building was exactly the sort of corporate architecture Crowley despised: excessive glass, immaculate white surfaces, and spaces so absurdly polished they appeared fundamentally incapable of supporting actual human life.
Beautiful from a distance.
Exhausting from within.
Crowley surveyed the lobby as they walked towards the lifts. Everything gleamed too much. The tables looked like minimalist sculptures impossible to clean properly, and the metallic benches had bizarre shapes that had probably cost an offensive amount of money despite resembling modern torture devices.
“You’re making that face again,” Caroline said.
“What face?”
“The one that says I want to sue the interior designer.”
Crowley pointed towards an angular chair placed absurdly close to a glass wall.
“That is not a chair. It’s a threat.”
Caroline laughed softly.
“Rich people adore uncomfortable furniture.”
“Rich people confuse suffering with sophistication.”
Caroline snorted another laugh as the lift doors opened.
Crowley stepped in first, adjusting the black sleeves of his shirt whilst watching his reflection in the metal walls.
He looked tired.
Not particularly awful.
But tired.
The past two weeks had been madness.
When the government announced the call for proposals for the LGBT+ cultural centre, Crowley had barely hesitated before submitting an application. Several civil institutions were involved in the project, and the proposal described something much larger than another corporate building disguised as an “inclusive space”.
They wanted a real place.
A useful place.
A living place.
And Crowley had felt something dangerously close to hope.
So he spent fourteen days practically locked inside the studio.
Sleeping very little.
Eating even worse.
Redrawing entire concepts at three in the morning because something still did not feel human enough.
By the third day, Caroline had threatened to medically sedate him.
It hadn’t worked.
Crowley wanted that project in a way that was difficult to explain without feeling absurdly vulnerable.
It wasn’t about recognition.
He already had recognition.
It wasn’t about money.
He didn’t particularly need that either.
It was because, for the first time in a very long while, he felt like he could build something that genuinely mattered.
Something that made a difference.
Even a small one.
Even if only for a handful of people.
The lift opened onto the top floor.
Crowley walked towards the meeting room whilst Caroline checked messages rapidly on her tablet.
“You need to behave today,” she said without looking up.
Crowley let out a dry laugh.
“I always behave.”
Caroline finally looked at him.
“Anthony. The last time Gabriel questioned one of your designs, you called him ‘a corporate parasite in expensive shoes’.”
“Because it was accurate.”
“You cannot pick fights with the people funding the project.”
“Watch me manage it anyway.”
She shook her head as they walked down the corridor.
“Listen to me. This project matters to you far too much for you to ruin it out of pride.”
That managed to keep Crowley quiet for several seconds.
Because she was right.
And Crowley hated when Caroline was right.
The first time he met Gabriel had been after winning the proposal.
He still remembered the email arriving close to midnight whilst he continued working alone in the empty studio. Caroline had fallen asleep across a pile of blueprints and Crowley had been awake for so many hours he genuinely thought he might be hallucinating.
Your proposal has been selected.
Crowley had reread the message at least five times.
Then came the formal meeting.
Gabriel smiling too much.
Talking about media impact, public relations, and “institutional projection”.
Crowley had wanted to throw himself out of the window approximately twelve minutes into the conversation.
But the project…
The project was still worth it.
Even if it meant dealing with unbearable businessmen and incompetent contractors.
Even if it meant working alongside structural engineers who would probably attempt to murder all of his ideas.
Caroline stopped outside the meeting room and adjusted the collar of Crowley’s shirt before he could protest.
“Behave,” she repeated.
Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“And if they start it?”
“They’re professional adults.”
“That means absolutely nothing.”
Caroline smiled faintly.
“Try not to declare war within the first ten minutes.”
Crowley opened the door.
“No promises.”
The meeting room was far too white.
Crowley decided that approximately three seconds after entering.
Far too white, far too bright, and filled with furniture that clearly cost more than a small car despite looking profoundly uncomfortable.
Gabriel looked up immediately when he walked in.
“Anthony!” he exclaimed with an excessively perfect smile. “Wonderful to see you again.”
Crowley shook his hand with carefully fabricated politeness.
“Gabriel.”
Gabriel was exactly the sort of man who looked as though he had been born wearing ridiculously expensive suits. Everything about him radiated chief executive officer in an almost aggressive manner: immaculate smile, carefully calculated posture, and enough corporate charisma to sell luxury flats built on top of a bloody car park.
Crowley instinctively distrusted him.
“I’m truly delighted you accepted the project,” Gabriel continued whilst guiding him towards the main table. “Your proposal was extraordinary.”
