Pity this Busy Monster / Inception+SPN (2/3)
Title: Pity this Busy Monster
Artist: preferthemoss
Pairing: Crowley/Cas, with background Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Yusuf, and Dean/Lisa.
Word count: 8,955 (23,844 overall).
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Inception+SPN
Prompt: Invent a circumstance in which a character is forced to change his name.
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. chaosraven is not only a muse, but she also moonlights as a betaing goddess.
4. Make sure to tell preferthemoss that her art is fantastic!
Crowley spends the weekend working from home and taking his hound, Witch, on very, very long walks. Witch is a mammoth-sized creature with a bark that would frighten the Devil, but his appearance is wasted on his slobbering, loving, curious temperament. Witch loves people. He loves to play and run around and sleep at the end of Crowley’s bed, which is nearly too small for the both of them, and the only time he gets angry is when he feels Crowley hasn’t sufficiently filled the food bowl.
On Monday afternoon, Crowley finds himself hunched over his tablet-Chuck Shurley had finally sent his draft-and wandering into the break room, only to discover Ariadne, Sam, Arthur, and.... some other guy gathered around the table, laughing as they eat.
“What the hell is this?” he demands. “I don’t pay you to come here and have fun.”
“This is called a ‘lunch break’,” Ariadne curtly replies. “The law requires you to give them to us.”
“Contestable,” Crowley mutters. He glares at the stranger. “And you are?”
“Yusuf,” he answers. At Crowley’s blank look, he hazards, “Product delivery?” Another pause. “You hired me a year ago.”
Crowley has no recollection of this, but assumes Arthur can verify the paperwork if Yusuf’s employment comes into question.
“So how was your weekend?” Sam politely asks, taking a bite of his sandwich and bravely diverting Crowley’s attention, like he was a self-sacrificing hero in another life. Yusuf looks relieved. “Did Chuck ever send his next installment?”
“I received it this morning,” Crowley grumpily answers, turning the tablet towards them so they can see the text-rich screen. “So far I’ve resisted every temptation to throw myself out the window.”
Arthur frowns. “It’s that bad?”
“The writing is clearly influenced by alcohol, and the plot isn’t much better. Apparently, the angel flies his ass back to Heaven after the Apocalypse arc ends.” Crowley tosses the tablet onto the table in a fit of exasperation. He’s read a lot of books in his day and has come to accurately predict a majority of their endings, but he can honestly say Chuck-the-Schmuck caught him unawares. Crowley would have bet money the angel would have chosen to stay on Earth-that’s certainly what readers were hankering for, and Chuck knew that. “The fans are going to shit cows. I’ve never despaired before, but there’s a first time for everything.”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “‘Despair’ is a powerful verb, Crowley. I didn’t realize you were so into the series.”
Crowley whips his gaze towards Sam so quickly that Sam stops chewing.
“This series makes me a lot of money, Moose,” Crowley icily explains. “Sales depend on the convoluted angel/hunter mating dance. Without the feathery bastard around, how are we supposed to get people to buy the book?”
“I see your point,” Sam sheepishly apologizes. “Can you maybe e-mail the guy? Ask him why he wrote-”
“Already done.” Crowley pulls up another window and clears his throat, reciting word-for-word the e-mail he’s just sent. “‘You fucking moron, fix this shit or I’ll drop you like a rock.’”
Sam’s face goes utterly white. “That won’t earn us a lawsuit,” he finally says. “Next time Arthur sends the messages, okay?”
Crowley is too pissed about Shurley’s awful storytelling to concentrate on editing the thing, so he subjects himself to his subordinates’ company for the remaining hour. They manage to make space for him at the table, and he ends up stealing half of Ariadne’s carrots and the majority of Sam’s pretzels. Sam relates some admittedly hilarious accounts about his brother’s cooking attempts, and Ariadne lets off steam about her more difficult classes. (Crowley has always been good at business arithmetic, but physics? Not his bag.) It’s not the worst lunch break he’s ever had.
“Oh, hey!” Ariadne calls once Crowley finishes everyone’s leftover food and resigns himself to work. He glances at her from his place at the door. (Since when is ‘oh, hey’ an appropriate way to address one’s superior? Then again, when is it ever all right to wear sneakers to work? Ariadne is a lost cause.) “Someone named...” She pulls a slip of paper from her pocket and squints at it. “...Castiel Milton called for you today. I took a message, but wanted to run it past you first. Is he legit or does he go on the Black List?”
Crowley takes surprise fairly well, but he truly didn’t expect to receive any form of communication from Castiel. He clears his throat.
“Just patch him through next time,” Crowley answers, ignoring her raised eyebrows. Then, snidely: “If you think you can manage it.”
Ariadne looks riveted. “Is this... a guy? A guy guy?”
“You’re absolutely insipid,” Crowley seethes. “Why do you even work here? Did Arthur hire you? Arthur, you are no longer in charge of personnel.”
“Avoidance!” she exclaims, jabbing an accusing finger in his direction. “This is a guy! Oh, Crowley. The plot thickens.”
“One more word and you’re fired. Arthur, my office. Moose, back to work. Yusuf... go drive somewhere.”
“I haven’t finished eating,” Arthur protests, but Crowley is in such a mood that he snaps his fingers and replies, “Despite what Ariadne claims, lunch is a luxury, not a right.”
Arthur sighs but sets down his sandwich. He shoots Ariadne a pointed look and mutters, “I’ll kill you if you touch my food.” He swiftly moves to join Crowley in the hall. “I assume there’s a reason my lunch was abandoned inside enemy territory.”
Crowley gives a happy hum as he boards the elevator, Arthur at his side. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and rocks from his heels to his toes.
“You recall our Murphy Building problem?” Crowley asks, as the elevator moves one story up.
“The problem of us not inhabiting it? Yes, I do,” Arthur retorts, his tone bordering on sarcasm. “Judging by your behavior, you’ve formed a plan.”
The doors open; Crowley and Arthur breeze through.
“Friday night I had the most serendipitous meeting with Castiel Milton,” Crowley starts. “We actually had dinner at Beryl Blue, where he exposed the fact The Green Room is in direct competition with Sigils.”
“I see,” Arthur says, though Crowley notices Arthur has lost his relaxed stance. He pays no mind and barrels on.
“Green Room is significantly better funded than Castiel’s place, but a large donation would take them over the top. There would be no way for Sigils to compete. Castiel and Eames would be forced to close their operation and move out.” Crowley leads Arthur into his office; he plops into his desk chair while Arthur stands, statuesque, in the middle of the room. “Voila. We make the largest bid, the building is ours, and then we open the store and regain our investment within three years.”
Arthur is quiet for a moment, frowning at Crowley in a way that forms a line between his brows. Crowley frowns back. Why is Arthur not jumping at this chance? He wants the store as badly as Crowley, and has been assisting with the business model since day one.
“Let me see if I understand this,” he finally says, gracefully crossing his arms. “You and Castiel just happened to run into each other last Friday.”
“Yes,” Crowley impatiently answers. “I was passing by while he was locking up. Why is that important?”
“And then you invited him to dinner?”
“He asked if he could join me. Arthur, are you missing the part where I’ve found a completely legal and anonymous way to get them out of there?”
Arthur rarely questions Crowley’s plans, but his current expression suggests Crowley is missing a large piece of the puzzle. Crowley could say the same for Arthur.
“I assume this is the last you’ll see of Castiel,” Arthur goes on. Crowley stares.
“No,” he shortly answers. “May I ask what you’re trying to imply here, Arthur? Because as far as I’m concerned, your one job is do what I tell you, and I’m telling you to give the donation funds to the Green Room.”
“My one job is to make sure you don’t screw up,” Arthur boldly corrects. “You’re seeing Castiel again, aren’t you?”
“That isn’t even relevant!”
“Avoidance,” Arthur surmises, echoing Ariadne’s accusation from earlier-but his tone was significantly less gleeful. “You’re going to pretend to be this guy’s friend and then screw him over.”
Crowley’s blood grows furiously hot. Why is Arthur being so stubborn? Seldom has he questioned Crowley’s plans or motives in the past, but now he’s doing everything to keep them from moving forward.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Crowley asks, his tone dangerous as he stands and stalks around his desk. Arthur’s face is a calm mask, disinterested even as his arms fall and his hands curl at his sides. “Perhaps the reason you’re so dead-set against this? From the sounds of it, you have some sort of personal stake.”
“No,” Arthur bites out. “I don’t have a personal stake.”
“Really? Then you’ll run along and get the paperwork to Sam.” He pauses pointedly. “Unless you want to lose your job, in which case I can make that happen as well.”
Arthur’s jaw clenches, but then his entire body grows still, and at last he says, “Of course. I’ll tell Sam immediately.”
He turns on his heel and walks out. He doesn’t hurry, and he doesn’t slam the door. Crowley watches him go and wants to soak in the victory of being in charge. Crossroads Publishing belongs to Crowley. He has never allowed anyone else to influence how he does business, and look at how far he’s come.
But he doesn’t feel victorious at all. He feels shitty, like he always does after knocking Arthur down. It doesn’t happen often-in fact, the occurrence is so rare that Sam and the others practically view Crowley and Arthur as equals-but then Crowley will do something like this, something threatening, and Arthur will shed any fondness he may have for Crowley and become the cool, collected professional Crowley hired five years prior.
His office is pressingly silent. Crowley moves back to his chair and plops down miserably. He stares out the window. It's as gray and awful as ever, and the sun doesn’t look like it’s coming out anytime soon.
---
Crowley and Arthur don’t speak much for the rest of the week. Sam and Ariadne seem aware of the silent fight and keep their noses to the grindstone, not asking any questions outside their work duties. Crowley e-mails Sam to make sure Arthur actually sent Sam the appropriate instructions; Sam replies that he was already working on it, and Crowley is struck with the awful feeling of not trusting Arthur to do his job. By the time Friday rolls around, Crowley is almost eager to attend Darrow’s Gallery show. If anything, the bad art might distract him from his personal problems.
Gallery openings are a hit-or-miss ordeal, and this, Crowley decides, is definitely a miss. That’s not to say it isn’t well attended. There's an impressive number of people milling around but they’re less interested in the paintings and more interested in networking. The abstract paintings leave much to be desired, so Crowley indulges in the champagne floating around and hopes to be thoroughly smashed by the night’s end.
It’s probably for the best when he looks over at the entrance just in time to see Castiel open the door and walk inside. The first thing Crowley notices is that he’s forsaken last week’s trench monstrosity and settled for a dark suit, grey tie, and a warm, black jacket. The second thing he notices is that he’s wearing Crowley’s scarf again, and that his hair remains in a state of disarray. He looks... not bad, if Crowley’s honest, and he can’t help but watch to see what Castiel will do next.
A passing waiter stops to offer Castiel a glass; Castiel politely declines. Not much a drinker, then. His eyes dart around, as though looking for someone, but it’s crowded enough that he misses Crowley and appears to give up his search for the moment, shifting his attention to his tie, which he self-consciously smoothes out. He obviously isn’t comfortable with the art scene, either. One must wonder what he’s even doing here in the first place.
Crowley doesn’t expect to be the only person Castiel might know, but he does remember that they promised to meet, and it would be rude-though Crowley rarely cares about being rude-not to say hello. He begins navigating his way through the maze of patrons, intent on his path towards Castiel, only to stop when he notices Meg Masters has beaten him to it. She tosses her brown hair over her shoulders and sidles up to Castiel, who looks alarmed that a strange woman has approached him so casually.
