Chapter Text
The designated place for their meeting was the sort of second-rate establishment he avoided like the plague, these days. Something in the environment, in the mournful jazzy tunes and the worn-out faces of the patrons, oozed a quiet menace. The wood-paneled walls seemed to absorb sound, the quiet murmur of voices barely rising above the soft clink of glasses and plates. Crowley hated it the moment he walked in. The lighting was dim, the kind of unsettling murkiness that felt oppressive rather than charming, casting elongated shadows that crept like specters across the saloon.
Hastur had chosen well. This wasn’t a place for people with clean hands.
Crowey spotted him right away, hunched over a glass of whisky at the corner booth, his shoulders tense as though he were already spoiling for a fight. Hastur’s face was just as Crowley remembered it—sharp, lined with resentment, his mouth permanently twisted into something unpleasant. He looked up as Crowley approached, his eyes narrowing.
“Crowley,” Hastur greeted, his voice a perfect combination of disdain and mock cordiality. “Still slithering through life, I see.”
“And you? Still barking at shadows?” Crowley slid into the booth with a practiced nonchalance, his purple-tinted sunglasses reflecting the pale glow of the overhead light. He tilted his head, giving Hastur a once-over. “Time hasn’t been kind, old friend.”
“Didn’t expect you to turn up,” Hastur said, ignoring the jab.
“Curiosity got the better of me,” Crowley replied, signaling a passing waiter. A whisky on the rocks was brought to him almost immediately. At least the service was decent. “Let’s not pretend this is a social call. What do you want?”
Hastur leaned back, his hands clasped in front of him as though he were a man with all the time in the world. “Straight to the point. I can respect that.”
“I’m not looking for your respect,” Crowley said coolly. “I’m looking for the fastest way out of this conversation.”
Hastur’s smile was more of a grimace, his yellow teeth bared in something that wasn’t even remotely friendly. “The bosses are willing to forgive.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Didn’t realize I needed forgiving.”
“You know what I mean. That mess with Ligur,” Hastur replied, his tone hardening.
The name landed like a punch to the gut. Although Crowley felt the weight of it vividly, he refused to let it show. He picked up the glass the waiter had placed in front of him, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip.
“That wasn’t on me,” he said coldly.
“Don’t give me that crap.” Hastur slammed a hand on the table, causing the glasses to rattle. Always so quick to lose his bearings—he hadn’t changed at all. There were glances thrown their way, murmurs from the crowd. “You botched the job, and he paid the price.”
Crowley set his glass down with deliberate care, the clink of it on the table unnervingly loud in the quiet space. His eyebrows were pinched together ever so faintly. “Ligur made his choice,” he said, his throat dry. “Not my fault he couldn’t handle the heat.”
Hastur’s face darkened, his knuckles white against the edge of the table. “You were always slippery.” There it was—that deep-seated resentment bubbling to the surface. Even before the incident, they’d never been friendly towards each other. Hastur took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “But the bosses, they’re willing to let bygones be bygones.”
Crowley laughed, a bitter, mirthless sound. “Oh, so I’m just that good?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Hastur replied curtly. “You’re useful. That’s all.”
“How magnanimous of them.” Crowley leaned back, awkwardly crossing one leg over the other. The booth was small, not conditioned for his long, constantly shifting limbs. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll pass.”
“You haven’t even heard the offer.”
“Don’t need to.” Crowley took a long sip of his drink, finding the heat of the saloon suddenly unbearable. He grimaced, the taste bitter on his tongue. Cheap stuff, unpleasant even to an unrefined palate. “I’m out of that game. Been out for years.”
Hastur’s lips curled into a sneer. “You think you’re better than us now, Crowley? Trading blood for—”
“Careful,” Crowley interrupted, his voice sharp.
Hastur smirked, leaning back in his seat as though he’d won some unspoken battle. Crowley silently cursed himself. He’d gotten a rise out of him, just as he’d wanted. “Suit yourself,” Hastur said, shrugging. “Not like I expected you to have the stomach for real work anymore.”
Crowley’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something—disgust, perhaps—in the set of his jaw. He drained his glass, the alcohol burning as it went down, before setting it back on the table with a definitive clink. “Are we done here?”
“Not quite,” Hastur said, his tone almost conversational now. He picked idly at his nails, not looking at Crowley in the eye. “You know how the job is. Stressful, grueling. Sometimes a man needs to unwind.” He lifted his gaze, at last, letting the implication sink in. “What’s your going rate these days?”
For a moment, Crowley didn’t react. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his expression a quiet mask of contempt. Hastur refused to back away, their breaths mingling in the dark corner. “Not enough to deal with you,” Crowley said, each word precise and cutting. “You couldn’t afford me.”
Hastur laughed, a short, sharp bark of a sound. “Touchy, aren’t we?”
Finally, Hastur stood. Crowley didn’t bother to look up as he tossed some cash on the table to cover his drink. “You can’t run forever, Crowley. The past has a way of catching up,” he said, gravelly. Then he turned and strode out of the restaurant, his shoulders stiff with barely-contained rage. After all this time, a few well-chosen words were enough to get to him.
Crowley stayed seated, staring at the empty glass in front of him. The waiter approached cautiously, refilling his drink without a word. Crowley nodded in thanks, though he didn’t take a sip. He just sat there, lost in thought, the ghosts of past mistakes lingering around him like smoke from a fire.
The night air outside the brothel was damp and heavy, laced with the stale tang of car exhaust and the faint, acrid scent of spilled beer from the nearby pub. Crowley leaned against the peeling brick wall beside the entrance, a cigarette perched between his lips, unlit and mocking him. His lighter sputtered uselessly in his hand, each failed flick of the wheel worsening his mood.
