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rcreveal · 7 days ago

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The Trouble with a Keen Manager, Ch 20, finale

It took a minute to bring this one home, but hope you like it. 1990s, canon compliant through the ages. Crowley lost, and regained, his demonic powers with the help of more than one human, and a particular angel on Whickber street. Things have changed. But what kind of trouble will he get into if he does anything about it.

Chapter 20-finale

Anthony, the young Scottish bloke in a kilt, was finishing up his business on Whickber street for a bright new future, while Crowley, the demon, was restored as one of Hell’s ‘most effective’ operatives. Being both of them at the same time was a grift that Crowley just couldn’t run anymore. Anyway, he’d only been ‘Anthony’ so he could get back his demonic powers, right? Just as he’d never dreamed of staying on Whickber street. For someone who’d always found leaving the easiest part of any meeting, Crowley was finding himself strangely perturbed with ‘Anthony’s’ farewells.

Pulling a pile of boxes from the back of the Bentley, both of them headed in to say goodbye to Madame.

Looking up from reading in her sitting room, Madame raised an eyebrow at the boxes Anthony was encumbered under today while wearing his signature kilt and black leather waistcoat. A week or so ago, she had not been surprised when the youth arrived in a sharp bespoke suit, no tatters at all, to tell her that he’d gotten back on his feet and had lodgings secured elsewhere. She did make him show her his current bank statement and a bill with his apartment address in Mayfield before she sanctioned him moving out of Whickber Street Intimate Massage and Correction. But then, he’d stayed on. For someone with nothing but a couple of sets of clothes and a beautiful vintage car, he’d certainly dragged out the moving, she thought wryly. There had always been one more fry-up in the kitchen with the girls, taking her on one more trip to the bank, just one more little thing to fix or adjust in her house of negotiable affection, but today it seemed that he was finally sincere in his decampment.

He’d brought her a parting gift, well, two.

“I’ve brought you a computer,” Anthony stood back with hands on hips from where he’d plugged everything in, ‘booted’ mysterious things up, and left the cursor blinking to a ‘chat room.’ Looking down at a thick bundle of manuals he had handed over, she smiled as Anthony gushed, “I think you could really expand into the ‘world wide web’.” The rakish grin on his patchily shaveable face suggested what sort of services he thought she might offer. Considering the Internet Cafes starting to pop up, she considered it would be a good market opportunity.

“And you’ll be by from time to time to check on how I’m getting on with it?” she said, more a command than a question.

“I’ll be around,” he evaded gently.

Taking a wallet from his inner pocket, he produced a business card with ‘Anthony J Crowley’ and a number on it.

Enjoying the little show he was putting on, Madame waited for whatever finale he had planned. She had suspected that he had been working himself up to leave, permanently leave, for some time. What he did next certainly confirmed that intuition.

Suddenly, no longer, in some way, the unfinished youth, but a sharp man, Anthony executed the most courtly bow she had ever seen, ending by pressing his card into her hand while saying into her ear, “May your purse always hold a coin or two, May the sun always shine upon your window pane, may a rainbow be certain to follow each rain, May the hand of a friend always be near to you.”

He kissed her cheek as he drew away.

“I think you left the last line off, Anthony,” she said, holding his gaze steadily, before completing the old phrases herself, ‘And may God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.’”

“You’d know more about that than me, Madame,” he replied, before he turned and sauntered out of her house as the blessing settled onto it like sunshine sparkling on dew.

Out in the alley, Crowley tipped his head at the Bentley before he headed over for his last shift at the Dirty Donkey with Dave. Anthony greeted the regulars, charmed the patrons, mixed the drinks, and said his goodbyes. Viv was turning out to be a natural, eagerly taking over Anthony’s shifts, so it wasn’t so much that he was leaving abruptly. More that young Anthony was fading away.

That night as he and Dave finished cleaning up the pub together, eating one last meal, Anthony pulled his card out of his spog and pushed it across the table to Dave who picked it up and cocked an eyebrow at the lad.

No, Dave corrected himself. Anthony had changed, he wasn’t a lad anymore.

While Dave was looking at the finely engraved calling card, Anthony said, evenly, “If you need a hand sometime, call me.”

“If you fall on your arse in the gutter again, you’ve always got a job,” Dave replied gruffly, tucking the card away.

