Chapter Text
The 27th floor of Elite Holdings was known for three things: the tinted windows that covered the entire building, the absurdly expensive coffee the company offered in the break room, and the fact that Anthony J. Crowley worked there.
Muriel had learned this on her first day of internship, six months ago, when she made the fatal mistake of asking her boss if he wanted sugar in his coffee.
Crowley stared at her over his dark glasses— inside the office, inside the building, on a cloudy day —and said, in a voice that seemed to come directly from the Earth's core:
"Are you asking me if I want sugar ?"
She didn't make the same mistake twice.
Muriel was at the reception desk, organizing reports that needed to be delivered to the boss's office, when Newton Pulsifer—the new intern, only three weeks into the job—approached with a barely disguised look of panic.
"Muriel, I have to deliver this, but he's on the" phone.
"So what?"
"So what? Have you seen his face when someone interrupts him? It's like we're signing our own death warrant!"
Muriel sighed. Newton wasn't wrong. Crowley's office was like an echo chamber of anxiety. Even the plants in the corner seemed to be huddled up, as if afraid that the boss might hear them breathing too loudly.
' Look, he'll be finished soon. That's the finance director, Mr. Ligur. They always take a long time."
Newton peered through the tinted glass of Crowley's office—for some reason, the boss insisted on having glass walls, but tinted , as if he wanted everyone to know he was there without anyone being able to see exactly what he was doing. Only silhouettes were visible. And Crowley's silhouette, at that moment, was leaning back in his chair, making quick, irritated gestures, while he spoke on the phone.
"He seems to be arguing," Newton murmured.
"He always seems to be arguing," Muriel replied. "It's just like him. It's his posture. It's him."
It was true. Crowley had a presence that made the air around him seem heavier. Tall, thin, with red hair that he always impeccably combed back, and a black suit that was so expensive it probably cost more than the annual salary of all the interns combined. He moved as if the world should bow to his passage—and, on the 27th floor, the world did bow.
Suddenly, the elevator door opened with a soft ping .
Muriel looked up purely reflexively, and felt her heart stop.
A man had stepped out of the elevator. That, in itself, was not unusual. But this man was unusual in every possible way.
He was shorter than Crowley, with a soft, rounded body, wearing an overcoat of such a light cream color that it seemed to shimmer against the gray and black palette of the office. His hair was blond, almost silver, carefully combed, and his face had such a sweet and serene expression that it seemed to have stepped out of a Renaissance painting. He carried a crumpled paper bag, from which escaped a vaguely sweet scent—something like cinnamon and butter.
Newton turned to Muriel, his eyes wide.
"Who is that ?"
"I don't know," Muriel whispered. "But he can't be here. He doesn't have credentials. And he doesn't look... I mean, look at him!"
In fact, the man didn't seem to belong to Elite Holdings. He looked around with a gentle curiosity, as if he were visiting a modern art museum and finding everything a little too peculiar . He passed through the reception area without even glancing at Muriel and Newton—not arrogantly, but with the distractedness of someone searching for something specific.
"Sir?" Muriel stood up, trying to sound professional. "Sir, I need to verify your credentials. This is a restricted area."
The man stopped and turned to her with such a genuine smile that Muriel almost forgot what she was saying.
" Oh, excuse me, dear. I'm not here for work. I'm looking for my husband."
"Your..." Muriel swallowed hard. "Your husband? And who would he be?"
The man nodded toward the room with the tinted glass.
"Anthony. Anthony Crowley."
Newton made a sound that can only be described as a muffled squeal.
Muriel felt the ground open beneath her feet. Crowley. Her boss. The demon in the black suit who made financial directors tremble on the phone. Married ?
"He... he's busy at the moment," Muriel managed to say, her voice coming out thinner than she would have liked. "Perhaps if you could schedule a—"
"Oh, don't worry," said the man, waving his hand as if shooing away a fly. "He always says he doesn't mind my visits."
And, with disconcerting nonchalance, he turned and walked directly toward the door of Crowley's room.
Muriel and Newton exchanged panicked glances.
"No, no, no," murmured Newton. "He's going to die. That man is going to die."
“We’re going to witness a murder,” Muriel agreed, feeling her hands sweat. “Crowley’s going to… he’s going to yell at him. He’s going to fire him. What happens to a husband you fire? Can you fire your spouse? Is that even possible?”
" Muriel, look."
The man had opened the door. He didn't knock. He simply turned the doorknob and went in.
Inside the room, Crowley was on the phone, leaning back in his chair, his fingers drumming impatiently on the table. He was still wearing his dark glasses—as always—and his face was contorted in an expression of deep irritation.
" Ligur, I already told you the numbers don't add up. Don't come at me with—"
He stopped.
For the first time in six months, Muriel saw Crowley interrupt a sentence mid-sentence.
The silhouette behind the tinted glass shifted. Crowley slammed the phone back on the hook with a speed that nearly knocked it over. He stood up—not slowly, not menacingly, but like a spring that had been compressed for too long and finally snapped.
"Angel?" Crowley's voice reached the reception area, muffled by the glass, but unmistakably different. Softer. Almost... vulnerable.
Muriel approached, unable to contain her curiosity. She gestured to Newton, who also approached, both leaning slightly to peek through the tinted glass.
What they saw made Muriel's brain spin in knots.
Crowley had taken off his sunglasses.