“Bloody useless piece of—” he muttered, as if the lighter could somehow sense the depth of his disdain.
It had been a long day, and his brief encounter with Hastur earlier had left a bitter taste in his mouth that not even nicotine could drown out. He shoved the lighter into his pocket with more force than necessary, debating whether to give up entirely or march back inside for a working match.
“Do you need a light?”
The voice was soft, tentative, and only vaguely familiar. Crowley looked up to find Mr. Fell standing in front of him, holding out a small silver lighter.
Crowley’s lips quirked into a lopsided grin. “Well, aren’t you a lifesaver?”
He leaned forward, allowing Mr. Fell to light his cigarette. The faint click of the lighter echoed in the stillness of the alleyway. The flame flickered between them, momentarily illuminating Mr. Fell’s face—the nervous crease between his brows, the flush on his cheeks, the awkward way he held the lighter as though it might burn him. He was a curious fellow, somewhat endearing in his anxious mannerisms.
Crowley took a deep drag, exhaling a stream of smoke that curled lazily into the night air. He tilted his head, allowing the sunglasses to slip down his nose, just enough to reveal a glimpse of clear hazel eyes under the faint glow of the streetlamp. “You alone?” he asked, batting his eyelashes, the words dripping with playful malice. He knew the answer to his question, of course, but couldn’t contain himself. It was always a treat, in nights like this—to drag his claws across the fur of some unsuspecting mouse.
Mr. Fell blinked rapidly, always so easily flustered. “Oh, no, no, no! I, um…” He gestured vaguely toward the door of the brothel, his free hand fluttering in a way that reminded Crowley of a panicked bird. He followed the motion with sharp, unblinking eyes. “I’ve already… you know, uh, had an appointment.”
“Have you now?” Crowley drawled, his lips curling into a smirk. He didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “Good for you.”
Mr. Fell adjusted the silk tartan cravat at his neck, as though it might strangle him if left untended. He was an odd sight against the backdrop of the seedy brothel—dressed in a slightly outdated waistcoat and a crisp white shirt, feet wrapped in brand-new oxford shoes, his curly blond hair catching the dim light in a way that made him look almost angelic. Crowley often wondered why a man of his standing would favor their ill-reputed establishment to such an extent.
“You seem… tense,” Mr. Fell ventured after a pause, his tone cautious. His pale blue eyes darted over Crowley’s face as if searching for some clue he’d missed. “I don’t mean to intrude, but—well, you do. Is everything… quite alright?”
Crowley let the question hang in the air for a moment, the cigarette dangling from his fingers as he considered his answer. “It was a long night,” he said with a shrug, seeing no point in further commenting.
“Oh,” Mr. Fell replied, clearly unsure whether to press further.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his discomfort palpable. Crowley could see the struggle written all over his face—the desire to say something meaningful warring with his complete lack of social grace. He could commiserate, to an extent. He too had been a tongue-tied, scarred little thing, back in the forlorn days of his adolescence. Those times were long past, though, and he found it a bit startling, for a man nearing his fifties to still be unable to outgrow that phase of life.
Crowley took another drag, watching his companion through hooded eyes. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the lighter was a flimsy excuse, that Mr. Fell had probably loitered outside hoping to talk to him. The thought amused him more than it should have. He was so transparent, so easy to read.
“You know,” Crowley said, breaking the silence, “I’ve never seen you smoke. Do you carry that lighter just for show, or is it a way to strike up conversations?”
Mr. Fell’s blush deepened, and he sputtered something incomprehensible in its entirety before managing, “I—I didn’t want to be a bother. It just seemed like you might need a light, and I happened to have one, and—”
Crowley held up a hand, cutting him off mid-ramble. The stammering did get tiring, after some time. “Relax, angel. I’m only teasing.”
The nickname slipped out almost without him noticing, but he decided to let it hang there, unaddressed. Mr. Fell’s reaction was predictably delightful—his blush spreading to the tips of his ears, his eyes widening as if Crowley had just made the most scandalous suggestion. It drew a laugh out of him.
“You’re a funny man,” Crowley said, sweet like honey. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. He could see Mr. Fell’s lips twitching, as if fighting off the need to back away. “Come visit me sometime. Those harpies you’re always hanging out with, they haven’t got a clue, you know? The follies of youth. Not me, though. I could show you a real good time.”
Mr. Fell’s response was everything Crowley had hoped for. He moved away suddenly, stammering, the words tripping over themselves in their haste to escape. “Oh, no, no! I—thank you for the, uh, invitation, but I’m not—I mean, that’s not really— I’m not interested in that sort of thing. You see—”
“So many words to say ‘I’m not gay,’” Crowley interrupted smoothly, going for nonchalance but landing somewhere else. There was something in his tone, in the sharp intensity of his gaze. “Course you aren’t. Silly me.”
Mr. Fell’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his hands fluttering uselessly at his sides. Crowley had a hard time deciding whether he was affronted o simply mortified. He had to fight the urge to laugh outright. Instead, he smiled placidly. “Anyway, thanks for the light, Mr. Fell,” he said, stepping back and taking one last drag from his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and crushing it underfoot. “You have a good night now.”
He turned and pushed open the entrance door, the warm light spilling out onto the sidewalk. Before he disappeared inside, he glanced back over his shoulder, catching the utterly flustered expression on Mr. Fell’s face. He knew he should leave the poor man alone, but found himself unable to. “Bye, angel,” he said, the words sweet and unusually high-pitched, and then he was gone, leaving Mr. Fell standing alone in the cool night air, clutching his lighter like a lifeline.