“What do you think?” Crowley hears her ask. “Of the paintings, I mean.”
“They are very... monochromatic. I am not sure they would match the rest of my house, however,” he politely replies. Crowley takes a quick account of his surroundings to decide how he’ll handle this. The gallery is set up so that there is an exterior wall as well as several interior walls, and it is no trouble for him to turn around, zigzag his way through the walls and people, and approach Meg and Castiel from behind without them being any the wiser. He does exactly that, calmly, as though he’s not in any hurry.
Crowley’s frustrated by a few well-to-doers who stop to make small talk, but he manages to reach the duo within a minute, and is present just in time to hear Meg say, “...but I’m a writer rather than an artist, so who am I to judge?”
Castiel smiles again, but it’s a quick, forced thing. Crowley doesn’t blame him-he, too, would be uncomfortable if Meg decided to stand within mere inches of his person.
“I’m Meg,” she continues, sweet as sugar. “I’ve never seen you around before. Do you attend a lot of openings?”
“Occasionally,” Castiel hedges, an answer so vague that it offers Meg no concrete information. He sways from her, but she simply moves with him.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” she presses.
“James,” Castiel answers. Crowley wants to applaud him for lying. “If you’ll excuse me-”
“You’re leaving so soon?”
“I have a previous engagement,” Castiel insists turning away, but is prevented from moving any further when Meg catches his elbow.
“Stay a while,” she insists, smiling in what she probably thinks is a charming manner. “I came here alone and would love some company.”
Well. That settles that, then. Crowley downs the last of his champagne and strides towards them, no longer concerned with being noticed.
“I see your selective hearing is an effect,” he says, startling her enough so that she spins to face him, her delicate face contorting into something ugly. “I believe he said he has a previous engagement.” Crowley points to himself. “That would be me.”
“Crowley,” she spits. “I thought you’d be locked up in your tower and hunched over someone’s drunken ramblings.”
“And I thought you’d be selling yourself for a publishing deal. Looks like we were both mistaken.”
“Faggot,” she snarls, face red with fury, and she doesn’t even bother giving Castiel another look as she stalks off into the crowd, rudely elbowing her way past anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in her way. Castiel quietly watches her leave.
“Your list of enemies must be a mile long,” he finally declares. “Should I even ask who that was?”
“Meg Masters, best known for her father. He owns a publishing company that specializes in a very specific type of audience.”
Castiel frowns; Crowley rolls his eyes. It’s a good thing Cas has his looks, unkempt as they are.
“Kink,” he explains. “They print small runs, a few thousand copies for each new title. It’s filth, mostly. I’m sure you know nothing about it. Most of the time I can barely get past the first few pages, then it’s off into the recycling bin.”
“I see,” Castiel says, though he clearly doesn’t. And why should he? The dark world of underground pornographic novels is something he’s got no interest in exploring.
Crowley gestures towards a large canvas hanging behind Castiel. It’s smeared with paint and titled Untitled.
“I’ve been subjected to this garbage for nearly a half-hour,” he announces by way of changing the conversation. “My dog could do better.” He places the empty glass on a passing tray and continues with, “I know you had every intention of actually viewing the show. I don’t mind subjecting myself to it again.”
Castiel glances at him from the corner of his eye, sly as a fox. “Or?”
“Or we can blow this joint and get a drink somewhere.”
“I’m not opposed,” Castiel says, which Crowley takes as a yes and immediately leads them to the door, graciously saying farewell to the socialites and hipsters who stand in front of the paintings and search for meaning in the smears and splotches.
“I hate these gallery affairs,” Crowley declares the minute they’re outside. “They’re so bloody stuffy.”
“If you hate them, then why do you attend?” Castiel asks.
“I’m a successful publisher. It’s expected that I make an appearance, plus it helps me keep an eye on things. New writers, artists, etcetera.” He glances at Castiel. “Why do you go? You didn’t seem very impressed by anything.”
“I like to see what materials artists are using,” Castiel answers. “Sometimes it gives me ideas for projects I can teach the kids. There was an altered book exhibit last month, and one of them used twigs for a book binding. Finding ways to use common things ensures we never run short of materials.”
“Oh, dear. It sounds like I’m talking to a tree-hugger. Are you one of those bleeding-heart liberals?”
Castiel’s lips twitch. “I have a heart, if that’s what you mean.”
“Touché,” Crowley says as they turn onto what appears to be an unsavory corner. Castiel pauses for a moment, uncomfortable with the dingy street. It’s the sort of street where movie extras are usually stabbed, shot, or attacked by zombies, and it seems counter-evolutionary to go willingly.
“Don’t get nervous on me now,” Crowley says as he catches sight of Castiel’s wary expression. “We’re nearly there.”
Crowley’s footsteps slow even as he’s speaking, until he stops in front of a rundown building sandwiched between a pawn shop and a used record store that is no longer in business. ‘The Roadhouse’ is spelled in unreliable neon letters; ‘he’ and ‘R’ are blown, leaving the word ‘Toadhouse’. Castiel squints at the rusty door handle.
“This is where you go drinking?” he asks. “It seems a little bit déclassé for your tastes.”
“I’m a man full of surprises,” Crowley replies, opening the door with an exaggerated flourish and gesturing for Castiel to enter first.
The inside is cleaner than the exterior suggests. It’s still run-down and aged, but there’s a pride in the shined tabletops and stacked glasses. There aren’t many patrons, and the few who are there don’t seem interested in making conversation. A dark-haired woman looks up from behind the counter.
“Crowley,” she greets, sounding surprised. “Haven’t seen your smug mug around lately.”
“Ellen, your condescension is, as always, much appreciated,” Crowley says. “Castiel, this is Ellen, who might be kind enough to serve us drinks without the bitchy backtalk.”
“Crowley,” Castiel admonishes, but Ellen only laughs and points at two stools. “C’mon and sit your butts down. What’s your poison, Castiel? We got whiskey, beer... well, whiskey and beer.”
“Beer, please,” he answers. She hands him a thick glass of foamy gold, and pours Crowley a shot without needing to ask his preference.
“So what brings you to my humble neck of the woods?” Ellen asks, leaning over the counter, the total opposite of every female bartender Crowley has ever known. He’s always been fond of her clean face and unassuming clothes, buttoned so as to hide the body beneath. It’s tasteful, and saves Crowley from the pressure of looking anywhere but down.
“We just broke out of a gallery show,” Crowley answers. “They tried to stop us, naturally, but we used our wiles and wits to outsmart them.”
“Then I think this first round is on me, as a congratulations for your keen survival skills,” Ellen remarks, and then looks at Castiel before putting a hand on her hip. “Why’s an upstanding gentleman like yourself hanging out with this slimeball?”
“It was him or the show,” Castiel answers, smiling at Crowley’s glare at being called a slimeball. “I tried to pick the lesser of the two evils, but it was a difficult decision.”
Ellen whistles. “Well played. Crowley, I like this guy. Try not to scare him off this time, yeah?”
A man in the corner lifts his beer glass in silent request for a refill, and Ellen sighs, saying, “Work calls. Bellow if you need anything. Jukebox is free, but no power ballads, understand? Like I don’t get enough of those when Jo’s around.”
Castiel nods dutifully while Crowley merely rolls his eyes, as though he would lower himself to using a jukebox in the first place.
“Do you often ‘scare’ men away?” Castiel asks, once Ellen’s out of earshot.
Crowley shoots another glare at her turned back before answering, “As I’m sure you can already tell, my work schedule tends to intimidate the fainthearted. But I consider it a process of natural selection, really. It helps to weed out unacceptable applicants.”
“'Applicants'?” Castiel dryly echoes. “It’s a wonder men aren’t falling at your feet.”
“Oh, I like that, Mr. Married to His Work. If Eames weren’t there, all you’d do all day is fill out paperwork and hang around children.”
Castiel’s eyes widen before he buries his face in his hands.
“Don’t say that,” comes the muffled plea. “It makes me sound like such a creep.”
“‘Castiel the Creeper’ has a bit of a ring to it,” Crowley goes on, motivated by the fact Castiel asked him not to. “Kind of like a superhero name, if one considers the monitoring of children by single, middle-aged men to be a heroic act.”
Ellen returns, glancing at Castiel and then giving Crowley a what-did-you-say-now look.
“What?" Crowley protests, wilting beneath the force of her silent accusation. Castiel responds by downing the last of his beer and miserably shoving the glass towards her, hoping for another.
“So,” she says, pointedly moving the conversation to safer waters while she gives Cas a refill. “How’s Arthur these days?”
“He was well the last time I saw him,” Castiel answers as Crowley opens his mouth to do the same. “I’ll be the first to admit I pride myself in organization and efficiency, but Arthur puts me to shame.”
Crowley frowns at the comment. How did Castiel and Arthur know one another? Had Crowley sent Arthur to RWS for any reason? Had Arthur stopped by to gather intel, so to speak? If so, why hadn’t he mentioned anything?
“I wasn’t aware you two knew each other,” Crowley finally says.
“I believe he and Eames met at Gabriel’s,” Castiel answers. Crowley resists every temptation to roll his eyes, because of course Gabriel would somehow be involved. “Eames seems quite taken with him.”
“And Arthur?” Ellen presses, eyebrows raised and obviously interested in this new development. Crowley sits in stunned silence for a moment, letting the words sink in while the conversation becomes muted and faraway. Arthur and Eames? Arthur doesn’t date anyone, and certainly not... not annoying Englishmen with poor taste in clothing. Hell, Crowley would have bet money that Arthur was asexual, for all the romantic interest he shows in other human beings.
Crowley suddenly feels numb and fiddles with his whiskey glass while the scene in his office replays in his head. Perhaps the reason you’re so dead-set against this? From the sounds of it, you have some sort of personal stake. It must have been a slap in Arthur’s face. Crowley might as well physically hit him, judging by Arthur’s stony reaction.
“...can’t say for sure, but he doesn’t seem opposed. He has stopped by a few times,” Castiel is saying. Crowley returns his attention to the conversation, now treating Castiel’s news as vital information. If Arthur’s affected, or if he plans to alert Eames to Crowley’s plan, then Crowley needs to know.
Castiel, however, is not a practiced drinker, and the first two beers have begun to press against his bladder. He excuses himself for a moment, leaving Ellen and Crowley to their own devices. Normally Crowley would take pleasure in irritating her somehow, but he’s too stuck in the spider web of revelations to give her his full attention.
“Spill,” she demands the moment Castiel disappears behind the restroom door. “This guy is a doll. Where did you meet him?”
“We aren’t dating,” Crowley sternly replies, his mind pulling itself in various directions: the way Arthur has obviously been hurt by Crowley’s thoughtless words; the way Castiel has spent two Friday nights with him; the way Ellen seems intent to keep Crowley around, despite knowing he’s an evil son of a bitch, and yet she must see something in him, something redeemable.
“No, you just went to an art opening and then out for drinks afterward. Very platonic,” she says. “Seriously, Crowley, Castiel’s a winner. You keep a good hold on him, or I’ll snatch him up myself.”
When Castiel returns, the empty beer glass is gone and Ellen is tending some change. It’s just as well, considering Castiel wasn’t planning to drink anymore. He reaches for his own wallet, but Ellen shakes her head and nods towards Crowley.
“He covered both the tabs. Tipped, too,” she explains.
