Chapter Text
"Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can." -- John Wesley (1703-1791), English theologian and abolitionist.
“Excuse me! Excuuuuse me!” The man’s voice, quickly escalating from urgent to shrill, came over Crowley’s shoulder seconds before the man himself barreled into him. Crowley fell against the hulking copy machine, the top-loading paper tray poking him painfully in the chest and knocking the wind out of him. He turned, mouth open but soundless to protest, and saw only a broad beige back. The man bent over the far side of the machine where, up until a second ago, Crowley himself had hovered, waiting for his stack of copies to emerge.
“Jesus, what’s your problem?” Crowley finally found the breath to snarl, clutching his ribs. He didn’t have much padding on him, to be slammed into things (at least not without a few drinks and discussion about safe words). The furious rustling of paper was the only reply.
“Hey, those are my flyers!” He grabbed a handful of the interloper’s coat and tried to yank him away, but quickly realized he didn’t have the leverage or weight. The guy didn’t budge an inch, until, suddenly, he did. Crowley was pushed again, this time his back colliding with the machine.
“You have got to be kidding me!” He reached back to rub a new sore spot and adjusted his sunglasses more firmly over his eyes as the blinding light bled in around the edge.
The man straightened up and turned so quickly his hat tilted to the side, momentarily revealing a shock of short curly hair, bright white under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Between the beige trench coat and matching fedora, he looked like either a 1950s private detective or someone who was trying all too hard to look very, very inconspicuous, resulting in exactly the opposite effect.
“Oi! Stop, thief!” Crowley yelled. “This man is a flyer thief and I want him arrested!” He gestured grandly to the empty shop.
It was 3am, on a rainy Tuesday in July and the shop was empty — not even the usual troglodyte grad student illegally photocopying science journals snuck out of the nearby university library. Mr. Arnold, the owner and often the entire night shift staff, was off in the back somewhere, inhaling printer ink fumes and pouring over obscene illuminated manuscripts or whatever he got up to on a slow night.
“What are you going on about?” The man had finally slowed and turned, the thick stack of papers closely clutched to his chest. He looked around nervously, craning his neck to peer at the windows even though they showed nothing but the dim reflection of the interior lights and dapples of rain outside.
Well, isn’t he just adorable, Crowley squashed the thought, hopefully before it got to his face. Sunglasses or none, he avoided playing poker for a reason. But the man was adorable, damn it all. Crowley’s age or close to it, a bit shorter. Softly rounded, in just the right way, but strong and solid, if his shove was anything to go by, and with a delicately structured nose that belonged on some art master’s sculpture — all offset by intensely expressive blue eyes, crinkled at the corners now in suspicion.
I bet he just lights up when he smiles. Squash!
“My flyers,” Crowley said in a more conversational tone. “You knocked me half on my ass – twice I might add– and snaked my copies. Unless you want to pay for 45 adverts for this month’s “Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners Bookclub” – in which case, I would love them to be in color.”
“I.. your… what?”
Oof, was he daft or crazy? Crowley didn’t have it in him this evening for someone else's mental crisis, no matter how angelic. There were a number of 24-hour copy shops in Soho he could have picked tonight. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…
“I,” he pointed helpfully at himself, “made a bunch of copies,” he pointed at the documents, which the other man clenched tighter, almost sliding them under his coat, and throwing another paranoid scan of the room. “You,” he pointed at the man’s face, making his eyebrows leap even higher, “have taken said copies.”
Blink. Blink.
“Look,” Crowley sighed, “You know what? Just have ‘em! I still got the original in the machine and I’ll just make up another batch.”
The man finally looked down at the copies in his hand, and flipped through the first few pages. “Lesbians” he said slowly as if sounding out a new word, “and Gays… why these aren’t mine at all.”
“No.” Crowley agreed, still trying to project calm. “I wouldn’t think so.” Hmmm, but maybe I would? It could be hard to tell with these old-fashioned, fussy types. Could go either way . But, then again, so did Crowley.
He could see the mental gymnastics taking place as the man looked him up and down with this new context. His red hair curling out from a low ponytail, daringly tight pants, almost transparent mesh shirt visible down the front of his open leather jacket, the sunglasses in the middle of the night. The man’s eyes seemed to linger for a moment and then darted away, whether from whatever mania was gripping him or… some other thought.
“I had just arrived home,” the man explained, mostly to himself, “and compared the copies with the original” — again that nervous scan of the room, the windows, the door, “and realized there were some missing. I could only think they had been left in the machine tray. And then I came in and saw the papers—”
“And you thought they were yours,” Crowley finished for him. “But I must have come in just after you and made my own. Perhaps they’re just mixed in? I'll just take a look and sort it out.”
