Chapter Text
The lights overhead flickered as Crowley stood at the window and watched water pour from the broken corner of the gutter, pummeling the rose bush he’d been planning to move in the fall. He was so tired, already at the end of a long day, a hard day, and his last patient was running late. It was 7:53 at night, pissing the rain, and Crowley’s patient was bloody late. He would wait another fifteen minutes before he closed up the clinic and left. It wasn’t as though he had anywhere else to be. He felt the weight of the phone in his pocket like it was mocking him.
Another clap of thunder rolled in, heavy enough to rattle the windows and send the lights flickering again. He turned back towards his desk and fell into his chair with the combined hiss and sigh exhalation you get for surviving long enough to develop arthritis. Absently, he tapped his pen on the desktop, attempting to focus on the sound of the rain, taking deep breaths — anything to avoid falling into that downward mental spiral that empty stretches of time liked to open the door to. This was why he tried to stay busy, allowing as little time between clients and obligations as possible. Nothing like a bit of cognitive behavioral therapy to gaslight yourself into thinking everything is fine.
Fortunately, there was a sudden knock at the door. Crowley startled and straightened as though he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t, though he was not quite sure why.
“Yeah?”
Tangerine curls appeared from behind the door, followed by the rest of Tracy’s face.
“Your last patient’s just arrived, dearie.” Her voice was sweet and cheerful as always, but she gave him that look; that slow blink and slight nostril-flare that silently screamed 'finally'.
Crowley’s answering expression said 'behave' but any half-hearted attempts at scolding telepathically were never very effective. He was the boss, and he took his job very seriously, but he didn’t always take himself very seriously. Ms. Potts was very perceptive of that fact, and she seemed to accept it as permission to not take him very seriously either.
It would probably make sense to someone should they choose to psychoanalyze him, that contrary to the cliche’d trope of middle-aged rakish professional who hires a pretty young slip of an assistant: sexual, Crowley had subconsciously hired himself a mother-figure of an assistant: non-sexual.
He had no need for a distracting personification of bad decisions, no hunger for long thin legs wrapped in stockings strutting in stilettos. If he wanted that, all he’d have to do is select from any of the lovely delicate garments on the left side of his closet, sit at his vanity and shape his brows, apply mascara, choose a thematically appropriate shade of lipstick and voilà — just another Saturday night at chez Crowley. Be your own sexy secretary.
He sighed. “Right, thanks Tracy. You can show him in.”
Tracy nodded and disappeared again, leaving the door open behind her. Crowley looked at his desk, noticing the papers he’d spread out and forgotten about who knows how long ago, and quickly began shuffling them back together and returning them to their folders. Can’t look like the mess you are in front of your patients. When he’d finished, he looked up, and his hands stilled.