“I thought I made it clear that I am capable of paying for myself,” Castiel says. Crowley shrugs. If Arthur were present, he’d be the first to tell Castiel that Crowley’s hearing and memory are very, very selective.
“Well, I did drag you across creation to get here. Seems only fair that I cover it this time.”
“Then I am paying next time,” Castiel declares, and tries to drop the subject altogether by turning to Ellen and placing a five dollar bill on the counter.
“I hope you will do my pride the favor of accepting a tip,” he says. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Ellen says, accepting the money despite Castiel’s suspicion that Crowley’s tip was probably overly generous. “I want to see you both again, this time without the monthly absences,” she goes on, giving Crowley a significant look. “You may be uptown, but don’t forget you've got other friends.”
Crowley’s expression flickers for a moment, going slightly soft as he says, “It’s a deal, under the condition that you let me buy this place an honest-to-god sound system. Jukeboxes died with poodle skirts.”
“Jo would hunt you down like the dog you are,” Ellen points out. “Now get out of here.”
They give her a final wave at the door, and start towards the gallery again, for no reason than it was their original starting point. The temperature has dropped significantly, and Castiel is forced to shove his hands into his jacket pockets to save them from the cold. The silence is comfortable as they walk. Castiel’s isn’t exactly a motor mouth, and Crowley is trying to deal with the bombshell that Castiel inadvertently dropped.
“You didn’t know about Arthur and Eames, did you?” Castiel finally asks, glancing over at him. “I hope he won’t be reprimanded for any reason.”
“No, of course not,” Crowley answers. “Though you did say Eames isn’t a prime example of monogamy. I should warn you that I and my band of underlings will go great lengths to ensure Eames doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“I’ve already spoken with him about it,” Castiel replies. “It’s my understanding he plans to take this relationship seriously.”
Crowley isn’t fully satisfied with this, but there’s nothing he can do about it tonight. They reach the gallery again, still alight with people and paintings, and a few taxis are circling around, waiting for the inevitable exodus of drunken socialites. Crowley waves a cab over.
“You take this one. I’ll get another,” he offers. Castiel hesitates; he’s so proud, Crowley thinks, with his reluctance to let Crowley pay for anything or even give up a bloody cab when there are plenty more in the city. Crowley pushes slightly by saying, “You never know, Meg might still be around. Best not tempt fate.”
Out of habit, Crowley reaches to open the door for Castiel, only to find the move obliterates their respective personal bubbles. He considers stepping back again, but realizes it would make the situation even more awkward. He hears Castiel suck in a breath but not release it.
“Thank you for a nice evening,” Castiel blurts. “It was-much more entertaining than I could have hoped.”
“No problem,” Crowley numbly replies. His fingers twitch, and he thinks that the night has been in his control until right now, when it suddenly feels different, like he should do something, like-oh, hell, he doesn’t know. He’s versed in charming authors and buyers and business assholes, but not... this. “Have a nice night, then,” he says and abruptly turns to go back into the gallery, much preferring to face those awful people than Castiel, who’s still standing there as if he expected things to end differently.
---
The thing about fighting with Arthur is that he absolutely refuses to show his hand. His poker face gives nothing away, and his routine never changes. Point of fact: it’s 7:00 A.M., and Arthur is already in his office, hard at work. Crowley holds a cup of coffee in one hand and bag of Gabriel’s éclairs in the other and stands just outside, listening to the tap tap tap of Arthur typing. Crowley wishes he could leave his gifts at the doorway and avoid an inevitably awkward conversation, or-better yet-refuse to address the issue at all, but Crowley is rich in everything except friends, and Arthur isn’t someone he can afford to lose over a petty spat. Someone needs to be the bigger man. Someone needs to let go of their pride. Someone needs to grow a pair and admit they were wrong.
Damn it.
Crowley clears his throat and steps into the doorway.
“Morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” Arthur calmly replies, like nothing’s happened. Crowley would have been fooled by that five years ago, but now he can read Arthur’s hurt and anger like words on a page.
“Look, let’s not beat around the bush,” Crowley says, and steps inside to set his gifts on Arthur’s desk. “These are peace offerings. Not good ones, but it’s the best I could do for so early in the morning. Furthermore, I understand you and a certain gentleman who hails from across the pond have begun a correspondence-”
Arthur’s eyes flash upwards to meet Crowley’s. His expression is so enraged that Crowley falls silent.
“Have you been monitoring me?” he demands. “Damnit, Crowley, you stoop, but I never knew how low-”
“Cas told me, all right? It was an accident! It’s not like I was fishing for information.”
“Cas?” Arthur incredulously echoes. His tone suggests one of two things: either he can’t believe Crowley referred to Castiel via nickname, or that Crowley wasn’t intentionally fishing for information-perhaps both. “Since when does Cas-you know what? Never mind. Let me make this clear to you: I am capable of handling this. You don’t need to worry that Eames will affect my judgment. If that’s all you’re after, then please leave me to my work.”
That is, of course, a terrible lie. Eames has already affected Arthur’s judgment, and this fight is proof of that. Crowley chooses not to point that out and clears his throat again.
“I had thought,” he starts, struggling for dignity and sincerity at the same time, “that I could offer some kind of reparations. As a gesture of good will.”
Arthur gives him a calculating look. He leans back into his chair and steeples his fingers together, and Crowley suddenly has the sinking feeling that Arthur is going to exploit this offer in some way. Arthur may have been born with a natural poker face, but Crowley taught the kid everything he knows about milking a situation-he just never expected for Arthur to turns those lessons against him.
“Reparations,” Arthur echoes. “That’s uncharacteristically kind of you, Crowley.”
Perhaps it is, but Crowley can’t deny Arthur is on his Short List of People He Halfway Cares About. Ariadne and Sam figure on there, too. And Gabriel, on good days.
"I was thinking-"
“So this weekend’s zine expo,” Arthur continues, ignoring Crowley’s protesting groan.
“The zine expo?” Crowley whines. This isn’t turning out how he wanted, not at all. He expected Arthur to ask for a raise, or a week off, or something Crowley could happily give. “I detest zines. That’s why I send you in the first place!”
"I have an engagement that weekend," Arthur says pointedly. "I don't think it's too much to ask. And then we can consider the matter behind us."
Crowley tosses his hands up. It’s best to let Arthur think he’s won some monumental victory before the weasel starts pushing for more.
“It’s a deal, you conniving bastard.”
“I learned all my conniving from you,” Arthur points out. “And remember to pick up all the craft zines. That’s why we’re doing this in the first place.”
“I still can’t believe we’re catering to crafters,” Crowley sullenly complains. “I know the market’s hungry for more artsy bologna, but we should be above that.”
“We’re never above making a profit,” comes Arthur’s reasonable response. Crowley can’t argue the point, and doesn’t really want to. He doesn’t want to argue at all. It’s been a bloody awful time without Arthur as his right-hand man, and he’s ready to get back their old camaraderie-even if he must suffer for it.
“Crowley,” Arthur says, his voice stopping Crowley in the doorway. He gives Crowley a hard look, and then sighs, seeming to take sympathy for Crowley’s plight. “If it’s any consolation, Eames says Castiel attends the expo every year. He’ll be there. Maybe you two could make a day of it.”
That... is actually a remarkable reversal of fortune. He hums like he could care less, but picks up his phone the minute he’s safely within his own office. He quickly Googles Sigils’ number and punches it in.
“Hello?” someone answers. The accent certainly isn’t Castiel’s.
“Let me talk to Cas, preferably without any of your insipid commentary,” Crowley demands.
“Oh ho! It’s Sarcastic Man in Dark Suit!” Crowley rolls his eyes. He knew the no-commentary request was a long shot. “Cas, darling,” Eames goes on, sounding farther away, “your suitor’s on the phone! Shall I take a message?”
It sounds like a tussle follows the question, punctuated by Eames’ laughter, and then: “My apologies. Eames is insufferable.”
“Eames? No, I can hardly believe it.”
Crowley leans back in his chair and taps his finger against the armrest, hoping the relaxed posture might help his next question sound relaxed as well. He certainly doesn’t want this to sound like a date. Perhaps the word company would help. Crowley reasons that company is an innocent term that can include anyone for any reason, even if it’s two men-who-fancy-other-men who’ll be spending their third weekend together.
“I understand you attend the downtown zine expo every year. It seems like I’ve been conned into going myself. I was wondering if you’d like some company,” Crowley says, pleased with the word choice. Completely casual, but enough to maybe convince Cas to go with him. Crowley fears for his own sanity if he’s forced to face it alone.
“Oh,” Castiel says, sounding surprised but pleased. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
“Shall we meet at noon?”
“Yes,” Castiel answers, clearly smiling. “That would be-oh, Eames, those books were already organized!” A tired sigh, and then, “I look forward to it. Unfortunately, I must go before two day’s worth of alphabetizing is ruined.”
“Then by all means, go. Although I’ll be the first to say Eames’ inability to alphabetize might directly correlate to his inability to read.”
“I’ll make sure he knows you said that.”
“Good,” Crowley drawls, and hangs up.
---
On Saturday, at precisely twelve o’clock, Crowley finds himself starting at the expo center’s doorway and wishing he could be anywhere but here. He’s been watching people walk in and out, looking for all the world like normal folks, but there’s just something about self-edited, self-illustrated, self-assembled magazines that makes him want to locate a high window and hurl himself off the ledge.
There’s an art to the professionally published manuscript. There’s typesetting, and cover design, and shipping strategies, all of which take a team effort, and it’s a sin against nature for some moron to juggle all those tasks for the sake of a one-man magazine.
Castiel hasn’t shown, and Crowley wishes he’d hurry up. He feels naked here, and has the distinct impression that everyone knows he doesn’t belong. Arthur would argue he’s being paranoid, but paranoia and Crowley are lifelong friends. It's what’s kept him at the top while other businesses have blossomed and withered.
He whips out his phone for the sake of looking busy.
This is not worth your friendship, he texts Arthur.
After a moment, Arthur responds, Quit stalling and start browsing before all the good stuff is gone.
Arthur knows him well. With an irritated grunt, Crowley shoves the phone back into his pocket and casts one more look at the entryway. He’s never subscribed to the school of handmade goods, so he’s naturally repelled by the thought of attending an event where artisans-of books, if nothing else-have gathered together en masse to inflict their shoddy writing skills upon the world. There are a few diamonds in the rough, and normally Arthur is the one to pick those diamonds out (the man is a bloodhound when it comes to best-sellers), but nothing about this month has been normal, so Crowley’s not surprised to find himself standing around like a moron while trying, and failing, not to judge everyone around him.
It’s a godsend when his phone alerts him of a new e-mail. It’s from Chuck Shurley, who has sent him a rambling, half-cognizant list of potential plot changes since Crowley had so viciously objected to the first draft. Crowley squints at the changes and immediately hates all of them except for the last, where the angel character begins battling a civil war in Heaven. It might work, so long as fans get their happily ever after.
“Crowley,” says a familiar voice. Crowley looks up to see Castiel standing beside him, with a smile as calm as the day is long. He must have walked in the moment Crowley’s attention was elsewhere. “I see you’re hard at work.”
Castiel looks the same as always, up to the scarf Crowley had loaned him and suspects he’ll never get back. Crowley is strangely fine with that.
“It’s Shurley,” Crowley explains, in turns frustrated and peeved. “If he thinks I’m going to let him make decisions about his own writing, then he has another thing coming. Some of these ideas he’s pitching are ludicrous.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to letting him write what he wishes,” Castiel says. “He’s gotten this far without your assistance.”
