Chapter Text
MONDAY:
To be fair, Crowley wasn’t paying all that much attention…. He hated the supermarket. Hated being stuck in an unnecessary crowd, one that could be easily avoided by online shopping, but… Every time he did his groceries through the flimsy app the people who were in charge of packing his order always, and he means always, missed something important. So he’d given up and gone back to doing it in person. Certainly didn’t help when his local Morrisons changed their shop layout once a month to keep customers on their toes and enhance the shopping experience. Crowley knew all the corporate tricks, having worked in a supermarket back in his hay-day as a teen in Scotland. On top of all that, there were also the kids. Snot nosed brats who’d point at the strange man with the strange leg. Crowley did his best to ignore them. Did his best to not feel heated still when their parents, usually mothers, had to stop and explain about Crowley's condition, all the while the child would continue to stare, in the middle of the bloody shop!
Crowley had also thought about changing stores, but this particular Morrisons was close to his house, and sometimes when he felt like an easy stroll, especially on a hot day, he’d be able to pop in for a quick ice treat. Wasn’t all bad really, but nonetheless. Crowley Hated, capital H and all, Hated the supermarket, so much so, he’d do his best to be in and out as fast as possible. What was it that Freddie said, “I'm travelling at the speed of light, I wanna make a supersonic man out of you!”
Yeah, Crowley was supersonic, errr, more like superbionic with his leg and all….
With a bit of speed, Crowley drifted the shopping trolley around the corner, making the squealing noises of drifting tires under his breath since the stupid things attached to his cart were pathetic and one wheel didn’t even work properly, stuck it was. He most certainly didn’t see the other trolley that was close to a shelf, as he pushed his cart into the aisle, and he crashed promptly into it. The trolley with the force of being hit rolled into the plush side of a blonde headed man who was studying two different cans, comparing god knows what.
Being struck so hard, he dropped one of the cans and it crashed to the ground with a thunk. It didn’t roll thankfully, but the dent in it was sizable. The man grimaced for two reasons; the pain that blossomed up his side, just under his ribs and the fact he’d now have to buy the less desirable can of diced tomatoes as well. Unless of course, he could possibly have the man who had just acted like a child and crashed into him pay for it, and he’d take it back right after. Waste not, want not, right?
Through the pain he gave the man who was staring at him, mouth open in shock a split second away from apologizing profusely, his best glare. “What the hell were you thinking? This is a supermarket, not a playground. You’re a grown man for Pete's sake!”
The redhead, whose face matched his hair, gulped and almost seemed to shrink despite being taller than Aziraphale. “I’m–I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I didn’t think anyone would be down this aisle…”
Aziraphale sized him up for a moment longer, taking in the few items in his cart. Was he nearly finished or was he just getting started? “It’s a supermarket, dear, there’s gonna be people down every aisle.” The redhead nodded rapidly, a hand came to squeeze the back of his neck as he then spotted the can on the ground and hobbled ever so slightly to scoop it up. He tossed it between his awfully large hands for a moment. Amber eyes locked with blue ones. Something flickered but it was too fast for Aziraphale to pick it out.
Crowley held out the can, offering it. “Do you want this? I can take it to an employee…”
Aziraphale, quick as anything, snatched it from the stranger's hand before he did more damage to the poor item. “Of course I still want it!” He snapped, then realised, and said in a more softer tone, “No good giving it to an employee, between being put on discount or being thrown out, I'd rather take my chances with an unfortunately dented can. An innocent causality in your childish behavior.”
The stranger flushed again and he cleared his throat. “Right, yeah, of course…”
Aziraphale sighed, eyed the poor can and handed it to the stranger. “All will be forgiven if you pay for it.” The stranger's eyes widened.
“Anything the almighty wants.”
The tone was meant to be joking but it clearly missed the mark as the blonde narrowed his eyes and scowled. “Oh now you’re just taking the piss. I’m offering you an olive branch and you’re back to being childish.” The man resnatched the tomatoes, placed both cans in his trolley and dragged the cart away by the end, still half pressed into his side. When he got a half a meter away, Crowley’s brain sorta kicked into gear as he recognized the accent.
“What’s a Welshman such as yourself doing in London?!”
The blonde glared now, evidently offended. “That has nothing to do with bloody diced tomatoes and a man who acts like a five year old!”
“I’m Scottish!” Crowley responded, like it would help the situation. He was grinning like an idiot. Londoners were alright, but nothing made him happier than fellow kins men, well, as far as having their own tartan went. Separate but equal. In Crowley’s head, he cackled at the notion.