The common room was in a disarray, as was customary on Saturday mornings, the smell of alcohol and cheap tobacco lingering in the air like an unwelcome guest. Crowley lounged in one of the battered armchairs near the corner, his long legs draped over the armrest. A tumbler of whisky dangled from his hand, catching the flickering light from a nearby wall sconce. He wasn’t drunk—yet—but the burn in his throat did wonders to smooth the edges of his inner tension. It had been an eventful night, and he was looking forward to some time to unwind.
He leaned back, staring at the faded ceiling with an ever so subtle smile. Ever since the night with the lighter, Mr. Fell had been acting peculiar. More so than usual. Lingering stares from across the room, that awkward little frown as if puzzling through some great cosmic dilemma. It had become so glaringly obvious that even Anathema had noticed.
“He’s got it bad for you,” she’d teased one evening while Crowley brushed her hair.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crowley had replied sternly, but the grin tugging at his lips had betrayed his amusement.
Now, as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the creak of the door drew his attention. Speak of the devil—or angel, as it were—Mr. Fell had arrived, standing in the doorway in his usual attire: perfectly polished shoes, neatly pressed waistcoat, and that tartan cravat perched like a relic from another century. His blond curls were slightly askew, though, a rare and telling imperfection. He was in a mood.
Excellent, Crowley thought.
“Mr. Fell, what a pleasant surprise.” He raised his glass lazily, calling out before his prey could disappear into some corner. “Join me for a drink?”
“Oh. Oh, thank you, dear boy.” The man hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, his frown deepening. “I don’t make it a habit, though.”
“You don’t drink? Ever?” Crowley asked, feigning shock as he swung his legs down and sat up properly. Mr. Fell shook his head minutely. Crowley stood up, swinging his hips in a provocative manner as he approached. When they were face to face, he offered a wide, predatory smile. “Really are an angel, aren’t you? If angels frequented brothels, that is.”
The remark landed with the subtlety of a grenade. Mr. Fell’s cheeks flushed, his lips tightening as he shifted uncomfortably. Crowley couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out. An angry, fuzzy little man—delightful. Before he could press further, a hand slid around his waist from behind. The touch was firm, deliberate. Crowley stiffened instinctively before relaxing into familiarity.
“Hello, Antony,” came a low, smooth voice. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
Crowley turned his head, and there he was—Gabriel Sinclair, the very picture of tailored perfection. His salt-and-pepper hair was artfully styled, his suit impeccable, his cologne carrying just a hint of cedarwood and vetiver. Crowley lit up despite himself, though he was careful to keep the reaction tempered.
“Oh, I don’t,” he drawled, thw words laced with mock indifference. “Mr. Fell isn’t interested in that sort of thing. He’s an upstanding gentleman.”
Gabriel caught on the game immediately. He arched a perfect brow, his eyes flitting briefly between the two men. “I see.” He leaned in close, his breath warm against Crowley’s ear as he whispered, “Well, some people just have no sense of taste.”
Crowley felt the blush rise unbidden, betraying him. Damn it. He covered it quickly with a coy smile, leaning back into Gabriel’s space—just enough to keep things playful. He didn’t want to give Mr. Fell an aneurism, after all. “You devil,” he said teasingly. “Go wait for me upstairs. I’ll be there in a second.”
Gabriel lingered, his gaze steady and amused, before obeying. He climbed the creaking staircase with a purposeful stride, disappearing into the shadows above. Crowley watched him go, satisfied with the performance. It wouldn’t do to seem too eager. When he turned back, Mr. Fell was staring at him, his expression a mix of bewilderment and fervent disapproval.
“Was that Gabriel Sinclair?” Mr. Fell managed, at last, his voice strained.
“Sure was,” Crowley replied, downing the rest of his whisky in one quick gulp. He had places to be. “Good old friend of mine, Gabe.”
“But isn’t he a minister?” Mr. Fell’s voice rose slightly, scandal dripping from every syllable. The way he said it, it almost sounded like a bad word.
“That he is,” Crowley said, his grin widening. “Doesn’t stop him from having fun. Or a drink once in a while. You could learn a thing or two from him.”
Mr. Fell’s frown deepened, and he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Well, it just goes to show they let anyone be a Reverend these days.”
Crowley’s smile faltered. The judgment in Mr. Fell’s tone was evident to him, sharp and unexpected. He knew the man had issues, of course—that he didn’t accept an intrinsic part of himself, for whatever reason. Those predispositions had always been expressed through awkwardness and self-deprecation, though, never as a weapon to wield against others. It was… disenchanting.
“He can be something of a prick, I’ll give you that,” Crowley said, his tone cooler now. “At least he’s true to himself, though.”
“Well, of course you would think that,” Mr. Fell shot back, his gaze flicking up and down Crowley’s form with unmistakable disdain.
The shift in his demeanor was jarring. Gone was the clumsy, endearing man who fumbled over his words and blushed at the slightest provocation. In his place stood something harsher, uglier. The mask had slipped, and Crowley didn’t like what he saw underneath. Tired of the game, he set his empty glass down on the table with more force than necessary.
“Wotever.” As he passed by Mr. Fell while walking up the stairs, he leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper meant to sting. “Gotta go. Daddy’s waiting for me.”
Mr. Fell’s eyes widened, his mouth opening as if to retort, but Crowley was already walking away. He climbed the stairs two at a time, the sound of his boots echoing in the narrow stairwell. By the time he reached the door to the room Gabriel always favored, his irritation had faded into something more manageable. He pushed the door open without knocking, letting it click shut softly behind him.