Crowley is busy typing back a rapid-fire message, but he’s got enough mind to reply, “I’ve been suspicious of Chuck’s motives ever since he introduced that dark-haired, well-dressed demon who pawns souls for a living. Call me crazy, but it’s a bit like looking into a mirror. And secondly, Chuck can’t write without someone looming over him, figuratively speaking.” Crowley finishes the message and sends it with a definitive button press. “It makes him nervous, and nerves make him productive. He manages to let go of the liquor bottle long enough to bang a book out.”
“I see,” Castiel says, frowning, like he’s trying to match the author he admires with the man Crowley’s just described. Crowley finds he doesn’t like that Castiel is disappointed by this, so he puts his phone away and says, by way of distraction, “I haven’t gone inside yet, but I suspect it’s something close to hell in there.”
Castiel elbows him in the ribs.
“This isn’t hell, as you claim,” Castiel corrects him as they enter the room together. “If anything, you should appreciate what’s going on here. These are people who love writing so much that they invest their time and money in self-publishing. I find it very admirable.”
There are booths set up in rows, each stacked with magazines, many of which are constructed by hand. Glittery banners are hanging from the booth walls and women with stenciled sneakers and hand-knit scarves are mulling around, thumbing through their fellow writers’ publications. There’s a fair share of men around, too, some with earrings and some with jeans that look like they’ve seen better decades, and Crowley resists every urge to slap them and demand where their dignity ran off to.
“If everyone decided to publish their own books, I’d be out of a job,” Crowley mutters. “I should certainly not appreciate anything about this.”
Castiel shakes his head. “I very much doubt the whole world is going to abandon professional publishing all in one day,” he says, but he’s smiling the whole time, clearly at ease with his surroundings for once.
“Do you know any of these psychos?” Crowley asks, figuring he ought to be on his best behavior if that’s the case. Castiel looks like he’s about to answer, but the question becomes moot when someone calls out Castiel’s name.
A pretty brunette woman is waving to them a few booths down, smiling as Castiel approaches her. She moves out of her seat to give him a hug.
“Sarah,” Castiel greets her, returning the smile when they let go. “I see you’re still writing about antiques. The cover design is lovely.” Castiel picks up the small zine and flips through it.
Sarah grins. “I thought so, too. I have enough subscribers that I sprung for full-color this time around.” Her gaze flicks over to Crowley, like she’s not used to seeing Castiel with other people. Crowley doesn’t exactly fault her. She asks, “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Fergus Crowley,” Castiel informs her, reaching over and tugging at the hem of Crowley’s coat sleeve, gently inviting him closer. Crowley’s natural inclination is to resist, but he shuffles nearer to them, nodding politely to Sarah.
Sarah laughs. “I can tell this is totally your scene, Mr. Crowley. Your suit really helps you blend in with the natives.”
Crowley is struck with a moment of disbelief, unable to fathom that he might actually be over-dressed. In his defense, he’s wearing what he always wears, and it’s not like Sarah isn’t strutting around in a little black number, either. Crowley is searching for a tactful way to say just that, when Sarah slaps a friendly hand on Castiel’s shoulder and says, “Hey, come up to the store sometime. I’ve been saving a bunch of little odds and ends for you. Keys, old books, your favorites!”
“You should sell those items, Sarah,” Castiel objects with a frown. “I don’t wish to affect your profit in any way.”
Sarah waves her hand to dismiss his concern. “We only deal in the big stuff, you know that. Seriously, come visit. We haven’t hung out in ages. You can even bring your awkward friend.”
Crowley wants to argue the awkward part, except Castiel seems so pleased that Crowley surrenders. He lets Castiel be the not-awkward half of their duet, just this once.
“We will certainly stop by, then,” Castiel promises, and then buys a zine from her despite Sarah’s insistence that he take one for free.
It seems like every booth owner knows Castiel by name, greeting him with a hug or handshake, and then exchanging brief updates about their lives or writing. Castiel, in turn, makes a point of including Crowley in the introductions and buys a copy of each zine at the show. Crowley remembers to purchase his own copies of craft-related material (if only to prevent Arthur’s exasperated bitching), but he’s more preoccupied with the fact Castiel’s ‘oh, I’m just your average man living in New York’ cover is officially blown. The man is friends with some highly questionable individuals. Antique Sarah and Travel Writer Susan might pass a psychiatric exam, but Andy (who publishes MCMLX, complete with a tie-dye cover that makes Crowley ill), Damien and Barnes (whose publication was practically a thesis on computer repair), and Ash (what sort of name is that? Does he have a brother named Soot? What are parents thinking?), are all freaks. Crowley tried not to judge for the first few introductions before giving it up as futile.
Speaking of whom, Ash (who writes a little something called Party in the Program, a zine about computer programming, of all the dismal topics) has ensnared Castiel in a conversation that Crowley can’t translate. He suspects Castiel isn’t faring much better, so he scans the surrounding area for an excuse to detach themselves from Ash’s enthusiastic but ultimately indiscernible barrage, when another passing browser accidentally bumps his elbow. They turn simultaneously to apologize, though the polite ‘excuse me’ dies on Crowley’s tongue when the thick-rimmed glasses, inexcusable hair, and squirrely face register in his memory.
“You,” Crowley snarls.
“Crowley!” Chuck’s already pale complexion whitens further. “What are you doing here?”
“The better question is what are you doing here,” Crowley says, pissed that Chuck is gallivanting around town when he should be working his scrawny arse off to meet the new deadline. “You swore on your mother’s grave that you wouldn’t stop writing until you salvaged your laughable excuse for a book.”
A sweat breaks on Chuck’s forehead. He stutters.
“My mother’s not really dead,” he nervously admits, punctuating the admission with a dying laugh. “Actually, she lives in a retirement home in Cincinnati and plays a mean game of bingo. Isn’t that funny? I think it’s funny.”
“I could not conceivably care less about your mother’s bingo abilities,” Crowley snaps. “What I do care about is that book. A fan base doesn’t wait around forever. The longer you sit around and procrastinate, the fewer books we’re going to sell, and do you know what happens to authors who can’t sell their work?”
Chuck shakes his head, terrified.
“They move to Cincinnati to live with their mothers.”
Chuck makes a strange eeping noise, as though the prospect is so awful it renders him speechless.
“Now,” Crowley says, voice dangerous as he slips his arm around Chuck’s neck, “unless your life’s goal is to win the weekly potholder prize after scoring that vital five in a row, I would suggest gluing your carcass to a chair and finishing what you started.”
“Okay, okay, I’m on it! I swear to God!” Chuck’s magnified gaze darts around, trying to spot someone who might rescue him from Crowley’s wrath. His eyes land on Castiel. “You!” he exclaims, pointing a finger towards Cas. “Are you with him?” The finger rotates towards Crowley.
“He is indeed,” Crowley answers, because if Chuck thinks Cas can help him, then he’s in for a cold reality check. “He’s actually quite a fan. One who will be devastated if you don’t get back to work.”
Chuck blinks. His fear is momentarily forgotten.
“You’re a fan?” he asks, looking to Crowley for confirmation. “I have a fan?”
“You have thousands of fans,” Castiel gently corrects him. “I’ve read all your books. I speak for everyone when I say we truly hope to read the next installment soon.”
“The next installment was finished!” Chuck argues. “I sent it in and everything!”
“I wouldn’t use that manuscript for kindling,” Crowley grumbles.
Chuck shoots Crowley a betrayed look.
“Perhaps,” Castiel says, carefully, “you might go online and research what your fans would like to see. Adam’s fate might have some interest. Not to mention most of your readers suspect the romance between-”
“Whoa, hold on.” Chuck has the audacity to hold up his hand. “You’re going to say the hunter/angel romance, right? Well, I hate to break it to you, but I never planned a romance. It just kind of happened by accident, and now I’m trying to fix all that.”
Crowley wants to die. There’s nothing to fix! The “accidental” romance is what is selling the books, and now Chuck wants to shoot himself and Crossroads in the foot? That isn’t happening. He’ll kill Chuck and ghostwrite the damn thing himself if he has to.
“Hey, amigos,” Ash cuts in. “Not to break up this party, but you’re blockin’ progress.”
True to fact, they’ve been holding their discussion in front of Ash’s booth and potential customers by proxy. Castiel looks like he’s about to apologize, but Ash just holds up his hand and says, “No worries, man. And look, Four Eyes, I’m no expert, but I once spent half of a summer passed out on a pool table. It’s a long story and the details are blurry, but the moral is that I spent the other half of that summer trying to write the next great American novel. It was shit. The only time it wasn’t shit was when I stopped trying to control everything and let the characters do the talkin’. If there’s a romance, then there’s a romance. Nothin’ to be done about it.”
“Unbelievably, I agree with the mullet man,” Crowley says. Ash bows, generously ignoring the insult to his hair.
Chuck stares at them with slightly bloodshot eyes. He huffs. He puts his hands on his hips. Finally, he slumps, lets his arms fall, and says, “I think I need a sounding board. Volunteers? Anyone will be considered so long as they’re not named Fergus Crowley. No offense.”
“None taken,” Crowley dryly retorts, and then carefully propels Castiel a few steps forward. “Take this one. He’s nice enough not to mock you, and I have to deliver these little literary gems to Arthur anyway.”
Chuck squints at Castiel who stares back. Crowley knows better than to misread Castiel’s silence as disinterest: the man would eat his shoes for a chance to meet one of his favorite authors, and now they’re planning to have coffee or lunch or whatever it is that a failing writer does to climb out of a rut.
“You won’t laugh? Really?”
Castiel nods. Chuck visibly brightens.
“Right, okay, this is great! Look, stay right here, I gotta go say bye to Andy, but I’ll be back,” he promises.
Crowley grunts as Chuck, in his usual overactive, stuttering manner, hurries away.
“The moron didn’t even ask your name. A sign of desperation if I’ve ever seen one.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing Chuck can do that years with Eames won't have prepared me for,” Cas says, smiling. “Although, I suppose this means we won’t see each other the rest of the weekend.”
“Oh, come on. Now you can tell all your geeky reading friends that you had coffee with the great Carver Edlund. That beats out reading lousy magazines with yours truly.”
“Perhaps,” Cas doubtfully agrees. “Though since we’ve had to cut today short, you should consider stopping by Sigils on Monday. It’s our first opening day. We’re having a Girl Scout troop scheduled to bind books, and-” His sentence stops like someone walking into a brick wall. He clears his throat. “I suppose I’d just like to see you.”
Crowley’s brain is still processing this information when Chuck returns, announcing, “Ready to go,” as he tugs on his jacket and straightening those ridiculous glasses, oblivious to what he’s just interrupted. “Thanks again for helping me. Hey, you got a name? Wait, no, first question: did readers like Balthazar? I mean, not like you took a survey or anything, but maybe you got a general sense of it? Because I was thinking he should be re-introduced, back from the dead. It’s not like I haven’t brought everyone else back, I guess, one way or another-”
Their voices fade as the reach the exit. Bringing back that smarmy character is actually a good idea, as far as Crowley’s concerned. He hopes Cas advocates it.
Cas turns at the door, catches Crowley’s eye, and waves goodbye. His smile isn’t one Crowley’s seen before, but there it is, directed at him.
Completely oblivious to all the plans his presence in Crowley's life obstructs.
