Chapter Text
The Painted Veil
Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,-behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows
Chinese interior – May 1925 (Present day)
The rain poured, turning the crude dust track into a miniature patchwork of rivers and lakes, the earth packed too tight to absorb the seemingly never-ending torrent of water that fell from the sky.
Crowley, perched uncomfortably on his travelling trunk, huddled under his umbrella and stared out at the fields, endless plains of brown and green, unbroken until they gave way to distant mountains, almost invisible through the haze of rain.
He risked a glance at his husband. Aziraphale sat on his own trunk, under a much larger umbrella, reading a book, apparently unbothered that they were marooned in the middle of nowhere, with no sign of the sedan chairs they were supposed to be meeting.
Suppressing a sigh he knew would do him no good, Crowley let his eyes run over the other man, wishing he wasn’t quite so handsome. It would somehow be more bearable if he was not.
But there was no denying that Crowley found that strong, solid-looking body attractive, even wrapped in a pale linen suit that was at least ten years out of fashion. The soft curls and soft features were a fetching combination, perfectly setting off the bright blue of his eyes. They were kind eyes most of the time, except when they were turned on Crowley. Then they hardened to crystal – cruel, cutting and cold.
They weren’t looking at him now but Crowley gave an involuntary shudder at the memory and turned his head away, blinking back tears that threatened to fall. He had cried enough for a lifetime these last few days and weeping now would do him no good.
Resigned to sitting here until something happened to rouse his husband from his apathy he poked viciously at the dirt with the toe of his shoe and wished he had not thrown his life away.
Shanghai – April 1925
Crowley thought there was no moment more perfect than the one just before orgasm.
He had always loved it. The one shining moment when everything felt right with the world. The anticipation of the pleasure to come. The feeling of connection to another human. The way every nerve in his body sang with vitality.
On his knees, with his face pressed to the pillows, a broad palm between his shoulder blades holding him in place, he felt alive. Strong and unbreakable. His body made to give and receive pleasure.
All it took was a few strokes with his hand and the moment shattered. The world bursting into glorious technicolour as he found his pleasure and felt his partner tumble over the edge seconds later.
They fell on the bed panting, Crowley basking in the afterglow, until without warning the moment shattered all over again.
“Quiet,” Crowley hissed, sitting up in alarm as a noise in the hallway caught his attention.
“It’s just the amah,” Gabriel said lazily, trying to tug him back down onto the mattress, “She won’t say anything.”
It wasn’t the amah. Crowley recognised those footsteps, even as the person outside tried to cover their own movements. They had been heard. There was no getting away from that fact.
“Aziraphale,” he breathed and that at last made Gabriel stop tugging on his arm.
It was too late to hide or to regret what he had done. He was about to be caught in bed with another man by his husband and all Crowley felt was relief. Relief that this sham of a marriage might soon be over. That he would be free.
He braced himself for a confrontation that never came. Instead after a few moments there was the sound of footsteps retreating down the corridor and then the distant sound of the front door opening and closing as someone left the house.
Perhaps it had not been Aziraphale after all.
----
Later, when Gabriel had gone, Crowley found the package. It was lying atop the table in his dressing room, inscribed in a familiar hand, sent care of Aziraphale at his office because Crowley had never bothered to write and give his mother his new address. He had assumed she would be as glad to be rid of him as he was of her. It had never occurred to him that his father might wish to get in touch.
But he had. The package contained Crowley’s favourite gramophone record and a note that simply read, “Miss you.”
For a moment Crowley found himself swallowing back the tears, which threatened to rise. Tears he had never expected to come, for the home he had left behind. His father had always been a reserved and taciturn man, and the evidence that he cared enough to go to the trouble of sending something so personal halfway around the world hit Crowley harder than he would have expected.
Then came the realisation this meant it had been Aziraphale in the hallway earlier. That his own husband had not cared enough to confront the man he was having an affair with. That he couldn’t even be bothered to go to the trouble of catching them.
Why had Aziraphale married him only to trap him here in Shanghai, alone in this house with nothing to do? He would not even put himself to the trouble of trying to keep him; apparently didn’t care if he was unfaithful.
Coward.
Chinese interior – May 1925
The sedan chair was veiled, windows covered with thin muslin to keep out the worst of the flies and the sun, but Crowley was still hotter than he could ever remember being in his life.
For a while, on this seemingly endless journey across China, the landscape had provided some novelty when Crowley had drawn back the curtains and risked the heat of the sun just for the sake of occupying himself with looking.
The novelty had long since worn off. There had been nothing but rice paddies for days. Vast great stretches of land cut through by raised paths, along which the chair bearers plodded slowly under the stifling heat. Aziraphale, unburdened, often forsaking his chair and striding ahead as if the weather meant less than nothing to him.
Crowley hated him. Hated this journey. Hated the whole country.
Rice paddies and flies and endless heat.
Perhaps he would die out here.
