Chapter Text
Anthony Crowley had perfected the art of counting. Not in any productive sense – not counting words for his non-existent new novel or counting days until some better future came along. No, he counted the hours of the day until he could reasonably pour his first drink. And then he counted the drinks themselves. Then, if he'd timed it just right, he counted nothing at all because he'd finally achieved the blessed oblivion of sleep.
Today's count was interrupted by a knock on his door.
Oh no. This was the enthusiastic rat-a-tat-tat of someone who believed in the fundamental goodness of human connection and hadn't yet learned that some humans preferred to be left the hell alone.
"Mister Crowley? Mister Crowley, I know you're in there. I can hear Von Wiggletush whining."
Muriel. Of course it was Muriel.
The dog in question – an adorable corgi Crowley had loved once and now sometimes resented as a living reminder of the fact he wasn't a functional human being anymore – let out a short bark and trotted toward the door, nails clicking against the hardwood of the floor.
"Traitor," Crowley muttered.
He could pretend he wasn't home. He'd done it before. But Muriel had a deeply annoying superpower: They simply didn't understand social cues that said "go away." They interpreted silence as "my friend must not have heard me," and closed doors as "what if this were open."
The knocking continued, as did the annoyingly cheerful voice. "I brought those ginger biscuits you like! Well, I know you said you didn't like them, but you ate half the package last time, so."
Christ.
Crowley unfolded himself slowly from the couch where he'd been sitting in the dark and made his way to the door. His fingers trailed along the wall, following the path he'd memorized. Eight steps to the wall. Twelve steps from wall to door. Doorframe on the left, deadbolt at roughly shoulder height, doorknob below.
He opened the door.
"There you are!" Muriel's voice was aggressively optimistic. "I was starting to worry."
"Don't."
"Right. Well. Can I come in?"
"No."
There was a pause. Then: "I'm coming in anyway."
The sound of Muriel moving past him, the rustle of a bag, cabinet doors opening as they helped themselves to his kitchen. Von Wiggletush's excited panting as he followed his favourite person who wasn't Crowley.
Crowley closed the door and stood there, forehead pressed against the wood.
"So," Muriel said, with the tone of someone about to deliver news they knew would be unwelcome, "I need to talk to you about something."
"No."
"You don't even know what it is yet."
"Don't need to. The answer's still no."
"It's about the new neighbour."
Crowley turned around, using the door for orientation, and carefully made his way back toward the couch. Thirteen steps from door to couch if he went straight, but furniture had a way of migrating when you weren't looking. His shins had the bruises to prove it.
"Don't care about the new neighbour."
"His name is Aziraphale."
"What a name. Still don't care."
"He's throwing a party. Just a small thing, really, to introduce himself to the building. This Saturday at seven."
Crowley found the couch and sat down heavily. "Good for him. Hope he has fun."
"Everyone cancelled."
There was something in Muriel's voice – a sadness that pierced through Crowley's carefully maintained shell of not-giving-a-fuck. He hated that. Hated that he could still be reached.
"Everyone?" he heard himself ask.
"Well, Mrs. Chen said her granddaughter is visiting. The Kowalskis have theatre tickets. James and Derek are going to that club in Soho." Muriel sat down next to him; the couch dipped with their weight. "It's just me. And I told him I'd be there, but Mister Crowley, he seems so nice, and so sad that no one's coming, and I thought if you came with me –"
"No. And it’s just ‘Crowley’."
"– it would be less awkward, and also he's right downstairs, so it's not like you have to go far, and –"
"Muriel. No."
"I'll take your clothes to the cleaner.”
“No.”
“I’ll walk Wiggles for a week. Every day next week."
Crowley's hand, which had been reaching for the glass of whisky he'd left on the side table, froze.
"What?"
"A week. Every morning. I'll even do the evening walks on weekdays."
Damn it.
Von Wiggletush wasn’t a service dog. He wasn’t trained for anything except loving Crowley with ridiculous enthusiasm. He’d been Crowley’s dog long before the blindness settled in, before the world shrank to the size of his apartment floorplan.
Crowley had stopped taking him out for longer walks months ago. Stopped going anywhere that didn’t demand it. The building had a deal with a local dog-walking service – overpriced, overbooked – and Crowley threw money at them and felt a sting of shame every time the leash clicked into someone else’s hand. Not enough shame to step outside. But enough to sit with it.
"That's ... manipulative," he said.
"I know. Is it working?"
Crowley pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes – a useless gesture, but old habits died hard. "Why do you even care? You don't know this person."
"I met him in the hallway when he moved in. He was carrying boxes and one of them split open and books went everywhere. I helped him pick them up." Muriel's voice went soft. "He alphabetizes his books, Mister Crowley. He was so worried about getting them out of order. And he's got this way of talking, really posh and old-fashioned, and he said 'how terribly kind of you' when I helped, and..."
"And what?"
"And he was lovely. And seemed lonely. Like, really really lonely."
Fuck.
Crowley knew lonely. Intimately.