Part 3!
Artist: preferthemoss
Pairing: Crowley/Cas, with background Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Yusuf, and Dean/Lisa.
Word count: 8,955 (23,844 overall).
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Inception+SPN
Prompt: Invent a circumstance in which a character is forced to change his name.
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. chaosraven is not only a muse, but she also moonlights as a betaing goddess.
4. Make sure to tell preferthemoss that her art is fantastic!
Crowley spends the weekend working from home and taking his hound, Witch, on very, very long walks. Witch is a mammoth-sized creature with a bark that would frighten the Devil, but his appearance is wasted on his slobbering, loving, curious temperament. Witch loves people. He loves to play and run around and sleep at the end of Crowley’s bed, which is nearly too small for the both of them, and the only time he gets angry is when he feels Crowley hasn’t sufficiently filled the food bowl.
On Monday afternoon, Crowley finds himself hunched over his tablet-Chuck Shurley had finally sent his draft-and wandering into the break room, only to discover Ariadne, Sam, Arthur, and.... some other guy gathered around the table, laughing as they eat.
“What the hell is this?” he demands. “I don’t pay you to come here and have fun.”
“This is called a ‘lunch break’,” Ariadne curtly replies. “The law requires you to give them to us.”
“Contestable,” Crowley mutters. He glares at the stranger. “And you are?”
“Yusuf,” he answers. At Crowley’s blank look, he hazards, “Product delivery?” Another pause. “You hired me a year ago.”
Crowley has no recollection of this, but assumes Arthur can verify the paperwork if Yusuf’s employment comes into question.
“So how was your weekend?” Sam politely asks, taking a bite of his sandwich and bravely diverting Crowley’s attention, like he was a self-sacrificing hero in another life. Yusuf looks relieved. “Did Chuck ever send his next installment?”
“I received it this morning,” Crowley grumpily answers, turning the tablet towards them so they can see the text-rich screen. “So far I’ve resisted every temptation to throw myself out the window.”
Arthur frowns. “It’s that bad?”
“The writing is clearly influenced by alcohol, and the plot isn’t much better. Apparently, the angel flies his ass back to Heaven after the Apocalypse arc ends.” Crowley tosses the tablet onto the table in a fit of exasperation. He’s read a lot of books in his day and has come to accurately predict a majority of their endings, but he can honestly say Chuck-the-Schmuck caught him unawares. Crowley would have bet money the angel would have chosen to stay on Earth-that’s certainly what readers were hankering for, and Chuck knew that. “The fans are going to shit cows. I’ve never despaired before, but there’s a first time for everything.”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “‘Despair’ is a powerful verb, Crowley. I didn’t realize you were so into the series.”
Crowley whips his gaze towards Sam so quickly that Sam stops chewing.
“This series makes me a lot of money, Moose,” Crowley icily explains. “Sales depend on the convoluted angel/hunter mating dance. Without the feathery bastard around, how are we supposed to get people to buy the book?”
“I see your point,” Sam sheepishly apologizes. “Can you maybe e-mail the guy? Ask him why he wrote-”
“Already done.” Crowley pulls up another window and clears his throat, reciting word-for-word the e-mail he’s just sent. “‘You fucking moron, fix this shit or I’ll drop you like a rock.’”
Sam’s face goes utterly white. “That won’t earn us a lawsuit,” he finally says. “Next time Arthur sends the messages, okay?”
Crowley is too pissed about Shurley’s awful storytelling to concentrate on editing the thing, so he subjects himself to his subordinates’ company for the remaining hour. They manage to make space for him at the table, and he ends up stealing half of Ariadne’s carrots and the majority of Sam’s pretzels. Sam relates some admittedly hilarious accounts about his brother’s cooking attempts, and Ariadne lets off steam about her more difficult classes. (Crowley has always been good at business arithmetic, but physics? Not his bag.) It’s not the worst lunch break he’s ever had.
“Oh, hey!” Ariadne calls once Crowley finishes everyone’s leftover food and resigns himself to work. He glances at her from his place at the door. (Since when is ‘oh, hey’ an appropriate way to address one’s superior? Then again, when is it ever all right to wear sneakers to work? Ariadne is a lost cause.) “Someone named...” She pulls a slip of paper from her pocket and squints at it. “...Castiel Milton called for you today. I took a message, but wanted to run it past you first. Is he legit or does he go on the Black List?”
Crowley takes surprise fairly well, but he truly didn’t expect to receive any form of communication from Castiel. He clears his throat.
“Just patch him through next time,” Crowley answers, ignoring her raised eyebrows. Then, snidely: “If you think you can manage it.”
Ariadne looks riveted. “Is this... a guy? A guy guy?”
“You’re absolutely insipid,” Crowley seethes. “Why do you even work here? Did Arthur hire you? Arthur, you are no longer in charge of personnel.”
“Avoidance!” she exclaims, jabbing an accusing finger in his direction. “This is a guy! Oh, Crowley. The plot thickens.”
“One more word and you’re fired. Arthur, my office. Moose, back to work. Yusuf... go drive somewhere.”
“I haven’t finished eating,” Arthur protests, but Crowley is in such a mood that he snaps his fingers and replies, “Despite what Ariadne claims, lunch is a luxury, not a right.”
Arthur sighs but sets down his sandwich. He shoots Ariadne a pointed look and mutters, “I’ll kill you if you touch my food.” He swiftly moves to join Crowley in the hall. “I assume there’s a reason my lunch was abandoned inside enemy territory.”
Crowley gives a happy hum as he boards the elevator, Arthur at his side. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and rocks from his heels to his toes.
“You recall our Murphy Building problem?” Crowley asks, as the elevator moves one story up.
“The problem of us not inhabiting it? Yes, I do,” Arthur retorts, his tone bordering on sarcasm. “Judging by your behavior, you’ve formed a plan.”
The doors open; Crowley and Arthur breeze through.
“Friday night I had the most serendipitous meeting with Castiel Milton,” Crowley starts. “We actually had dinner at Beryl Blue, where he exposed the fact The Green Room is in direct competition with Sigils.”
“I see,” Arthur says, though Crowley notices Arthur has lost his relaxed stance. He pays no mind and barrels on.
“Green Room is significantly better funded than Castiel’s place, but a large donation would take them over the top. There would be no way for Sigils to compete. Castiel and Eames would be forced to close their operation and move out.” Crowley leads Arthur into his office; he plops into his desk chair while Arthur stands, statuesque, in the middle of the room. “Voila. We make the largest bid, the building is ours, and then we open the store and regain our investment within three years.”
Arthur is quiet for a moment, frowning at Crowley in a way that forms a line between his brows. Crowley frowns back. Why is Arthur not jumping at this chance? He wants the store as badly as Crowley, and has been assisting with the business model since day one.
“Let me see if I understand this,” he finally says, gracefully crossing his arms. “You and Castiel just happened to run into each other last Friday.”
“Yes,” Crowley impatiently answers. “I was passing by while he was locking up. Why is that important?”
“And then you invited him to dinner?”
“He asked if he could join me. Arthur, are you missing the part where I’ve found a completely legal and anonymous way to get them out of there?”
Arthur rarely questions Crowley’s plans, but his current expression suggests Crowley is missing a large piece of the puzzle. Crowley could say the same for Arthur.
“I assume this is the last you’ll see of Castiel,” Arthur goes on. Crowley stares.
“No,” he shortly answers. “May I ask what you’re trying to imply here, Arthur? Because as far as I’m concerned, your one job is do what I tell you, and I’m telling you to give the donation funds to the Green Room.”
“My one job is to make sure you don’t screw up,” Arthur boldly corrects. “You’re seeing Castiel again, aren’t you?”
“That isn’t even relevant!”
“Avoidance,” Arthur surmises, echoing Ariadne’s accusation from earlier-but his tone was significantly less gleeful. “You’re going to pretend to be this guy’s friend and then screw him over.”
Crowley’s blood grows furiously hot. Why is Arthur being so stubborn? Seldom has he questioned Crowley’s plans or motives in the past, but now he’s doing everything to keep them from moving forward.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Crowley asks, his tone dangerous as he stands and stalks around his desk. Arthur’s face is a calm mask, disinterested even as his arms fall and his hands curl at his sides. “Perhaps the reason you’re so dead-set against this? From the sounds of it, you have some sort of personal stake.”
“No,” Arthur bites out. “I don’t have a personal stake.”
“Really? Then you’ll run along and get the paperwork to Sam.” He pauses pointedly. “Unless you want to lose your job, in which case I can make that happen as well.”
Arthur’s jaw clenches, but then his entire body grows still, and at last he says, “Of course. I’ll tell Sam immediately.”
He turns on his heel and walks out. He doesn’t hurry, and he doesn’t slam the door. Crowley watches him go and wants to soak in the victory of being in charge. Crossroads Publishing belongs to Crowley. He has never allowed anyone else to influence how he does business, and look at how far he’s come.
But he doesn’t feel victorious at all. He feels shitty, like he always does after knocking Arthur down. It doesn’t happen often-in fact, the occurrence is so rare that Sam and the others practically view Crowley and Arthur as equals-but then Crowley will do something like this, something threatening, and Arthur will shed any fondness he may have for Crowley and become the cool, collected professional Crowley hired five years prior.
His office is pressingly silent. Crowley moves back to his chair and plops down miserably. He stares out the window. It's as gray and awful as ever, and the sun doesn’t look like it’s coming out anytime soon.
---
Crowley and Arthur don’t speak much for the rest of the week. Sam and Ariadne seem aware of the silent fight and keep their noses to the grindstone, not asking any questions outside their work duties. Crowley e-mails Sam to make sure Arthur actually sent Sam the appropriate instructions; Sam replies that he was already working on it, and Crowley is struck with the awful feeling of not trusting Arthur to do his job. By the time Friday rolls around, Crowley is almost eager to attend Darrow’s Gallery show. If anything, the bad art might distract him from his personal problems.
Gallery openings are a hit-or-miss ordeal, and this, Crowley decides, is definitely a miss. That’s not to say it isn’t well attended. There's an impressive number of people milling around but they’re less interested in the paintings and more interested in networking. The abstract paintings leave much to be desired, so Crowley indulges in the champagne floating around and hopes to be thoroughly smashed by the night’s end.
It’s probably for the best when he looks over at the entrance just in time to see Castiel open the door and walk inside. The first thing Crowley notices is that he’s forsaken last week’s trench monstrosity and settled for a dark suit, grey tie, and a warm, black jacket. The second thing he notices is that he’s wearing Crowley’s scarf again, and that his hair remains in a state of disarray. He looks... not bad, if Crowley’s honest, and he can’t help but watch to see what Castiel will do next.
A passing waiter stops to offer Castiel a glass; Castiel politely declines. Not much a drinker, then. His eyes dart around, as though looking for someone, but it’s crowded enough that he misses Crowley and appears to give up his search for the moment, shifting his attention to his tie, which he self-consciously smoothes out. He obviously isn’t comfortable with the art scene, either. One must wonder what he’s even doing here in the first place.
Crowley doesn’t expect to be the only person Castiel might know, but he does remember that they promised to meet, and it would be rude-though Crowley rarely cares about being rude-not to say hello. He begins navigating his way through the maze of patrons, intent on his path towards Castiel, only to stop when he notices Meg Masters has beaten him to it. She tosses her brown hair over her shoulders and sidles up to Castiel, who looks alarmed that a strange woman has approached him so casually.
