Work Text:
Aziraphale’s not great at considering the consequences of his actions.
It’s not something he isn’t already aware of. He knows he often jumps headfirst into things without thought of or, at least, without consideration of the ramifications of what he’s about to do. Most of the time, it’s out of a sense of justice, of wanting to do right for others. It’s why he’s often on the wrong side of his boss Crowley.
It’s seven in the morning and he’s already in a videoconference meeting with his boss. And Newt. About Newt. Specifically, about an issue that’s not technically Newt’s fault.
After what has been a rather aggressive monologue from Crowley, Aziraphale finally manages to edge in. “I fail to see how this is entirely Newt’s fault. Engineering were the ones who sent him the file pathway with two versions of the PDF saved – how was he meant to know which file was the correct version?”
He’d told Crowley that 7am was an inappropriate time to be holding a meeting when Crowley called him on his work phone last night. At 10pm, nonetheless – a flagrant disregard of Aziraphale’s need for sleep. Or a work-life balance. The response had been curt: “Either it’s 7, or it’s 12.30. Given we have meetings on either side of 12.30, and I believe you’re the one who told me it’s unfair work practice to schedule meetings throughout the lunch period, I think you’ll have to take 7.”
The benefit of an early start, Aziraphale supposed, was that all of the office meeting rooms were actually free at seven. The whole building itself was devoid of people. With good reason too. He still felt like he hadn’t quite woken up yet. If anything, seven in the morning was when he normally rose to get ready for work.
He’d had to get up at five to be able to shower, get dressed and still arrive on time to the office. However, in a bizarre turn of events, his train that morning was cancelled by a freak storm in the night. Trees had been brought down onto the rail line and workers in fluorescent vests were unhurriedly looking to remove them and resume business as usual. The meteorologists hadn’t predicted storms – they’d predicted a balmy summer’s evening. Some papers had jokingly called the unexpected storm a coming of the apocalypse. Others labelled it a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ event – a phrase that had lost its meaning for how frequently it had been misused in the recent years.
Aziraphale ended up having to catch a replacement bus service. There’d been hardly anyone commuting in that early, only a couple of older ladies who had given him dirty looks as he spoke on the phone to Newt to discuss their game plan for the meeting.
He should have taken the storm as an ominous warning of things to come. He’d realised his fate as the bus met the usual motorway congestion heading into the city. He hadn’t even made it into work and peak hour traffic jams (did peak hour really start at 6?) put him on Crowley’s bad side before the day began.
It was ten past seven when Aziraphale finally settled in next to Newt, who was sitting uncomfortably straight-backed in the meeting room, in front of his open laptop. Sweat trickled uncomfortably down his neck, a reminder of his regretful decision to wear a cardigan on what was predicted to be the hottest day of the year (the exciting juxtaposition of two highly abnormal weather patterns occurring synchronously had not been missed by the local papers). As soon as Aziraphale settled in front of the laptop camera, he’d felt, from behind Crowley’s sunglasses and through the laptop screen, an icy glare.
Newt had been sitting silently in front of his open laptop until then. It occurred to Aziraphale, painfully, that Crowley had also been silent when he’d walked into the meeting room. Equally painful was the realisation that the two of them must have been waiting in silence for Aziraphale to arrive. Ten minutes of agonising silence. Aziraphale had thought of offering an explanation but stifled it quickly. Any explanation, however valid, simply would not do to quell Crowley’s wrath.
“I don’t know Aziraphale, I guess he could have – perhaps, just maybe – asked?”
The sarcasm in Crowley’s voice is venomous. It draws a rush of irritation from deep within the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. He closes his eyes for a moment, despite hating to show his vulnerability through the videoconference call, then breathes out slowly. Idly, he wonders, if Crowley also thinks that Aziraphale himself is incompetent. It could be the reason behind the constant butting of heads.
It’s such a dichotomy. The awful attitude of his boss, compared with the attractiveness of his features. Crowley looks to be sitting in a café this morning for their meeting, backgrounded by a leafy garden. Dappled sunlight hits his face at just the right angle. A gentle breeze is lifting fallen strands of his hair away from a strong cheekbone. What a pity.
“Might I remind you, Crowley, that your operations manager also reviewed the documents prior to Newt engaging our client?”
Newt shoots him a worried but grateful look. He looks decidedly worse than Aziraphale feels this morning – dark bags under his eyes, hair flat on one side of his head but sticking resolutely upright on the other, as if he literally rolled out of bed and into the office. Probably had.
“True. I need to rip Gabriel a new one as well.”
“No!” Aziraphale is horrified, albeit unsurprised, by Crowley’s reaction. “That’s not what I meant Crowley! I’m trying to demonstrate to you that this is not any single individual’s fault. This whole incident is a systematic failure. A series of failures in our processes is what’s to blame for this unfortunate mistake.”
“And our moronic client has signed off the wrong version. Do you understand just how embarrassing this whole situation is for me to explain to them?”
He feels himself reactively bristling with anger as Crowley practically spits at them through the video. Immediately, he regrets his brief fantasy of Crowley as attractive in the summer light. Demonic would be more appropriate, with the way the shadows cast by the sunlight deepen the sharp lines of his nose and lips.