Anthony laughed and gathered their plates, taking them into the kitchen to start the final load.

As Anthony headed out the back door, Dave saw him pause to look slowly around the pub, before he raised his chin in farewell with a surprisingly soft smile and said, “Slainte mhor agus a h-uile beannachd duibh.”

“Uh, sláinte agatsa, “ Dave replied, but Anthony was just looking at him, something unreadable in his face. Bantering back to break the tension, Dave asked, “Are you whitening your own name there, Anthony?”

With a little self-deprecating grimace, Anthony replied, “Me? Never! Just a traditional thing to say in a pub, innit?” before heading out into the night, not glancing back to see the changes wrought upstairs. Dave and Ester would find out at her next doctor’s visit soon enough.

The Bentley waited in the alleyway outside the Dirty Donkey, ready for him to drive back to his apartment in Mayfield. Leaning a hip against her door as he looked over at the bookshop, Crowley felt her roll forward a little bit before rolling back. Patting her roof, Crowley sighed, he’d done the easy ones first. Reluctantly, he stood up and walked towards the bookshop.

They’d seen each other rarely since the Take Back the Night march, he and Aziraphale. Going to the bookshop nearly every day had been an absolute necessity during his time without powers. Crowley was willing to admit that he wouldn’t have succeeded in his Hellish paperwork fight, der Paperkrieg, without Aziraphale. So just when had seeing the angel turned into his biggest temptation?

Crowley found himself looking forward to popping over with a morsel and a story about some trivial thing he’d overheard at the Dirty Donkey or Madame’s just to watch Aziraphale’s reaction. But since Crowley had gotten his powers back, he’d shut that line of thought down, turned his treacherous feet away from walking to the shop. Hiding their meetings in the reports had worked when he was powerless. Now, though, Crowley would light up the shop like some infernal spotlight.

Old habits of mutual self preservation urged them to stay away, of course, along with the whole being on two vastly opposing sides thing. Anyway, he’d never heard the angel say he enjoyed Crowley’s company. Aziraphale didn’t come into the pub again, either.

So why was he standing in front of Mr Fell and Co.s now, well after the vindaloo places had closed? Oh, right, they…he couldn't risk leaving any evidence.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley tapped lightly on the bookshop door which immediately opened under his hand. Almost as if Aziraphale had been waiting up for the demon.

Ridiculous thought, that. Crowley pulled the door closed behind him, but did not enter further.

Before Aziraphale could say anything, Crowley announced, from the shadow just inside the closed door, “I’m here for the rest of my kit, angel. I’m going to be out of pocket for a while.” Digging into his spog, so as not to look at the angel’s face, Crowley produced the remaining sum he owed for laundry, mending, storage, and bathing privileges. Crowley held the money out to Aziraphale who looked from Crowley to the pound notes uncomprehendingly. After a long moment, Aziraphale visibly got himself in hand, and took the money.

Moving slowly back over to his register, Aziraphale finally said, in his carefully polite voice, “Hmm, ah. Exactly what we agreed on,” counting the notes into the till, “Down to the last pence.”

Now that Aziraphale had moved from the door to the till, Crowley could see a tray with an unopened bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses laid out. Crowley looked at the spread with an eyebrow raised.

“What’s all this?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale had closed the till, but made no further move, just stood playing with his gold signet ring nervously, not quite looking at the demon.

Crowley bit his tongue. This little bit of business was the only thing that was allowing him to stop by, so he wasn't going to rush things if Aziraphale wanted… He chided himself for the thought. Why would Aziraphale want him around? Why did he want to be around A-, an angel? Standing in the shop, still in Anthony’s form, Crowley supposed there must be more to this camouflage than just looking like a human youth. Some other influence that made Crowley miss something no demons shared, made these leave takings…different. Still, incarnate influence or not, Crowley felt a flutter in his chest that his clothing and shoes weren't waiting in a bundle by the angel's desk, which was how Aziraphale prepared for the most ill-tempered and least desirable customers. Needs anticipated and met to minimize the unpleasant contact.

Brightening, Aziraphale looked at him again, beaming like he did when one of his complicated plans worked. “Just a little send off for a young man who got a start on Whickber Street,” the angel explained, walking over to pour a generous amount of whiskey into both heavy cut-crystal glasses and waving his hand to offer Crowley a seat as he took his accustomed chair.

