Pity this Busy Monster / Inception+SPN (1/3)
Title: Pity this Busy Monster
Artist: preferthemoss
Pairing: Crowley/Cas, with background Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Yusuf, and Dean/Lisa.
Word count: 8,014 (23,844 overall).
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Inception+SPN
Prompt: Write about someone whose field of vision, either literal of figurative, has narrowed in the last six weeks. (To quote wikipedia, tunnel vision "...may also denote the reluctance of narrow-minded individuals to consider alternatives to their preferred line of thought.")
Summary: Fergus Crowley is head of Crossroads Publishing, an influential business in New York; Castiel Milton is head of Running with Sigils, a significantly lesser-known charity for children. Normally they would never meet, but it turns out that Castiel is sitting in the future building of Crowley's dream bookstore.
Crowley wants the building. Castiel wants... something else.
Notes: 1. Written for crowley_bigbang.
2. Title taken from e.e. cumming's pity this busy monster,manunkind.
3. This fic would never, ever, ever have seen the light of day without my friend and freaking awesome beta, Roz (chaosraven). She ironed out the grammar, tightened the dialogue, and the interesting bit at the end? All her. She is one of a kind.
4. Check out the beyond-fantastic art!
Crossroads Publishing doesn’t open its doors until 8:00 A.M., but Crowley makes it a habit to be there by 7 o’clock, sharp.
Arthur, however, is there by 6:30 without question.
“Christ on a bike,” Crowley snaps when he sticks his head into Arthur’s office, only to find him calmly sipping a cup of coffee and reading something online. “It’s hardly light out. What are you doing here?”
“What you pay me to do,” Arthur replies, not bothering to look away from the e-mail that has his attention. He sets down his coffee cup, types a rapid succession of sentences, and then decisively clicks the mouse. “I’m glad you decided to show up. I’ve got news.”
“Decided to show up?” Crowley incredulously echoes (he remembers a time, not too long ago, when one’s underlings didn’t speak to their bosses that way), but Arthur seems immune to Crowley’s ire and barrels on.
“Devil’s Trap is releasing a series of werewolf erotica,” he announces, smiling slightly when Crowley gags at the words ‘werewolf’ and ‘erotica’ being used in the same sentence. “They ordered a print run double the usual number. I know you have a werewolf something-or-other in the wings. Should we give it the green light?”
“This sort of rubbish is best left until after coffee,” Crowley complains, pivoting on his foot and heading towards his own office, like maybe he can barricade himself from the responsibility of saying yes or no to werewolf nonsense. But Arthur, as usual, is wise to Crowley’s evasive maneuvers and follows him down the hall.
“You know that book will make us a lot of money,” Arthur presses. “And it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever read.”
Crowley makes a despairing sound as he unlocks his office door, revealing a large room with a sizable wood desk and all the technology a man could want. There’s a leather couch in the corner and an adjoining bathroom with all the amenities. Bits of overly pretentious modern art dot the office walls, but Crowley hardly notices it. Hell, he didn’t even pick it out. That was the decorator, who stays on retainer only because he recommended the best tailor Crowley has ever known.
He sets the briefcase on the desk and flops into his hydraulic, space-age chair.
“I started this business with the intent to publish books that aren’t shit,” he says, peevishly booting up his computer. “Why does the world force us to print otherwise? Does humanity really need one more shirtless lycanthrope?”
“You also started this business to make a profit,” Arthur reasons. “And you have. Right now, having sex with the blood-thirsty undead and half-dogs is what’s selling.”
Crowley buries his face in his hands. This must be why people loathe Mondays so very, very much.
“Fine,” he agrees, words muffled by his palms. “Go ahead and give it the nod. But no more after that, I don’t care what Devil’s Crap puts out.”
Arthur nods and makes a note of it on his phone, thumbs flying over the touch screen with fluent dexterity.
“And the Murphy Building,” Arthur starts, rolling his eyes when Crowley all but brightens at the mere mention of it. “The lease expires in two months. I’ve already contacted Murphy and expressed our interest in purchasing it, and I’ve begun cataloging the best designers for the store. You’ll receive the shortlist when it’s ready.”
The store. When Crossroads Publishing took off five years ago, Crowley had begun planning a bookstore with all the fixings: coffee shop, restaurant, educational facilities, reading area, and his business model guaranteed to make money hand over fist. Unfortunately, there had been no appropriate buildings near the actual publishing house, so he’d exercised an unusual amount of patience and bid his time until an ideal space became available. To be honest, he’d never considered the Murphy Building a possibility-James (“Jim,” he always insisted, because he was one of those disgustingly kind types) was a do-gooder who had inherited it from his father, and his father before that, and had no intention of ever renting it to anyone else. Why would he? The man used it to run a charitable reading program called Blue Earth, and did so with the energy and dedication of an altruist powered by God himself.
But then he’d fallen ill and had to close the program. Crowley can’t even remember what the sickness had been, but he’d nodded at the right places when Jim told him about it, all the while wondering how best to ask about the building’s availability without sounding like a heartless bastard. Which he is, make no mistake, but he likes to present an illusion of fellowship. It’s good for business.
“One last thing,” Arthur says, frowning at his phone’s screen. “We need to make a charitable donation. Fischer Corp donated twenty grand to the Ronald McDonald House and Morningstar Security gave the local homeless shelter ten thousand. It’s been all over the news.”
Crowley reluctantly pulls up the New York Times business page. One quick scan of local headlines confirms what Arthur has told him, though he suspects the kid knew about the donations the moment they were made. He has sources that even Crowley dares not question.
“Bloody holidays,” Crowley mutters. “They always cost me money. What is it about fuck-cold weather and fat men in red suits that make people want to give?”
“I know the concept of charity pains you,” Arthur dryly says, “but we can’t ignore this. Would you prefer I handle it?”
He doesn’t need to ask twice-there’s nothing Crowley hates more than dealing with poor people and bleeding hearts and whatever else goes along with charitable causes.
“You should helm this, Arthur,” he agrees, making it sound like a privilege. Catch more flies with honey and all that. “I trust your judgment. But make sure it pulls at the heartstrings, yeah? I want people to associate us with unicorns and rainbows until January. When they pass our building, they should say, ‘oh look, it’s Crossroads Publishing. They helped cure cancer last week. We should buy a book from them’.”
Arthur gives Crowley an incredulous look, but hides his distaste by asking, “How much are we talking? Ten? Fifteen?”
“Ten is enough to let me sleep at night,” Crowley carelessly answers as he opens his email inbox. “And don’t forget to send Sam the paperwork. He’ll apply it to the tax returns.” He pauses to hopefully inquire, “I don’t suppose you’ll brew us some coffee?”
“I am not your secretary,” Arthur says, scowling at Crowley’s request. “I didn’t graduate with a Masters in business just to make your coffee.”
“But you’re my assistant! You assist! How am I supposed to plod through a werewolf novel if there’s no caffeine chugging through my veins?”
Arthur’s jaw visibly tightens. “I’ll start a pot, but you’re making your own cup.”
The young man marches out of the office, leaving Crowley to twirl lazily towards the large window behind him. The view is lovely during the spring-not that he takes the time to appreciate it-but now it’s fuzzy and gray in the early morning light, especially with winter digging her nails into the city and Christmas fast approaching. Holidays always cost him a small fortune. When other companies start making charitable donations, Crossroads Publishing has no choice but to jump in or risk the bad publicity.
With a resigned sigh, he digs through a pile of manuscripts until he finds the werewolf novel Crossroads received nearly three months ago. Crowley had gotten so many genre knockoffs that he’d nearly thrown this one away without bothering to scan the first page, but the writer-Brenda? Bernice? Becky?-managed to hold Crowley’s interest for an excess of two minutes. He’d kept it as a backup, just in case Devil’s Trap hopped on the vampire-werewolf-virginal moron bandwagon, and now he’s glad he did. If he must release something along those lines, then he at least wants it to be good.
He receives an e-mail from Arthur within the hour, listing local charities that could use some dough while simultaneously making Crossroads look genuinely altruistic. The endless array of noble causes gives Crowley a headache-he couldn’t care less about city beautification, environmental causes or underfunded schools-but he jots down the more promising prospects. He sends a few messages varying from praise to scathing fury (the worst of which goes to Chuck-the-Schmuck Shurley, who has missed two deadlines, and whom Crossroads would drop if only Shurley’s Supernatural series didn’t do such phenomenal business). He immerses himself in work until he realizes it’s lunch. He usually prefers to work through mealtimes, but dealing with Shurley and werewolves in one day is enough to drive him to an honest-to-God break.
“I’m taking lunch,” he announces, stopping by Arthur’s neighboring office. “Do you want anything from Gabriel’s?”
Arthur glances from a manuscript to the wall clock, surprised that it’s already time to eat.
“Coffee and a blueberry muffin,” he says, ever imperious, and then narrows his eyes. “Make sure our coffees are clearly marked. I have a feeling Gabriel spits in yours.”
“What makes you think I don’t spit in yours.” Crowley tosses the casual question over his shoulder as he moves towards the elevator. He steps inside and adjusts his coat and scarf in the door’s reflection while the elevator moves to the first floor.
The doors ding open. Ariadne looks up from the reception desk and smiles when she sees Crowley, and he has a horrible suspicion she might partake in the whole hello, how are you, I’m fine, cold weather we’re having routine. Fortunately, she catches him by surprise.
“No briefcase,” she observes. “That means you’re going to Gabriel’s. Bring me back something delicious.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t remember offering,” Crowley says, breezing past her.
“Preferably something chocolate, but I’m not picky!” she calls as Crowley exits his fine building and finds himself in a pile of slush. It’s freezing outside and the wind is particularly sharp, but Crowley doesn’t mind. He’s never been one to let the elements affect him.
The traffic is somewhat quiet compared to a usual afternoon in the city, but he doesn’t stop to appreciate it. Instead, he starts towards the bakery, his pace quick and efficient as he deftly navigates the slippery sidewalks. He pauses to give his coveted Murphy Building a once-over; he notices, with a bit of delight, that there are boxes stacked outside the door. Jim must be emptying the place out in preparation for future tenants. Crowley peers through the window and catches sight of a dark-haired man fighting with some furniture, and then hurries off when the man notices Crowley is standing outside.
The distance from Crossroads to Gabriel’s is all of five blocks, and Crowley’s practically whistling when he enters the warm and aromatic bakery. The tinkering bell above the door alerts Gabriel of Crowley’s presence.