“I understand your frustration Crowley – I acknowledge it and it’s entirely valid. I will personally be running through a root cause analysis session with my team this week so we can unpick all the factors leading up to this incident.”
“The root cause is your project officer not using his brain.”
“That’s it.” Aziraphale snaps. “I’m not going to discuss this any further with you if you’re going to speak about my team like that. You’re obviously too worked up to think rationally about the situation, dear.”
He adds the term of endearment rather passive aggressively. Which he realises too late.
Crowley takes off his sunglasses so he can glare properly at them through the camera. Visibly seething with rage. It’s palpable even through the screen, making Newt cower down in his chair despite the degree of separation. Before Crowley can respond, Aziraphale quickly stammers, “See you at the staff forum.”
And slams the laptop shut.
At the sound of the snap of the laptop screen closing, he feels an odd sensation wash over his body. Like being plunged into an ice-cold pool. Aziraphale absolutely hates confrontation. He wonders if he’s somehow actually underwater when he hears a thud.
“I can’t believe you just did that.” Newt whispers from beneath the desk. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”
Anathema must have been told about the meeting with Crowley, because she arrives to work much earlier than she normally does. She springs into the office not long after they’ve hung up the call, bearing a bag of croissants and a tray of paper cups, a coffee for Newt and an earl grey for Aziraphale.
“Breakfast!” She announces cheerily. “You two look like could use a debrief.” Then her eyes narrow. “Are you wearing a cardigan? You do realise it’s going to be the hottest day of the year, right?”
“This shirt needs to be paired with a jacket.” Aziraphale answers defensively. “Or cardigan. Otherwise, it doesn’t sit right on me.”
They huddle together in their floor’s tea room, at the far end of the single, long table. Closest to the corner, taking stock of anyone else entering the room, so they can drop their voices appropriately.
“So?” Anathema says, laying down a plate with a croissant in front of Aziraphale, “What happened? Give me the short version.”
“What’s there to tell?” Newt’s rummaging through the fridge, pulling out jars and scrutinising their labels, glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose. “It was a Crowley special. He wanted to flay me into shape but Aziraphale said no. Aha!” He looks down at his smart watch then holds up a jar triumphantly. “Here’s one that’s not expired. Still two weeks left in the month.”
Newt opens the jam jar and sniffs it, shrugs, then stabs into his croissant, tears it in half, and slathers it with spread. He offers the jam to Aziraphale, who shakes his head, unconvinced. “Thanks again for shutting him down.”
“I don’t feel like myself lately,” Aziraphale says, “I keep losing my temper in meetings.” He tears off the corner of his croissant and pops it into his mouth. Anathema, highly attuned to his habits by now, passes him a napkin, upon which he fastidiously wipes his fingers of buttery grease.
“Maybe your chakras are misaligned.” Anathema says and laughs at Aziraphale’s sour reaction. “I think you need a holiday.”
“Crowley has put a freeze on leave for management.”
“Can he do that?” Anathema rolls her eyes. “Well, it doesn’t surprise me.”
“I’m pretty sure Hastur’s on leave – Spain, I think it was.” Newt says. At Aziraphale’s raised brows, he adds, “I was chatting to one of the guys from his team last night.”
“Project team drinks.” Anathema explains, helpfully.
“Right.” Aziraphale had seen the email, briefly, before it was efficiently filed into trash. “Where do you find the energy to go out on a Tuesday night?”
“It was just one drink.” Newt shrugs, talking with his mouth full, even though he knows it irritates Aziraphale. Which, in itself, irritates him further. “Also, pints are half-price at the local on Tuesdays.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get caught in the storm.” Anathema shakes her head at him.
The fact that Hastur has blatantly ignored Crowley’s decree and has taken leave without approval doesn’t surprise Aziraphale. That man was known for his cynical attitude towards his job, working erratic office hours and being notoriously difficult to contact. Aziraphale hated working on any projects with him for that exact reason. In fact, Aziraphale was sure that Hastur deliberately avoided picking up any of his calls. Oddly enough, though, despite the obvious disregard for the conditions of his employment, Hastur somehow had avoided any reprimand from Crowley. Not even a single warning, as far as Aziraphale was aware.
“Crowley really has it in for you, doesn’t he?” Anathema says, as if reading Aziraphale’s mind. Maybe he should be worried about the inordinate amount of time he spends with his team. “Are you sure you didn’t cross him in a previous life?”
“Could be a pride thing,” Newt says, as he takes a loud sip from his coffee. He pokes at the last few crumbs on his plate and sucks them off his thumb. “Crowley isn’t used to having his ideas challenged. You’re the only manager that talks back to him. He feels threatened.”
“It’s about time someone cut him down to size.” Anathema says with a snort.
Aziraphale sighs, picks apart his own croissant and wipes his fingers on the napkin again. Recognising the futility in speculating the mystery of Crowley’s agenda and cognisant of his meeting schedule for the day, he steers the conversation back to work. “Have either of you reviewed my slides for this afternoon yet?”