"A month," he said.
"What?"
"A month of dog walking. Morning and evening. You may skip the weekends"
He could hear Muriel's grin. "Deal."
"I'm only staying for twenty minutes."
"That's fine!"
"And if it's weird, I'm leaving at once."
"Totally understandable."
"And you're not allowed to leave me alone with him."
"I'll be glued to your side."
Crowley finally reached for his whiskey and drained it. "I hate you."
"You don't."
The terrible thing was, they were right. Muriel had appeared in his life six months ago when they'd moved into the apartment next door, and they'd somehow decided that Crowley's clear signals of "leave me alone" actually meant "please adopt me as your reluctant friend." They brought him food. They talked at him through the door when he wouldn't answer. They'd learned Von Wiggletush's feeding schedule and had somehow acquired a spare key that Crowley definitely hadn't given them.
They were the happiest and most irritating person Crowley had ever met, and also possibly the only reason he was still alive.
"Saturday at seven," Muriel said, standing up. "I'll come get you at quarter to, so we can go down together."
"Can't wait," Crowley said flatly.
"Wear something nice!"
"I'm blind, Muriel. Everything's nice when you can't see it."
"Wear the black shirt. The soft one."
After they left, Crowley sat in the silence of his apartment and tried not to think about Saturday. About putting on real clothes and leaving his cave and making small talk with a stranger who apparently alphabetized his books and said things like "terribly kind."
Wiggles padded over and put his head on Crowley’s knee.
"You were supposed to be on my side," Crowley told him.
The dog huffed.
"Yeah, well. You're fired."
But his hand was already moving, scratching behind the corgi's ears, finding the spot that made his back leg twitch.
Crowley reached for the bottle.
Four days. He could be drunk for four days straight, probably. That seemed like a reasonable coping mechanism.
He poured another glass and tried not to count the drinks.
Saturday arrived with the inevitability of death and taxes.
Crowley had compromised: he'd gotten drunk Wednesday and Thursday but stayed sober on Friday because showing up with a killer hangover to a party seemed like the kind of thing that would make even Muriel's weaponized optimism falter.
Now, at 6:40 p.m., he was regretting that decision.
He'd showered. Put on the shirt that Muriel liked – it was soft, admittedly, some kind of jersey thing that his ex had bought him back when his ex still bought him things. He'd even run a brush through his hair, though without a mirror for reference it was anyone's guess what it actually looked like.
Probably a disaster. Everything was a disaster.
Wiggles was wearing a service vest, although he wasn’t a working dog. But the vest made things easier, even easier than the mobility cane. People understood the vest. The vest meant "blind person, please don't make this awkward."
At 6:45, Muriel knocked.
"You look great!" they said when he opened the door.
"I’m not sure. I could be covered in stains."
"You're not. I checked."
"You what?"
"I did a visual scan when you opened the door. I always do." Muriel took his arm without asking, which should have annoyed him but somehow didn't. "Come on. It's just downstairs. Two flights. You've got this."
The stairwell smelled like someone's cooking – something with garlic and onions. The railing was smooth under Crowley’s free hand. Thirteen steps to the landing, turn, thirteen more steps.
He'd lived in this building for four years. Before, he'd run up and down these stairs without thinking. Now each step was a negotiation.
They reached the second floor, and Crowley could hear music. Something classical, string instruments. Vivaldi, maybe? His ex used to play Vivaldi.
"Okay," Muriel whispered. "We're at his door. It's open. Ready?"
"No."
"Perfect!"
They walked in, and Crowley was immediately overwhelmed. Voices – more than he'd expected. Maybe Mrs. Chen's granddaughter had cancelled, or the theatre tickets had fallen through. Or – had Muriel lied to him? He smelled perfume and cologne and something baking. The music was louder here, coming from somewhere to the left.
"Muriel!" A saturated voice, warm and pleased. "Oh, how lovely. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come after all."
That voice.
"You must be Anthony. Muriel mentioned you might join us. How delightful."
It was ridiculous. Crowley had heard thousands of voices in his life. He'd been with his ex for three years and had loved the sound of his voice, at least at first. Crowley was a writer – or had been – and he understood the power of words, of tone, of inflection.
But this.
This voice was warm like expensive whisky, precise like a BBC presenter, with this undercurrent of genuine pleasure that made Crowley's chest tight. British, definitely. Southern England, probably. The kind of accent that came from education and standards and knowing which fork to use at dinner.
"I –" Crowley started, and his voice came out rough. "I’m Crowley. Just Crowley."
"Crowley then. I'm so pleased you could make it. Please, do come in. Can I get you something to drink? I've got wine, or there's champagne, or if you'd prefer something stronger..."
Crowley couldn't think straight with that voice in his ear.
"Wine's fine," he managed.
"Excellent. Red or white?"
"Red."
"A man after my own heart. I'll be right back."
The voice left and Crowley felt oddly bereft.
"See?" Muriel whispered. "Nice, right?"
Crowley was fucked.