“Thought you’d forgotten about me,” Gabriel said, lounging on the bed with the ease of a cat with the proverbial canary between its jaws.
“Never,” Crowley replied, his smirk returning as he crossed the room.
Downstairs, Mr. Fell remained rooted in place, his cheeks burning, fists clenched tightly at his sides.
It was a Friday night, and the brothel teemed with muted energy. The dim, flickering lights and soft murmurs of conversation were punctuated by bursts of laughter or the occasional clink of glasses. Crowley lounged on a chaise in the corner of the common room, wearing a silk shirt half unbuttoned, his red hair spilling charmingly over his forehead. He had a drink in one hand and a smirk playing on his lips. Across the room, standing near the bar, Mr. Fell hovered awkwardly.
It wasn’t the first time Crowley had caught him there, lingering, his eyes darting nervously between the drinks menu and the door, as if debating whether to stay or flee. Crowley could feel his gaze, cautious and almost reverent, and as always, he relished the attention.
He waited until Mr. Fell turned away, speaking briefly with Marlene behind the bar, before sliding gracefully from the chaise. With calculated steps, he strolled to the center of the room where a young, well-dressed client sat waiting for him. Crowley’s movements were languid and sinuous, designed to draw attention, and he could feel Mr. Fell’s gaze snap back to him like a rubber band.
With a theatrical flourish, Crowley dropped onto the customer’s lap, his long legs draped over one side of the armchair. He leaned in close, his voice low and sultry as he murmured something into the young man’s ear. Whatever he said earned him a hearty laugh, hands settling familiarly on Crowley’s hips. He turned his head just enough to catch Mr. Fell’s expression from the corner of his eye. Even at a distance, he could see his lips pressing into a thin line, his fingers tightening around the glass.
It was too good an opportunity to resist. Crowley tilted his head back and laughed, a sound full of false sweetness, before leaning in to kiss the customer, his lips lingering just long enough to make a statement. When he pulled away, he licked his lips, shooting Mr. Fell a wicked grin.
Crowley found himself alone on the brothel’s balcony, enjoying the cool night air and the last drag of his cigarette. Below, the streets buzzed with life, the hum of traffic and faint laughter drifting up to him like a familiar melody. The door creaked open, then, and he turned to see Mr. Fell stepping out, an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers.
“Oh, so you do smoke. I wondered,” Crowley said with a lazy grin.
Mr. Fell flushed, his hand tightening around the lighter. “It’s… for the nerves.”
Crowley was unimpressed. “Of course it is.”
For a long while, they stood in silence. Crowley tilted his head, studying the curious man before him—the way the collar of his shirt sat slightly askew, the faint sheen of sweat across his temple, the lonely clouds of smoke escaping chapped lips.
“You know, Mr. Fell,” Crowley said, his tone contemplative. “There are two types of men who frequent this sort of establishments. There’re the ones who have busy lives, and want to decompress in time to time. Without attachments, you understand. Then there’re the ones who need to come, because no one pays attention to them when there’s no money involved. Which one are you?”
Mr. Fell sputtered, nearly dropping his cigarette. There was a new coldness to his gaze, his lips tilting downwards in quiet aggravation. Like a knife with no edge, being lazily dragged against a whetstone. Slowly but surely, he was getting tired of the teasing. “I hardly think that’s an appropriate question.”
“Just curious.” Crowley grinned, enjoying the reaction. “I don’t think booksellers have particularly busy lives.”
Mr. Fell grumbled under his breath, stepping on his cigarette and quickly disappearing downstairs. Crowley laughed under his breath, feeling a bit sorry for him. He really made it too easy.
One evening, Crowley entered the common room arm in arm with a man whose tailored suit and expensive cologne exuded wealth. They made quite the pair, Crowley’s casual elegance contrasting sharply with his buttoned-up demeanor. As they passed by Mr. Fell, who sat alone in a corner nursing a cup of tea, Crowley made a show of whispering something in the man’s ear. He chuckled, his hand coming to rest at the small of Crowley’s back.
Crowley paused, turning just enough to catch Mr. Fell’s gaze. “Oh, hello, Mr. Fell,” he said brightly, the words pointed by poorly feigned innocence. “Didn’t see you there.”
Mr. Fell blinked, his face turning a shade of pink that rivaled the blush roses in the vase beside him. “Good evening, Antony,” he managed stiffly.
Crowley’s grin widened. “Enjoying yourself?”
“I… suppose,” Mr. Fell muttered, his gaze darting to the man beside Crowley.
“Good,” Crowley said, patting his client on the chest. “Anyway, got things to do. Don’t let me interrupt your tea.”
As they walked up the stairs, Crowley could feel Mr. Fell’s eyes burning holes into his back.
It was a slow night at the brothel, and Crowley had been lounging in the common room after a particularly grueling session. His muscles were sore, and a deep, throbbing ache between the legs afflicted him. Businessmen, he thought with derision, animals, the lot of them. He was sprawled across a chaise, quietly willing the pain away, a whisky glass balanced precariously on his stomach. Mr. Fell entered hesitantly, glancing around as though searching for something.
“Looking for someone special?” Crowley called, an invitation in his voice.
Mr. Fell froze, his cheeks coloring. “I-I was just…”
“Relax, angel,” Crowley said, sitting up awkwardly and patting the chaise beside him. “Come keep me company. I don’t bite… much.”
Mr. Fell seemed to consider the offer, then sat gingerly on the edge of the chaise, his hands folded neatly in his lap. So proper, so deceptively demure. One would never guess the sordid affairs he partook in upstairs with the girls. Crowley didn't find the thought even mildly entertaining. What had once been an endless source of amusement was slowly turning into a reason for contempt.