Crowley can be terrifying, ruthless and he has a positively mean streak at times. It’s his management style – trample over the department, make everyone afraid to even dare to breathe in the same air as him – it’s how he gets his way every time. Aziraphale hates confrontation but he can’t help himself for sticking up for his fellow employees. He just can’t stop himself from doing good.
At least, that’s his reasoning for why, during the all-staff forum videoconference meeting that afternoon, he unmutes himself and interrupts Crowley midsentence. It’s another all-staff forum discussing the fallout from another project that has exceeded costs and timelines. It’s not the first time they’ve had a project with such a blowout, nor is it the worst instance they’ve had. Aziraphale often wonders how they can continue to keep winning new building contracts. It’s gotten to the point where they have more projects underway than they can manage with their current workforce. He wonders whether it’s due to Crowley’s powers of persuasion, or if it’s because their competitors are just as bad, if not worse.
“The situation is beyond our control, and there’s a great deal of political pressure to get construction completed in order to prevent further disruption to the businesses around the area. I understand that this is unfortunate for a lot of people’s circumstances but it is an unprecedented situation for the company and we’re all expected to work extraordinary hours to make up for the delays-“
“Sorry, Crowley – Aziraphale here.”
Through his headset, he can hear Newt chewing on a mouthful of fries behind him. He pauses for a moment to turn around, and the look he gives Newt stops him mid-chew.
“I understand that this is a stressful situation for the executive team to be in, but have you followed the appropriate consultation process prior to reacting to the situation? I don’t believe you can just tell us that we must work extraordinary hours if it’s not in our contracts. What sort of recompense will we be receiving? What is an acceptable number of hours to work within a week, or a fortnight?”
“The details have not been completely ironed out yet. We understand that it is an unprecedented situation for everyone-“
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then. Once again, you’ve completely disregarded the appropriate protocols and just made an executive decision on behalf of the company.”
There’s a strangled wheezing sound from behind Aziraphale then and he quickly switches his headset mic off. Newt, who had been guzzling a can of soda, was now finding it had gone down both pipes. He coughs and splutters, “Az – you can’t – you can’t speak to Crowley like that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s–“ he hacks and splutters again, “’Cos, it’s Crowley. And he’s already mad.”
The side conversation and the act of thumping Newt on the back had distracted Aziraphale from Crowley’s response but what he catches from Crowley’s next sentence sends him reeling.
“-And as you would know, if project officers would do their jobs properly and follow up their schedules to make sure deliverables were on time, we wouldn’t be in this situation.“
“Excuse me?” Aziraphale swivels back sharply in his seat. Newt frantically signs at him to zip it but he ignores him. “That is quite inappropriate to talk to your employees that way.” He pauses and then, against his better judgment, adds, “It may be worthwhile asking HR to provide everyone advice on respectful conduct in the workplace.”
There’s silence for the longest time. Newt has gone as pale as a sheet. He looks like he’s trying to tell Aziraphale something but no words manage to escape him.
Suddenly, Gabriel’s face fills the computer screen. “Thanks for your contribution, Aziraphale.” He says, his demeanour too cheery and his voice too loud, too American. “But I think we’ve run overtime in our meeting – looks like we got a bit derailed there.”
Crowley interrupts him, “I would advise anyone with concerns to discuss these with their line managers before you bother me.” With that, and no further flourish, Crowley signs off.
Gabriel is left smiling dumbly at the camera, blinking in confusion. “Right, yes. Thanks all. Go get some lunch and enjoy the sunshine before the next meeting people.”
Aziraphale feels like he’s going to be sick as he places his headset back in its cradle.
The office goes from dead silence to immediately buzzing with chatter. Someone mimics the sound of a missile falling and exploding.
“Are you crazy?” Anathema pokes her head over the side of their cubicle. “Do you have a death wish?”
“It’s totally unacceptable what he’s asking us to do. I don’t think he’s following the proper process to push through a change like this.”
He’s angry at the injustice of it all, for his team, for himself. But mostly, he feels hurt. That it appears the leadership team has been conspiring to thrust extended working hours upon unsuspecting workers and they’ve intentionally excluded Aziraphale from any discussion.
“How does he get away with announcements like this?” Anathema asks, giving a concerned raise of her brows at Newt, who is still sitting shell-shocked. “Surely the executive team didn’t green-light this.”
“You haven’t seen him charm the board.” Aziraphale replies, a particularly sour memory of such an incident fresh in his mind.
Aziraphale, true to his usual form, had tried his best to be the voice of reason in that meeting. In the end, he was only mildly successful in nullifying the worst of Crowley’s proposals. Charisma was a powerful tool to have in the white-collar toolbox. It was like everyone else fell into a trance whenever Crowley spoke in a meeting. Perhaps partly due to the fact that he often called 8am meetings to discuss and pass controversial decisions. And perhaps partly due to the reassuring lull his voice took on when he went off on a tangent. Aziraphale had seen Gabriel nod off a few times during those meetings, hands clasped gently in his lap, head tilted forward slightly, as if praying.
If Aziraphale were paranoid, he would think that Crowley was trying to strangle him to death in red tape. Deliberately adding unnecessary layers of bureaucracy to already overly-complex processes in an effort to stop him from being able to perform his job. At least, he’d stopped one of the more ridiculous ideas floated during last meeting, involving complicated flow diagrams with multiple hierarchies of responsibility and approval processes to navigate when applying for minor purchases.