“So?!” The Welshman shot back, a look of please-stop-talking-to-me was plastered over his face, even if it was hidden by a well trimmed beard. Then the Welshman was gone and Crowley was left standing in the aisle alone, still grinning stupidly as he gripped the handle of the trolley a bit hard. He jumped when he heard a polite “excuse me,” and he moved out of the way for a woman to grab the exact same brand of tomatoes the stranger he’d crashed into stowed away in his trolley. Crowley had half a mind to hunt the man down and try to pry more information out of him, but Crowley was also half-convinced that he'd be bashed over the head with the very tin of tomatoes he’d caused him to drop. Yepa, a trip to the hospital would not be ideal. Especially not on a Monday, near peak hour traffic and just… Yeah nope.
The rest of Crowley’s shopping trip went fast. The Welshman was never to be seen again and Crowley was most disappointed. Sure he’d come on a bit strong, but his meds had worn off and he was no longer in charge of upstairs so to speak. ADHD was a blessing and a curse. Impulse control was gonna die on a bloody hill laughing victoriously.
THURSDAY:
The weather was hot, the air through his helmet felt amazing. God, he loved summer. Shorts, perfect weather and all the time in the world. He felt free from the clutches of his half life.
It had been raining for two days straight, giving Crowley more than enough time to finally sort out the brakes for his black and red Serpent 41 series BMX bike. Sure he had a simulator in his home to test the brakes and the few other modifications Crowley had made on the bike over the wet spell, but nothing beat a proper ride. The BMX track, ten minutes from his shop in Soho, London, via car, was the perfect spot for it. Crowley knew the track by heart, having spent several years living in London.
The burn in his leg muscles, thighs and calve were barely a blip. His lungs strained but he didn’t care. He let out a joyful laugh as he rounded a corner. The back tire slipped a bit in the still damp track, trees broke up the sunlight preventing certain spots from drying out properly, but that was all part of the fun. It wasn’t a road bike he was on, it was meant for mud and grit. He bared down on a slope, dropping just enough to increase his speed. Aerodynamics was also one of Crowley’s favorite things about riding. The smaller you were, the faster you went.
Three corners later and Crowley knew he’d be advancing on the four way intersection that cut through the BMX track. Crowley didn’t know why the fuck the council decided that was a bright idea. He’s been caught a few times, flying at speed and all but crashing into other users coming from his left or right as he shot straight through. One time he hit the brakes so hard to dodge a parent and child that the front wheel locked and sent him into a rock that caused him to go flying over the handlebars. While Crowley lay helpless on the track, the parent swore at him for ten minutes straight, not bothering to check if he was okay. He was. Save for a pair of scraped knees and a few bad bruises on his back, but to be chewed out when it was in fact a public space left Crowley baffled. It wasn’t like Crowley was actively trying to run anyone over.
Sure, he’d been told numerous times by his friends to slow the fuck down when he was out and about, but that just wasn’t Crowley’s style. Admittedly, his driving of a vehicle was no better. Crowley was certain the intersection would be clear today, it was a Friday, around mid-morning, who would be out here instead of at work?
Music, Chappell Roan more specifically, was blasting in his ears and he let out another whoop, he was half singing, half shouting as he peddled, nothing was gonna slow him down. Her music, like Queen, Bowie and many others were amongst his cycling playlist, a great distraction from what had been dreary weather; “H-O-T-T-O-G-O, you can take me hot to go, H-O-T-T-O-G-O, you can take me hot to go! Well, I woke up alone staring at my ceilin’, I try not to care, but it hurts my feelings. You don't have to stare, come here, get with it, no one's touched me there in a damn hot minute! Baby, don't you like this beat? I made it so you'd sleep with me, it's like a hundred ninety-nine degrees, when you're doing it with me, doing it with me!”
With the intersection in sight, Crowley didn’t bother peddling, left his feet on the pegs and stood, letting the window howl around his full face mountain bike helmet as his speed increased. God, he loved riding. Unfortunately, Crowley’s prediction of someone not being out and about at this time of day was wrong.
He didn’t have time to stop as an old fashioned bike came through from his left, effectively cutting him off. The result had him plowing straight into the poor bloke, both bike’s front wheels collided and Crowley was thrown, head first, into a bush. He let out an unmanly yelp as he sailed through the air. He used his arms to break his fall and his helmet hit the ground with a sickening cracking noise. The guard on his helmet was fucked. The adrenaline coursing through Crowley’s body had him flipping onto his back and staring up at the foliage he was currently buried in. He wasn’t hurt, well at least not as far as bones were concerned. Possibly more bruises to his body, and ego. He’d laughed loudly at the irony of being a gay guy in a bush as he eased his helmet off and lay on the ground, reeling in the adrenaline rushing through his veins.