“So your emails kept informing me at eleven o’clock every night for three consecutive days.”
Gabriel laughed as though that had been an absolutely charming joke.
Behind Crowley, Caroline muttered:
“Behave.”
“I am behaving.”
“Miraculously.”
Before Gabriel could continue, another voice cut in from the opposite end of the table.
“The budget’s still a nightmare, by the way.”
Crowley turned his head slightly.
Beatriz “Bee” was sitting in front of a laptop covered in spreadsheets and several colour-coded folders. She was the project’s financial and operations director, which essentially meant she was the person responsible for preventing the entire cultural centre from imploding due to incompetent investors, useless contractors, or idiotic decisions made by Gabriel.
Judging by the expression on her face, she had probably spent years doing exactly that.
She was dressed entirely in black, had perfectly visible dark circles beneath impeccably applied makeup, and was staring at the financial documents with the intensity of someone contemplating tax fraud purely for entertainment.
Crowley felt immediate respect.
“Bee handles all the administrative, financial, and operational aspects,” Gabriel explained. “Honestly, this project wouldn’t exist without her.”
“And apparently it won’t survive either if you keep trying to shove useless interactive screens into every presentation,” Bee muttered without looking away from the monitor.
Gabriel pretended not to hear her.
Bee finally looked up at Crowley.
“Your initial proposal is excellent,” she said directly. “But if you want to keep half those materials, I need to stop Gabriel from wasting money on corporate nonsense.”
Gabriel looked mildly offended.
“Institutional image is important.”
“Not more important than actually finishing the building.”
Crowley had to suppress a smile.
Ah.
Perhaps there was someone sane in the room after all.
“Then we’ll be on the same side,” he said whilst taking a seat.
Bee inclined her head slightly.
“I certainly hope so. Because honestly, you two are my last hope of preventing this project from turning into a shopping centre with rainbow flags.”
Caroline settled beside Crowley whilst Gabriel began organising documents across the table.
One person was missing.
Crowley noticed almost immediately.
“Where’s Fell?” he asked.
A blond young man sitting at the other end of the table looked up quickly from his tablet.
“Oh—. Engineer Fell’s on his way. Sorry. The heat’s dreadful and he went to splash water on his face for a moment.”
Crowley observed him for several seconds.
Younger than the rest of them. Calm. Organised.
Assistant, probably.
“Reed Ledger,” he introduced himself with a small polite smile. “And I apologise on Aziraphale’s behalf. Site inspections leave him in appalling moods.”
“I understand that perfectly,” Caroline said immediately.
That earned a small tired smile from Reed.
Crowley, meanwhile, remained irritated.
If he had managed to arrive early, the engineer could make the minimal effort to appear on time.
The door opened only a few seconds later.
“My apologies, truly,” said a voice from the entrance. “I do believe I’m going to melt before this week is over.”
Crowley looked up.
And immediately forgot what he had been thinking about.
Aziraphale Fell walked in with his sleeves still rolled up and the first buttons of his blue shirt undone from the heat. He carried his hard hat beneath one arm and his blond hair was slightly damp, probably after splashing water across his face.
He looked exhausted.
But not untidy.
More like… dangerously attractive in an absurdly specific sort of way.
And the worst part was the arms.
Because Crowley had expected some corporate engineer incapable of lifting anything heavier than a scientific calculator, not someone who clearly still spent constant time on construction sites and worked in the field as much as the office.
Strong forearms were exposed beneath the rolled sleeves and Crowley felt his brain stop functioning for one entire second.
Oh.
That was inconvenient.
Very inconvenient.
Aziraphale finally looked up at him, and he, too, seemed to go still for just a moment.
Only one.
But Crowley noticed.
“Anthony Crowley,” Gabriel said brightly, entirely oblivious to the deeply bizarre tension that had suddenly appeared in the room. “And this is Aziraphale Fell.”
Aziraphale recovered first, stepping forward to offer his hand.
“A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
Crowley took half a second longer than normal to respond.
His hand was warm.
Firm.
Steady.
That did not help either.
“Likewise,” he managed eventually.
Aziraphale smiled faintly.
And, oh, that was somehow even worse.
Because Crowley had expected immediate arrogance. Some sort of irritating corporate superiority.
But Aziraphale simply looked… tired.
Tired, overheated, and genuinely interested in being there.
“Coming from a site inspection?” Crowley asked before he could stop himself.
Aziraphale set the hard hat down on the table.
“Urban development project south of the city. And honestly, I’m minutes away from committing acts of violence against a contractor.”
Bee raised an eyebrow slightly.