That day, he remembers, Crowley hadn’t been particularly pleased with him either. Probably another one of those late evening, post-work calls chewing his ear off. Crowley really had been getting worse lately. It was as if Crowley was progressively grinding Aziraphale down and destroying the last traces of resolve that he had left from his fight with bureaucracy. Aziraphale wouldn’t let that happen if he could help it. He refused to be chewed up and spat out by the system.
“A snake charmer in front of a board of snakes.” Newt nods sagely, having miraculously recovered his ability to speak again.
“Yes. Quite.”
“Well,” Anathema sighs, “I sure hope he’s working from home today, because you’ve really stuck your foot in it. Are you sure calling him out in front of everyone was the smartest thing to do? For someone so clever, you sure do some stupid things.”
“Honestly, I don’t believe he can just make demands expect…” Aziraphale’s train of thought disappears as his eyes are drawn to a pop-up on his screen.
A. Crowley
My office. Now.
Both Newt and Anathema register his reaction immediately, craning to read over his shoulder.
“Don’t do it.” Anathema clutches his shoulder, fingers digging a little bit too hard into his skin. “Just tell him that you’ve got to prepare for the next meeting – it’s not like that’s a lie anyway. He’s the one who scheduled back-to-back meetings with our checkpoint catchup.”
“Say you’re sick and go home early,” Newt offers.
Their suggestions are tempting. Aziraphale considers them briefly before shaking his head. “No. No, I should just go and get this over and done with. He’s either going to dissect me today. Or he’ll do it tomorrow. I’d rather just face him now, rather than spend an evening dreading my inevitable fate.”
“Do you want me to come?” Anathema suggests. Whenever any meetings involved Crowley, they’d go in pairs. For backup. Moral support. Once, Anathema had jokingly suggested it was so that there would be a witness for the one time Crowley actually did commit a murder.
“No, dear, I wouldn’t do that to you.” His attempt at a reassuring smile appears to be reflecting his true feelings rather than a pretence of confidence, from the way Anathema and Newt just stare back at him in horror.
It really did feel like a death sentence. If only he were religious. He could use some divine intervention.
Anathema gives Aziraphale a pleading stare as he gets up from his workstation. He pointedly ignores her as he turns and heads towards the elevators. He almost reaches the end of the rows of office cubicles when a voice booms “Aziraphale!” and makes him jump from shock.
The tone of the voice has a reserved quality to it, as if the speaker somehow believes they’re being inconspicuous. Despite the fact that their sheer volume has drawn the attention of half of the office. A wave of heads swivel towards the sound.
Gabriel’s hand claps Aziraphale hard on the shoulder, on the spot still stinging from Anathema’s nails. He tries not to wince, but Gabriel doesn’t notice.
“What was Crowley on about – letting go half of our operations team? I can’t believe I was never told about this.”
Once, after a particularly frustrating meeting, Aziraphale, feeling particularly and uncharacteristically uncharitable, had complained to Anathema that it seemed like Gabriel’s head was so far in the clouds that he often forgot to bring his brain to work. She’d cackled like a witch at that, calling it an apt description.
Aziraphale sighs.
“We did talk about it. A couple of weeks ago, at one of the leadership meetings.”
“Did we?” There’s a confused, vacant look in Gabriel’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have approved something like that.”
“Not explicitly, no,” Aziraphale agrees, “but when Crowley asked if there were any objections or concerns, you didn’t raise anything.” Gabriel’s eyes widen comically in faux shock. “I did, but you called me – I believe – a tricky customer.”
Gabriel laughs. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Why did you think we’d been engaging with an external HR company for all this time?”
“Oh, had we?” Gabriel’s brows knit together, possibly in an act of thought. “I hadn’t noticed. Well, it must all be for a good reason.” He then leans in towards Aziraphale and with a nudge of an elbow, whispers conspiratorially: “Budgets, you know.”
“Crowley said it was for a restructure.” Aziraphale thinks of also saying it was a pretty blatant ploy to push some of the older, or supposedly unsavoury, staff members out of the company. But he decides against it. Instead, he pursues a different line. “Why wasn’t I consulted on the proposal for extended working hours?”
“Oh, that.” Gabriel seems more settled now, in familiar territory. “We spoke about it this morning, remember?”
Aziraphale’s stomach sinks as Gabriel smiles gormlessly at him.
“I wasn’t invited to any leadership meetings today.”
“Wow,” Gabriel whistles, “really? I could have sworn you were there.”
He bristles with irritation. “I am perfectly capable of recollecting whether I’ve attended a meeting not even a couple hours ago. And I can assure you that I was not invited to this meeting. In fact, I can assure you that I was purposefully excluded by a certain person.”
Gabriel stares blankly at him.
“You know what, Aziraphale? I worry about you. I think you’re too invested in your work. You need to find a hobby-“
“Sorry, Gabriel.” Aziraphale interrupts, “But I have to go and talk to Crowley now.”