“If it’s not my favorite stick in the mud!” Gabriel cheerfully says, fully removing himself from the kitchen to stand behind the counter. His apron, a loud orange monstrosity that has ‘Kiss the Cook’ stitched across the chest, is covered in flour and what looks to be maple syrup. “How’s business? Still stealing the souls of hapless authors everywhere?”
“My soul stealing keeps us out of the red. You should try it,” Crowley snipes, and then waves his hand to indicate the room around them. Gabriel’s is an explosion of mismatched decorations: 80’s iconography that sent Crowley way back; holiday banners that were never taken down; a jukebox that only played four songs. “Then maybe you could afford an actual business identity.”
“Psh. ‘Business identity.’ All that higher education makes you sound like a prick. Besides, I like the identity I have right now.”
“Random garbage doesn’t constitute an identity.”
“I prefer ‘eclectic interior design’. You should know that I have very fine tastes. The chandelier is from France.”
“And it matches the Flash Gordon poster to a T,” Crowley deadpans, moving towards the counter to examine the day’s offerings. “Anything new on the menu?”
“Glad you asked,” Gabriel says, beaming proudly at his pastry display. “I have developed my latest, and perhaps greatest, confection to grace this bakery: pumpkin and honey crumble pie with vanilla whipped cream and a pecan glaze. I know, I know-I’m a genius. Should I go ahead and pack you a slice?”
“Make it two, with coffee,” Crowley requests, remembering Arthur’s specific request for a blueberry muffin and then disregarding it just as quickly. “Are those brownies fresh? I’ll take two of those as well. Evidently, I have to feed my underlings.”
They continue to trade jabs throughout the food-for-money exchange. Gabriel finds an inordinate amount of pleasure insinuating Crowley is satanic hell spawn, but Gabriel’s a short guy with ratty jeans and hair that never cooperates, so Crowley is rarely short of insulting ammunition himself. But their goodbyes are always good-natured, and Gabriel calls, “Hey Crowls, come back next time and I’ll bake you a cake with holy water. Maybe you’ll sizzle!” as Crowley exits the small shop. Crowley flips Gabriel off through the glass door. A passing mother shields her young child and hurries past him, giving him a dirty look over her shoulder.
Crowley’s phone vibrates when he reaches the third block, just as he’s passing the Murphy Building again. He manages to cradle the pastry bag in the crook of his elbow, but isn’t sure what to do about the cup carrier until he spies the stack of cardboard boxes near the door.
He sets the carrier down on the makeshift table and fishes the phone from his pocket. He first thinks it must be from Arthur, but rolls his eyes when he sees the text is from Sam Winchester, their overworked and under-appreciated legal advisor.
Rumor is you went to Gabriel’s. Did you snag me a brownie?
Crowley remembers a time when he inspired fear in people, but now his minions feel they have a right to engage in open dialogue with him. It’s a disturbing state of affairs.
Yes, but I saw him inject it with a magical love potion. One bite and you won’t be able to resist him anymore, he replies, hitting the ‘send’ button with a feeling of accomplishment. Arthur has always argued that getting the last word against Sam is like kicking a puppy, but Crowley always wants the last word, no matter whom his opponent might be. And besides, he has such excellent ammunition: Sam is in love with Gabriel’s cooking, but can’t visit himself because Gabriel is in love with Sam. Their mating dance has kept Crowley entertained for the past half-decade.
Shut up. Just bring me the goods.
Shut up? That’s rich. I *can* fire you, Winchester.
“Pardon me,” someone says, though Crowley’s so involved with the message exchange that he doesn’t notice. “Well, if you’re going to be rude,” the voice complains, and then, “Honestly, lend me two seconds of your time,” before Crowley realizes the annoying voice is talking to him. He turns to see a man balancing a number of boxes and wearing a hopeful expression. “Ah, I knew you’d come around. You wouldn’t mind terribly getting that door for me, would you? Or are New Yorkers truly as rude as I’ve been led to believe?”
“I’m not a New Yorker, and neither are you,” Crowley says, pointedly emphasizing his accent.
“My green card says otherwise,” comes the cheerful rejoinder, seemingly unfazed by Crowley’s words. Crowley squints at him, weighing the pros and cons of participating in further conversation to make his point. He eventually decides the effort isn’t worth the reward and reaches for the door he’d been blocking. He twists the handle and gestures, perhaps a bit sarcastically, for the stranger to enter.
“Much obliged,” the man calls over his shoulder. “It’s been hell moving in. I suppose this is my penance for being the strong one. Everyone says, ‘Eames, would you please help me move this absurdly large table?’ or ‘Eames, would you please unload the entire truck?’. Before I know it, I’m balancing boxes like a circus act.”
“And does anyone ever say, ‘Eames, you refer to yourself in the third person’?” Crowley acidly asks, before his brain latches on to the first part of his Eames’ statement: It’s been hell moving in.
“You’re moving in here,” Crowley echoes, because that can’t be. Jim Murphy has hardly moved out. The building isn’t even on the market. “Permanently.”
“Indeed we are,” Eames answers, setting his cargo down on a large wood table. “And let me tell you, it’s a step up from our old location. There was something growing in the bathroom stall that was nearing sentience.”
“A fascinating story,” Crowley grinds out. “Could you explain to me how you managed to nab this place before the lease expired?”
“I don’t think it was ever going up for rent,” Eames says, reasonably, as though he isn’t hauling junk into Crowley’s future bookstore. “Jim is leasing to us for a discount, is all. He liked our program and wanted this place to be used for the forces of good, since he couldn’t keep Blue Earth running.”
This must be, Crowley thinks, why people are in favor of gun control. Because his first impulse is to murder Eames, hide the body, and steal the lease from beneath his perfect little nose. Without firepower at his disposal, Crowley figures he’ll have to rely on more archaic methods. Bludgeoning comes to mind, although strangulation isn’t without its merits.
He’s distracted by another man popping up from beneath a table, clutching some sort of scraper. It’s the same person who’d caught Crowley spying just fifteen minutes before.
“Any luck with that gum?” Eames cheerfully asks. “That’s what you get for buying used furniture, Cas. There’s a lifetime of chewed garbage under those things.”
“These tables were twenty dollars each. I dare you to find a better deal,” the man retorts, quickly setting down the scraper and wiping his palms on his grimy shirt. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“‘Friend’ is perhaps too strong a term. This charming example of humanity was simply helping me with these,” Eames says, patting the stack of boxes they’d brought inside. “Since someone else can’t be bothered.”
‘Cas’ (what sort of name is that? Was he raised by hippies?) narrows his eyes. “I didn’t hear you knock. This is a very large space, if you remember.”
“I texted. I wrote, ‘open door’.”
“You did no such thing,” comes the disbelieving reply, followed by a defensive phone check. “It didn’t ring or vibrate, so...”
He trails off, frowning at the screen. Eames mutters something beneath his breath as he stalks over and swipes the phone from his friend’s grip.
“Well, it certainly won’t ring if it’s on silent, will it?” he asks as his fingers fly over the keypad. “And this envelope icon means you’ve got a text. Honestly, Cas, your bafflement with technology never ceases to amaze.”
“Perhaps you could save the chastisement for later,” Cas says, snatching the phone back.
“Oh, don’t pout,” Eames laughs, and then turns to Crowley. “Tell me, what can we call you? Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy referring to you as ‘Sarcastic Man in Dark Suit’ in my mental dialogue, but it’s a bit of a mouthful.”
Crowley grits his teeth. Bludgeoning is winning by a mile. One of the nearby chairs might do the trick, if Cas is willing to look the other way.
“Fergus Crowley,” he finally answers. “Spare me the honorifics and just call me Crowley. I’m head of Crossroads Publishing one block down.”
“My name is Castiel Milton,” the scraper says, walking up and politely holding out his hand. Crowley does his best not to grimace-if Castiel’s been fondling old gum, then who knows what else he’s touched-but reassures himself that there’s a bottle of sanitizer in his desk drawer. He bites his tongue and they shake. “It’s a pleasure. You’ve already met Eames.”
“Franklin Eames, at your service,” Eames says, giving an exaggerated bow. “You’ve stumbled upon our contribution to society at a bad time, I’m afraid. It’s a mess in here.”
Crowley takes the opportunity to examine his surroundings: there are paintings, charcoal drawings, sketches, and shelves hanging on the walls. More unwieldy tables dot the room, while plastic bins are stacked on top of each other, each bursting with crayons, markers, paper, glue, fabric, and books.
“We run a year ‘round art camp for disadvantaged children,” Castiel explains, quickly trying to erase the look of distaste that must be on Crowley’s face.
“Running with Sigils,” Eames helpfully informs him.
“We tend to get supplies everywhere. But there are chairs, if you would like to sit down-”
“I’ve hungry employees who are waiting for these,” Crowley interrupts, holding up the paper bag to protect himself from further invitations to stay. “They honestly can’t wait.”
“Are you sure?” Castiel pushes. “We’re always open for visitors.”
“Another time,” Crowley promises, meaning he has no intention whatsoever to interact with these people again-unless it’s to watch them haul their junk back into a moving van. “It’s been a pleasure, really. Good luck with the art gig. I’m a jog away if you ever need anything.”
God, the lies he tells. Like he’d ever really help them if they asked for it.
He tosses a polite wave towards them before exiting the building, grabbing the cup carrier and blazing a trail to Crossroads. His mind is no longer focused on pie or Sam’s texts or the horrors of werewolf sex; it’s on the fact that two blowhards have commandeered the one location that Crowley has kept eye on for five years. It’s his. It should have been his.
“Brownie,” Ariadne says when Crowley bursts through the front entrance. He tosses the bag towards the desk without actually looking at her, bypassing the elevator and heading straight for the stairs. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the threshold of Arthur’s office. Arthur is doing the exact same thing he was doing before Crowley had left, looking for all the world like nothing in their business plan has fundamentally changed.
“The Murphy Building,” he says, without preface. “It’s being occupied.”
“Thank you for knocking,” Arthur retorts. “In reference to your statement: impossible. There’s no paperwork on it. Trust me, I’ve been giving it a great deal of attention.”
“Murphy handed the rental lease to someone. It’s not official yet.” Crowley begins pacing the length of Arthur’s office. “They have our building. They have our building. These two Mother Theresas, wanting to save children through art. It’s disgusting.”