“So the day was normal, then.”
“Worse than normal.”
Reed nodded solemnly.
“They used the phrase ‘we can sort it out later’.”
Aziraphale made a look of absolute horror.
“Don’t remind me.”
Crowley let out an involuntary laugh.
Small.
But real.
And Aziraphale turned towards him with barely concealed surprise, as though he hadn’t expected that reaction.
Something strange settled inside Crowley’s chest.
Something dangerously close to curiosity.
Gabriel finally took his seat at the head of the table and clapped his hands together enthusiastically.
“Right. Now that everyone’s here, we can officially begin.”
The lights dimmed slightly as the main screen lit up with the project’s provisional logo, LGBTIQ+ Community Cultural Centre. Crowley watched the conceptual render appear across the screen, and for the first time in weeks, the anxiety no longer felt entirely dreadful. Perhaps...just perhaps, this could actually work after all.
This was an absolute bloody disaster.
Crowley decided that approximately forty minutes into the meeting, right as Aziraphale rejected one of his structural proposals for the third consecutive time using that unbearably polite tone which, somehow, was infinitely more irritating than if he had simply shouted.
“The problem isn’t the design,” Aziraphale was saying whilst reviewing the digital plans on the screen. “The problem is that you’re attempting to support half a section of the building with a system that would complicate maintenance, costs, and construction times.”
Crowley leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
“It would complicate construction a little.”
“Anthony, you want an enormous cantilever over a public area.”
“Because I want natural light.”
“And I want the building to remain standing.”
“How dramatic.”
Aziraphale slowly lifted his gaze towards him.
“I’m a structural engineer. Being dramatic about buildings collapsing is quite literally my profession.”
Gabriel let out a small nervous laugh.
Nobody else did.
The screen in front of them displayed the main render of the cultural centre’s central atrium: an open space filled with glass and interior greenery which Crowley had obsessively redesigned over countless sleepless nights.
Aziraphale was still looking at it as though it were a public safety threat.
And that was beginning to irritate Crowley significantly more than it ought to.
“Aesthetics cannot come before functionality,” Aziraphale continued whilst pointing at several technical notes. “Especially not in a community building of this scale.”
Crowley let out a dry laugh.
There it was.
Of course.
The engineer thought he was one of those architects.
“You think I’m doing this for aesthetics?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale held his gaze.
“I think you’re prioritising visual impact over practicality.”
Silence.
At the back of the room, Caroline slowly closed her eyes like someone witnessing a car accident in real time.
Reed subtly stepped slightly closer towards her.
Survival instinct, probably.
Crowley placed both hands on the table and leaned forwards slightly.
“Practicality also includes how people feel inside a space.”
“And safety matters too.”
“I never said it didn’t.”
“But it clearly isn’t your main priority.”
That hit harder than Aziraphale probably intended.
Because Crowley did think about safety.
Constantly.
He simply couldn’t stand buildings designed solely to function as empty boxes.
“Right,” Crowley muttered. “Because obviously my lifelong dream has always been to build another grey corporate cube full of miserable offices and columns shoved in the middle of the bloody circulation.”
Aziraphale frowned immediately.
“Columns serve important structural functions.”
“Yes, and they also ruin spaces when people place them like they’re playing architectural darts.”
“You cannot simply eliminate structural support because it ‘ruins the atmosphere’.”
“I didn’t say atmosphere.”
“You implied it spiritually.”
Caroline covered her face with one hand.
Reed looked as though he was reconsidering every life decision that had led him into that room.
Gabriel quickly raised both hands.
“Right, right, I think everyone’s a bit tense—”
“Anthony wants to reduce critical structural elements,” Aziraphale said.
“Because you want to turn the building into a car park with walls.”
“That makes absolutely no architectural sense.”
“Nothing about this conversation makes architectural sense.”
Gabriel attempted a smile.
“The important thing is remembering that we’re all on the same side.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” Crowley and Aziraphale said simultaneously.
Silence.
Bee slowly closed her laptop.
“I’m getting coffee,” she announced whilst standing up.
Nobody attempted to stop her.
Probably because it was the smartest decision made during the entire meeting.
The door shut behind her.
And the disaster continued.
“Look,” Aziraphale said, clearly attempting to maintain patience. “I’m not saying the design is bad.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“How generous of you.”
“I’m saying we need balance between design and actual feasibility.”
“And I’m saying community spaces deserve something better than mediocre functionality.”
“I never said mediocre.”
“You implied it spiritually.”
Reed made a strangled noise that sounded dangerously close to laughter.