“What’s on your mind?” Crowley asked, leaning back on his elbows and regarding him with a languid smile.
“I—” Mr. Fell began, then shook his head. “Nothing. Just… needed some air.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Bit stuffy in here for air, don’t you think?”
Mr. Fell didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on his hands. Crowley studied him for a moment, then leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ve got terrible taste in places to unwind, you know that?”
It had been meant as a jab, yet another mean-spirited way to rile him up. To his surprise, Mr. Fell let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and genuine. A set of white, perfectly aligned teeth was revealed. Crowley blinked.
Uh, he’s got a nice smile.
Later that week, Crowley spotted Mr. Fell in the common room, sitting stiffly at a table with a cup of tea. Crowley approached, smirking and ready for another round of thinly-veiled taunting. “Tea again?” he teased, sliding into the chair opposite him.
“I find it soothing,” Mr. Fell replied defensively.
Crowley chuckled. “You know, you’re an enigma, Mr. Fell. You don’t drink, you barely speak, you’re crap at parties… what, exactly, do you do for fun?”
Mr. Fell looked flustered, his fingers curling around his teacup. “I read.”
Crowley leaned back, his smirk wide and unpleasant. “Of course you do.”
For once, Mr. Fell didn’t engage with him. He remained seated, brows furrowed, stubbornly staring at his cup of tea and not at him. His shoulders were tense, hunched over as if to protect his most vulnerable parts from an imminent attack. Crowley felt a bit bad, then. Perhaps, he’d overplayed his hand. He took a sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving Mr. Fell’s face.
“It’s all in good fun, you know,” he lied, a poor attempt to clear the air. “You’re a big boy. Don’t let a bit of teasing get to you.”
Mr. Fell’s lips twitched into a small, tremulous smile. “I don’t. All in good fun, right?”
Crowley didn't believe him. Mr. Fell still looked remarkably tense. He raised his glass in a mock toast, anyway. “Cheers to that.”
He found himself studying Mr. Fell with more interest than he cared to admit. There was something about his quiet presence, his nervous energy, that intrigued him. If Mr. Fell’s gaze lingered a little too long on his lithe legs and dexterous hands, on the bits of tanned skin revealed by an unbuttoned collar, Crowley wasn’t about to call him out on it. He was a gentleman, after all.
In midmorning hours the café was usually quiet, the low hum of conversation barely noticeable over the sound of traffic outside. Crowley slouched in his chair, legs stretched out under the table as he toyed with his half-empty cup of coffee. He wasn’t thinking much about the sweetness of the brew, or about the long night shift that loomed ahead. His thoughts lingered on Anathema’s words from earlier, the way she’d said with such casual certainty, “You know, I think that cup was for you.”
He hadn’t given it importance then, brushing it off with a wry smile and a snarky retort. Now, as he sat alone, the idea tugged at him, though. His eyes flicked toward the back of the café, where Mr. Fell was still seated, cradling one cup of coffee while the other sat untouched.
It was absurd, wasn’t it? To think someone like Mr. Fell, well-educated, proper, and extremely rich by the looks of it, would go out of his way to buy Crowley some coffee. Especially if one considered the relentless taunting he’d subjected him to over the past few weeks. Yet there he was, sitting alone, his shoulders hunched slightly as if weighed down by the very thought of existing in a world that didn’t quite fit him. It was a bit sad.
Crowley sighed, a long, slow exhale, before pushing himself to his feet. The chair scraped against the floor, drawing a few glances from other patrons, but Crowley pointedly ignored them. He made his way to the back of the café with the languid stride of someone who knew they belonged wherever they chose to be.
“Hey,” Crowley said, stopping by the table, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You alone?”
Mr. Fell looked up, startled. His pale face flushed a light pink as he scrambled to compose himself. “Yes! I mean… Please, sit.” He gestured to the seat across from him, his hands fluttering nervously.
Crowley arched an eyebrow. He dropped into the chair, leaning back with his usual air of nonchalance. Without asking, he reached for the second cup of coffee and took a sip. It was lukewarm, edging toward cold, but still drinkable.
Mr. Fell watched him, his fingers gripping his own cup tightly. “Where’s your friend gone to?” he asked, attempting to sound casual and failing miserably.
“She’s got work,” Crowley replied breezily.
“Oh,” Mr. Fell said, his eyes widening slightly as the meaning behind Crowley’s words settled in. “Work. Of course.”
There was a pause, one that stretched a bit too long. Crowley sipped the coffee again, his gaze lazily fixed on Mr. Fell. Despite his earlier excitement, he now seemed oddly determined to stare at the table in sullen silence.
“She’s very pretty,” Mr. Fell ventured eventually, his voice soft and barely discernible. “Your friend, I mean.”
“Ana?” Crowley smiled, a familiar warmth lighting his face. “Course she is. Prettiest thing that’s ever-stepped foot in that brothel. And she doesn’t even know it.”
“It must be hard,” Mr. Fell said absentmindedly, then stumbled over his own words. “Oh, I mean! It’s none of my business, of course! It’s just—seeing her with all those, uh, clients... I couldn’t possibly. I mean, I’m not judging! It’s just—well, it must be hard.”
Crowley blinked, not comprehending. “Not really,” he said slowly. “She’s popular, good for her. I was popular once, too, believe it or not.” His voice took a low, salacious edge, then, and he winked cheekily at Mr. Fell. He blushed, ever so predictable. Crowley smiled despite himself. “I’m glad for her. She should take advantage, while it lasts.”
“Oh,” Mr. Fell said, his face coloring further. “So, is it like, an open thing? She does her thing, you do yours?”