“I’ll up our offer,” Arthur says without pause, already bringing up an e-mail screen. “Whatever the charity is paying can’t possibly be more than what we’ll put on the table.”
“That isn’t going to work,” Crowley declares, shaking his head and trying to consider his options. “You’ve done the research on the man. He cares about people. He won’t be interested in our money if he considers Running with Sigils a worthy cause. We need a new strategy.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Are you referring to some sort of legal maneuver? Sam will be the first to tell us we don’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Nothing that complicated,” Crowley objects, frustrated. “Something smaller, under the radar.”
Arthur leans back in his chair. “I’m not sure I’m following you. If you’re suggesting blackmail-”
“They’re both probably clean as the virgin snow. Nothing to hang over them. But I am going to get my hands on that building, you mark my words.”
Arthur seems... not at all comfortable with this. It’s strange, because Arthur has always been Crowley’s right-hand man, and he has been there through great profit and giant bombs, always out-thinking the competition and getting work done before Crowley even asks for it. For all their snipping, they’ve never not been on the same page.
Arthur finally sighs.
“I don’t suppose you brought me anything from Gabriel’s to fuel me through your meltdown.”
“Right,” Crowley says, remembering that he no longer has possession of the baked goods. “I tossed the entire bag to Ariadne. I’d hurry down before she inhales it all.”
“And the coffee,” Arthur presses, nodding to the paper cup carrier in Crowley’s hand. “I assume it’s frozen?”
Crowley tosses up his hands. “What’s more important here, Arthur? The damn coffee or the future of this company?”
“Right now, coffee. To quote: ‘How am I supposed to plod through a werewolf novel if there’s no caffeine chugging through my veins?’” Arthur takes a sip from one of the cups and shrugs his shoulders. “Passable. Next time, try to avoid life-altering discoveries during coffee runs.”
“I’m going to fire everyone,” Crowley swears, taking his own cup and marching towards his desk. First: research. Second: plotting. Last: getting that building out of Sigils’ paint-covered, gum-encrusted clutches.
---
Crowley spends the next three days passing (Arthur claims it’s skulking around, but Ariadne argues that Crowley isn’t being creepy enough to constitute a skulker) the Murphy Building on his way to work. He makes a note of everything he can, ranging from the fact that the boxes are gone (meaning Castiel and Eames have finished moving in) to the stack of paint cans sitting outside the door. He realizes, with a grimace, that they’re going to paint the interior in some ghastly color. Maybe orange. Worse, yellow.
He always glimpses Castiel through the large front windows. Crowley doesn’t stare (otherwise Ariadne’s argument would be invalid), but he nods in acknowledgment, at least, to avoid being an utter asshole. Castiel never fails to wave back. It’s disgusting, and Crowley would avoid it if he felt like figuring a new route to work.
Arthur, naturally, gets busy researching. Anyone can research, but Arthur uncovers dirt. He dives into the task like a hound on a scent, but comes back with only the basics. Running with Sigils is a program that invites schools, children’s hospitals, adoption agencies, and any other number of child-oriented groups to schedule a day with RWS and then bus a bunch of kids to their studio, where Castiel and Eames give free lessons and supply everything without cost.
It’s saccharine. It also makes Crowley’s job of finding a reason to have them kicked out that much harder.
By Friday night, Crowley is no closer to acquiring that building than he was on Monday. He briefly entertains the thought of blackmail or bribery, but it’s overkill, really. Azazel at Devil’s Crap deserves that sort of underhanded conniving, but Crowley doesn’t want to destroy them. He just wants them to... go away, and conveniently drop the lease at Crowley’s front door.
Crowley glances out his window and then eyes his remaining manuscripts with a reluctance that borders on dread. Despite his time devoted to scheming, he’s been performing his regular tasks as well, most notably skimming through the “novels” Crossroads receives on a daily basis and keeping their budget on an even keel.
“Well, that’s that, then,” he decides to no one in particular. He’s read through enough for one twelve-hour period; the remaining manuscripts aren’t going anywhere, and Monday is a new day, with a new batch of crap to dredge through. He gathers his things and locks the door behind him before sticking his head into Arthur’s office.
“Will you be leaving tonight, or will I find you passed out on your desk Monday morning?” he asks. Arthur looks up from his computer.
“I’m just editing this last chapter,” he says. “I’ll see you later. Unfortunately.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, was that supposed to be insulting in some way?” Crowley breezily retorts. “Good night, then.”
“Night,” comes Arthur’s response. Crowley takes the elevator to the ground floor and makes sure every entrance into Crossroads is securely locked. Sure, he’s been called heartless by anyone who’s ever known him, but he’s not comfortable leaving his employees alone at night. Arthur’s excellent productivity has a direct correlation to Crowley’s fear that he’ll find Arthur hacked up in his office one day because some creep got inside the building while no one else was there.
He checks his phone for the time, wondering if Gabriel has closed shop for the night. Crowley is in the mood for Indian takeout and another slice of pumpkin honey crumble pie to wash it down, but his opportunity to acquire said pie relies heavily on whether Gabriel will be responsible enough to stick around until his official closing time.
His thumb automatically moves to open the stock market app. The markets have long since closed by now, but Crowley’s been so busy with this Murphy business that he hasn’t kept the keenest eye on his personal investments. He barrels down the sidewalk, hunched over to read the small numbers, and is just breathing a sigh of relief at all the green arrows when someone says, “Hello, Crowley.”
He spins around, phone nearly crushed in a horrified death grip, only to find Castiel standing by the studio door with a set of keys dangling from his finger.
“Castiel,” he acknowledges, willing his pulse to slow to a minor heart-attack rate. “Do you often sneak up on people like that? Arthur is part ninja, and I can’t handle more than one of those at a time.”
“My apologies,” Castiel replies, sounding strangely embarrassed. “I didn’t intend to startle you.”
There’s a stretched pause until Crowley clears his throat. This is the reason he avoids small talk at all costs. There’s a fine art to extracting oneself from situations like these, but Crowley never learned it. Arthur, on the other hand, can make an accidental meeting on the sidewalk feel like two long-lost friends reuniting after years of separation. Crowley is insanely jealous.
“Heading home?” Crowley finally asks, hoping he and Castiel will be moving in opposite directions soon. Nothing beats avoiding further discussion than not being in the same place at the same time.
“Dinner first. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Dinner, of course,” Crowley agrees. Food is always a safe, mundane topic, and will hopefully prove boring enough to spur them back to whatever they were doing before this unfortunate meeting. “I was just on my way to pick some up myself.”
“Where?” Castiel asks, sounding interested. Crowley can’t imagine why.
“A little Indian place a couple streets down. A friend of mine runs it.” He pauses. “Though friend is too congenial a term, I think. More like... an acquaintance that won’t kill me because murder is illegal in all fifty states.”
“If that’s the case, then I agree friend is the wrong label altogether,” Castiel agrees, smiling slightly. “Would you mind if I join you? Maybe your acquaintance will be less prone to violence if a witness is present.”
Christ on a bike. This isn’t at all what Crowley intended to happen. And what’s worse, he can’t say no thanks, I’d rather die, because he has a rule, and that rule is never offend anyone until they’ve lost all potential value. Crowley manfully holds in a sigh and reasons that he doesn’t have any outstanding plans anyway, and it’s not like they’ll have to spend more than an hour together. Besides, a little conversation might give Crowley some sort of edge. Castiel seems like the trusting type-he might blurt something that will help Crowley in the long run.
“That’s actually a good idea,” Crowley lies. “Safety in numbers.”
Castiel shoves his hands in his pockets as they start walking. It’s freezing outside, but Castiel is hardly dressed for it. He looks to be wearing a suit with a trench coat, and a darker, larger coat on top of that. No gloves and no scarf, and shoes that have seen better days.
“Eager for a case of pneumonia?” Crowley asks as he unwinds his own soft, black scarf and tosses it to his companion. Normally he wouldn’t entertain the notion of lending his personal items to a stranger, but there’s no one around to comment, and it’s not like the scarf is particularly valuable.
“Eames constantly complains that I am never appropriately dressed,” Castiel admits, examining it with surprise before hurriedly bundling himself up. The scarf’s color matches his ridiculous hair.
“Well, you’re on the fast track to freezing to death, and then what? Eames will be left to tend the hordes of screaming brats on his own. It would be positively cruel of you.”
“Eames is far better with children than I am,” Castiel confesses. “His real trouble would be dealing with our stacks of paperwork.”
“Paperwork,” Crowley commiserates. He and Castiel may not have much in common, but Crowley can at least agree that a white stack of forms leaves his blood running cold. “A blight on every advanced society, I’ve found.”
“I’m sure you have a fair share of it, considering the contracts and budgets in your line of work.”
Business talk. Crowley figures Castiel could have picked a worse topic (like weather-it’s winter and cold, conversation over), and besides, Crowley knows more about this sort of thing than he does about pottery or painting or... whatever it is Castiel likes. Nevertheless, some shoptalk might get Castiel to open up about how RWS operates, and whether that operation’s armor has any chinks Crowley can exploit.
“Unquestionably,” Crowley agrees, and then goes on: “I’d wager you’re buried in paperwork yourself, judging by all the donations and red-tape you’ve got on your plate.”
“It does give me a perpetual headache,” Castiel admits, glancing up at the sky as they walk. The stars are hidden by lights and pollution, and night obscures the clouds. “But donations are a necessary evil. In the end, a thousand IRS forms are worth the supplies we receive from retailers and the stores are happy for the tax write off. It would be foolish not to take advantage of that.”
So money is tight. That could be useful in the future, if Crowley feels like dirtying his hands with underhanded financial finagling.
“That’s good to hear,” Crowley says, employing his Kindly Understanding Voice-somewhat rusty from disuse. “Means you can save up money for the rent. Prices are a nightmare around these parts.”
“That’s the only thing I miss about our old location. We’ve been dipping into our reserve account, and I’ve been all but begging for monetary donations on our website.” He pauses for a moment, glancing towards Crowley with a tired smile. “That is an entirely different pile of paperwork.”
Crowley is saved the effort of a sympathetic reply when white flakes begin dotting the roads, lamps, benches, and cars. He gives the sky a hard look, as though it’s committed a personal offense against him, and mutters, “Bullocks.”
“The news said it was finished snowing until tomorrow,” Castiel says, sounding similarly resigned to the change in weather. Fortunately, it’s not much of a problem: the restaurant sign, a delicate script in red and yellow neon lettering, is already in view.