Caroline looked at him as though they had accidentally found themselves in the middle of a war zone.
“Do you think they’ll kill each other here or wait until the car park?” she whispered.
“I’m hoping for the car park,” Reed murmured back.
Across from them, Crowley and Aziraphale continued arguing about structures, costs, design, and spatial distribution as though they were attempting to win a deeply personal battle rather than plan a cultural centre.
And the worst part was that both of them seemed genuinely passionate about the project.
They were simply far too stubborn to admit the other also had valid points.
Gabriel looked increasingly close to suffering a nervous breakdown.
Bee still had not returned.
And Caroline was beginning to suspect she had made the correct choice.
“You cannot design an entire building around an abstract emotional sensation,” Aziraphale said, clearly nearing the limits of his patience.
Crowley let out an incredulous laugh.
“Abstract? We’re talking about how people experience a space.”
“We’re talking about a public building that needs to remain structurally sound for decades.”
“And it will.”
“With enough steel, plenty of terrible decisions can stay standing.”
Crowley planted both hands firmly on the table.
“You know what? I’m starting to understand why so many architects hate working with engineers.”
Aziraphale immediately looked up.
“Oh, trust me, the feeling is entirely mutual.”
That was what finally broke something inside the room.
Because up until that point it had been a professional disagreement.
Tense.
Hostile.
But still professional.
Now it wasn’t.
“Of course,” Crowley said with a dangerously sharp smile. “Because you lot adore destroying every remotely interesting idea in the name of ‘practicality’.”
Aziraphale stood so quickly his chair scraped harshly against the floor.
“And architects adore behaving as though the laws of physics are merely decorative suggestions.”
Crowley stood immediately as well.
“Oh, that’s rich coming from the man who probably thinks architecture ought to feel like a tax office.”
“At least my buildings don’t require structural prayers to remain upright.”
Gabriel’s eyes widened.
“Right—. Excellent—. Perhaps we should—”
“Structural prayers?” Crowley repeated, genuinely offended now.
“You want to suspend half a floor over an open space!”
“Because natural light matters.”
“So does stability!”
“They are not mutually exclusive!”
The tension exploded so quickly that even Reed looked surprised.
Crowley leaned forwards across the table whilst Aziraphale did exactly the same from the opposite side. Neither looked remotely willing to back down even an inch.
Gabriel looked around like a man accidentally trapped between two extremely polite but equally violent stray dogs.
“Anthony—perhaps if we reconsidered some of the materials—”
“I don’t need to reconsider materials, I need your engineer to stop acting like he wants to design a prison.”
“And I need your architect to stop trying to turn every building into an emotional manifesto.”
“Because spaces MATTER.”
“I never said they didn’t!”
“Well, you behave as though they’re spreadsheets with windows.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth, utterly outraged.
And honestly looked ready to strangle him.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake— enough.”
Caroline suddenly appeared between them before Crowley could continue speaking. She shoved him slightly backwards by the shoulder with the casual ease of someone clearly experienced in handling architectural crises.
On the opposite side, Reed did exactly the same with Aziraphale.
“Breathe,” Caroline muttered through gritted teeth.
“I don’t want to breathe.”
“Well, do it anyway.”
Meanwhile, Reed was gently holding Aziraphale’s arm as though attempting to prevent corporate homicide.
“Aziraphale.”
“Reed, this man is deliberately trying to make my structural calculations suffer.”
“And you are trying to murder every ounce of visual emotion in the building,” Crowley fired back from the other side.
“Anthony,” Caroline warned.
“What? I’m being honest.”
Gabriel finally stood with the expression of a man experiencing absolute exhaustion.
“Right. Brilliant. Excellent teamwork, everyone.”
Nobody responded.
Bee had just returned with coffee and stopped in the doorway for two full seconds whilst observing the scene.
Then she slowly turned around.
“Nope.”
And walked away again.
Reed closed his eyes briefly.
“She’s the smartest person in this company.”
“Without question,” Caroline muttered.
Gabriel inhaled deeply, attempting to regain something vaguely resembling control.
“We’re ending here for today.”
Crowley let out an incredulous laugh.
“Excellent idea.”
“We’ll reschedule the meeting in three days,” Gabriel continued quickly before anyone could object. “That should give everyone time to… calm down a bit.”
Aziraphale still looked furious.
Crowley did too.
And the worst part was that they were still staring at each other.
As though they still wanted to continue arguing.
Caroline noticed that immediately.
And judging by Reed’s expression, he had too.
Oh, no.
That wasn’t just anger.
That was something far more dangerous.