The last time he had been in a “bush” per se, was when he was 17. He’d gotten dared to play Seven Minutes In Heaven, a stupid game but it led to him being stuck in a closet with the hottest most popular chick in high school at the time who begrudgingly let him go down on her. Note, he had no idea what the fuck he was doing but apparently the weird things he could do with his tongue didn’t disappoint. In fact, Crowley ended up with Jessica Ashton as his girlfriend up until graduation when she dumped him unceremonially and announced it was just for fun. As heartbroken as young Crowley had been about the situation at the time, a few other friends had later dragged him out to a gay club and that’s when a few things started to make sense in his ADHD rattled head.
Don’t get him wrong, he liked pussy, but it was not for him.
As he sprawled out on the ground, a gruff annoyed voice cut through his amusement. “I don’t know what’s quite funny!” Oh yeah, that’s right…
Hurriedly, Crowley scrambled to crawl through and out. It wasn’t until he was free of the bush that he realised his prosthetic leg that he had was missing. He tugged it free from the root, the foot part of it got wedged, and clicked it back into place. Thank god for quick release mechanisms. With a grunt, Crowley righted himself and took in the damage, or lack of. The man he’d hit, with his fluffy white hair, beige vest, and long baby blue sleeved shirt, was covered in mud. Crowley saw the clothing as something he didn’t expect to see on such a track. The shorts the man wore, also the same colour as his vest, caught Crowley’s attention for a brief moment. Thick thighs with the right amount of blonde fluff he wouldn’t mind having wrapped around his head….
“What the hell is a bloody angel doing on a cycling track!” Crowley blurted out. Then in an instant Crowley recognized the man.
“Welshman!”
The same man from the supermarket. Crowley had crashed into him. Again. This ought to be good.
The blonde, apparently angelic man, looked up at Crowley in confusion. “Excuse me.”
Crowley waved away the statement with his hand before offering to help the man onto his feet. “Hi, I’m Crowley. I’m a man with no filter.”
The “angel” on the ground only grew more confused. He glanced between Crowley’s outstretched hand, the look of an apprehensive(?) toothy smile on the strange redheaded man’s face, framed by hair falling free from a ponytail barely covering a tattoo that sat snugly below his ear, who had blatantly crashed into him again. With a sigh, the blonde took the hand and Crowley pulled him up fluidly. To his shock, those scrawny arms were stronger than they appeared and Crowley, in his head, delighted in the weight of the other man. Who knew, if Crowley played his cards right, he could be treated to more than just helping him up off the ground, wink wink, nudge nudge. And maybe a do over from their last interaction.
With the other man now on his feet, Crowley suddenly remembered his helmet and once again plunged into the bush to search for it. On finding it, Crowley's triumphant, “Ahah!” was met with an unintelligible noise as he stepped back out onto the path. With it in hand, he frowned at the blonde man who had picked up his bike., “Oh bother!”
The blonde man was studying the rusted frame for, uh, imperfections(?)s and glared at Crowley like it was the redhead’s fault the damn thing was rusted to hell and back. “You’ll be lucky if this isn’t broken.” he grumbled, adding a pout like it would fix its current state.
Crowley laughed, don’t ask him why, but he did. He kinda just doubled over on the spot and guffawed. “You think–I did—hahaha–oh–man, I hate to break it to you, but that thing is a hunk of junk.” Crowley straightened and shook his head, unable to get the grin off his face. He gestured to the baby blue rust bucket with his helmet. “If I actually broke it, its bloody tire would be all bent. Call it an improvement, I would.”
When the angel’s glare deepened, Crowley gathered himself enough to sigh, pick up his own bike and prop it up onto its kickstand. He sat his broken helmet on his bike seat and batted the man’s hands away from the handle bar of the pile of rust.
“Look,” Crowley bucked the bike, a brownie dutch, (a women's bike, why the hell did this man have a woman's bike), onto its back tire and spun the front. He let it spin for a bit, engaged the front brakes, tested the steering by wiggling the steering this way and that, and repeated the braking test on the back tire. “It’s perfectly fine. Could do with a proper derusting but, eh, your fault for leaving it out on the elements.”
The man huffed and snatched the bike out of Crowley’s hands. Their hands brushed during the roughness but Crowley was far more amused to even notice. “”It wasn’t me, actually.”
“No?” Crowley snickered. “Well, the previous owner did a bad job of keeping it up to standards.”
Crowley was also sure the angel stomped his foot as he huffed again. “I will not have you disrespecting my mother like that, not from, not from someone who–”
“What? Go on, Angel. From someone who?”
Those blue eyes glared anew and a semi mudded hand waved in Crowley’s direction. “As a doctor, I thought you’d have more decorum.”
Crowley’s eyebrows drew together. “Me?” He pointed at himself, indigent. “A doctor?” He looked around the deserted path like someone was nearby to back him up. “Bold of you to assume such a thing.”