The interior of Beryl Blue is warm and savory, just like Gabriel’s-but unlike the bakery, the decor is the most tasteful Crowley has ever seen. No matter how many times he comes in, the fire-colored wallpaper, elaborate tablecloths, and low lighting always make him feel like he’s in a fancier place than Beryl Blue really is. He doesn’t even care that the restaurant’s name and color scheme are at complete odds.
“Good evening,” says a waitress. “For here or to go?”
Crowley glances out the window. The snow has gotten worse. He suspects it won’t stay that way for long, but he’d rather avoid walking in it, in any case.
“They’ll be staying,” says a woman who is quickly approaching them, gracefully winding around the tables and chairs. Kali is wearing her usual crimson dress that has the male patrons tracking her every move. Her hair is something out of a shampoo ad, and she somehow makes stilettos look comfortable.
“Crowley,” she coolly acknowledges. “Don’t tell me you were planning on grabbing takeout and forcing your friend to trudge through the snow. Idiot.”
“Your acquaintance,” Castiel quietly guesses.
“How did you know?” Crowley murmurs back, and then, louder, “Kali, you’re a vision as always, blah blah blah. This is Castiel. Castiel, Kali. Table, please.”
Kali grabs two menus and stalks to an empty table near the back.
“And how’s Gabriel these days? Still baking, I assume?” she asks as the two men take their seats. She all but slams the menus down.
“And decorating horribly,” Crowley confirms. “I’ll take tea and chicken tikka. Chop chop.”
“I will have the same,” Castiel adds, pushing their menus away. “Thank you. And may I add your establishment is very beautiful.”
Kali’s lips thin and she eyes their cutlery-specifically the butter knife-for longer than Crowley likes, but accepts Castiel’s compliment and, with one final glare, moves to the kitchen. They watch her depart in silence. Kali’s cold shoulder makes the outside snow feel warm in comparison.
“Eames once tried to cheat at poker during a frat party,” Castiel finally states, turning to give Crowley his full attention. “I always thought that convincing a group of drunken pledges that Eames can’t count past ten, much less count cards, would be the most uncomfortable moment of my life. The past sixty seconds have just proven me wrong.”
“She chills your bones, eh?”
"What on earth did you do to anger her?”
“I made the terrible mistake of introducing her to Gabriel, back in the day. Kali is hard to please, but for some reason she was smitten with him. Three months in, she popped the question. He said no.” Crowley grimaces at the awful memory. It was the first time he’d ever had multiple friends at once, and it would figure that the novelty would be short-lived. “She’s blamed me ever since.”
“Why did Gabriel say no?” Castiel asks, frowning. “Kali is attractive and seems quite competent.”
“I assume you've never met the man. He’s five years old at heart. He’s incapable of being serious, and marriage is one of the most serious things you’ll do in life.”
Castiel glances towards Crowley’s left hand. “You’re not married,” he observes.
“Not allowed. Plus, I’m busy.”
“Not-? Oh,” Castiel says, sitting a bit straighter. “I understand.”
Crowley snorts. “You seem surprised.” Perhaps it would’ve been best not to say anything. He doesn’t catch much flack in New York, of all cities, but Castiel is clearly not like other people. “Shall I move to another table?”
“No,” Castiel quickly answers. “No, don’t. The truth is, I am... similarly inclined. But it isn’t a problem, as you say. Work keeps me so occupied that I’m not sure when I would even go on a date.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Crowley objects. “You and Eames seem comfortable around each other. I thought you and he might be... something.”
“Eames?” Castiel echoes with something like a laugh. “Certainly not. He tends to date all the time, never the same person. That behavior would drive me up the wall. And in any case, there is-someone else who has recently caught my attention.”
The same waitress who greeted them at the door appears with their drinks. She sets them down with a polite smile and then disappears into the kitchen again, not uttering a word. They watch her walk away in silence.
“I believe you’ve been blacklisted,” Castiel whispers. “She might very well poison your food.”
“Well, I’ve had a good run. I plan on having a delicious meal before throwing in the towel.”
Castiel’s expression morphs from unease to concern to amusement-or what passes as amusement, considering Castiel's stern features-as he shakes his head and says, “You’re very surprising.”
Crowley isn’t sure how to respond to that. Surprising isn’t a word often applied to him in a positive way. Scheming, conniving, heartless son of a bitch, yes, and only then by some of his more polite past associates.
“Tell me something,” Crowley starts, because he’s genuinely curious about this: “You can’t possibly find me surprising when you co-exist with the annoyance known as Eames. How did you come to be friends?”
“We were paired together for a public relations class,” Castiel answers, smiling as he takes a sip of tea. “The assignment was to design a charitable program and a marketing campaign to go with it. Eames was quite a poor program coordinator, so I took charge on figuring how it would operate. However, I was a poor marketer, so Eames took charge of selling it.”
“And then you actually took the mock program and turned it into something successful.”
“Yes,” comes the response, a flush of pride on Castiel’s cheeks. “Yes, we did. Much like yourself and Crossroads.” He takes another swallow of tea and says, “Despite what you may think of my computer skills, I’m quite accomplished at Googling. Fergus Crowley: established Crossroads five years ago, a prominent figure in business and the arts, turning a steady profit each year. I was also surprised to read that you put out one of my favorite series.”
“Oh, Christ. Don’t say ‘Supernatural’.”
“Why?” Castiel asks, frowning. “Don’t you like it?”
“I knew it! I knew it. Here you are, pretending to be this choir boy with a heart of gold, and you’re secretly hiding behind library stacks reading that bloody filth.” Crowley shakes his head and leans back into his chair, crossing his arms. “If you’re one of those crazy fans who get online and writes... whatever it is they write, then I’m afraid our association ends right now.”
Castiel looks a mix between alarmed and confused, having no apparent knowledge of what the “crazy fans” got up to online.
After a moment, Crowley huffs with laughter. “All right, relax. You look like a man who’s about to suffer major organ failure.”
“You are worse than my neighbor,” Castiel accuses. “He is constantly pulling my leg like that.”
“Well, not to offend, but you could use some lightening up.”
The rich aroma of chicken tikka reaches them before Kali does. She sets their plates in front of them and says, “Enjoy, or don’t. Have a good night, or don’t.”
“Absolutely marvelous service, as always,” Crowley sweetly calls to her retreating back. He turns back to Castiel and mutters, “If I keel over in a few minutes, you’ll tell the police what happened, won’t you?”
“I promise,” Castiel swears, his solemn voice betrayed by the crinkling around his eyes.
They eat and discuss books (Castiel tries so hard not to mention Supernatural, though he can’t help but grin delightedly when Crowley admits Chuck-the-Schmuck is nearing the end of his next installment) and Crowley doesn’t actually perish from arsenic or whatever poison is in vogue these days. Conversation reveals their tastes in music, literature, and films are pretty much polar opposites, but Castiel disregards this problem as easily as Crowley would disregard a badly written novel.
As they’re finishing up the last of the naan, the conversation moves back to their respective businesses, and the headaches of establishing a strong online presence.
“We only have a Facebook page right now,” Castiel admits. “And the worst part is I don’t even know how to use it. Eames has to keep it updated or it starts getting dusty.”
“Well, Eames does a fine job, then. I was quite impressed with it. Sigils has, what, forty followers? Very impressive.”
“You’ve seen it?” Castiel asks, sounding surprised and oblivious to Crowley’s sarcasm.
“Sure, when I had one of my serfs research you,” Crowley easily replies. He briefly wonders if other companies devote so much time to scoping the competition, but figures it hasn’t hurt him so far. “Though I’ve been meaning to ask about a mirror program I stumbled upon. Apparently, there’s another organization that does the same thing you do, across town. It was Green House, or Green... well, whatever.”
“Green Room,” Castiel grimly supplies, all evidence of relaxation wiped from his face. “Firstly, they aren’t a real charitable cause, and you would do well to remember that. The man who runs it is only interested in tax breaks, and the model he uses for his ‘charitable program’ requires schools and hospitals to sign year-long contracts ensuring Green Room is the only organization who can provide art services for the institution. Zachariah makes a mockery of programs that truly aim to help communities.”
“Zachariah?” Crowley echoes, trying not to laugh. “Short fellow, no hair, smarmy as all hell? I know that bloody prick! Let me tell you, it comes as no surprise that he would have his fingers in morally-questionable pies.”
Castiel sighs. “Yes, well, he’s also quite skilled in cornering a market. If their program manages to earn a real profit, Eames and I will probably be out of business, so to speak.”
It’s an admission that leaves Crowley speechless, because this is it. This is his way in. The plan is already forming in his mind before Castiel can so much as put his spoon down. If the Green Room succeeds, then Running with Sigils is off the map and, conveniently, out of the Murphy Building for good. It'll be as though Crowley’s plans were never interrupted at all. Hell, the bookstore could be up and running in a year, and all right, it’s a bad deal for Cas, but it’s not like Crowley’s invested in Cas’ personal happiness. He can go help children somewhere else. Volunteer at a shelter. Do whatever good-hearted people do with their spare time.
Crowley’s so delighted with himself that it must affect the weather, since the snow quits falling long enough for them to pay for their meals and see one another off at the restaurant entrance.
“Thank you for keeping me company,” Castiel says as they stand on the sidewalk, just below a street light. “I hope I didn’t... cramp your style tonight.”
Crowley snorts. “While I would love to tell you my Fridays are packed, the truth is I’m quite available. In fact, I’d say this is one of my more exciting Fridays to date.”
“For me as well, although I believe next Friday is a new exhibit at the Darrow Gallery. I was considering attending.”
“Oh, that,” Crowley says, making a face. He vaguely remembers Arthur mentioning something about it, and maybe sending an e-mail as a reminder, and perhaps even making Crowley promise to show up on behalf of Crossroads. “I think Arthur’s forcing me to go. Ridiculous gallery shows are part of the ‘prominent in business and the arts’ bit.”
“In that case, I will see you there,” Castiel says. “Maybe we could... have dinner afterward. If you aren’t opposed.”
Bullocks. Another dinner. Then again, the hour he just spent with Castiel was far from unpleasant, and it’s not like Crowley plans on staying at the gallery for any length of time. If anything, he hopes to breeze in, knock elbows with the right people, grab a free glass of champagne, and make a clean break without anyone being the wiser.
“I’ll pencil you in,” Crowley agrees.
Castiel smiles again, bids him goodnight, and disappears around the corner.