They looked at each other measuringly before Crowley stepped fully into the shop. Taking his normal seat on the Chesterfield with unaccustomed hesitation, Crowley picked up the whiskey, while taking off his dark glasses.

Sniffing the whiskey appreciatively, Crowley said, “This’ll go to the young man’s head, he’s not had a chance to sample much fine single-malt.”

“‘He’ worked in a pub this whole time and boarded at a brothel! I should think he was swimming in drink?” Aziraphale sat back across from the kilted demon.

“Not even a wee tipple before tonight,” replied Crowley, taking a small sip and letting the alcohol evaporate up into his nasal passages. The demon sighed, “Not that anyone would believe him.”

Aziraphale raised his glass with a gentle smile, watching as the camouflage of Anthony, the young man, melted away, leaving Crowley still wearing the kilt, spog and Doc Martens the angel had given him at the beginning of this business.

They sat sharing inconsequential gossip about Whickber Street, but more often lapsing into companionable silence, nursing their whiskeys. Then Crowley pointed to some books that looked weirdly different.

“Here, the books moved! Did you get some new stock in?” he asked, casually, moving back towards the easy, empty nattering they’d practiced for ages.

“Oh, yes! I got a shipment from some American booksellers! Always nice to bring something from across the pond,” the angel replied.

“But Angel, you don’t like to sell any of these books, so why not hide them in the back?” Crowley asked, genuinely puzzled.

“I’ve got to read them all before I do that! And just because I don’t want to sell them, doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t know they exist!” Aziraphale made to pour another measure into Crowley’s glass, but the demon put a hand over it, pursed his lips and shook his head. The whine of the peril this contact put them under, the itch of his renewed duties breaking through their little refuge, dragged out Crowley’s next words.

“I’ve got to be off. Don’t want to be driving under the influence,” Crowley said, standing up.

“You could sober up, if you needed,” Aziraphale offered helpfully, looking up at him, bottle still in hand.

“That would be a crying shame with such a fine vintage,” Crowley replied, gruffly.

“Well, then. I’ll just go and fetch your things, shall I? Then you can go?” There was only a very slight, very small question on the end of that statement. They stood in the suspension of that moment as long as possible, drawing out these last exchanges. Each paltry statement become huge like some bright refraction of light through stained glass.

“Yeah, got some projects to attend to,” Crowley dropped into the silence. When next they met, they'd be the Best of Adversaries once more.

“Then I might see you when I’m thwarting,” replied the angel, only a little hopefulness evident in his voice.

“Might. If you catch me,” replied the demon, hands in pockets, scuffing his shoes on the rug, looking at the angel from the corner of his amber snake-eye.

“I just have to nip upstairs,” Aziraphale swung his hands at his sides, “To get your laundry,” he turned to walk up the stairs

“I’ll still be here when you get back, Angel,” Crowley promised softly.

Upstairs Aziraphale walked into his butler’s space where Crowley’s remaining clothing and polished shoes were neatly packaged where they’d been waiting to return to the demon at a moment’s notice these past few weeks. Passing his fingers over the soft black silk shirt at the top of the bundle, Crowley’s favorite, Aziraphale was reminded of all the hours they had spent together while Crowley was inconvenienced by hellish bureaucracy.

Oh! The food! Watching Crowley devour so much food to keep himself incorporated! Feeding him up had been such fun!

Having Crowley about the place, every day! But rather than being an intrusion, how Aziraphale had enjoyed the clatter of Crowley typing on the new computer keyboard! Even the particular buzzing noise of the dot-matrix printer brought a smile to his lips (tho’ he’d blessed the machine into best behaviour after it had printed every word of a thirty page document onto a single line of paper and Crowley had nearly gone apoplectic).

Even Crowley’s creative invective rants set off by Usher’s requisition denials were amusing. The times Aziraphale had been able to interject his own little digs at the demon manager surprising a great laugh from Crowley had been the best.

Bantering with the demon over their very different aftershave and unmentionable preferences as Crowley continued to bathe over at Aziraphale’s would be missed (as would the demon’s charmingly affronted innocence about how often his solitary ablutions at Madame’s had been ‘accidently’ interrupted). The lack of those daily interactions since Crowley regained his demonic powers were harder to bear than the angel had expected.