Crowley stared at him, his expression blank. “Uh?”
Mr. Fell floundered, his hands waving in small, frantic motions. “None of my business, of course! I mean, young people these days. I don’t really, uh, understand it. Which is fine! I don’t have to understand a thing—”
“You’re very strange,” Crowley said, though there wasn’t any malice in his voice.
Mr. Fell looked down, shame creeping into his features. He was fiddling with his hands under the table. “Yes… I’ve been told that before.”
Crowley felt a pang of something—not quite guilt, but close enough. “So,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You sell books, right?”
Mr. Fell’s face lit up immediately, as if someone had flicked a switch. “Oh, yes! Got a little bookshop, just across the street. You could, uh, visit sometime, when you’re free. I’ll give you a discount!”
Crowley arched a brow, amused. “Sure. Uh, I… don’t read, actually.”
“Oh.” Mr. Fell deflated like a punctured balloon. “Right.”
They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Crowley tapped his fingers against the table, his usual ease replaced by a flicker of discomfort. He’d approached Mr. Fell on a whim, perhaps attempting to extend an olive branch, but now he was starting to regret it. The man was too earnest, too odd.
“So,” Crowley said finally, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off his jacket. “This was… nice. I’ll see you around.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Fell said, looking utterly miserable.
Crowley hesitated for a fraction of a second, then left without another word, the unfinished coffee sitting abandoned on the table.
The common room was empty, the light from a single lamp casting a warm glow over the threadbare furniture and the scuffed wooden floor. It was late and the brothel was quiet, the incessant clamors of revelry from earlier in the evening long since faded. Crowley padded in barefoot, wearing soft black trousers and a slightly rumpled shirt. His hair—freshly dyed a striking red, Anathema’s curtesy—was tousled from restless hours spent trying and failing to sleep.
He headed straight for the drinks cabinet, muttering under his breath about the indignities of insomnia. He fought with Gabriel earlier that evening. Of course, they'd had dissagrements in the past. Over time it had become a part of their unusual dynamic. This time it had felt different, though. Final, somehow. Crowley’s lips twisted into a grimace as he splashed whisky into a chipped glass.
It wasn’t until he turned around, drink in hand, that he saw him.
Mr. Fell sat in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, for once devoid of his characteristic waistcoat. There was no frayed cravat, no polished oxford shoes, only plain white socks covering his feet. The top buttons of his crisp dress shirt were undone. Something about him seemed off. His usual air of jittery awkwardness was absent, replaced by an unsettling stillness.
“Late night for you, isn’t it?” Crowley drawled, leaning against the cabinet as he took a sip of his drink.
Mr. Fell looked up, his pale blue eyes meeting Crowley’s in the dark. “Ah, yes. Couldn’t sleep,” he said simply.
Crowley quirked a brow. “You don’t strike me as the brooding type.”
Mr. Fell gave a faint smile. “I guess… It’s just one of those nights.”
Crowley smiled at that, but it quickly faded as he studied the man more closely. There was something about him tonight—a quiet gravity that set Crowley on edge. He crossed the room and sank into the armchair opposite Mr. Fell, stretching out his long legs and swirling the whisky in his glass.
“So,” Crowley said after a moment of silence, “what’s keeping you up?”
Mr. Fell hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Do you believe in God?”
The question caught Crowley off guard. He blinked, then let out a dry laugh. “That’s a bit heavy for three in the morning, don’t you think?”
Mr. Fell didn’t respond, his expression inscrutable. Crowley sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I do,” he said after a pause—slowly, as if dragging the words out. “We just aren’t on the best of terms, him and I.”
Mr. Fell’s lips twitched, as if he wanted to laugh but thought better of it. “And why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Crowley tilted his head back, staring at the cracked ceiling as if it held all the answers. “I think we’ve got different ideas about what’s fair,” he said, feeling an unknown weight settle on his chest. He'd rarely, if ever, voiced such thoughts out loud. “I mean, look around. This world? It’s a bloody mess. Who’s supposed to be looking out for us, uh? Seems like he’s either not paying attention or just doesn’t care.”
Mr. Fell shifted in his seat, looking thoughtful. “Or perhaps he cares in ways we don’t understand.”
Crowley snorted. “That’s convenient, isn’t it? ‘Works in mysterious ways,’ and all that. Makes it easy to shrug off the mess he leaves behind.”
There was a long pause, the only sound the faint creak of the building settling around them. Mr. Fell’s gaze was distant, as if he were looking through Crowley rather than at him. It was a bit unsettling.
“Do you believe in hell?” Mr. Fell asked suddenly, his voice hollow.
The question sent an involuntary shiver down Crowley’s spine. He masked it with a shrug, raising the glass to his lips. “Not really,” he said, his tone deliberately casual. “I think it’s just a spooky story to scare people into obedience. Fire and brimstone, devils with pitchforks… all a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”
Mr. Fell didn’t look amused. “That’s convenient, isn’t it?”
Crowley’s jaw tightened. “You think I’m wrong?”
“I think,” Mr. Fell said slowly, choosing his words with care, “that some things exist whether we believe in them or not.”
Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a funny man, Mr. Fell.”
Mr. Fell smiled faintly, though it didn’t hold any warmth. “So I’ve been told.”
They lapsed into silence again. Crowley drained the rest of his whisky and set the glass down on the floor beside his chair. “Why’d you ask, anyway?” he said, curious. “About God, hell… all of it.”
Mr. Fell hesitated, his hands twisting together in his lap. “Just… wondering,” he said at last, though Crowley could tell there was more to it than that.