He’s still wearing Crowley’s scarf.
Part 2!
Artist: preferthemoss
Pairing: Crowley/Cas, with background Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Yusuf, and Dean/Lisa.
Word count: 8,014 (23,844 overall).
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Inception+SPN
Prompt: Write about someone whose field of vision, either literal of figurative, has narrowed in the last six weeks. (To quote wikipedia, tunnel vision "...may also denote the reluctance of narrow-minded individuals to consider alternatives to their preferred line of thought.")
Summary: Fergus Crowley is head of Crossroads Publishing, an influential business in New York; Castiel Milton is head of Running with Sigils, a significantly lesser-known charity for children. Normally they would never meet, but it turns out that Castiel is sitting in the future building of Crowley's dream bookstore.
Crowley wants the building. Castiel wants... something else.
Notes: 1. Written for crowley_bigbang.
2. Title taken from e.e. cumming's pity this busy monster,manunkind.
3. This fic would never, ever, ever have seen the light of day without my friend and freaking awesome beta, Roz (chaosraven). She ironed out the grammar, tightened the dialogue, and the interesting bit at the end? All her. She is one of a kind.
4. Check out the beyond-fantastic art!
Crossroads Publishing doesn’t open its doors until 8:00 A.M., but Crowley makes it a habit to be there by 7 o’clock, sharp.
Arthur, however, is there by 6:30 without question.
“Christ on a bike,” Crowley snaps when he sticks his head into Arthur’s office, only to find him calmly sipping a cup of coffee and reading something online. “It’s hardly light out. What are you doing here?”
“What you pay me to do,” Arthur replies, not bothering to look away from the e-mail that has his attention. He sets down his coffee cup, types a rapid succession of sentences, and then decisively clicks the mouse. “I’m glad you decided to show up. I’ve got news.”
“Decided to show up?” Crowley incredulously echoes (he remembers a time, not too long ago, when one’s underlings didn’t speak to their bosses that way), but Arthur seems immune to Crowley’s ire and barrels on.
“Devil’s Trap is releasing a series of werewolf erotica,” he announces, smiling slightly when Crowley gags at the words ‘werewolf’ and ‘erotica’ being used in the same sentence. “They ordered a print run double the usual number. I know you have a werewolf something-or-other in the wings. Should we give it the green light?”
“This sort of rubbish is best left until after coffee,” Crowley complains, pivoting on his foot and heading towards his own office, like maybe he can barricade himself from the responsibility of saying yes or no to werewolf nonsense. But Arthur, as usual, is wise to Crowley’s evasive maneuvers and follows him down the hall.
“You know that book will make us a lot of money,” Arthur presses. “And it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever read.”
Crowley makes a despairing sound as he unlocks his office door, revealing a large room with a sizable wood desk and all the technology a man could want. There’s a leather couch in the corner and an adjoining bathroom with all the amenities. Bits of overly pretentious modern art dot the office walls, but Crowley hardly notices it. Hell, he didn’t even pick it out. That was the decorator, who stays on retainer only because he recommended the best tailor Crowley has ever known.
He sets the briefcase on the desk and flops into his hydraulic, space-age chair.
“I started this business with the intent to publish books that aren’t shit,” he says, peevishly booting up his computer. “Why does the world force us to print otherwise? Does humanity really need one more shirtless lycanthrope?”
“You also started this business to make a profit,” Arthur reasons. “And you have. Right now, having sex with the blood-thirsty undead and half-dogs is what’s selling.”
Crowley buries his face in his hands. This must be why people loathe Mondays so very, very much.
“Fine,” he agrees, words muffled by his palms. “Go ahead and give it the nod. But no more after that, I don’t care what Devil’s Crap puts out.”
Arthur nods and makes a note of it on his phone, thumbs flying over the touch screen with fluent dexterity.
“And the Murphy Building,” Arthur starts, rolling his eyes when Crowley all but brightens at the mere mention of it. “The lease expires in two months. I’ve already contacted Murphy and expressed our interest in purchasing it, and I’ve begun cataloging the best designers for the store. You’ll receive the shortlist when it’s ready.”
The store. When Crossroads Publishing took off five years ago, Crowley had begun planning a bookstore with all the fixings: coffee shop, restaurant, educational facilities, reading area, and his business model guaranteed to make money hand over fist. Unfortunately, there had been no appropriate buildings near the actual publishing house, so he’d exercised an unusual amount of patience and bid his time until an ideal space became available. To be honest, he’d never considered the Murphy Building a possibility-James (“Jim,” he always insisted, because he was one of those disgustingly kind types) was a do-gooder who had inherited it from his father, and his father before that, and had no intention of ever renting it to anyone else. Why would he? The man used it to run a charitable reading program called Blue Earth, and did so with the energy and dedication of an altruist powered by God himself.
But then he’d fallen ill and had to close the program. Crowley can’t even remember what the sickness had been, but he’d nodded at the right places when Jim told him about it, all the while wondering how best to ask about the building’s availability without sounding like a heartless bastard. Which he is, make no mistake, but he likes to present an illusion of fellowship. It’s good for business.
“One last thing,” Arthur says, frowning at his phone’s screen. “We need to make a charitable donation. Fischer Corp donated twenty grand to the Ronald McDonald House and Morningstar Security gave the local homeless shelter ten thousand. It’s been all over the news.”
Crowley reluctantly pulls up the New York Times business page. One quick scan of local headlines confirms what Arthur has told him, though he suspects the kid knew about the donations the moment they were made. He has sources that even Crowley dares not question.
“Bloody holidays,” Crowley mutters. “They always cost me money. What is it about fuck-cold weather and fat men in red suits that make people want to give?”
“I know the concept of charity pains you,” Arthur dryly says, “but we can’t ignore this. Would you prefer I handle it?”
He doesn’t need to ask twice-there’s nothing Crowley hates more than dealing with poor people and bleeding hearts and whatever else goes along with charitable causes.
“You should helm this, Arthur,” he agrees, making it sound like a privilege. Catch more flies with honey and all that. “I trust your judgment. But make sure it pulls at the heartstrings, yeah? I want people to associate us with unicorns and rainbows until January. When they pass our building, they should say, ‘oh look, it’s Crossroads Publishing. They helped cure cancer last week. We should buy a book from them’.”
Arthur gives Crowley an incredulous look, but hides his distaste by asking, “How much are we talking? Ten? Fifteen?”
“Ten is enough to let me sleep at night,” Crowley carelessly answers as he opens his email inbox. “And don’t forget to send Sam the paperwork. He’ll apply it to the tax returns.” He pauses to hopefully inquire, “I don’t suppose you’ll brew us some coffee?”
“I am not your secretary,” Arthur says, scowling at Crowley’s request. “I didn’t graduate with a Masters in business just to make your coffee.”
“But you’re my assistant! You assist! How am I supposed to plod through a werewolf novel if there’s no caffeine chugging through my veins?”
Arthur’s jaw visibly tightens. “I’ll start a pot, but you’re making your own cup.”
The young man marches out of the office, leaving Crowley to twirl lazily towards the large window behind him. The view is lovely during the spring-not that he takes the time to appreciate it-but now it’s fuzzy and gray in the early morning light, especially with winter digging her nails into the city and Christmas fast approaching. Holidays always cost him a small fortune. When other companies start making charitable donations, Crossroads Publishing has no choice but to jump in or risk the bad publicity.
With a resigned sigh, he digs through a pile of manuscripts until he finds the werewolf novel Crossroads received nearly three months ago. Crowley had gotten so many genre knockoffs that he’d nearly thrown this one away without bothering to scan the first page, but the writer-Brenda? Bernice? Becky?-managed to hold Crowley’s interest for an excess of two minutes. He’d kept it as a backup, just in case Devil’s Trap hopped on the vampire-werewolf-virginal moron bandwagon, and now he’s glad he did. If he must release something along those lines, then he at least wants it to be good.
He receives an e-mail from Arthur within the hour, listing local charities that could use some dough while simultaneously making Crossroads look genuinely altruistic. The endless array of noble causes gives Crowley a headache-he couldn’t care less about city beautification, environmental causes or underfunded schools-but he jots down the more promising prospects. He sends a few messages varying from praise to scathing fury (the worst of which goes to Chuck-the-Schmuck Shurley, who has missed two deadlines, and whom Crossroads would drop if only Shurley’s Supernatural series didn’t do such phenomenal business). He immerses himself in work until he realizes it’s lunch. He usually prefers to work through mealtimes, but dealing with Shurley and werewolves in one day is enough to drive him to an honest-to-God break.
“I’m taking lunch,” he announces, stopping by Arthur’s neighboring office. “Do you want anything from Gabriel’s?”
Arthur glances from a manuscript to the wall clock, surprised that it’s already time to eat.
“Coffee and a blueberry muffin,” he says, ever imperious, and then narrows his eyes. “Make sure our coffees are clearly marked. I have a feeling Gabriel spits in yours.”
“What makes you think I don’t spit in yours.” Crowley tosses the casual question over his shoulder as he moves towards the elevator. He steps inside and adjusts his coat and scarf in the door’s reflection while the elevator moves to the first floor.
The doors ding open. Ariadne looks up from the reception desk and smiles when she sees Crowley, and he has a horrible suspicion she might partake in the whole hello, how are you, I’m fine, cold weather we’re having routine. Fortunately, she catches him by surprise.
“No briefcase,” she observes. “That means you’re going to Gabriel’s. Bring me back something delicious.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t remember offering,” Crowley says, breezing past her.
“Preferably something chocolate, but I’m not picky!” she calls as Crowley exits his fine building and finds himself in a pile of slush. It’s freezing outside and the wind is particularly sharp, but Crowley doesn’t mind. He’s never been one to let the elements affect him.
The traffic is somewhat quiet compared to a usual afternoon in the city, but he doesn’t stop to appreciate it. Instead, he starts towards the bakery, his pace quick and efficient as he deftly navigates the slippery sidewalks. He pauses to give his coveted Murphy Building a once-over; he notices, with a bit of delight, that there are boxes stacked outside the door. Jim must be emptying the place out in preparation for future tenants. Crowley peers through the window and catches sight of a dark-haired man fighting with some furniture, and then hurries off when the man notices Crowley is standing outside.
The distance from Crossroads to Gabriel’s is all of five blocks, and Crowley’s practically whistling when he enters the warm and aromatic bakery. The tinkering bell above the door alerts Gabriel of Crowley’s presence.