“Ah.” Gabriel blinks and for the first time during their conversation, a sliver of recognition passes through his eyes. “The meeting we just had, yes. Wow.” He repeats, with a rub of his hands, “What a bombshell you dropped in that one.” Another exuberant clap to the shoulder. Another wince. “You’re a tricky customer, Aziraphale!”
As Aziraphale begins to turn away, Gabriel snaps his fingers. “A holiday!” He announces proudly. “That’s what you need!”
Whenever Gabriel seems like he has met his full potential for obliviousness, he quickly follows up with a demonstration to show that the limits that apply to ordinary men are well below him.
Aziraphale swings back to shoot him a bland look.
“All current and future leave is on pause. Directive from Crowley.”
“No-o-o,” Gabriel says. “That can’t be right. Haven’t you seen the snaps Hastur posted from Ibiza?”
“Bye, Gabriel.”
As Aziraphale presses the button for the elevator, he hears Gabriel call out, “Be gentle on Crowley. He has a vision, you know.”
Aziraphale doesn’t bother asking what the vision is. He’s sure that, whatever answer Gabriel formulates, will be empty and disappointing.
When he steps out at Crowley’s floor, Eric and Shax look up immediately, as if they’ve been waiting for him. And, he realises, they probably had.
“Erm. Hello,” he says awkwardly, “I’m here to see Crowley.”
“Oh, yes.” Eric answers eagerly. His facial expression is not dissimilar to the one that had been on Newt’s face earlier. “He told us you would be coming to see him.”
“Ah.” Aziraphale hesitates, not really wanting to proceed any further from the elevators. He could read something like pity in Eric’s eyes. It did nothing to reassure his nerves. Shax, on the other hand, looked bored. But that wasn’t anything unusual – she was always either bored or irritated. “Is it bad?”
Eric swallows. “Yeah. It was- he- he roared Aziraphale. I’ve never heard anything like it before.”
“He what?”
Surely he heard that wrong.
“He roared.” Eric swallows, as if trying to stifle fear rising inside him. “Like I said, I’ve never heard anyone do that in real life before.”
“Right.” Aziraphale answers because there’s nothing else for it. “Well, ah, I’ll be off to see him then.”
He thinks he hears Eric breathe a squeaky good luck as he walks past to the frosted glass doors at the end of the corridor. He’s never been to Crowley’s office before. It makes him pause for a second as he touches the metal handle of the door, before thinking better of himself and knocking first. If God had any mercy on him, Crowley would have been called to another meeting and would no longer be available-
“Come in.”
No such luck.
As he turns the handle to the office, he realises his hands are trembling. It’s an odd side effect. He’s been trying not to fidget with his hands anymore. He hadn’t even realised that it had been a habit of his until a leadership meeting where Crowley had paused in the middle of a presentation to stare coldly at his hands. He still remembers the moment. The prickle of shame as the other managers turned to look at him. The cold wash of fear as he desperately tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. Since that meeting, he’s made a conscious effort to stop his hands fidgeting. Trouble is they start to shake instead when he’s full of nervous energy. Somehow, it’s even worse – like a display of fear or vulnerability that Aziraphale does not want to be projecting, nevertheless to someone like Crowley.
Unexpectedly, the office is dark as he enters. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the room; a stark contrast to the artificial white lighting ubiquitous to the building. The window blinds are drawn to the ground. Otherwise, there would be a grand view of the city, sweeping skyscrapers, blinding metal and a scorching sun. Apart from Crowley’s workstation, the room is sparse, bar a potted monstera plant next to the door. Crowley’s desk is glass topped and minimalistic, bearing solely a PC and a paper coffee cup inked with a lily. A polar opposite to Aziraphale’s workstation downstairs – desk cluttered with sticky notes and cab receipts and various documents and printed schedules marked with erratic handwriting, shelves stacked with paperbacks and a variety of boxes of different teas. Anathema always wonders how he can find anything amongst the mess but, he always assures her upon successfully locating her requested document, there is a method to the madness.
Crowley is sitting behind his computer monitor, glaring at the screen, until he notices Aziraphale entering the room. Abruptly, he pushes away from his desk and stands.
“Aziraphale.” He’s absolutely sure the temperature of the room drops by several degrees as Crowley utters his name. “Sit down.”
Aziraphale takes the seat across from Crowley’s desk. He tries not to feel annoyed at Crowley for obviously flouting the power imbalance, towering above him. As if he’s trying to physically intimidate him, even though his sheer presence does the job well enough. All clean-cut lines and crisp suit and crooked dark smile.
“You have thirty minutes to explain why I shouldn’t fire you.”
Aziraphale blinks.
“I’m sorry?”
The thought of resigning from his cursed position has crossed Aziraphale’s mind before. But the guilt of leaving Anathema and Newt adrift always stops it from progressing past a short-lived fantasy. He’s promised to himself to at least see this project through. Besides, once it finishes, he might not be working with the same team – he might not even have a team. It’s not like he isn’t aware that he’ll be easily replaced as their manager, but he’s grown quite attached to his two project officers. The harrowing shared experience of a toxic workplace had forged deep loyalties that blossomed into unexpected friendships.