“What do you think?” Crowley hears her ask. “Of the paintings, I mean.”
“They are very... monochromatic. I am not sure they would match the rest of my house, however,” he politely replies. Crowley takes a quick account of his surroundings to decide how he’ll handle this. The gallery is set up so that there is an exterior wall as well as several interior walls, and it is no trouble for him to turn around, zigzag his way through the walls and people, and approach Meg and Castiel from behind without them being any the wiser. He does exactly that, calmly, as though he’s not in any hurry.
Crowley’s frustrated by a few well-to-doers who stop to make small talk, but he manages to reach the duo within a minute, and is present just in time to hear Meg say, “...but I’m a writer rather than an artist, so who am I to judge?”
Castiel smiles again, but it’s a quick, forced thing. Crowley doesn’t blame him-he, too, would be uncomfortable if Meg decided to stand within mere inches of his person.
“I’m Meg,” she continues, sweet as sugar. “I’ve never seen you around before. Do you attend a lot of openings?”
“Occasionally,” Castiel hedges, an answer so vague that it offers Meg no concrete information. He sways from her, but she simply moves with him.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” she presses.
“James,” Castiel answers. Crowley wants to applaud him for lying. “If you’ll excuse me-”
“You’re leaving so soon?”
“I have a previous engagement,” Castiel insists turning away, but is prevented from moving any further when Meg catches his elbow.
“Stay a while,” she insists, smiling in what she probably thinks is a charming manner. “I came here alone and would love some company.”
Well. That settles that, then. Crowley downs the last of his champagne and strides towards them, no longer concerned with being noticed.
“I see your selective hearing is an effect,” he says, startling her enough so that she spins to face him, her delicate face contorting into something ugly. “I believe he said he has a previous engagement.” Crowley points to himself. “That would be me.”
“Crowley,” she spits. “I thought you’d be locked up in your tower and hunched over someone’s drunken ramblings.”
“And I thought you’d be selling yourself for a publishing deal. Looks like we were both mistaken.”
“Faggot,” she snarls, face red with fury, and she doesn’t even bother giving Castiel another look as she stalks off into the crowd, rudely elbowing her way past anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in her way. Castiel quietly watches her leave.
“Your list of enemies must be a mile long,” he finally declares. “Should I even ask who that was?”
“Meg Masters, best known for her father. He owns a publishing company that specializes in a very specific type of audience.”
Castiel frowns; Crowley rolls his eyes. It’s a good thing Cas has his looks, unkempt as they are.
“Kink,” he explains. “They print small runs, a few thousand copies for each new title. It’s filth, mostly. I’m sure you know nothing about it. Most of the time I can barely get past the first few pages, then it’s off into the recycling bin.”
“I see,” Castiel says, though he clearly doesn’t. And why should he? The dark world of underground pornographic novels is something he’s got no interest in exploring.
Crowley gestures towards a large canvas hanging behind Castiel. It’s smeared with paint and titled Untitled.
“I’ve been subjected to this garbage for nearly a half-hour,” he announces by way of changing the conversation. “My dog could do better.” He places the empty glass on a passing tray and continues with, “I know you had every intention of actually viewing the show. I don’t mind subjecting myself to it again.”
Castiel glances at him from the corner of his eye, sly as a fox. “Or?”
“Or we can blow this joint and get a drink somewhere.”
“I’m not opposed,” Castiel says, which Crowley takes as a yes and immediately leads them to the door, graciously saying farewell to the socialites and hipsters who stand in front of the paintings and search for meaning in the smears and splotches.
“I hate these gallery affairs,” Crowley declares the minute they’re outside. “They’re so bloody stuffy.”
“If you hate them, then why do you attend?” Castiel asks.
“I’m a successful publisher. It’s expected that I make an appearance, plus it helps me keep an eye on things. New writers, artists, etcetera.” He glances at Castiel. “Why do you go? You didn’t seem very impressed by anything.”
“I like to see what materials artists are using,” Castiel answers. “Sometimes it gives me ideas for projects I can teach the kids. There was an altered book exhibit last month, and one of them used twigs for a book binding. Finding ways to use common things ensures we never run short of materials.”
“Oh, dear. It sounds like I’m talking to a tree-hugger. Are you one of those bleeding-heart liberals?”
Castiel’s lips twitch. “I have a heart, if that’s what you mean.”
“Touché,” Crowley says as they turn onto what appears to be an unsavory corner. Castiel pauses for a moment, uncomfortable with the dingy street. It’s the sort of street where movie extras are usually stabbed, shot, or attacked by zombies, and it seems counter-evolutionary to go willingly.
“Don’t get nervous on me now,” Crowley says as he catches sight of Castiel’s wary expression. “We’re nearly there.”
Crowley’s footsteps slow even as he’s speaking, until he stops in front of a rundown building sandwiched between a pawn shop and a used record store that is no longer in business. ‘The Roadhouse’ is spelled in unreliable neon letters; ‘he’ and ‘R’ are blown, leaving the word ‘Toadhouse’. Castiel squints at the rusty door handle.
“This is where you go drinking?” he asks. “It seems a little bit déclassé for your tastes.”
“I’m a man full of surprises,” Crowley replies, opening the door with an exaggerated flourish and gesturing for Castiel to enter first.
The inside is cleaner than the exterior suggests. It’s still run-down and aged, but there’s a pride in the shined tabletops and stacked glasses. There aren’t many patrons, and the few who are there don’t seem interested in making conversation. A dark-haired woman looks up from behind the counter.
“Crowley,” she greets, sounding surprised. “Haven’t seen your smug mug around lately.”
“Ellen, your condescension is, as always, much appreciated,” Crowley says. “Castiel, this is Ellen, who might be kind enough to serve us drinks without the bitchy backtalk.”
“Crowley,” Castiel admonishes, but Ellen only laughs and points at two stools. “C’mon and sit your butts down. What’s your poison, Castiel? We got whiskey, beer... well, whiskey and beer.”
“Beer, please,” he answers. She hands him a thick glass of foamy gold, and pours Crowley a shot without needing to ask his preference.
“So what brings you to my humble neck of the woods?” Ellen asks, leaning over the counter, the total opposite of every female bartender Crowley has ever known. He’s always been fond of her clean face and unassuming clothes, buttoned so as to hide the body beneath. It’s tasteful, and saves Crowley from the pressure of looking anywhere but down.
“We just broke out of a gallery show,” Crowley answers. “They tried to stop us, naturally, but we used our wiles and wits to outsmart them.”
“Then I think this first round is on me, as a congratulations for your keen survival skills,” Ellen remarks, and then looks at Castiel before putting a hand on her hip. “Why’s an upstanding gentleman like yourself hanging out with this slimeball?”
“It was him or the show,” Castiel answers, smiling at Crowley’s glare at being called a slimeball. “I tried to pick the lesser of the two evils, but it was a difficult decision.”
Ellen whistles. “Well played. Crowley, I like this guy. Try not to scare him off this time, yeah?”
A man in the corner lifts his beer glass in silent request for a refill, and Ellen sighs, saying, “Work calls. Bellow if you need anything. Jukebox is free, but no power ballads, understand? Like I don’t get enough of those when Jo’s around.”
Castiel nods dutifully while Crowley merely rolls his eyes, as though he would lower himself to using a jukebox in the first place.
“Do you often ‘scare’ men away?” Castiel asks, once Ellen’s out of earshot.
Crowley shoots another glare at her turned back before answering, “As I’m sure you can already tell, my work schedule tends to intimidate the fainthearted. But I consider it a process of natural selection, really. It helps to weed out unacceptable applicants.”
“'Applicants'?” Castiel dryly echoes. “It’s a wonder men aren’t falling at your feet.”
“Oh, I like that, Mr. Married to His Work. If Eames weren’t there, all you’d do all day is fill out paperwork and hang around children.”
Castiel’s eyes widen before he buries his face in his hands.
“Don’t say that,” comes the muffled plea. “It makes me sound like such a creep.”
“‘Castiel the Creeper’ has a bit of a ring to it,” Crowley goes on, motivated by the fact Castiel asked him not to. “Kind of like a superhero name, if one considers the monitoring of children by single, middle-aged men to be a heroic act.”
Ellen returns, glancing at Castiel and then giving Crowley a what-did-you-say-now look.
“What?" Crowley protests, wilting beneath the force of her silent accusation. Castiel responds by downing the last of his beer and miserably shoving the glass towards her, hoping for another.
“So,” she says, pointedly moving the conversation to safer waters while she gives Cas a refill. “How’s Arthur these days?”
“He was well the last time I saw him,” Castiel answers as Crowley opens his mouth to do the same. “I’ll be the first to admit I pride myself in organization and efficiency, but Arthur puts me to shame.”
Crowley frowns at the comment. How did Castiel and Arthur know one another? Had Crowley sent Arthur to RWS for any reason? Had Arthur stopped by to gather intel, so to speak? If so, why hadn’t he mentioned anything?
“I wasn’t aware you two knew each other,” Crowley finally says.
“I believe he and Eames met at Gabriel’s,” Castiel answers. Crowley resists every temptation to roll his eyes, because of course Gabriel would somehow be involved. “Eames seems quite taken with him.”
“And Arthur?” Ellen presses, eyebrows raised and obviously interested in this new development. Crowley sits in stunned silence for a moment, letting the words sink in while the conversation becomes muted and faraway. Arthur and Eames? Arthur doesn’t date anyone, and certainly not... not annoying Englishmen with poor taste in clothing. Hell, Crowley would have bet money that Arthur was asexual, for all the romantic interest he shows in other human beings.
Crowley suddenly feels numb and fiddles with his whiskey glass while the scene in his office replays in his head. Perhaps the reason you’re so dead-set against this? From the sounds of it, you have some sort of personal stake. It must have been a slap in Arthur’s face. Crowley might as well physically hit him, judging by Arthur’s stony reaction.
“...can’t say for sure, but he doesn’t seem opposed. He has stopped by a few times,” Castiel is saying. Crowley returns his attention to the conversation, now treating Castiel’s news as vital information. If Arthur’s affected, or if he plans to alert Eames to Crowley’s plan, then Crowley needs to know.
Castiel, however, is not a practiced drinker, and the first two beers have begun to press against his bladder. He excuses himself for a moment, leaving Ellen and Crowley to their own devices. Normally Crowley would take pleasure in irritating her somehow, but he’s too stuck in the spider web of revelations to give her his full attention.
“Spill,” she demands the moment Castiel disappears behind the restroom door. “This guy is a doll. Where did you meet him?”
“We aren’t dating,” Crowley sternly replies, his mind pulling itself in various directions: the way Arthur has obviously been hurt by Crowley’s thoughtless words; the way Castiel has spent two Friday nights with him; the way Ellen seems intent to keep Crowley around, despite knowing he’s an evil son of a bitch, and yet she must see something in him, something redeemable.
“No, you just went to an art opening and then out for drinks afterward. Very platonic,” she says. “Seriously, Crowley, Castiel’s a winner. You keep a good hold on him, or I’ll snatch him up myself.”
When Castiel returns, the empty beer glass is gone and Ellen is tending some change. It’s just as well, considering Castiel wasn’t planning to drink anymore. He reaches for his own wallet, but Ellen shakes her head and nods towards Crowley.
“He covered both the tabs. Tipped, too,” she explains.