“If it’s not my favorite stick in the mud!” Gabriel cheerfully says, fully removing himself from the kitchen to stand behind the counter. His apron, a loud orange monstrosity that has ‘Kiss the Cook’ stitched across the chest, is covered in flour and what looks to be maple syrup. “How’s business? Still stealing the souls of hapless authors everywhere?”
“My soul stealing keeps us out of the red. You should try it,” Crowley snipes, and then waves his hand to indicate the room around them. Gabriel’s is an explosion of mismatched decorations: 80’s iconography that sent Crowley way back; holiday banners that were never taken down; a jukebox that only played four songs. “Then maybe you could afford an actual business identity.”
“Psh. ‘Business identity.’ All that higher education makes you sound like a prick. Besides, I like the identity I have right now.”
“Random garbage doesn’t constitute an identity.”
“I prefer ‘eclectic interior design’. You should know that I have very fine tastes. The chandelier is from France.”
“And it matches the Flash Gordon poster to a T,” Crowley deadpans, moving towards the counter to examine the day’s offerings. “Anything new on the menu?”
“Glad you asked,” Gabriel says, beaming proudly at his pastry display. “I have developed my latest, and perhaps greatest, confection to grace this bakery: pumpkin and honey crumble pie with vanilla whipped cream and a pecan glaze. I know, I know-I’m a genius. Should I go ahead and pack you a slice?”
“Make it two, with coffee,” Crowley requests, remembering Arthur’s specific request for a blueberry muffin and then disregarding it just as quickly. “Are those brownies fresh? I’ll take two of those as well. Evidently, I have to feed my underlings.”
They continue to trade jabs throughout the food-for-money exchange. Gabriel finds an inordinate amount of pleasure insinuating Crowley is satanic hell spawn, but Gabriel’s a short guy with ratty jeans and hair that never cooperates, so Crowley is rarely short of insulting ammunition himself. But their goodbyes are always good-natured, and Gabriel calls, “Hey Crowls, come back next time and I’ll bake you a cake with holy water. Maybe you’ll sizzle!” as Crowley exits the small shop. Crowley flips Gabriel off through the glass door. A passing mother shields her young child and hurries past him, giving him a dirty look over her shoulder.
Crowley’s phone vibrates when he reaches the third block, just as he’s passing the Murphy Building again. He manages to cradle the pastry bag in the crook of his elbow, but isn’t sure what to do about the cup carrier until he spies the stack of cardboard boxes near the door.
He sets the carrier down on the makeshift table and fishes the phone from his pocket. He first thinks it must be from Arthur, but rolls his eyes when he sees the text is from Sam Winchester, their overworked and under-appreciated legal advisor.
Rumor is you went to Gabriel’s. Did you snag me a brownie?
Crowley remembers a time when he inspired fear in people, but now his minions feel they have a right to engage in open dialogue with him. It’s a disturbing state of affairs.
Yes, but I saw him inject it with a magical love potion. One bite and you won’t be able to resist him anymore, he replies, hitting the ‘send’ button with a feeling of accomplishment. Arthur has always argued that getting the last word against Sam is like kicking a puppy, but Crowley always wants the last word, no matter whom his opponent might be. And besides, he has such excellent ammunition: Sam is in love with Gabriel’s cooking, but can’t visit himself because Gabriel is in love with Sam. Their mating dance has kept Crowley entertained for the past half-decade.
Shut up. Just bring me the goods.
Shut up? That’s rich. I *can* fire you, Winchester.
“Pardon me,” someone says, though Crowley’s so involved with the message exchange that he doesn’t notice. “Well, if you’re going to be rude,” the voice complains, and then, “Honestly, lend me two seconds of your time,” before Crowley realizes the annoying voice is talking to him. He turns to see a man balancing a number of boxes and wearing a hopeful expression. “Ah, I knew you’d come around. You wouldn’t mind terribly getting that door for me, would you? Or are New Yorkers truly as rude as I’ve been led to believe?”
“I’m not a New Yorker, and neither are you,” Crowley says, pointedly emphasizing his accent.
“My green card says otherwise,” comes the cheerful rejoinder, seemingly unfazed by Crowley’s words. Crowley squints at him, weighing the pros and cons of participating in further conversation to make his point. He eventually decides the effort isn’t worth the reward and reaches for the door he’d been blocking. He twists the handle and gestures, perhaps a bit sarcastically, for the stranger to enter.
“Much obliged,” the man calls over his shoulder. “It’s been hell moving in. I suppose this is my penance for being the strong one. Everyone says, ‘Eames, would you please help me move this absurdly large table?’ or ‘Eames, would you please unload the entire truck?’. Before I know it, I’m balancing boxes like a circus act.”
“And does anyone ever say, ‘Eames, you refer to yourself in the third person’?” Crowley acidly asks, before his brain latches on to the first part of his Eames’ statement: It’s been hell moving in.
“You’re moving in here,” Crowley echoes, because that can’t be. Jim Murphy has hardly moved out. The building isn’t even on the market. “Permanently.”
“Indeed we are,” Eames answers, setting his cargo down on a large wood table. “And let me tell you, it’s a step up from our old location. There was something growing in the bathroom stall that was nearing sentience.”
“A fascinating story,” Crowley grinds out. “Could you explain to me how you managed to nab this place before the lease expired?”
“I don’t think it was ever going up for rent,” Eames says, reasonably, as though he isn’t hauling junk into Crowley’s future bookstore. “Jim is leasing to us for a discount, is all. He liked our program and wanted this place to be used for the forces of good, since he couldn’t keep Blue Earth running.”
This must be, Crowley thinks, why people are in favor of gun control. Because his first impulse is to murder Eames, hide the body, and steal the lease from beneath his perfect little nose. Without firepower at his disposal, Crowley figures he’ll have to rely on more archaic methods. Bludgeoning comes to mind, although strangulation isn’t without its merits.
He’s distracted by another man popping up from beneath a table, clutching some sort of scraper. It’s the same person who’d caught Crowley spying just fifteen minutes before.
“Any luck with that gum?” Eames cheerfully asks. “That’s what you get for buying used furniture, Cas. There’s a lifetime of chewed garbage under those things.”
“These tables were twenty dollars each. I dare you to find a better deal,” the man retorts, quickly setting down the scraper and wiping his palms on his grimy shirt. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“‘Friend’ is perhaps too strong a term. This charming example of humanity was simply helping me with these,” Eames says, patting the stack of boxes they’d brought inside. “Since someone else can’t be bothered.”
‘Cas’ (what sort of name is that? Was he raised by hippies?) narrows his eyes. “I didn’t hear you knock. This is a very large space, if you remember.”
“I texted. I wrote, ‘open door’.”
“You did no such thing,” comes the disbelieving reply, followed by a defensive phone check. “It didn’t ring or vibrate, so...”
He trails off, frowning at the screen. Eames mutters something beneath his breath as he stalks over and swipes the phone from his friend’s grip.
“Well, it certainly won’t ring if it’s on silent, will it?” he asks as his fingers fly over the keypad. “And this envelope icon means you’ve got a text. Honestly, Cas, your bafflement with technology never ceases to amaze.”
“Perhaps you could save the chastisement for later,” Cas says, snatching the phone back.
“Oh, don’t pout,” Eames laughs, and then turns to Crowley. “Tell me, what can we call you? Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy referring to you as ‘Sarcastic Man in Dark Suit’ in my mental dialogue, but it’s a bit of a mouthful.”
Crowley grits his teeth. Bludgeoning is winning by a mile. One of the nearby chairs might do the trick, if Cas is willing to look the other way.
“Fergus Crowley,” he finally answers. “Spare me the honorifics and just call me Crowley. I’m head of Crossroads Publishing one block down.”
“My name is Castiel Milton,” the scraper says, walking up and politely holding out his hand. Crowley does his best not to grimace-if Castiel’s been fondling old gum, then who knows what else he’s touched-but reassures himself that there’s a bottle of sanitizer in his desk drawer. He bites his tongue and they shake. “It’s a pleasure. You’ve already met Eames.”
“Franklin Eames, at your service,” Eames says, giving an exaggerated bow. “You’ve stumbled upon our contribution to society at a bad time, I’m afraid. It’s a mess in here.”
Crowley takes the opportunity to examine his surroundings: there are paintings, charcoal drawings, sketches, and shelves hanging on the walls. More unwieldy tables dot the room, while plastic bins are stacked on top of each other, each bursting with crayons, markers, paper, glue, fabric, and books.
“We run a year ‘round art camp for disadvantaged children,” Castiel explains, quickly trying to erase the look of distaste that must be on Crowley’s face.
“Running with Sigils,” Eames helpfully informs him.
“We tend to get supplies everywhere. But there are chairs, if you would like to sit down-”
“I’ve hungry employees who are waiting for these,” Crowley interrupts, holding up the paper bag to protect himself from further invitations to stay. “They honestly can’t wait.”
“Are you sure?” Castiel pushes. “We’re always open for visitors.”
“Another time,” Crowley promises, meaning he has no intention whatsoever to interact with these people again-unless it’s to watch them haul their junk back into a moving van. “It’s been a pleasure, really. Good luck with the art gig. I’m a jog away if you ever need anything.”
God, the lies he tells. Like he’d ever really help them if they asked for it.
He tosses a polite wave towards them before exiting the building, grabbing the cup carrier and blazing a trail to Crossroads. His mind is no longer focused on pie or Sam’s texts or the horrors of werewolf sex; it’s on the fact that two blowhards have commandeered the one location that Crowley has kept eye on for five years. It’s his. It should have been his.
“Brownie,” Ariadne says when Crowley bursts through the front entrance. He tosses the bag towards the desk without actually looking at her, bypassing the elevator and heading straight for the stairs. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the threshold of Arthur’s office. Arthur is doing the exact same thing he was doing before Crowley had left, looking for all the world like nothing in their business plan has fundamentally changed.
“The Murphy Building,” he says, without preface. “It’s being occupied.”
“Thank you for knocking,” Arthur retorts. “In reference to your statement: impossible. There’s no paperwork on it. Trust me, I’ve been giving it a great deal of attention.”
“Murphy handed the rental lease to someone. It’s not official yet.” Crowley begins pacing the length of Arthur’s office. “They have our building. They have our building. These two Mother Theresas, wanting to save children through art. It’s disgusting.”
“I’ll up our offer,” Arthur says without pause, already bringing up an e-mail screen. “Whatever the charity is paying can’t possibly be more than what we’ll put on the table.”