That was shocking enough. She had never seen him without them. His eyes—she noticed, an unusual, light gold—were wide open, and his face had completely transformed. The crease between his eyebrows had disappeared. His lips, which had previously been pressed into a thin, irritated line, now curved into a smile so genuine it seemed to light up the entire office.
The man in the cream-colored overcoat— Aziraphale , Crowley called him—was standing beside the table, holding the paper bag as if it were an offering.
"Crowley, darling, you forgot your lunch," he said in a sweet, quiet voice, as if he were talking to a kitten. "I brought those custard tarts you like from the French bakery. And a cucumber sandwich too, because I know you don't eat properly when you're working."
Crowley picked up the bag with both hands, as if he were receiving a priceless prize.
"You didn't need to do that, angel," he said, and there was something almost embarrassed in his voice. "I was going to ask for something later."
"You never ask," Aziraphale replied, with an affection bordering on reproach. "You stay here late, working, and then you come home exhausted. I worry about you."
And then, to Muriel and Newton's utter horror and complete fascination, Crowley leaned down and kissed the man's forehead—the man in the cream overcoat, the man who had entered without knocking, the man who called the demon in the black suit " darling ."
It was a quick, soft kiss, full of an intimacy that seemed completely impossible coming from that man. When Crowley pulled away, his face was flushed—slightly, but undeniably.
"You're too good for me," he murmured.
"Nonsense," said Aziraphale, patting Crowley's arm. "Now, open the bag. I want to see your expression when you taste the pastries. They were nice and warm when I left the bakery."
Crowley obeyed immediately, opening the bag as if it were a birthday present. He reached inside and pulled out a still-warm custard tart, bringing it to his mouth with an expression of pure joy.
"Good?" Aziraphale asked, tilting his head.
Crowley nodded, his mouth full, and made a sound of approval that Muriel never imagined she would hear from that man.
"Perfect," he said after swallowing. "You always do everything perfectly, angel."
Aziraphale smiled, radiant, and then looked toward the glass door—directly where Muriel and Newton were peeking out.
Muriel jumped back as if she'd been electrocuted. Newton let out a muffled cry.
"I think we have an audience, darling," Aziraphale said, in a playful tone.
Crowley frowned—the familiar crease returned for an instant—and turned toward the door. But instead of his usual expression of icy fury, he seemed merely... embarrassed.
"Muriel, Newton," he said with a sigh. "Come in."
Muriel felt her legs tremble as she pushed open the door. Newton followed her, looking like a lamb being led to slaughter.
Inside the room, the atmosphere was completely different. The air still smelled of coffee and paper, but now it also carried the sweet aroma of custard tarts. Crowley's desk, usually impeccably organized, had the paper bag open on it, and Crowley was leaning against the edge, wearing his sunglasses again—but not wearing them. They hung from the collar of his shirt, like a forgotten accessory.
Aziraphale was beside him, smiling at the two employees with a sweetness that made Muriel want to cry with relief.
"Ah, you must be Crowley's assistants," he said, extending his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. He speaks very highly of you."
He speaks very highly of you .
Muriel almost laughed. Crowley never spoke well of anyone. Crowley hardly spoke to them, unless it was to point out their mistakes.
"Muriel," she managed to say, squeezing Aziraphale's hand. "And this is Newton."
"Nice to meet you," said Newton, his voice strained.
Crowley cleared his throat.
“Aziraphale is my husband,” he said, and Muriel noticed that he avoided looking directly at her as he spoke. “He was… he was just dropping by to deliver my lunch. It’s nothing serious.”
“Ah, Anthony, you always underestimate your visitors,” said Aziraphale, patting Crowley on the shoulder. “I love coming here. It’s so… interesting to see where you work.”
Interesting was a word. Muriel thought of all the times Crowley yelled at her, all the times she left the office crying, all the times she considered quitting. Interesting .
“Well,” said Crowley, in a voice that tried to sound professional but failed miserably because he was still holding Aziraphale’s hand. “You must have work to do. Muriel, the reports?”
Muriel held out the papers with trembling hands.
Yes, sir. Here they are.
Crowley picked up the reports—without looking at them—and placed them on the table.
"Thank you," he said.
Thank you. He said thank you .
Muriel felt like the world was upside down.
"Now, if you'll excuse us," Crowley continued, his tone almost polite, "I need to... finish something with my husband."
Muriel and Newton left the room in silence, closing the door behind them.
Outside, they exchanged glances.
"What..." Newton began.
"I don't know," said Muriel.
" He... he had eyes ."
" I know."
"He said thank you."
" I know."
"And he smiled ."
Muriel looked at Newton with an expression of pure shock.
"Newton," she said, her voice a whisper. "Crowley has a husband. A sweet husband . Who brings him custard tarts. And he calls him angel ."
Newton nodded slowly.
Inside the room, Crowley turned to Aziraphale with an expression somewhere between embarrassed and adoring.
" You did that on purpose, didn't you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about, dear," said Aziraphale with an innocent smile. "I just came to bring you your lunch."
" You came to bring me lunch and ruined my reputation ."
"His reputation as a bad and frightening man?" Aziraphale tilted his head, feigning consideration. "Yes, I think that's what happened."
Crowley sighed, but there was a smile on his lips.
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"That too."
And against all odds, Anthony J. Crowley—the most feared boss of Elite Holdings—pulled his husband into a hug and buried his face in his shoulder, where he stayed for a long moment, simply breathing.