London – August 1924
It was a nice party. Crowley disagreed with his mother on a lot of things, but he did grudgingly admit she knew how to throw a high-class soiree, with all the right food and plenty of alcohol and just the right mix of people to prevent it descending into tedium.
It was unfortunate the mix of people often included several men she thought would make a suitable husband for him, since their ideas about such things could not be more wildly different.
Still, the demands of high society meant there were plenty of others who more than made up for those few his mother had managed to find that he hadn’t yet rejected, and that made it very worth his while to ensure he looked his best.
And he did look his best.
Eye-catching crimson hair in ringlets, just brushing the tops of his shoulders; the new white and silver dress, dripping with diamantes, which caught the light as he moved and showed his long legs to perfection; kohl artfully outlining his unusual amber eyes; and just the right amount of jewellery to look classy.
He sparkled as he descended the stairs to the main room, fashionably late despite this being his home, and felt the eyes of several men and quite a few women on him. He preened under their gazes and scanned the room for his friends, accepting a drink from one of the circulating staff more for something to do with his hands than because he particularly wanted to drink it.
He spotted Bea, her sharp suit and unusual hairstyle making her stand out despite her small stature, and made his way over to where she was holding court to a woman Crowley didn’t recognise.
Deftly avoiding a man with an unfortunate moustache who tried to accost him, Crowley slipped in alongside his friend and insinuated himself into the conversation.
----
Several drinks later Crowley was having a rather lovely time. There had been plenty of dancing and he had been flirted with by several handsome men and on top of this he had heard some very interesting gossip about Mrs Buskin down the road, which made a nice change from the usual vapid drivel he was subjected to at these things.
He was back with Bea now, ensconced in a corner beside the stairs, trying to avoid making eye contact with his mother, who seemed determined to introduce him to the man with the moustache.
Crowley was having none of it. He was not willing to be paraded around in front of suitors like cattle at a meat market. Instead he kept his eyes on other parts of the room, specifically on a part of the room containing a man he had never seen before, who occasionally looked in his direction, whilst obviously trying to pretend he wasn’t.
“Who is that man over there? The one who keeps looking over?” Crowley asked, inclining his head just slightly to indicate the direction.
Bea glanced over.
“You mean Dr Fell?” Her rather indifferent drawl suggested she did not think much of him, despite knowing his name. “Ugh, he’s a dreadful bore. I got stuck talking to him at one of Julian’s parties last year and thought I’d never get away. Works for the government in some foreign place. China maybe. Or India. He must be over on leave.”
Crowley gave this some thought, disappointed to hear the man described as boring, although wise enough to know his and Bea’s views on “boring” did not always coincide. Still, a government job did not sound very promising. Nor did the fact that he lived somewhere other than London. Crowley couldn’t imagine why anyone should want to live away from London.
“You haven’t got your eye on him, have you?” Bee added, with a laugh, “Not your type, trust me. Boring, old fashioned and not even much of a looker.”
“He’s not completely unfortunate looking,” Crowley said thoughtfully, glancing over again and hastily turning away when he realised Dr Fell was looking over at him yet again. Not completely unfortunate looking was putting it mildly. Crowley rather appreciated the soft yet strong looking body and the curly hair, which certainly wasn’t fashionable, but somehow looked luminous in the dim light.
He was musing on this and wondering whether these physical characteristics were worth risking getting stuck in a conversation with a man who worked for the government, when he realised Bea’s attention had shifted.
“Good evening, Dr Fell.”
Crowley cursed internally, hoping the flush on his cheeks might be mistaken for rouge and turned on his most fetching smile. Since the man was going to talk to them it probably wouldn’t hurt to indulge in a little flirting, government job or not.
“Good evening, Miss Zebub,” Dr Fell said, his voice formal and slightly stiff sounding. He glanced at Crowley but said nothing and Crowley rolled his eyes a little, glancing at Bea expectantly. Clearly Dr Fell was the sort to follow outdated customs that were best left in the past and whilst Crowley wouldn’t usually bother to indulge such things, for once he decided to play along.
‘Old-fashioned,’ Bea had said. She’d obviously been right on the mark with that one. He heard her give a put-upon sigh as she too realised what was needed.
“Dr Fell, may I introduce my friend, Anthony Crowley. Crowley, this is Dr Aziraphale Fell.”
Crowley accepted the handshake offered, pleased to find the hand was as warm and strong as the sturdy looking Dr Fell appeared. Perhaps he had potential after all.
“Would you like to dance?” Dr Fell asked, and Crowley found himself saying, “yes, all right, why not?” even though he could see Bea giving him a warning look from the corner of his eye.
Ten minutes later Crowley wished he had heeded her counsel. Dr Fell could not dance. At least, not with any flare or enthusiasm. He guided Crowley around the dance floor, his steps mostly technically competent, but as lacking in interest as his conversation, which was stilted and awkward.