“That isn’t going to work,” Crowley declares, shaking his head and trying to consider his options. “You’ve done the research on the man. He cares about people. He won’t be interested in our money if he considers Running with Sigils a worthy cause. We need a new strategy.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Are you referring to some sort of legal maneuver? Sam will be the first to tell us we don’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Nothing that complicated,” Crowley objects, frustrated. “Something smaller, under the radar.”
Arthur leans back in his chair. “I’m not sure I’m following you. If you’re suggesting blackmail-”
“They’re both probably clean as the virgin snow. Nothing to hang over them. But I am going to get my hands on that building, you mark my words.”
Arthur seems... not at all comfortable with this. It’s strange, because Arthur has always been Crowley’s right-hand man, and he has been there through great profit and giant bombs, always out-thinking the competition and getting work done before Crowley even asks for it. For all their snipping, they’ve never not been on the same page.
Arthur finally sighs.
“I don’t suppose you brought me anything from Gabriel’s to fuel me through your meltdown.”
“Right,” Crowley says, remembering that he no longer has possession of the baked goods. “I tossed the entire bag to Ariadne. I’d hurry down before she inhales it all.”
“And the coffee,” Arthur presses, nodding to the paper cup carrier in Crowley’s hand. “I assume it’s frozen?”
Crowley tosses up his hands. “What’s more important here, Arthur? The damn coffee or the future of this company?”
“Right now, coffee. To quote: ‘How am I supposed to plod through a werewolf novel if there’s no caffeine chugging through my veins?’” Arthur takes a sip from one of the cups and shrugs his shoulders. “Passable. Next time, try to avoid life-altering discoveries during coffee runs.”
“I’m going to fire everyone,” Crowley swears, taking his own cup and marching towards his desk. First: research. Second: plotting. Last: getting that building out of Sigils’ paint-covered, gum-encrusted clutches.
---
Crowley spends the next three days passing (Arthur claims it’s skulking around, but Ariadne argues that Crowley isn’t being creepy enough to constitute a skulker) the Murphy Building on his way to work. He makes a note of everything he can, ranging from the fact that the boxes are gone (meaning Castiel and Eames have finished moving in) to the stack of paint cans sitting outside the door. He realizes, with a grimace, that they’re going to paint the interior in some ghastly color. Maybe orange. Worse, yellow.
He always glimpses Castiel through the large front windows. Crowley doesn’t stare (otherwise Ariadne’s argument would be invalid), but he nods in acknowledgment, at least, to avoid being an utter asshole. Castiel never fails to wave back. It’s disgusting, and Crowley would avoid it if he felt like figuring a new route to work.
Arthur, naturally, gets busy researching. Anyone can research, but Arthur uncovers dirt. He dives into the task like a hound on a scent, but comes back with only the basics. Running with Sigils is a program that invites schools, children’s hospitals, adoption agencies, and any other number of child-oriented groups to schedule a day with RWS and then bus a bunch of kids to their studio, where Castiel and Eames give free lessons and supply everything without cost.
It’s saccharine. It also makes Crowley’s job of finding a reason to have them kicked out that much harder.
By Friday night, Crowley is no closer to acquiring that building than he was on Monday. He briefly entertains the thought of blackmail or bribery, but it’s overkill, really. Azazel at Devil’s Crap deserves that sort of underhanded conniving, but Crowley doesn’t want to destroy them. He just wants them to... go away, and conveniently drop the lease at Crowley’s front door.
Crowley glances out his window and then eyes his remaining manuscripts with a reluctance that borders on dread. Despite his time devoted to scheming, he’s been performing his regular tasks as well, most notably skimming through the “novels” Crossroads receives on a daily basis and keeping their budget on an even keel.
“Well, that’s that, then,” he decides to no one in particular. He’s read through enough for one twelve-hour period; the remaining manuscripts aren’t going anywhere, and Monday is a new day, with a new batch of crap to dredge through. He gathers his things and locks the door behind him before sticking his head into Arthur’s office.
“Will you be leaving tonight, or will I find you passed out on your desk Monday morning?” he asks. Arthur looks up from his computer.
“I’m just editing this last chapter,” he says. “I’ll see you later. Unfortunately.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, was that supposed to be insulting in some way?” Crowley breezily retorts. “Good night, then.”
“Night,” comes Arthur’s response. Crowley takes the elevator to the ground floor and makes sure every entrance into Crossroads is securely locked. Sure, he’s been called heartless by anyone who’s ever known him, but he’s not comfortable leaving his employees alone at night. Arthur’s excellent productivity has a direct correlation to Crowley’s fear that he’ll find Arthur hacked up in his office one day because some creep got inside the building while no one else was there.
He checks his phone for the time, wondering if Gabriel has closed shop for the night. Crowley is in the mood for Indian takeout and another slice of pumpkin honey crumble pie to wash it down, but his opportunity to acquire said pie relies heavily on whether Gabriel will be responsible enough to stick around until his official closing time.
His thumb automatically moves to open the stock market app. The markets have long since closed by now, but Crowley’s been so busy with this Murphy business that he hasn’t kept the keenest eye on his personal investments. He barrels down the sidewalk, hunched over to read the small numbers, and is just breathing a sigh of relief at all the green arrows when someone says, “Hello, Crowley.”
He spins around, phone nearly crushed in a horrified death grip, only to find Castiel standing by the studio door with a set of keys dangling from his finger.
“Castiel,” he acknowledges, willing his pulse to slow to a minor heart-attack rate. “Do you often sneak up on people like that? Arthur is part ninja, and I can’t handle more than one of those at a time.”
“My apologies,” Castiel replies, sounding strangely embarrassed. “I didn’t intend to startle you.”
There’s a stretched pause until Crowley clears his throat. This is the reason he avoids small talk at all costs. There’s a fine art to extracting oneself from situations like these, but Crowley never learned it. Arthur, on the other hand, can make an accidental meeting on the sidewalk feel like two long-lost friends reuniting after years of separation. Crowley is insanely jealous.
“Heading home?” Crowley finally asks, hoping he and Castiel will be moving in opposite directions soon. Nothing beats avoiding further discussion than not being in the same place at the same time.
“Dinner first. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Dinner, of course,” Crowley agrees. Food is always a safe, mundane topic, and will hopefully prove boring enough to spur them back to whatever they were doing before this unfortunate meeting. “I was just on my way to pick some up myself.”
“Where?” Castiel asks, sounding interested. Crowley can’t imagine why.
“A little Indian place a couple streets down. A friend of mine runs it.” He pauses. “Though friend is too congenial a term, I think. More like... an acquaintance that won’t kill me because murder is illegal in all fifty states.”
“If that’s the case, then I agree friend is the wrong label altogether,” Castiel agrees, smiling slightly. “Would you mind if I join you? Maybe your acquaintance will be less prone to violence if a witness is present.”
Christ on a bike. This isn’t at all what Crowley intended to happen. And what’s worse, he can’t say no thanks, I’d rather die, because he has a rule, and that rule is never offend anyone until they’ve lost all potential value. Crowley manfully holds in a sigh and reasons that he doesn’t have any outstanding plans anyway, and it’s not like they’ll have to spend more than an hour together. Besides, a little conversation might give Crowley some sort of edge. Castiel seems like the trusting type-he might blurt something that will help Crowley in the long run.
“That’s actually a good idea,” Crowley lies. “Safety in numbers.”
Castiel shoves his hands in his pockets as they start walking. It’s freezing outside, but Castiel is hardly dressed for it. He looks to be wearing a suit with a trench coat, and a darker, larger coat on top of that. No gloves and no scarf, and shoes that have seen better days.
“Eager for a case of pneumonia?” Crowley asks as he unwinds his own soft, black scarf and tosses it to his companion. Normally he wouldn’t entertain the notion of lending his personal items to a stranger, but there’s no one around to comment, and it’s not like the scarf is particularly valuable.
“Eames constantly complains that I am never appropriately dressed,” Castiel admits, examining it with surprise before hurriedly bundling himself up. The scarf’s color matches his ridiculous hair.
“Well, you’re on the fast track to freezing to death, and then what? Eames will be left to tend the hordes of screaming brats on his own. It would be positively cruel of you.”
“Eames is far better with children than I am,” Castiel confesses. “His real trouble would be dealing with our stacks of paperwork.”
“Paperwork,” Crowley commiserates. He and Castiel may not have much in common, but Crowley can at least agree that a white stack of forms leaves his blood running cold. “A blight on every advanced society, I’ve found.”
“I’m sure you have a fair share of it, considering the contracts and budgets in your line of work.”
Business talk. Crowley figures Castiel could have picked a worse topic (like weather-it’s winter and cold, conversation over), and besides, Crowley knows more about this sort of thing than he does about pottery or painting or... whatever it is Castiel likes. Nevertheless, some shoptalk might get Castiel to open up about how RWS operates, and whether that operation’s armor has any chinks Crowley can exploit.
“Unquestionably,” Crowley agrees, and then goes on: “I’d wager you’re buried in paperwork yourself, judging by all the donations and red-tape you’ve got on your plate.”
“It does give me a perpetual headache,” Castiel admits, glancing up at the sky as they walk. The stars are hidden by lights and pollution, and night obscures the clouds. “But donations are a necessary evil. In the end, a thousand IRS forms are worth the supplies we receive from retailers and the stores are happy for the tax write off. It would be foolish not to take advantage of that.”
So money is tight. That could be useful in the future, if Crowley feels like dirtying his hands with underhanded financial finagling.
“That’s good to hear,” Crowley says, employing his Kindly Understanding Voice-somewhat rusty from disuse. “Means you can save up money for the rent. Prices are a nightmare around these parts.”
“That’s the only thing I miss about our old location. We’ve been dipping into our reserve account, and I’ve been all but begging for monetary donations on our website.” He pauses for a moment, glancing towards Crowley with a tired smile. “That is an entirely different pile of paperwork.”
Crowley is saved the effort of a sympathetic reply when white flakes begin dotting the roads, lamps, benches, and cars. He gives the sky a hard look, as though it’s committed a personal offense against him, and mutters, “Bullocks.”
“The news said it was finished snowing until tomorrow,” Castiel says, sounding similarly resigned to the change in weather. Fortunately, it’s not much of a problem: the restaurant sign, a delicate script in red and yellow neon lettering, is already in view.