They’d all had to make sacrifices of their identities to keep their team running like a well-oiled machine. Newt had quit his B grade football team after a ruptured knee ligament had required surgery, rehab and, as an unfortunate byproduct, precious time off work. He’d told Aziraphale that age was the reason for retiring from his beloved sport, but 25 wasn’t exactly old. Admittedly, Aziraphale knew next to nothing about sports, so he didn’t question Newt any further. Anathema stopped moonlighting as- Aziraphale wasn’t sure what, a witch? He suspected, or at least wondered if, she dabbled in Thelema, based on the types of icons and symbols that adorned her rings and necklaces and her references to ‘the other A. Crowley’. Things Aziraphale only recognised because he’d once read a book about England’s occult history and modern witchcraft. Back when he used to read for fun. Before this company. Back when he used to have free time, and energy, outside of work.
And, despite all that they had to sacrifice to the altar of work, Anathema and Newt were nothing but supportive and loyal coworkers. Sweets and pastries and pots of freshly brewed tea would be left on Aziraphale’s desk when he was going through particularly stressful periods at work. Whenever his calendar became completely blocked out with meetings, Anathema and Newt would quietly delegate Aziraphale’s work items between themselves. Small but effective acts of kindness that made his days easier and the decision to leave impossible.
“It would have been forty-five, but some idiot wasted my time during the last meeting.” Crowley says airily, arching a brow.
The rage bubbling in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach is back. He’s not normally this quick to anger. It’s the stressful week he’s had, combined with the late nights and early mornings Crowley keeps forcing on him. Exacerbated by restless summer evenings, weeks of fitful unsatisfying sleep, in a stuffy flat designed to trap heat rather than let it escape. The feeling of a slow descent into madness. He doesn’t normally lose his cool. But he’s always had a deep-rooted passion for justice and equality. And there’s always something about Crowley – an aura, Anathema calls it – that provokes anger and tension.
“You can’t just fire me for asking a question.” Aziraphale shoots back and feels a deep sense of satisfaction when he sees a flicker of irritation over Crowley’s expression. “I believe you owe me an explanation as to why I didn’t get consulted regarding this proposed change to working hours.”
Maybe he went too far, he thinks, as Crowley strides around the desk and stands over him. He fixes Aziraphale with a dark gaze that makes him shiver despite himself. It’s an expression that can only be described as distain. His eyes, Aziraphale realises then, are a strange colour that he’s never seen on anyone else before. Almost golden. He’s never noticed before. But Crowley’s never stood so close to him before, either.
It feels like something (the mood?) in the office, imperceptibly, shifts.
“You just can’t let anything go. It’s like you’re always looking for a fight, Aziraphale.”
Nothing could be further from the truth. Aziraphale knows himself to be soft, a pacifist through and through. The type to happily give up an exquisitely packed home lunch to a school bully and spend the day hungry, rather than putting up a resistance in the form of a vulgar exchange of words and fisticuffs. But it’s a different kind of fight that he’s graduated to in this professional setting. One that’s fought with petty words and an understanding of employment legislation and one’s own contract. Which fits Aziraphale much more appropriately.
“I’m just looking out for my fellow coworkers.” He urges his hands not to shake and hopes the tremble in his voice isn’t audible. “I’m trying to make this a better place to work, where people enjoy coming to work each day.”
“Your holier-than-thou attitude makes me sick.” Crowley’s lips draw into a sneer. “I can’t stand the toxic positivity you bring to my company.”
Aziraphale stands up from his chair indignantly at that remark, drawing himself up against Crowley and feeling disappointed when he’s still a few inches below his eye level. Hardly threatening. His breathing is out of control again and his hands are well and truly shaking.
“I think it’s absolutely repulsive that you think you can use charisma and looks to get away with treating your employees with such disrespect.”
There had been a scowl creeping up Crowley’s face as Aziraphale spoke, but it freezes as he finishes his sentence. Oh. He’d accidentally said the wrong part aloud.
“What?” Crowley asks, slowly.
“You can’t just bully and intimidate your workers into getting your way.” The burn of shame rises up from under his collar, up his neck, but he continues on, doggedly forcing himself to ignore it. “There’s already a lot of bad publicity surrounding this latest project. Imagine the media interest if one of your employees complained about poor treatment to a news outlet.”
“Is that a threat, Aziraphale?” Crowley leans in close, the side of his mouth is quirked upwards now, almost looking like a thin smile, almost like he’s teasing Aziraphale. “What did you say about me?”
Crowley’s too close. Aziraphale can feel his breath against his lips. A part of him thinks, for a moment, that he has been played, been purposely goaded, and led into a trap. A high stakes game that he doesn’t even realise he has entered. Where that odd thought comes from, and why he feels thoroughly convinced by it, he can’t put a finger on.
“I never wanted to hire you.” Crowley says. “I knew you were going to be a thorn in my side. You were – you are – so righteous.”
It seems almost ironic now, how grateful Aziraphale had been when he’d come across his current job. At the time, it seemed like a sign from a higher power. He’d been out of work for a while since his last project had finished up, desperate for a source of income to keep his flat and way of life. It was the only role he came across at the time, and the renumeration was good enough for Aziraphale to accept the role offered to him, despite the reservations he’d had about Crowley.
