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Crowley’s a bit worried by the novel. He reads it through three times. Grabs his laptop and starts making a list of what’s wrong with it - well, right, he supposes - which ends up taking him the best part of two days.
It’s like being in Rome again. He can taste it, hear it, feel the thunder of the chariot races echoing through his wings. Either the author has done more research than anyone Crowley’s ever known - and managed to find a lot of sources that no-one else ever has in the course of it - they’d been hanging around Rome as well.
Which.
Well.
He can’t imagine most of his former colleagues knowing how to read, let alone write. And then wishes he hadn’t thought of said former colleagues in conjunction with certain scenes in the book he’d rather enjoyed.
He can’t find any information about ‘A Z Fell.’ No previous publications, no awards, no nothing. Certainly no records of history PhDs.
The picture looks like a man.
Well, so does he most of the time. A woman, sometimes. The snake thing… it had taken until smartphones and a decent selfie camera with a time lapse to get a picture of that.
Human, on the other hand…
He can’t decide if Fell’s got really pretty eyes or if there’s some kind of glamour going on.
The book signing is probably a bad idea. Crowley’s life has been roughly six thousand years of throwing himself wholeheartedly into bad ideas and he’s not about to stop now.
The queue’s rather too long for a first time fiction author. Miraculously so, he thinks, or maybe everyone’s just as charmed by Fell’s eyes as he is.
He grabs a copy and resigns himself to waiting in line. You can’t get away with using powers in public like that, as much as he might want to wish the queue away.
Fell looks human. Really looks human. Smiling at everyone, signing copies, making small talk, making people laugh.
Crowley likes him immediately. Immensely. Is probably going to make a fool of himself trying to say his name, let alone ask about Roman research details.
‘Uhhh, Crowley. Anthony.’
Fell smiles at him. Really smiles, and human or not, he’s the single prettiest thing Crowley’s ever seen.
‘Of course. You have the same name as an artist I like. He paints the most wonderful scenes of space. Beautifully researched. Very… how do I say this? Very cutting edge. Things most people don’t know.’
Crowley’s brain whites out for a moment. Leaves him clasping the book and staring at Fell and hearing, vaguely, the whispers of wings.
‘That’s me.’
‘Really?’ Fell looks delighted. ‘I would love to talk to you about them… about the research. Would you be free for a drink after I’ve finished the signing?’
He watches Fell write his name on the flyleaf. With a kiss. ‘Yes. Yes. I’d be free for a drink.’