“It’s what your shirt says,” The blonde said, sniffing as he wiped his nose with his other hand.
“My–my shirt?” Crowley tugged at the fabric around his torso and burst into laughter all over again. It was an old worn out Dr Who T-shirt his mother had gotten him one year from Christmas that surprisingly still fit him. “Trust Me, I’m The Doctor” was printed on it, faded, but David Tennant’s Tenth doctor stood, leaning against the wall of text. Crowley eventually stopped laughing.
By this point, a few people had passed them by, but he waved them off. “Tis fine, we’re fine.”
“Well, are you a doctor?” The blonde insisted.
Crowley calmed himself down. “No, Mr….?”
The blonde man cleared his throat and did his best to straighten himself. “Mr. Fell.”
“Mr Fell?” A giggle escaped the redhead as numerous puns filled his head. “Do you have a reputation for hitting the ground by any chance? Ironically, you sound more like a doctor. Me? I’m just a borin’ ol’ bicycle mechanic.”
An eyebrow rose on Mr. Fell’s forehead. “With a repertoire to run people over seems.”
“Repa–what? Look, Fell, my man. It was an accident. In all honesty, I’ll apologize even though I’m sure it was you who came out of nowhere, but, hey, it’s a sunny Thursday, let bygones be bygones?”
Mr. Fell studied Crowley whose easy going smile summoned in effort to help his apology faded under the scrutiny. “Oh, it’s you!” The recognition seeped into Mr. Fell’s features and his anger resurfaced.
“Are you stalking me now? Purposely seeking me out? For what? Because I can tell you right now, you’re doing an awful job of whatever–” he gestured between them, “this is.”
Crowley frowned. “You seriously think I’m out here crashing into people for the hell of it? The first time was an accident, this is pure coincidence. In my opinion, you seem about as much of an arsehole as I am, right now.”
Mr Fell looked quite affronted at the accusation. “Absolutely not. I have standards!”
Crowley’s eyes flickered between the bike, rusted to death, and the serious expression on the prissy man’s face. He tried, and failed, to not laugh. “Sure you do.”
“A police report for being a menace to society sounds like a grand idea right now….” Mr Fell muttered, loud enough for Crowley to hear.
“Woah!” Crowley held up his hands in surrender, took a step back, bumping into his parked bike. “Easy there blondie, surely we can be civil adults and not resort to authorities, eh?” The last thing he needed was annoying cops to dampen his day over something so ridiculous.
Mr Fell crossed his arms and tilted his head. “I have heard rumors of an individual around these parts. In fact, I got warned not to bike through here for that very reason. Unfortunately, I’m not too keen on taking the long path, especially when I have such a short lunch break.”
Crowley’s eyes grew wide. “Oh! Oh! Of course. Excuse me, you’re on break, why the hell didn’t you say so?” Crowley moved his bike out of the path and, with a sarcastic smile, bowed at the waist and waved his hand. “You’re free to go, M’lady.” Aziraphale glared at him in return, tugged his vest down before straightening his bowtie, his nose in the air as he did so.
“You’re lucky you didn’t lose a button, your vest is as ancient as your two wheel contraption.”
“Velocipde.” Mr Fell said curtly.
“Penny farthing.”
Watching Mr Fell’s eye twitch was worth the dig. It felt like a trap but if that’s what it took for this infuriating man to not go to the authorities for recklessness then so be it. Crowley sucked in a breath. “Fine! I’m sorry, Mr. Fell, for not looking where I was going and crashing into you.”
Mr Fell cleared his throat. “Now, I must be on my way, lunch will be over soon and if I don’t eat I’m not happy.”
Crowley did a double take. “Mr Fell, not happy! Well, here I was thinking you’re just a little ray of sunshine!”
Mr Fell gave him a leveled look and adjusted his bicycle so it was closer to his body. Fluidly, he stepped through the frame and propped himself up onto his seat, the bike angled so he was still touching the ground. Crowley gave him a mock salute and then stepped back, watched as the other man began to peddle away. If he chose to stare at the other man's arse, you just keep that thought to yourself, ‘kay?
Feeling more annoyed with the whole interaction, Crowley climbed onto his own bike, clipped the broken visor back into place as best as possible, double checked his SENA headset on it was still working. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he laughed at the song that was still playing on the thankfully unbroken screen and pulled his helmet over his head before pushing his bike off its stand to continue in the direction he came. The rest of the ride wasn’t necessary, he had it on good faith the bike wasn’t going to fail him any time soon.
“They have everything for young men to enjoy, you can hang out with all the boys… It's fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A! It's fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A!” If Crowley also chose to ride hands free in order to do the letters with his arms, so you saw nothing. “You can get yourself clean, you can have a good meal, you can do whatever you feel…”