Chapter Text
It was a nice day. Temperatures were mild for London in early June, and no rain to speak of in the bright sky overhead. There was a breeze. There were ducks on the pond, and a man in black clothing and sunglasses sitting on the bench nearby.
Anthony Crowley was not having a nice day. Funny, that. Not “haha” funny though, unfortunately for him. The ironic kind. It was a beautiful day and he couldn’t see any of it because his eyes were closed and he was bent elbows-on-knees with the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers. Not that he would see much of it with his eyes open. Not clearly, anyway. Crowley was having A Moment™ which he’d learned over the last few months required deep breathing so as not to become a pile of long limbs laying pell-mell on a floor someplace with much shallower breaths getting stuck in his throat as his heart pounded in his ears.
He had come to the park this afternoon because he thought it might calm him, and after the call he’d had that morning from the doctors (the third opinion doctors, that is) he’d needed it. But it seemed today the outing served only to worsen his mood. One would think that the disappointment wouldn’t be so ruinous after hearing different versions of the same news three times, but, for good or ill, Crowley was an optimist at heart. And said heart took a regular thrashing for it.
Another deep, sighing breath expanded the darkly clad ribs, and he lifted his head to stare at the pond. He watched the white, brown and black blobs of color move along the surface of the larger, grayish blob, surrounded by green.
If he held his hand in front of his face, he could make out the shape, but without his prescription sunglasses he’d never be able to see the lines in his palms for all the blinding glare set off by every sparkle of light off the water or window or car’s sleek paint. If he moved his hand more than a foot away, even with the glasses they would blur.
He’d already lost his Bentley. Soon he wouldn’t even be able to check his plants for brown spots. If the progression continued, he had maybe a year left. One year of films. One year of paintings. One year of being able to read the expressions on other people’s faces.
…
Azra Phale was having nice day. It was enjoyable enough, at least. Okay, fine, it was a bit melancholic if he were to tell the truth.
It had started out just fine. He’d packed a classic picnic and decided to leave his shop employees to their own devices in lieu of enjoying a day in the fresh air and sunshine of St. James park.
But somewhere along the line he’d started to feel lonely. This had been happening more and more often in recent months as he stared fifty in the face. Today he suspected it had been brought on by the happy couples in the park, walking two-by-two into their futures like animals pairing off to board the arc, while here he was, sitting in the grass awaiting the flood. Rather dramatic, that. But as he was sat there, fiddling with his wine glass surrounded by his picnic for one, he was feeling rather dramatic. The alcohol was perhaps stoking his emotions.
Alone hadn’t felt so bad in his thirties. Then there had been someone for a few years, but it turned out to be a flash in the pan and he hadn’t been quite exciting enough. Eyes had wandered, and then hands, and then he found himself alone again. It felt worse in the warm spot of a missing lover, though not unbearable. When the warmth of someone else faded, he had found his own warmth again, and tried to focus on that.
But were days where it all felt like too little. He felt like too little. And the effort to date felt monumental.
Heaven help him, but he was convinced at this point that unless his dream man fell straight into his lap, he’d die alone.
He glanced down at his wine. See? Dramatic.
…
Ducks, Crowley thought. Ducks were one of the reasons he liked this park and dear somebody, he needed a distraction. If he had some frozen veg, he could probably trick the little beggars to come right up to the bench. He’d done it before, ages ago. Did it all the time as a kid. If they got up near his feet, he would be able to see them well enough that he could watch the silly things wobble about and shake their tails and listen to their ridiculous sounds. It would be something to pry himself out of his wretched mind space, at least for a while. It was dumb, but any port in a storm.
Right. He stood.
Crowley was stubborn and still got around without a cane. He didn’t like calling attention to himself unless he expressly wanted attention paid him, and telegraphing “visually impaired” was something he was putting off for as long as he could get away with it. So long as he moved cautiously, he could still navigate the world in general. In daylight, at least. Things got dicy when colors started to fade in twilight, and impossible in darkness. But if he had his prescription shades on, broad daylight was manageable. Distance was like looking through frosted glass, but he had a five foot grace period as far as moving objects were concerned. His jaywalking day’s might have been over, but the streets were manageable when he had other pedestrians to merge with like schools of fish.
Right. Duck bait. He began walking in the direction he knew there was an entrance to the park that faced some shops.
He wasn’t expecting the inconsiderate jogger who came up on him so suddenly and startled him into the grass. Nor did he spot the tree root in the shadows underfoot.
…
“WAA-UMPHF!”