“I know. You’ve made that very clear to me. Multiple times.” To Aziraphale’s surprise, his speech sounds almost garbled. Like the air in the office has taken on a denser quality. Thick like water. A thrill passes through him, despite everything. Up close, Crowley’s features are just as dark and handsome. Something about the sharp lines of his face, the sweep of his dark red hair and the set of his mouth makes Aziraphale drawn to Crowley’s eyes. Unable to look away from his steady gaze.
There it is again. The feeling of something shifting (reality?), definite this time.
“It was Gabriel, he was enchanted the moment we interviewed you.”
He can smell Crowley’s deodorant, piercing and fresh, and something he can’t quite place, almost like smoke or ash. But Crowley doesn’t smoke. At least, Aziraphale thought he didn’t. He’d never seen Crowley with the normal huddle of smokers in the alleyway behind the office, which included his beleaguered assistants, Eric and Shax. It doesn’t smell like cigarette smoke anyway. More acrid and sharp. Almost like he’s from the depths of hell itself. Fire and brimstone. The colour of Crowley’s eyes are so unnatural, his gaze so unsettling, as if he’s not just looking at Aziraphale but deep within him.
Then, a whisper. He thinks he imagines it because he’s not sure he sees Crowley’s lips move.
“What are you, Aziraphale?”
A question, loaded with inexplicable meaning. It makes Aziraphale shudder.
There’s a flash in Crowley’s eyes, like triumph, and then the feeling of something powerful leaping forth from them, into Aziraphale. Then he’s being pulled forward and Crowley’s lips are pressed forcefully against his.
It’s surreal. He can taste blood – he wonders if it’s his own. Crowley is holding him in a tight embrace, engulfing him. Briefly, Aziraphale senses that something is very wrong but then the swell of another suffocating wave washes over him and the current draws him down, pulls the thought away and swallows him whole. Crowley’s tongue is pressing against his lips, pushing its way in, hot, forceful into his mouth. He tastes like stale coffee.
Odd connections spontaneously spark in Aziraphale’s mind. The paper coffee cup he’d noticed on Crowley’s desk when he’d entered the office. The artwork on the cup – unrecognised at first – was the same as the one from the café he normally frequented with Newt and Anathema. The way the sun captured the perfect sculpted lines of Crowley’s face as he spoke to Aziraphale from the café this morning. The wind catching Crowley’s hair; the same wind catching the plants behind him, making it look like they were shivering.
Crowley pulls him in closer still, folding his body around Aziraphale’s, grinding his hard dick into Aziraphale’s hip.
He’s underwater again, suffocating, vision swimming. All he can feel is Crowley’s mouth crushing his, Crowley’s hands in his hair, running down along his sides, ghosting his ribs. The possessiveness is overwhelming, oppressive. Crowley’s hands pushing up under Aziraphale’s dress shirt, tips of his fingers rough against the skin of his stomach, his waist. Aziraphale thinks, as Crowley’s hand runs down the front of his trousers, he needs to remember something, they were arguing over something – his resignation? The thought disappears away as quickly as it comes and he’s drowning, he’s sure of it, drifting away from his body in this office.
He’s vaguely aware that he’s kissing Crowley back, a heady need brimming up within him. Vaguely aware that he’s gripping tightly to Crowley’s suit jacket with both hands as if he’s scared of falling if he lets go. His bottom lip is pressed painfully against his teeth from the force of Crowley capturing his mouth and he wonders if Crowley can taste his blood too.
And as soon as they’d started kissing, the moment stops. Crowley pulls away from him, leaving him panting and wobbly from the shock.
He’s smirking, one eyebrow cocked, smug.
“The clock’s still ticking, Aziraphale.” Crowley swaggers over to his chair, loosening his belt buckle and unzipping his trousers as he sprawls languidly into the seat, limbs splayed, a stringless puppet. Aziraphale can clearly see the outline of Crowley’s hard cock through his boxers.
“Twenty minutes.”
Aziraphale slumps to his knees in front of Crowley. He grasps the material of the trousers around Crowley’s thighs and can feel his quads flexing in response. There’s the vulnerability, cracking through once more, hands shaking as he pulls down Crowley’s boxers and releases his dick. For a moment, Aziraphale thinks he can almost grasp the loose thread of the thought he’d lost before. Then he feels Crowley’s fingers curling under his chin, tilting his face up, and Aziraphale can’t help but look into his eyes. Golden, mesmerising and the thought spirals away from him like fallen leaves from a tree. A muted buzzing resonates through Aziraphale’s head as he tilts forward and gently runs his tongue around the tip of Crowley’s dick.
He takes him in then and Crowley groans. It feels like a dream, like Aziraphale’s both within his body and looking down on himself from a distance. For a brief moment, he sees himself at the edge of a bottomless abyss, peering down, listening to the call of a nameless, faceless creature within. Crowley’s hand slips up the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, entangles in his hair. It’s a gentle pressure at first, as Aziraphale moves his lips up and down Crowley’s length. Then, gradually, uncomfortably rough.