The man’s eyes leapt up fearfully. “No! I mean, no thank you. I’ll just — “ he hurried over to a work table, “go through them quickly here. Myself. No need to help. No need.” he trailed off as he flipped through the papers, placing the first dozen or so in one pile, closer to Crowley, before putting one aside, face down, close beside him. Then another a few moments later until they were sorted — 45 flyers to one side, and half a dozen or so in front of him. Crowley stood patiently resigned, he didn’t have anywhere else to be anyway.
Finally, the man looked up and cleared his throat nervously. Seems everything he does, he does nervously. “Terribly sorry for the inconvenience.” He actually touched the brim of his hat. “Good evening to you, sir.” He turned primly on a heel and headed to the old school desk that served as a reception desk and cashiers stand.
Crowley grunted in amusement. He didn’t get a lot of “sir,” not with the way he looked and the crowd he hung out with.
“Must be important, those.” He commented over his shoulder as he collected the flyers off the work table and gave the stack a tap to even them out.
The man froze, a delicate hand hovering above the service bell.
“I mean for you to come all the way back out here in weather like this, middle of the night and all.”
“Yes, quite important. Um, for work – I mean, not for work! They have nothing to do with my work. Hello?” He raised his voice towards the closed door of the back room “Is anyone here! I would like to pay for these additional copies! Hello?” He actually stood on tiptoe, straining over the edge of the desk like an eager child.
“Ol' Mr. Arnold can take ages to emerge, if he’s into something back there.” Crowley offered helpfully. “Just leave a few coins – that’s what I usually do.”
“What? Yes, I see.” He pulled out a handful of change from his coat pocket but hesitated.
“I wont nick it, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Crowley approached the desk slowly, half expecting the other man to scamper away, and put down a one pound note, moving the service bell over the edge to keep it from blowing away.
The man nodded, sniffed, and dropped his coins alongside. He pulled his coat closed, flicking up the collar against the rain, gave a final nod to Crowley and hurried out the door.
Crowley let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. What a piece of work. Some people…
He tucked the flyers under his own coat, waited a beat more to ensure he didn’t awkwardly catch up with the world’s most nervous (adorable!) man, and headed out into the rainy night. He realized a moment too late that he hadn’t thought to take off his sunglasses after stepping out of the reach of the brutal fluorescent bulbs and their headache-inducing flicker. He pulled them off, already rain streaked, and popped them into his pocket. He liked to keep a hand on them anyway, reassured that he could put them back on quickly if the streetlights started to get to him.
The walk back to his flat in Mayfair wasn’t long, but he was nearly soaked through by the time he was fumbling for his keys at the door of the modern building – only finished and rented out in ‘85. Crowley was the first occupant and the rent would have been far outside his imagination if it weren’t provided by his employer. It wasn’t his really and he tried to remind himself of that. Don’t get too comfortable, don’t let your guard down. But it felt worth it to be somewhere new, somewhere without any ghosts or baggage, or more physical signs of wear and tear.
Crowley had had enough of old, used, and hand-me-down at the Children’s Home and the string of dingey bedsits that had followed in the years before he got his feet under him. That experience had also been the reason he had squirreled so much of it away, never trusting that the next paycheck would arrive. He was doing alright – better than alright, for now— even if the terms and implications of his not-so-gainful employment was always precarious. He would think about later, well, later.
He shivered in the entryway, peeling off his jacket and boots, and trying to shake as much rain as possible out of his dripping hair before stepping onto the thick carpet. He flicked on the lights — kept as dim as they could go — and lit a few candles on the mantle of the gas fireplace. It wasn’t cold enough to bother with a real fire but a few flames warmed the soul in the otherwise plastic and sterile space. It was just a studio: one small room with space clearly delineated for a living room/office, bedroom, and a sleek galley kitchen along the far corner. The bed was the only touch of softness, piled with blankets and pillow as monochrome as the rest of the color pallet.
He poured a double of Talisker (his one indulgent expense) and perched on the edge of the table that was also his desk, thumbing through the flyers. None of them were wet, a small miracle. He would drop them off with Nina and Maggie tomorrow, when he went by the library. Muriel was supposed to have some of that legal research for him as well.
Nothing more he could do tonight and nothing but yesterday’s kebab leftovers and some best avoided sauces in the fridge. The pathetic pantry and lonely night of the middle-aged “confirmed bachelor.” Never enough work – neither the tasks he was supposed to undertake for his employer nor the actual activities he spent his time and energy on – to fill up the hours. Free time meant thinking. Best avoided.
Nothing to do for it but go to sleep. If he set an alarm, he could wake up with just enough time to have a proper pub breakfast before the library.
Damp clothing went into a pile at the foot of the bed, to be dealt with later, and he buried under the comforting weight of blankets, shivering for a few moments against the cool sheets.
Wouldn’t it be something to have someone else here, for once. Maybe someone who gave off some heat. Someone with some substance to them. Maybe a halo of white-blond hair and crinkly eyes. All that nervous energy put to good use.
He unashamedly curled his arms around a pillow and let the fantasy soothe him to sleep.