The interior of Beryl Blue is warm and savory, just like Gabriel’s-but unlike the bakery, the decor is the most tasteful Crowley has ever seen. No matter how many times he comes in, the fire-colored wallpaper, elaborate tablecloths, and low lighting always make him feel like he’s in a fancier place than Beryl Blue really is. He doesn’t even care that the restaurant’s name and color scheme are at complete odds.
“Good evening,” says a waitress. “For here or to go?”
Crowley glances out the window. The snow has gotten worse. He suspects it won’t stay that way for long, but he’d rather avoid walking in it, in any case.
“They’ll be staying,” says a woman who is quickly approaching them, gracefully winding around the tables and chairs. Kali is wearing her usual crimson dress that has the male patrons tracking her every move. Her hair is something out of a shampoo ad, and she somehow makes stilettos look comfortable.
“Crowley,” she coolly acknowledges. “Don’t tell me you were planning on grabbing takeout and forcing your friend to trudge through the snow. Idiot.”
“Your acquaintance,” Castiel quietly guesses.
“How did you know?” Crowley murmurs back, and then, louder, “Kali, you’re a vision as always, blah blah blah. This is Castiel. Castiel, Kali. Table, please.”
Kali grabs two menus and stalks to an empty table near the back.
“And how’s Gabriel these days? Still baking, I assume?” she asks as the two men take their seats. She all but slams the menus down.
“And decorating horribly,” Crowley confirms. “I’ll take tea and chicken tikka. Chop chop.”
“I will have the same,” Castiel adds, pushing their menus away. “Thank you. And may I add your establishment is very beautiful.”
Kali’s lips thin and she eyes their cutlery-specifically the butter knife-for longer than Crowley likes, but accepts Castiel’s compliment and, with one final glare, moves to the kitchen. They watch her depart in silence. Kali’s cold shoulder makes the outside snow feel warm in comparison.
“Eames once tried to cheat at poker during a frat party,” Castiel finally states, turning to give Crowley his full attention. “I always thought that convincing a group of drunken pledges that Eames can’t count past ten, much less count cards, would be the most uncomfortable moment of my life. The past sixty seconds have just proven me wrong.”
“She chills your bones, eh?”
"What on earth did you do to anger her?”
“I made the terrible mistake of introducing her to Gabriel, back in the day. Kali is hard to please, but for some reason she was smitten with him. Three months in, she popped the question. He said no.” Crowley grimaces at the awful memory. It was the first time he’d ever had multiple friends at once, and it would figure that the novelty would be short-lived. “She’s blamed me ever since.”
“Why did Gabriel say no?” Castiel asks, frowning. “Kali is attractive and seems quite competent.”
“I assume you've never met the man. He’s five years old at heart. He’s incapable of being serious, and marriage is one of the most serious things you’ll do in life.”
Castiel glances towards Crowley’s left hand. “You’re not married,” he observes.
“Not allowed. Plus, I’m busy.”
“Not-? Oh,” Castiel says, sitting a bit straighter. “I understand.”
Crowley snorts. “You seem surprised.” Perhaps it would’ve been best not to say anything. He doesn’t catch much flack in New York, of all cities, but Castiel is clearly not like other people. “Shall I move to another table?”
“No,” Castiel quickly answers. “No, don’t. The truth is, I am... similarly inclined. But it isn’t a problem, as you say. Work keeps me so occupied that I’m not sure when I would even go on a date.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Crowley objects. “You and Eames seem comfortable around each other. I thought you and he might be... something.”
“Eames?” Castiel echoes with something like a laugh. “Certainly not. He tends to date all the time, never the same person. That behavior would drive me up the wall. And in any case, there is-someone else who has recently caught my attention.”
The same waitress who greeted them at the door appears with their drinks. She sets them down with a polite smile and then disappears into the kitchen again, not uttering a word. They watch her walk away in silence.
“I believe you’ve been blacklisted,” Castiel whispers. “She might very well poison your food.”
“Well, I’ve had a good run. I plan on having a delicious meal before throwing in the towel.”
Castiel’s expression morphs from unease to concern to amusement-or what passes as amusement, considering Castiel's stern features-as he shakes his head and says, “You’re very surprising.”
Crowley isn’t sure how to respond to that. Surprising isn’t a word often applied to him in a positive way. Scheming, conniving, heartless son of a bitch, yes, and only then by some of his more polite past associates.
“Tell me something,” Crowley starts, because he’s genuinely curious about this: “You can’t possibly find me surprising when you co-exist with the annoyance known as Eames. How did you come to be friends?”
“We were paired together for a public relations class,” Castiel answers, smiling as he takes a sip of tea. “The assignment was to design a charitable program and a marketing campaign to go with it. Eames was quite a poor program coordinator, so I took charge on figuring how it would operate. However, I was a poor marketer, so Eames took charge of selling it.”
“And then you actually took the mock program and turned it into something successful.”
“Yes,” comes the response, a flush of pride on Castiel’s cheeks. “Yes, we did. Much like yourself and Crossroads.” He takes another swallow of tea and says, “Despite what you may think of my computer skills, I’m quite accomplished at Googling. Fergus Crowley: established Crossroads five years ago, a prominent figure in business and the arts, turning a steady profit each year. I was also surprised to read that you put out one of my favorite series.”
“Oh, Christ. Don’t say ‘Supernatural’.”
“Why?” Castiel asks, frowning. “Don’t you like it?”
“I knew it! I knew it. Here you are, pretending to be this choir boy with a heart of gold, and you’re secretly hiding behind library stacks reading that bloody filth.” Crowley shakes his head and leans back into his chair, crossing his arms. “If you’re one of those crazy fans who get online and writes... whatever it is they write, then I’m afraid our association ends right now.”
Castiel looks a mix between alarmed and confused, having no apparent knowledge of what the “crazy fans” got up to online.
After a moment, Crowley huffs with laughter. “All right, relax. You look like a man who’s about to suffer major organ failure.”
“You are worse than my neighbor,” Castiel accuses. “He is constantly pulling my leg like that.”
“Well, not to offend, but you could use some lightening up.”
The rich aroma of chicken tikka reaches them before Kali does. She sets their plates in front of them and says, “Enjoy, or don’t. Have a good night, or don’t.”
“Absolutely marvelous service, as always,” Crowley sweetly calls to her retreating back. He turns back to Castiel and mutters, “If I keel over in a few minutes, you’ll tell the police what happened, won’t you?”
“I promise,” Castiel swears, his solemn voice betrayed by the crinkling around his eyes.
They eat and discuss books (Castiel tries so hard not to mention Supernatural, though he can’t help but grin delightedly when Crowley admits Chuck-the-Schmuck is nearing the end of his next installment) and Crowley doesn’t actually perish from arsenic or whatever poison is in vogue these days. Conversation reveals their tastes in music, literature, and films are pretty much polar opposites, but Castiel disregards this problem as easily as Crowley would disregard a badly written novel.
As they’re finishing up the last of the naan, the conversation moves back to their respective businesses, and the headaches of establishing a strong online presence.
“We only have a Facebook page right now,” Castiel admits. “And the worst part is I don’t even know how to use it. Eames has to keep it updated or it starts getting dusty.”
“Well, Eames does a fine job, then. I was quite impressed with it. Sigils has, what, forty followers? Very impressive.”
“You’ve seen it?” Castiel asks, sounding surprised and oblivious to Crowley’s sarcasm.
“Sure, when I had one of my serfs research you,” Crowley easily replies. He briefly wonders if other companies devote so much time to scoping the competition, but figures it hasn’t hurt him so far. “Though I’ve been meaning to ask about a mirror program I stumbled upon. Apparently, there’s another organization that does the same thing you do, across town. It was Green House, or Green... well, whatever.”
“Green Room,” Castiel grimly supplies, all evidence of relaxation wiped from his face. “Firstly, they aren’t a real charitable cause, and you would do well to remember that. The man who runs it is only interested in tax breaks, and the model he uses for his ‘charitable program’ requires schools and hospitals to sign year-long contracts ensuring Green Room is the only organization who can provide art services for the institution. Zachariah makes a mockery of programs that truly aim to help communities.”
“Zachariah?” Crowley echoes, trying not to laugh. “Short fellow, no hair, smarmy as all hell? I know that bloody prick! Let me tell you, it comes as no surprise that he would have his fingers in morally-questionable pies.”
Castiel sighs. “Yes, well, he’s also quite skilled in cornering a market. If their program manages to earn a real profit, Eames and I will probably be out of business, so to speak.”
It’s an admission that leaves Crowley speechless, because this is it. This is his way in. The plan is already forming in his mind before Castiel can so much as put his spoon down. If the Green Room succeeds, then Running with Sigils is off the map and, conveniently, out of the Murphy Building for good. It'll be as though Crowley’s plans were never interrupted at all. Hell, the bookstore could be up and running in a year, and all right, it’s a bad deal for Cas, but it’s not like Crowley’s invested in Cas’ personal happiness. He can go help children somewhere else. Volunteer at a shelter. Do whatever good-hearted people do with their spare time.
Crowley’s so delighted with himself that it must affect the weather, since the snow quits falling long enough for them to pay for their meals and see one another off at the restaurant entrance.
“Thank you for keeping me company,” Castiel says as they stand on the sidewalk, just below a street light. “I hope I didn’t... cramp your style tonight.”
Crowley snorts. “While I would love to tell you my Fridays are packed, the truth is I’m quite available. In fact, I’d say this is one of my more exciting Fridays to date.”
“For me as well, although I believe next Friday is a new exhibit at the Darrow Gallery. I was considering attending.”
“Oh, that,” Crowley says, making a face. He vaguely remembers Arthur mentioning something about it, and maybe sending an e-mail as a reminder, and perhaps even making Crowley promise to show up on behalf of Crossroads. “I think Arthur’s forcing me to go. Ridiculous gallery shows are part of the ‘prominent in business and the arts’ bit.”
“In that case, I will see you there,” Castiel says. “Maybe we could... have dinner afterward. If you aren’t opposed.”
Bullocks. Another dinner. Then again, the hour he just spent with Castiel was far from unpleasant, and it’s not like Crowley plans on staying at the gallery for any length of time. If anything, he hopes to breeze in, knock elbows with the right people, grab a free glass of champagne, and make a clean break without anyone being the wiser.
“I’ll pencil you in,” Crowley agrees.
Castiel smiles again, bids him goodnight, and disappears around the corner.
He’s still wearing Crowley’s scarf.
Part 2!