Respecting Crowley’s privacy while the demon figured out what sort of Hellish oversight he’d have to operate under with his powers restored meant that Aziraphale found himself waiting patiently. For what, though? Crowley didn’t owe him anything, they’d kept the accounting scrupulously even. After all, Crowley had only been spending so much time with him out of necessity.

They weren’t… They couldn’t be…

It had been…

Squaring his shoulders, clearing his throat, Aziraphale put on his pleasant face before picking up Crowley’s things and heading back downstairs.

While the angel puttered upstairs, Crowley wandered restlessly around the new book displays. This place had been a sanctuary, but the feeling of that time irrevocably ending was percolating up in how the small changes of the displays irritated him. Riffling through the new books, he sneered at the annoying novels, but found a largish book over to the side, tucked under a silly low-fat cookbook. Taking it up in his hands, Crowley’s eyes drank in the red and yellow swirls of a nebula on a black background. The book! The one he’d been searching for! Here! Hardly stopping to consider, Crowley slipped the book into the small of his back, under his kilt and leather waistcoat before replacing the cookbook in the display. Steps from upstairs signaled that he’d managed his shoplifting just in time.

Aziraphale came down the stairs to find Crowley already waiting by the door. “I’m sorry it took me so long upstairs! I had to find what I’d done with your shoes, and some other things got scattered about, but here’s the whole lot,” Aziraphale said with barely forced lightness as he handed the bundle into Crowley’s arms, slipping the shoes to hang on Crowley's left hand, fingers sliding along the demon’s, but they had to, didn’t they? to manage the exchange. One being’s hand closed into a fist to preserve the fleeting feeling while the other clutched the shoes reflexively.

“See you around, then,” Crowley backed towards the door, looking at the angel and the cozy shop like he was memorizing it all. Something to keep by.

“Do take care, Anthony,” Aziraphale moved by to open the door for the encumbered demon. Outside the shop, over the click of the lock, Crowley couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard the angel say, “It’s been a pleasure.”

***

In his apartment, Crowley gently tucked the bundle of hand washed and mended clothing into one of the empty dresser drawers. The clothing still smelled of the bookshop. Crowley wondered how long he could preserve that scent so that every time he opened the drawer he could be transported back to that brief time he’d shared with… his friend, his oldest friend. Closing the drawer, he turned off the bedroom light and headed back out to his austere office.

At his great black desk, Crowley pulled the “Hubble Vision” book out from where he'd tucked it in the back of his kilt under the waistcoat. Some sharp shopkeeper, the angel was missing him pilfering this right under his nose, Crowley thought with only a little pang. Stealing was allowed, wasn't it?

Snapping his fingers, a bottle of Talisker whiskey and a glass appeared on his desk to silence the pang.

“Let there be light!” Crowley commanded. A circle of daylight warmed the desktop.

Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, Crowley flipped back the cover and stopped.

Written on the end papers in the angel’s unmistakable copperplate was an unsigned inscription:

“Look at it! It's gorgeous!”

Chuckling fondly, Crowley shook his head. Just like the bastard to get the last word in.

Standing up to walk over to his couch where he might admire the pictures more comfortably, a postcard-sized advertisement fell out of the book. Stooping, Crowley picked it up, disregarded the self addressed stamped side and flipped it over to the back, ready to chuckle at the little temptation sure to be waiting there. His confident smirk melted away as he stood, arrested by the words printed on the little card.

“Speak up, speak out, get in the way. Get in good trouble, necessary trouble, and help redeem the soul of America.” –John Lewis, American Civil Rights leader- from a collection of quotes and essays of the American Civil Rights movement.

In Crowley's hand the card burned to ash, but it was too late, much too late, the dangerous words were already seared into his battered heart.

***

They said there was a knight in Soho during those years. A kilted Galahad with a hand crank in one hand and chain in the other. Though some spoke of a flame-haired Bodicea, her chariot a black vintage car. Accounts varied, these were urban legends after all.

Legend or no, years later, women talked of a red headed woman turning up to give them a ride at the intersection of Hope and Despair. Men and their husbands spoke of a benefactor sauntering in front of a pack of toughs with a grin, standing over his fallen enemy screaming to the rest, “Come on! If you think you're hard enough!” Shopkeepers from far-flung parts of the realm didn't have to pay protection or live fearful for their family’s safety in that neighborhood at that time.

And Crowley made trouble up there, good trouble.

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