Azra registered impact and wetness before anything else. Next, the smell of his spilt wine. Then the black and auburn mess sprawled across his legs moaned and coalesced into a man, curled onto his side, and rolled off of his lap clutching the knife edge of his left hand.
There was a wet swelling of crimson between long elegant fingers that broke the spell of paralyzation that had come over Azra at the surprise.
“Oh goodness! Are you alright, dear boy?”
“‘Course I’m not bloody alright, I’m bleeding.” The apparition complained, his voice going up an octave on the last word and wobbling a bit. With that, he drew the hands oddly close to his face, released his grip to peek at the wound. And promptly fainted.
And Azra had been thinking he was the one who was dramatic!
Luckily for his strange visitor, Azra had once badly cut his finger while slicing cheese on one such picnic as this, and ever since had kept a tiny first aid kit in the bottom of his basket. Taking the injured hand, he inspected the cut. It was not serious enough for stitches, but it was leaking a not insignificant amount of blood that made it seem worse than it was. Using his bottle of water, he rinsed both hands of blood, found a small shard of glass to pluck out, and closed the cut with a few butterfly bandages and taped a square of gauze on top.
When that was done, he carefully scooped what remained of his shattered wine glass into his serviette and set it out of the way. It was a good thing he’d already put most of the food back in the basket, or his guest would not only be injured, but would also be covered in mustard and cream pie. It would not go well on such obviously expensive clothes.
He attempted to arrange the fellow into a slightly less awkward position without touching him in any way that may be construed as inappropriately personal. It probably wouldn’t have even crossed his mind if it weren’t for the fact that the more glances he took of the man’s face behind his dark glasses (knocked askew on lovely cheek bones) and now tousled red hair, the more attractive he became. He brushed said hair (shorter on the sides but just long enough on top to have fallen out of a stylish wave and into his eyes) out of the man’s face, and sat back to wait for him to wake.
Sleeping beauty, his brain unhelpfully supplied as his eyes slid over a sharp jaw and rested a moment too long on the slightly parted lips.
Just then, the face pinched, nose wrinkling for a moment, and the man gave a little groan as his eyes fluttered open. He struggled to wriggle into a sitting position and blinked hard at the light. “Ow,” he stated simply.
“Indeed,” Azra replied, scooting back a bit more and trying not to stare.
…
The figure above him when he awoke appeared to glow in Crowley’s blurred vision. That’s not good. Am I dead?
“Ow,” he groaned.
The angelically glowing shape backed away with a kind and concerned sounding, “Indeed.”
Leaning forward, Crowley moved to stand, only for a twinge of pain to shoot up from his leg as he bent his knee. Being a usually spry individual, this turn of events was shocking, and he went to grab it, resulting in his cut hand making a stinging protest. Letting out a pained, frustrated growl, he flopped back on the picnic blanket in defeat.
With his good hand, he put his skewed glasses to rights, and examined the gauze on his left hand. He cautiously flexed his fingers. The dressing was neatly done from what he could tell, and honestly seemed to have magically appeared, for he didn’t recall-
“Oh.” How increasingly embarrassing this whole thing was becoming. “I fucking fainted, didn’t I?”
The white figure wiggled a bit as if rearranging himself. His hair must have also been very pale as well, as there was nothing but shades of white and cream about him!
“You did, I’m afraid. Are you feeling better now?”
Crowley turned his head to face the voice. He was probably looking a right travesty on top of being clumsy knob, but he brushed his hair back and tried to seem a bit more suave and less sheepish. “Erm. Sorry, not the best with blood. Thanks. Yeah.”
The angel moved again, doing something with what he could deduce was a red cup. There was the soft sound of sloshing, then the cup was extended toward him and he smelled the tangly, fruity scent of a white Cabernet Sauvignon.
“Oh. Well then, don’t mind if I do,” Crowley accepted, sitting up more carefully this time and taking what he could feel was a plastic Solo cup. He took a sip and licked his lips before smirking. “Hold on, if you had plastic cups, why did you bring a wine glass to the park?” He held up his hurt hand. “A public menace, that!” He teased.
The angel harrumphed. “I have standards,” he quipped, immediately picking up on Crowley’s banter, and, from what Crowley could interpret, then lifted the green wine bottle itself and took a swig straight from the container.
Crowley barked a disbelieving laugh at how quickly those “standards” apparently relaxed when it suited the angel.
“Everyone ate government cheese during the war,” came the retort, the plumby voice instantly guessing what Crowley’s responding smirk had meant.
Crowley snorted. “Not everyone,” he pointed out.
“Well, I don’t see anyone hawking glassware from the back of a lorry in the park today, so needs must.”