Tears spring into his eyes. He can hear himself gagging, choking as Crowley’s cock hits the back of his throat. He can’t pull away though. Crowley’s hand is firm and hard against the back of his head, willing Aziraphale into a rhythm as he thrusts into his face. He sucks and licks and tries his best not to bite down, not to choke. Crowley’s leaning his head back now, eyes half closed but still fixed on Aziraphale’s. Teeth gritted in pleasure, jaw a tense line as he breathes raggedly in and out. In and out. Aziraphale realises his own breathing is hurried, rushed, in sync with the frantic rhythm of the blow job. There’s moment of panic where he thinks he’s going to suffocate on Crowley’s dick.
Connections are still weaving together in his mind, delicate like the threads of a spider’s web, and he’s fixated on Crowley’s eyes – has he ever really looked at them before? The leadership meetings where Crowley hadn’t worn sunglasses, delivering presentations with a steely expression. Weren’t his eyes brown? Aziraphale had never paid much attention but surely he’d have noticed if they were yellow. Through his tears, the colours in the room blur and bleed and run together. Crowley’s pupils become long lines, splitting his irises into two. Reptilian.
Aziraphale’s jaw is aching. He can feel saliva drooling out of the sides of his mouth and down his chin as he bobs up and down, making obscene noises that make him want to cringe at the vulgarity of it all. Shrivel up inside. The tears are now running down his face, mixing in with the saliva, down his neck, into his collar.
The thrusts start to become rougher, less coordinated, Crowley’s hand flexing harder against the back of his head, and then he can feel Crowley coming undone.
“Ah – fuck.”
The taste is bitter on Aziraphale’s tongue, at the back of his throat, as Crowley holds his head tight against his cock. There’s an odd muffled sound over the buzzing in his head. Then he realises with a shock that it’s himself, gagging. When Crowley finally lets him go, Aziraphale’s gasping, feeling utterly wrecked and achingly hard.
Huddled over, in Crowley’s office, a rush of painful self-consciousness passes over him, hair rumpled and face wet. He’s sure he can taste blood again. He wonders if it looks like he’s been crying. Crowley looks perfect, as usual. Not a hair out of place, features impassive. He coolly tucks his cock back into his boxers and zips up his pants.
“Clean yourself up,” Crowley says. “You’ve got ten minutes till the checkpoint meeting. If you want to take care of yourself now, that is.”
He nods to the chair across from his desk and Aziraphale thinks to hell with it all and shamelessly hurries over to sit down.
Crowley stands above Aziraphale again as he pulls his throbbing prick out of his pants and starts stroking it rapidly. He can’t help but watch Crowley, an attractive smirk on his face – almost a smile, perching against the desk, as he rubs his dick. Tissues are pressed into Aziraphale’s free hand as he strokes himself, watching Crowley’s face, thinking of how he’d just had his dick in his mouth.
It doesn’t take Aziraphale long to jerk himself off. A couple of minutes and he’s gasping and shaking as he pulls himself off quickly, feeling ashamed for being so loud. As he feels himself coming, he moves the tissues up to cover the top of his dick and then Crowley’s there in his face again, capturing him in an aggressive kiss. The shock of it makes him groan loud into Crowley’s mouth, against his tongue.
When he comes down from his orgasm, he’s aware of fingers gently stroking the base of his neck.
“Five minutes, Aziraphale. I believe you’re chairing the meeting.”
And with that, Crowley pulls away and settles back behind his desk. Eyes calm and expressionless. It had all been in Aziraphale’s head. He’d just thought he’d seen- well, he’s not sure what he’d thought. Something on Crowley’s computer screen makes him scowl darkly.
It’s a sign to leave.
Aziraphale feels sweaty, prickly and unpleasant as he zips his own trousers back up and tucks his rumpled shirt back into the waistband. He grabs a handful of tissues from the desk and dries his face off quickly, rakes a hand through his hair. The tapping from Crowley’s keyboard sounds annoyed (which, Aziraphale thinks, he didn’t know was possible) and it makes Aziraphale feel more uncomfortable as he quickly gives his clothes a once over to make sure that he’s looking presentable.
As his hand reaches for the door handle, Crowley unexpectedly speaks again.
“I’m going to be here till seven. Come by my office this evening if you’re also working late.”
Aziraphale pauses, turns and looks over his shoulder. A voice he barely recognises as his own responds, “I believe my boss will be expecting me to work late. Extraordinary hours, you know.”
The words ring through his head, as he walks back down the corridor. Past Eric and Shax again, both making a point not to look directly at him. He can feel their gazes but his mind is elsewhere. With the flicker in Crowley’s eyes. The feeling of something dark and wild diving into him. He wonders where that thought has come from and it makes him feel uncomfortable, so he quickly pushes it out of his mind.
Aziraphale’s never been great at considering the consequences of his actions.
As he calls the elevator, he tries to remember – and cannot recall – what they’d spoken about in Crowley’s office. Only that it must have been important. And that Crowley was right. His hands are calm and still as he clasps them behind his back, watching the metal doors draw open. Yes, it had been important.
He enters the elevator with a slow, dreamy smile passing over his face.
Crowley has a vision for this company. He just needs to have faith.