He studied Mr. Fell for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Well, if you figure it out, let me know,” he said lightly, though there was an edge to his voice that betrayed unease.
Mr. Fell nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Goodnight, Antony,” he said softly.
Crowley stood from the armchair, his movements stiff. “Goodnight, Mr. Fell.”
Crowley leaned against the chipped frame of his mirror, his cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside him, and he tried not to think. Thinking led to remembering, and remembering was the last thing he needed, right now.
The memories came anyway, unbidden. Gabriel’s arrogant little smile, the quiet confidence that had once been a balm to Crowley’s frayed nerves. He had hated how much he’d relied on that, how Gabriel’s presence had felt like a steady anchor in a storm he could never quite escape. Now, that anchor was gone, tied to someone else, and Crowley was left adrift, grappling with the sickening realization that he cared more than he should have.
He stubbed out the cigarette with unnecessary force, as though extinguishing it could snuff out the deep-seated ache. It didn’t work, though. It never did. The sharp knock at his door drew his attention, and before he could summon the energy to tell whoever it was to piss off, Anathema poked her head in.
“We’re up,” she said, her voice brittle, her expression tight. Crowley’s stomach turned. He didn’t have to ask to know who was waiting for them.
The room was shrouded in darkness, curtains drawn to keep the world out. Mr. Fell sat in his usual place, his pristine waistcoat and polished shoes looking absurdly out of place in the dingy surroundings. He smiled when they entered, the sight of him igniting a bitter anger in Crowley’s chest.
“Ah, there you are,” Mr. Fell said pleasantly, as if he were addressing old friends. Crowley exchanged a glance with Anathema, her lips set in a thin line, and they moved to the bed. The routine had become familiar but no less awkward. They kissed, their touches mechanical and devoid of any tenderness, a performance for an audience they both despised.
Mr. Fell watched them with rapt attention, his gaze flicking between them like a predator sizing up prey. Crowley could feel the weight of his eyes, the sickening heat of his interest. When Mr. Fell finally moved, reaching for Anathema, Crowley had to fight the urge to shove him away.
Afterward, he would only be able to recall the session as brief flashes of disgust and irritation. Mr. Fell’s hands on Anathema, his gaze fixed on Crowley, his breathing quickening as if the two of them were some sordid fantasy brought to life. It was unbearable, every time. When it was over, and Mr. Fell finally left, Anathema and Crowley sat in silence. The room reeked of sex and shame.
“I hate this,” Anathema muttered, breaking the silence.
“Yeah,” Crowley said, his voice flat. “Me too.”
He sat alone in his room later, nursing a glass of whisky that did little to numb the burning anger coursing through him. His reflection stared back at him from the cracked mirror, hollow-eyed and exhausted. He thought of Gabriel, of how he’d kissed him once, at the threshold of the brothel one summer afternoon, laughing softly as they made promises they both knew couldn’t be kept. He thought of that night, when Gabriel offered him something he hadn’t known he wanted, hadn’t known he could have. A way out of this life.
Why had he refused him?
Why had he let him get away?
He thought of Mr. Fell, then, with his lustful gaze and clumsy hands, panting heavily at the shell of Crowley’s ear as he thrusted into someone else’s body. He had never been shy when it came to sex. He had, in all honesty, taken part in a wide myriad of practices that were a great deal more unusual than voyeurism. What took place in that room with Mr. Fell every Thursday didn’t feel like sex, though. It felt like a violation. With every caress, every glance, Mr. Fell could turn the gentlest act of intimacy into something shameful and grotesque.
Crowley wanted to scream, to break all the mirrors, to burn the brothel to the ground and bring that awful little man down with the rest of them, sinners.
Another Thursday, another performance. Crowley could feel Anathema’s tension, the way her fingers dug into his arm just a little too tightly as they moved together under watchful eyes. Every time Mr. Fell put his hands on her, Crowley could feel his jaw clenching, his nails biting into his palms. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take Mr. Fell’s attention, his eyes lingering on Crowley’s bare chest, his sharp cheekbones, the long line of his throat.
“Beautiful,” Mr. Fell murmured, his voice reverent as he moved faster above him, hands gripping tightly at Anathema’s hips. Crowley could feel her shivering. He wanted to spit at him. Instead, he forced a smirk, slipping on a mask of indifference that had been perfected over years of practice.
“You’ve got a funny definition of beautiful,” Crowley said, his tone light, though the words tasted like bile.
It was late when Crowley finally broke. Anathema had left hours ago, retreating to her own room with a hollow look in her eyes, leaving Crowley alone with his thoughts. He couldn’t stop replaying the night in his head, the way Mr. Fell had touched her, the way he’d stared at Crowley with conquest in his eyes, like he was some prize to be won.
He stormed out of his room, needing air, needing something to stop the spiral of anger and disgust clawing at the edges of his mind. The common room was empty, the brothel quiet for once, and he sank into a chair by the window, staring out at the empty street.
He missed Gabriel.
He hated himself for it, but he did. Gabriel had been arrogant at times, but he’d been kind in his own way. He’d never made Crowley feel like this, like a tasty treat to be consumed and discarded. The whisky burned as it went down, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the depth of his rage.
Weeks passed by, each one worse than the last. Crowley and Anathema barely spoke anymore, the strain between them growing with every session they shared. They used to laugh together, to joke and tease and make the unbearable bearable. Now, there was only silence. Crowley hated Mr. Fell for what he’d done to them, for the way he’d twisted the one pure thing left in his life into something ugly and shameful. He hated himself for letting it happen, for not walking away, for not being strong enough to say no.
He didn’t know how much longer he could do this.