Crowley, who hadn’t laughed in honest amusement without the tint of irony or sarcasm in months, chuckled. He moved the cup gingerly to his bandaged hand and extended his right toward the glowing entity he couldn’t stop referring to in his head as an angel.
“Crowley,” he offered his name with a toothy smile. “Anthony Crowley.”
“Azra. Azra Phale.”
The hand is warm, and soft, and lingered longer against Crowley’s palm than need be, and he found he didn’t mind that at all.
…
The wide smile on the face of the man sitting upon Azra’s picnic blanket instantly made him twice as attractive as before, and that was really saying something. Indeed, as their hands met, Azra felt butterflies he thought long extinct come bursting into flight straight from their cocoons in his stomach.
Realizing he’d been holding Crowley’s hand for too long, he released it, a warmth rising to his cheeks. He suddenly felt at a loss of what to say, but then the man was speaking again.
“Apologies for crashing your picnic. Literally.” He lifted his arms to look around, checking for smashed food stuffs or more broken items. Satisfied there weren’t any, he settled again. “You can tell me to sod off if you’re expecting someone…?”
Was there hopeful curiosity in that voice? Was he hoping Azra wasn’t expecting company?
“No. Not at all! I-“ Should he say it and risk showing more of his emotional hand than was probably appropriate, or safe? Azra wasn’t a fan of risk. “Um. This has actually been quite an unexpectedly pleasant interruption to an otherwise…uneventful day. Sans the blood, that is.”
There was that smile again. Oh, he could probably charm the pants off of the Devil himself.
“You’re welcome to stay, if you’ve no place else you have to be.”
The smile converted into a contented grin, eyebrows raising just the slightest above the frames of his sunglasses in what might have been satisfaction. He tilted his cup in salute. “Ta,” he said, taking another sip. “It’s certainly an improvement to my day.”
Was that flirtation? The butterflies did another lap.
“Where were you on the way to, if you don’t mind my asking? You looked to be in quite the rush.” Azra asked, eager to keep the conversation going.
“Nowhere, really. Thought I might feed the ducks. Was on a mission to find frozen peas or sumat, but found a root to trip on instead.” A hard to read cloud passed over Crowley’s face that Azra suspected didn’t have to do with a lack of veg. Something a kin to frustration and embarrassment.
“Peas?” Azra asked, and dug in his picnic basket to pull out a container he’d barely touched in his own dispirited mood earlier. He popped the lid off and offered them out. “Would these do, or do they have to be frozen?”
This pulled the redhead out of whatever thoughts had put that dejected look on his face. He leaned forward, squinting at the contents of the container.
“Ahha!” He exclaimed, voice gone cheerful again much to Azra’s gratification. “An angel, you are. Full of miracles.”
“That’s an awful lot of credit for an uneaten side dish,” he tried to brush off the compliment. “My gran would have never given such high praise for that!”
“Shows you what she knows,” Crowley replied happily, and was hauling himself to his feet, favoring his unhurt leg until he could find a satisfactory balance. “Pond’s not far. …Care to join me?” He reached out a hand to help Azra, as if he were the one in need of assistance.
Azra handed the container to him instead with a fond glance as if they had been friends for ages, and quickly put the last of his picnic away (besides the wine bottle). Standing, he folded the blanket over his arm. “That would be lovely.”
…
Lovely, indeed. What had started out as blatantly embarrassing at best and a lawsuit at worst was turning out to be just the kind of pleasant distraction Crowley could have ever hoped for. Wine in the sun and the company of a warm, gentle voice that could banter as well it could sooth.
The Crowley of two years ago would already be angling for a shag…. The Crowley of today? Well, he was just hoping to enjoy whatever this was for however long he could have it.
He’d been lost for years when it came to relationships. All his time had been caught up at Morningstar and Prince, and after a while he found it harder and harder to drop the flashy courtroom persona he employed to charm juries. Harder still to let the walls down in intimate situations because that persona was always the one any conquests or partners expected or desired.
Doubts and insecurities weren’t attractive, and these days he didn’t even try because what was the point? Doubts and insecurities often felt like all he had inside those walls anymore.
So no. Best to stay in the moment. Have a good time in whatever capacity he was granted by this friend-by-chance. Perhaps soak up a bit of friendly affection, but don’t. Get. Greedy.
He watched the glowing figure walking beside him out of the corner of his eye. The man hadn’t come far enough into his visual range to to see his face yet, but he looked broader than Crowley, and slightly shorter. Crowley genuinely wished he could see how Azra’s eyes looked. His smile.
Don’t get too excited, there, stupid. He reminded himself.
But he was still grinning when they reached the pond.