“I thought I made it clear that I am capable of paying for myself,” Castiel says. Crowley shrugs. If Arthur were present, he’d be the first to tell Castiel that Crowley’s hearing and memory are very, very selective.
“Well, I did drag you across creation to get here. Seems only fair that I cover it this time.”
“Then I am paying next time,” Castiel declares, and tries to drop the subject altogether by turning to Ellen and placing a five dollar bill on the counter.
“I hope you will do my pride the favor of accepting a tip,” he says. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Ellen says, accepting the money despite Castiel’s suspicion that Crowley’s tip was probably overly generous. “I want to see you both again, this time without the monthly absences,” she goes on, giving Crowley a significant look. “You may be uptown, but don’t forget you've got other friends.”
Crowley’s expression flickers for a moment, going slightly soft as he says, “It’s a deal, under the condition that you let me buy this place an honest-to-god sound system. Jukeboxes died with poodle skirts.”
“Jo would hunt you down like the dog you are,” Ellen points out. “Now get out of here.”
They give her a final wave at the door, and start towards the gallery again, for no reason than it was their original starting point. The temperature has dropped significantly, and Castiel is forced to shove his hands into his jacket pockets to save them from the cold. The silence is comfortable as they walk. Castiel’s isn’t exactly a motor mouth, and Crowley is trying to deal with the bombshell that Castiel inadvertently dropped.
“You didn’t know about Arthur and Eames, did you?” Castiel finally asks, glancing over at him. “I hope he won’t be reprimanded for any reason.”
“No, of course not,” Crowley answers. “Though you did say Eames isn’t a prime example of monogamy. I should warn you that I and my band of underlings will go great lengths to ensure Eames doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“I’ve already spoken with him about it,” Castiel replies. “It’s my understanding he plans to take this relationship seriously.”
Crowley isn’t fully satisfied with this, but there’s nothing he can do about it tonight. They reach the gallery again, still alight with people and paintings, and a few taxis are circling around, waiting for the inevitable exodus of drunken socialites. Crowley waves a cab over.
“You take this one. I’ll get another,” he offers. Castiel hesitates; he’s so proud, Crowley thinks, with his reluctance to let Crowley pay for anything or even give up a bloody cab when there are plenty more in the city. Crowley pushes slightly by saying, “You never know, Meg might still be around. Best not tempt fate.”
Out of habit, Crowley reaches to open the door for Castiel, only to find the move obliterates their respective personal bubbles. He considers stepping back again, but realizes it would make the situation even more awkward. He hears Castiel suck in a breath but not release it.
“Thank you for a nice evening,” Castiel blurts. “It was-much more entertaining than I could have hoped.”
“No problem,” Crowley numbly replies. His fingers twitch, and he thinks that the night has been in his control until right now, when it suddenly feels different, like he should do something, like-oh, hell, he doesn’t know. He’s versed in charming authors and buyers and business assholes, but not... this. “Have a nice night, then,” he says and abruptly turns to go back into the gallery, much preferring to face those awful people than Castiel, who’s still standing there as if he expected things to end differently.
---
The thing about fighting with Arthur is that he absolutely refuses to show his hand. His poker face gives nothing away, and his routine never changes. Point of fact: it’s 7:00 A.M., and Arthur is already in his office, hard at work. Crowley holds a cup of coffee in one hand and bag of Gabriel’s éclairs in the other and stands just outside, listening to the tap tap tap of Arthur typing. Crowley wishes he could leave his gifts at the doorway and avoid an inevitably awkward conversation, or-better yet-refuse to address the issue at all, but Crowley is rich in everything except friends, and Arthur isn’t someone he can afford to lose over a petty spat. Someone needs to be the bigger man. Someone needs to let go of their pride. Someone needs to grow a pair and admit they were wrong.
Damn it.
Crowley clears his throat and steps into the doorway.
“Morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” Arthur calmly replies, like nothing’s happened. Crowley would have been fooled by that five years ago, but now he can read Arthur’s hurt and anger like words on a page.
“Look, let’s not beat around the bush,” Crowley says, and steps inside to set his gifts on Arthur’s desk. “These are peace offerings. Not good ones, but it’s the best I could do for so early in the morning. Furthermore, I understand you and a certain gentleman who hails from across the pond have begun a correspondence-”
Arthur’s eyes flash upwards to meet Crowley’s. His expression is so enraged that Crowley falls silent.
“Have you been monitoring me?” he demands. “Damnit, Crowley, you stoop, but I never knew how low-”
“Cas told me, all right? It was an accident! It’s not like I was fishing for information.”
“Cas?” Arthur incredulously echoes. His tone suggests one of two things: either he can’t believe Crowley referred to Castiel via nickname, or that Crowley wasn’t intentionally fishing for information-perhaps both. “Since when does Cas-you know what? Never mind. Let me make this clear to you: I am capable of handling this. You don’t need to worry that Eames will affect my judgment. If that’s all you’re after, then please leave me to my work.”
That is, of course, a terrible lie. Eames has already affected Arthur’s judgment, and this fight is proof of that. Crowley chooses not to point that out and clears his throat again.
“I had thought,” he starts, struggling for dignity and sincerity at the same time, “that I could offer some kind of reparations. As a gesture of good will.”
Arthur gives him a calculating look. He leans back into his chair and steeples his fingers together, and Crowley suddenly has the sinking feeling that Arthur is going to exploit this offer in some way. Arthur may have been born with a natural poker face, but Crowley taught the kid everything he knows about milking a situation-he just never expected for Arthur to turns those lessons against him.
“Reparations,” Arthur echoes. “That’s uncharacteristically kind of you, Crowley.”
Perhaps it is, but Crowley can’t deny Arthur is on his Short List of People He Halfway Cares About. Ariadne and Sam figure on there, too. And Gabriel, on good days.
"I was thinking-"
“So this weekend’s zine expo,” Arthur continues, ignoring Crowley’s protesting groan.
“The zine expo?” Crowley whines. This isn’t turning out how he wanted, not at all. He expected Arthur to ask for a raise, or a week off, or something Crowley could happily give. “I detest zines. That’s why I send you in the first place!”
"I have an engagement that weekend," Arthur says pointedly. "I don't think it's too much to ask. And then we can consider the matter behind us."
Crowley tosses his hands up. It’s best to let Arthur think he’s won some monumental victory before the weasel starts pushing for more.
“It’s a deal, you conniving bastard.”
“I learned all my conniving from you,” Arthur points out. “And remember to pick up all the craft zines. That’s why we’re doing this in the first place.”
“I still can’t believe we’re catering to crafters,” Crowley sullenly complains. “I know the market’s hungry for more artsy bologna, but we should be above that.”
“We’re never above making a profit,” comes Arthur’s reasonable response. Crowley can’t argue the point, and doesn’t really want to. He doesn’t want to argue at all. It’s been a bloody awful time without Arthur as his right-hand man, and he’s ready to get back their old camaraderie-even if he must suffer for it.
“Crowley,” Arthur says, his voice stopping Crowley in the doorway. He gives Crowley a hard look, and then sighs, seeming to take sympathy for Crowley’s plight. “If it’s any consolation, Eames says Castiel attends the expo every year. He’ll be there. Maybe you two could make a day of it.”
That... is actually a remarkable reversal of fortune. He hums like he could care less, but picks up his phone the minute he’s safely within his own office. He quickly Googles Sigils’ number and punches it in.
“Hello?” someone answers. The accent certainly isn’t Castiel’s.
“Let me talk to Cas, preferably without any of your insipid commentary,” Crowley demands.
“Oh ho! It’s Sarcastic Man in Dark Suit!” Crowley rolls his eyes. He knew the no-commentary request was a long shot. “Cas, darling,” Eames goes on, sounding farther away, “your suitor’s on the phone! Shall I take a message?”
It sounds like a tussle follows the question, punctuated by Eames’ laughter, and then: “My apologies. Eames is insufferable.”
“Eames? No, I can hardly believe it.”
Crowley leans back in his chair and taps his finger against the armrest, hoping the relaxed posture might help his next question sound relaxed as well. He certainly doesn’t want this to sound like a date. Perhaps the word company would help. Crowley reasons that company is an innocent term that can include anyone for any reason, even if it’s two men-who-fancy-other-men who’ll be spending their third weekend together.
“I understand you attend the downtown zine expo every year. It seems like I’ve been conned into going myself. I was wondering if you’d like some company,” Crowley says, pleased with the word choice. Completely casual, but enough to maybe convince Cas to go with him. Crowley fears for his own sanity if he’s forced to face it alone.
“Oh,” Castiel says, sounding surprised but pleased. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
“Shall we meet at noon?”
“Yes,” Castiel answers, clearly smiling. “That would be-oh, Eames, those books were already organized!” A tired sigh, and then, “I look forward to it. Unfortunately, I must go before two day’s worth of alphabetizing is ruined.”
“Then by all means, go. Although I’ll be the first to say Eames’ inability to alphabetize might directly correlate to his inability to read.”
“I’ll make sure he knows you said that.”
“Good,” Crowley drawls, and hangs up.
---
On Saturday, at precisely twelve o’clock, Crowley finds himself starting at the expo center’s doorway and wishing he could be anywhere but here. He’s been watching people walk in and out, looking for all the world like normal folks, but there’s just something about self-edited, self-illustrated, self-assembled magazines that makes him want to locate a high window and hurl himself off the ledge.
There’s an art to the professionally published manuscript. There’s typesetting, and cover design, and shipping strategies, all of which take a team effort, and it’s a sin against nature for some moron to juggle all those tasks for the sake of a one-man magazine.
Castiel hasn’t shown, and Crowley wishes he’d hurry up. He feels naked here, and has the distinct impression that everyone knows he doesn’t belong. Arthur would argue he’s being paranoid, but paranoia and Crowley are lifelong friends. It's what’s kept him at the top while other businesses have blossomed and withered.
He whips out his phone for the sake of looking busy.
This is not worth your friendship, he texts Arthur.
After a moment, Arthur responds, Quit stalling and start browsing before all the good stuff is gone.
Arthur knows him well. With an irritated grunt, Crowley shoves the phone back into his pocket and casts one more look at the entryway. He’s never subscribed to the school of handmade goods, so he’s naturally repelled by the thought of attending an event where artisans-of books, if nothing else-have gathered together en masse to inflict their shoddy writing skills upon the world. There are a few diamonds in the rough, and normally Arthur is the one to pick those diamonds out (the man is a bloodhound when it comes to best-sellers), but nothing about this month has been normal, so Crowley’s not surprised to find himself standing around like a moron while trying, and failing, not to judge everyone around him.
It’s a godsend when his phone alerts him of a new e-mail. It’s from Chuck Shurley, who has sent him a rambling, half-cognizant list of potential plot changes since Crowley had so viciously objected to the first draft. Crowley squints at the changes and immediately hates all of them except for the last, where the angel character begins battling a civil war in Heaven. It might work, so long as fans get their happily ever after.
“Crowley,” says a familiar voice. Crowley looks up to see Castiel standing beside him, with a smile as calm as the day is long. He must have walked in the moment Crowley’s attention was elsewhere. “I see you’re hard at work.”
Castiel looks the same as always, up to the scarf Crowley had loaned him and suspects he’ll never get back. Crowley is strangely fine with that.
“It’s Shurley,” Crowley explains, in turns frustrated and peeved. “If he thinks I’m going to let him make decisions about his own writing, then he has another thing coming. Some of these ideas he’s pitching are ludicrous.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to letting him write what he wishes,” Castiel says. “He’s gotten this far without your assistance.”