One day, after a particularly unpleasant shift, Crowley found himself standing outside Mr. Fell’s bookshop, a hand hidden in the deep pocket of his coat, absently caressing cold metal. He wanted to confront him, to scream at him, to demand to know why he was doing this, why he couldn’t just leave them alone. Perhaps he’d gone too far with the taunting, but surely, it didn’t warrant such punishment?
Crowley didn’t dare go inside, though. He turned and walked away, shoulders heavy with the knowledge that once upon a time, in the days of his youth, when he’d been stronger and not as preoccupied with the consequences of violent impulsivity, lesser slights had often been met with lethal retaliation. Hastur was right about him, though. He’d grown softer, weaker, and now men like Mr. Fell and all the others could do as they pleased with him.
Back in his room, he sank onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. He thought of Gabriel, of the life he’d offered, of the happiness he’d glimpsed but had been too afraid to reach for. He thought of Anathema, of how she’d been his one constant in this place, and how even that was slipping away. He thought of Mr. Fell, of his soft voice and fearful disposition, and how he ruined everything he touched.
He hated him.
Crowley leaned against the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, his sunglasses reflecting the amber light. He fiddled idly with the edge of his sleeve, glancing at the door. He knew Mr. Fell would ask eventually. He always had that look, that need lurking just beneath the surface—a deep-seated hunger he tried to hide behind polite smiles and nervous laughs. Crowley had seen it so many times before in others. The signs were unmistakable.
Still, it hadn’t made it easier, when the request finally came.
Mr. Fell stood unsteadily in the doorway, his face flushed from drink, his cravat loosened and askew. His usual polished composure was nowhere to be found. “Hey,” he slurred, the word hanging in the air like a mockery or an attempt at banter. “You alone?”
Crowley’s stomach twisted. He offered a mischiveous smirk, masking the unease that prickled at the back of his neck. “Sure. It’s just you and me, now,” he teased, though his voice lacked its usual bite.
Mr. Fell didn’t answer. He closed the door behind him with a sharp click, leaning against it for support before lurching toward the bed. Crowley straightened instinctively, his hands resting on his thighs as he watched his client with sharp, calculating eyes. Something about Mr. Fell’s movements was different tonight—erratic, almost feverish.
“You’ve had a bit, haven’t you?” Crowley said carefully, standing up as Mr. Fell drew closer.
“Oh, don’t start,” Mr. Fell snapped, the awkward softness he'd always known him for replaced with a vicious edge. “I don’t need a lecture. Not from you.”
Crowley raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”
The nickname, meant to disarm, seemed to land wrong. Mr. Fell’s expression twisted, and he grabbed Crowley’s wrist with unexpected force, pulling him close. His breath reeked of whisky, and his grip was uncomfortably tight. “Easy there, fella. You’ll break me before we even get started.” Crowley laughed, though the sound rang hollow.
Mr. Fell didn’t let go. His fingers trembled slightly, and for a fleeting moment, Crowley thought he saw something like regret flicker in his pale eyes. Then it was gone, though, replaced by that same drunken stupor. He pushed Crowley toward the bed, the motion as clumsy as it was insistent. Crowley stumbled but caught himself, lowering onto the mattress gracefully, even as unease settled like a dead weight on his heart.
“All right, all right,” Crowley said, trying to maintain a semblance of control. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Mr. Fell wasn’t listening, though. He was too far gone, too consumed by whatever emotions had driven him here tonight. Crowley tried to guide him, to slow things down, but it was like trying to steer an incoming storm. Mr. Fell’s touch was rough and desperate, a lack of elegance to his movements as he struggled to undress them both. It wasn’t long before Crowley’s patience began to wear thin. Mr. Fell opened his legs abruptly, his intentions clear, and that’s when he had enough.
“Hey, hey!” Crowley finally snapped, pushing Mr. Fell back with a firm hand. “That’s not how this works, you’re going to send me to the bloody hospital!”
For a moment, Mr. Fell froze, his breath heavy and uneven. Crowley used the opportunity to reach for the bottle of lube on the nightstand, his hands trembling slightly as he unscrewed the cap. “Let’s try not to make this a trip to A&E, yeah?” He kept his tone light, masking his nerves with humor.
Mr. Fell didn’t respond. He just watched him with dark eyes, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself. Crowley reached forward, hesitantly, and took a hold of him, just long enough to properly lube him up. The low, desperate sound that escaped Mr. Fell sent a stab of fear through him. When he finally moved again, his touch was no gentler, no less frantic. Crowley gritted his teeth, swallowing the sharp remarks that threatened to spill from his lips. It wasn’t worth it. Not tonight.
The act itself was a haze of pain and discomfort. Crowley focused on the cracks in the ceiling, on the faint hum of the streetlamp outside, on anything but the man moving above him, panting wetly against his neck like a wild beast. When it was finally over, he rolled onto his side, his back to Mr. Fell, and pulled the sheet up to his chest. His body ached, his skin felt raw, and his mind was a whirlwind of emotions he couldn’t name.
Mr. Fell sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped and his head in his hands. The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing. Crowley didn’t say a word. He didn’t trust himself to. After what felt like an eternity, Mr. Fell stood, swaying slightly as he gathered his discarded clothes. He didn’t look at Crowley as he dressed, his movements slow and heavy, as if weighed down by something far greater than his inebriation.
“I… I’ll see myself out,” Mr. Fell mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
Crowley didn’t bother to answer. He stayed where he was, staring at the wall as the door clicked shut behind him. Only then did he let out a shaky breath, his hands curling into fists beneath the blanket. The room felt cold, empty, and unbearably quiet. He closed his eyes, willing the night to end, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Not yet. Not for a long time.