Crowley is busy typing back a rapid-fire message, but he’s got enough mind to reply, “I’ve been suspicious of Chuck’s motives ever since he introduced that dark-haired, well-dressed demon who pawns souls for a living. Call me crazy, but it’s a bit like looking into a mirror. And secondly, Chuck can’t write without someone looming over him, figuratively speaking.” Crowley finishes the message and sends it with a definitive button press. “It makes him nervous, and nerves make him productive. He manages to let go of the liquor bottle long enough to bang a book out.”
“I see,” Castiel says, frowning, like he’s trying to match the author he admires with the man Crowley’s just described. Crowley finds he doesn’t like that Castiel is disappointed by this, so he puts his phone away and says, by way of distraction, “I haven’t gone inside yet, but I suspect it’s something close to hell in there.”
Castiel elbows him in the ribs.
“This isn’t hell, as you claim,” Castiel corrects him as they enter the room together. “If anything, you should appreciate what’s going on here. These are people who love writing so much that they invest their time and money in self-publishing. I find it very admirable.”
There are booths set up in rows, each stacked with magazines, many of which are constructed by hand. Glittery banners are hanging from the booth walls and women with stenciled sneakers and hand-knit scarves are mulling around, thumbing through their fellow writers’ publications. There’s a fair share of men around, too, some with earrings and some with jeans that look like they’ve seen better decades, and Crowley resists every urge to slap them and demand where their dignity ran off to.
“If everyone decided to publish their own books, I’d be out of a job,” Crowley mutters. “I should certainly not appreciate anything about this.”
Castiel shakes his head. “I very much doubt the whole world is going to abandon professional publishing all in one day,” he says, but he’s smiling the whole time, clearly at ease with his surroundings for once.
“Do you know any of these psychos?” Crowley asks, figuring he ought to be on his best behavior if that’s the case. Castiel looks like he’s about to answer, but the question becomes moot when someone calls out Castiel’s name.
A pretty brunette woman is waving to them a few booths down, smiling as Castiel approaches her. She moves out of her seat to give him a hug.
“Sarah,” Castiel greets her, returning the smile when they let go. “I see you’re still writing about antiques. The cover design is lovely.” Castiel picks up the small zine and flips through it.
Sarah grins. “I thought so, too. I have enough subscribers that I sprung for full-color this time around.” Her gaze flicks over to Crowley, like she’s not used to seeing Castiel with other people. Crowley doesn’t exactly fault her. She asks, “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Fergus Crowley,” Castiel informs her, reaching over and tugging at the hem of Crowley’s coat sleeve, gently inviting him closer. Crowley’s natural inclination is to resist, but he shuffles nearer to them, nodding politely to Sarah.
Sarah laughs. “I can tell this is totally your scene, Mr. Crowley. Your suit really helps you blend in with the natives.”
Crowley is struck with a moment of disbelief, unable to fathom that he might actually be over-dressed. In his defense, he’s wearing what he always wears, and it’s not like Sarah isn’t strutting around in a little black number, either. Crowley is searching for a tactful way to say just that, when Sarah slaps a friendly hand on Castiel’s shoulder and says, “Hey, come up to the store sometime. I’ve been saving a bunch of little odds and ends for you. Keys, old books, your favorites!”
“You should sell those items, Sarah,” Castiel objects with a frown. “I don’t wish to affect your profit in any way.”
Sarah waves her hand to dismiss his concern. “We only deal in the big stuff, you know that. Seriously, come visit. We haven’t hung out in ages. You can even bring your awkward friend.”
Crowley wants to argue the awkward part, except Castiel seems so pleased that Crowley surrenders. He lets Castiel be the not-awkward half of their duet, just this once.
“We will certainly stop by, then,” Castiel promises, and then buys a zine from her despite Sarah’s insistence that he take one for free.
It seems like every booth owner knows Castiel by name, greeting him with a hug or handshake, and then exchanging brief updates about their lives or writing. Castiel, in turn, makes a point of including Crowley in the introductions and buys a copy of each zine at the show. Crowley remembers to purchase his own copies of craft-related material (if only to prevent Arthur’s exasperated bitching), but he’s more preoccupied with the fact Castiel’s ‘oh, I’m just your average man living in New York’ cover is officially blown. The man is friends with some highly questionable individuals. Antique Sarah and Travel Writer Susan might pass a psychiatric exam, but Andy (who publishes MCMLX, complete with a tie-dye cover that makes Crowley ill), Damien and Barnes (whose publication was practically a thesis on computer repair), and Ash (what sort of name is that? Does he have a brother named Soot? What are parents thinking?), are all freaks. Crowley tried not to judge for the first few introductions before giving it up as futile.
Speaking of whom, Ash (who writes a little something called Party in the Program, a zine about computer programming, of all the dismal topics) has ensnared Castiel in a conversation that Crowley can’t translate. He suspects Castiel isn’t faring much better, so he scans the surrounding area for an excuse to detach themselves from Ash’s enthusiastic but ultimately indiscernible barrage, when another passing browser accidentally bumps his elbow. They turn simultaneously to apologize, though the polite ‘excuse me’ dies on Crowley’s tongue when the thick-rimmed glasses, inexcusable hair, and squirrely face register in his memory.
“You,” Crowley snarls.
“Crowley!” Chuck’s already pale complexion whitens further. “What are you doing here?”
“The better question is what are you doing here,” Crowley says, pissed that Chuck is gallivanting around town when he should be working his scrawny arse off to meet the new deadline. “You swore on your mother’s grave that you wouldn’t stop writing until you salvaged your laughable excuse for a book.”
A sweat breaks on Chuck’s forehead. He stutters.
“My mother’s not really dead,” he nervously admits, punctuating the admission with a dying laugh. “Actually, she lives in a retirement home in Cincinnati and plays a mean game of bingo. Isn’t that funny? I think it’s funny.”
“I could not conceivably care less about your mother’s bingo abilities,” Crowley snaps. “What I do care about is that book. A fan base doesn’t wait around forever. The longer you sit around and procrastinate, the fewer books we’re going to sell, and do you know what happens to authors who can’t sell their work?”
Chuck shakes his head, terrified.
“They move to Cincinnati to live with their mothers.”
Chuck makes a strange eeping noise, as though the prospect is so awful it renders him speechless.
“Now,” Crowley says, voice dangerous as he slips his arm around Chuck’s neck, “unless your life’s goal is to win the weekly potholder prize after scoring that vital five in a row, I would suggest gluing your carcass to a chair and finishing what you started.”
“Okay, okay, I’m on it! I swear to God!” Chuck’s magnified gaze darts around, trying to spot someone who might rescue him from Crowley’s wrath. His eyes land on Castiel. “You!” he exclaims, pointing a finger towards Cas. “Are you with him?” The finger rotates towards Crowley.
“He is indeed,” Crowley answers, because if Chuck thinks Cas can help him, then he’s in for a cold reality check. “He’s actually quite a fan. One who will be devastated if you don’t get back to work.”
Chuck blinks. His fear is momentarily forgotten.
“You’re a fan?” he asks, looking to Crowley for confirmation. “I have a fan?”
“You have thousands of fans,” Castiel gently corrects him. “I’ve read all your books. I speak for everyone when I say we truly hope to read the next installment soon.”
“The next installment was finished!” Chuck argues. “I sent it in and everything!”
“I wouldn’t use that manuscript for kindling,” Crowley grumbles.
Chuck shoots Crowley a betrayed look.
“Perhaps,” Castiel says, carefully, “you might go online and research what your fans would like to see. Adam’s fate might have some interest. Not to mention most of your readers suspect the romance between-”
“Whoa, hold on.” Chuck has the audacity to hold up his hand. “You’re going to say the hunter/angel romance, right? Well, I hate to break it to you, but I never planned a romance. It just kind of happened by accident, and now I’m trying to fix all that.”
Crowley wants to die. There’s nothing to fix! The “accidental” romance is what is selling the books, and now Chuck wants to shoot himself and Crossroads in the foot? That isn’t happening. He’ll kill Chuck and ghostwrite the damn thing himself if he has to.
“Hey, amigos,” Ash cuts in. “Not to break up this party, but you’re blockin’ progress.”
True to fact, they’ve been holding their discussion in front of Ash’s booth and potential customers by proxy. Castiel looks like he’s about to apologize, but Ash just holds up his hand and says, “No worries, man. And look, Four Eyes, I’m no expert, but I once spent half of a summer passed out on a pool table. It’s a long story and the details are blurry, but the moral is that I spent the other half of that summer trying to write the next great American novel. It was shit. The only time it wasn’t shit was when I stopped trying to control everything and let the characters do the talkin’. If there’s a romance, then there’s a romance. Nothin’ to be done about it.”
“Unbelievably, I agree with the mullet man,” Crowley says. Ash bows, generously ignoring the insult to his hair.
Chuck stares at them with slightly bloodshot eyes. He huffs. He puts his hands on his hips. Finally, he slumps, lets his arms fall, and says, “I think I need a sounding board. Volunteers? Anyone will be considered so long as they’re not named Fergus Crowley. No offense.”
“None taken,” Crowley dryly retorts, and then carefully propels Castiel a few steps forward. “Take this one. He’s nice enough not to mock you, and I have to deliver these little literary gems to Arthur anyway.”
Chuck squints at Castiel who stares back. Crowley knows better than to misread Castiel’s silence as disinterest: the man would eat his shoes for a chance to meet one of his favorite authors, and now they’re planning to have coffee or lunch or whatever it is that a failing writer does to climb out of a rut.
“You won’t laugh? Really?”
Castiel nods. Chuck visibly brightens.
“Right, okay, this is great! Look, stay right here, I gotta go say bye to Andy, but I’ll be back,” he promises.
Crowley grunts as Chuck, in his usual overactive, stuttering manner, hurries away.
“The moron didn’t even ask your name. A sign of desperation if I’ve ever seen one.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing Chuck can do that years with Eames won't have prepared me for,” Cas says, smiling. “Although, I suppose this means we won’t see each other the rest of the weekend.”
“Oh, come on. Now you can tell all your geeky reading friends that you had coffee with the great Carver Edlund. That beats out reading lousy magazines with yours truly.”
“Perhaps,” Cas doubtfully agrees. “Though since we’ve had to cut today short, you should consider stopping by Sigils on Monday. It’s our first opening day. We’re having a Girl Scout troop scheduled to bind books, and-” His sentence stops like someone walking into a brick wall. He clears his throat. “I suppose I’d just like to see you.”
Crowley’s brain is still processing this information when Chuck returns, announcing, “Ready to go,” as he tugs on his jacket and straightening those ridiculous glasses, oblivious to what he’s just interrupted. “Thanks again for helping me. Hey, you got a name? Wait, no, first question: did readers like Balthazar? I mean, not like you took a survey or anything, but maybe you got a general sense of it? Because I was thinking he should be re-introduced, back from the dead. It’s not like I haven’t brought everyone else back, I guess, one way or another-”
Their voices fade as the reach the exit. Bringing back that smarmy character is actually a good idea, as far as Crowley’s concerned. He hopes Cas advocates it.
Cas turns at the door, catches Crowley’s eye, and waves goodbye. His smile isn’t one Crowley’s seen before, but there it is, directed at him.
Completely oblivious to all the plans his presence in Crowley's life obstructs.
Part 3!