“Your hair is very beautiful,” he said to Crowley’s surprise as he ladled punch into their glasses. Needing a drink had been Crowley’s excuse to get away from the dance floor in the least embarrassing way possible. He could feel his mother’s eyes on him, staring balefully from the side of the room and the last thing he wanted was for her to start causing a scene.
“Oh… thank you,” he said, accepting both the compliment and the glass Dr Fell handed to him.
“Are the curls natural?”
Crowley blinked. Well, that was… somewhat forward.
“Oh dear, my apologies. That was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it? I’m afraid I am not very good at this sort of thing.”
Without really meaning to, Crowley laughed. Not mockingly, which he felt might have been a justified response to such nonsense, but with absolute delight, because it occurred to him that this socially awkward and boring man had no idea what he was doing and yet was trying to flirt. It was rather endearing.
He looked pleased by the laugh as well, his smile lighting up his face in a way that was unfairly handsome for such a boring man. Maybe he wasn’t worth dancing with, but that smile was certainly worth basking in a little longer, and Crowley could certainly flirt his way to another one. He pulled on a ringlet and leant in a little closer.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he said, in a mock whisper, as Dr Fell leant in automatically, close enough that Crowley could smell his cologne. “No natural curl has ever looked like this. Not even Mary Pickford’s.”
Dr Fell’s eyes twinkled and he opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the last voice Crowley wanted to hear. A voice he’d far rather never hear again.
“There you are, Crowley, I wondered where you’d got to.”
Dr Fell stiffened. Crowley saw the moment his eyes went blank as he stepped back, putting some space between them again.
“Yes, here I am,” Crowley said, unable to keep the sourness out of his voice, “I can’t imagine why you were looking for me though, Lucien.”
Gods he hated Lucien. Slimy, awful man, who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Crowley couldn’t be too rude to him because his father was relying on some sort of business investment from Lucien’s family and much as he despised the whole charade Crowley wasn’t so unwise as to imagine upsetting Lucien would have anything other than very unfortunate consequences for his own lifestyle.
“Oh don’t be like that, sweetheart, there’s some people you simply must come and meet.”
Crowley opened his mouth. There was being rude and then there was politely declining on the basis that he was already occupied with Dr Fell. Perhaps he could say he’d already agreed to dance with him again. Enduring that was preferable to spending any time at all in Lucien’s company.
Unfortunately Dr Fell got there first.
“Well, I shall leave you then, Mr Crowley. It was delightful to meet you.”
“It’s just Crowley,” Crowley said automatically. Dr Fell’s face creased in confusion but he inclined his head as if acknowledging the information before he turned to leave. “It was nice to meet you too,” Crowley couldn’t help but call out as he walked away.
He had no idea if Dr Fell looked back because Lucien was already sweeping him away to meet whoever it was he wanted to show him off to. Honestly, it was awful, like Crowley was some sort of trophy to be admired. He didn’t even belong to Lucien, had rebuffed all his advances and had made it clear to his parents that under no circumstances would he ever agree to marry him. Yet Lucien sometimes insisted on acting as if they were betrothed, in every way short of actually stating as such out loud.
Crowley couldn’t stand it.
Chinese interior – May 1925
Neither the flies, nor the heat changed, although eventually the endless rice paddies began to be broken up by stands of trees and the distant mountains and forests finally seemed to be coming closer.
By the eighth or perhaps the ninth day Crowley had no more tears left to cry and no energy left to cry them. He felt ill with the heat, with the endless rocking motion of the chair as he was carried where he did not want to go. Filled with despair at what his life had become.
The rocking ceased as the bearers came to a halt and Crowley roused himself a little, lifting his head from where it rested on the edge of the window.
He heard, rather than saw, Aziraphale approach. As usual his husband did not bother to draw back the veil that shaded Crowley from view, refusing, as always, to look at him.
“It’s nearly midday,” came his voice, as cold and detached as it had been since this dreadful journey began. “We could stop under the trees, but I’d like to press on if it’s all right with you.”
Crowley would have laughed had he been able to find the strength. Instead he channelled what little energy he could summon into keeping his own voice as steady and cold as Aziraphale’s own.
“Certainly my comfort is of no concern to you,” he managed eventually.
“Right. Then we’ll continue.”
Aziraphale moved away and shortly after the rocking resumed.
Oppressive heat covered Crowley like a blanket. He rested his head on the faded wood of the sedan chair and prayed for death.
London – August 1924
Crowley had never expected to speak with Dr Fell again. While they were dancing the man had informed him he was over from China on leave only for six weeks and though Crowley was not above admitting he wouldn’t mind seeing that smile again, he also didn’t think it was worth putting himself through the torture of dancing with the man, even supposing they did run into each other again before he left.
Such an eventuality was highly unlikely in any case and Crowley gave the man no thought at all once the party was over.
He was therefore rather startled to find himself almost walking straight into Dr Fell not five days later, when the man emerged from his father’s study just as Crowley was passing.
The first thing Crowley noticed was that Dr Fell’s cream suit and bowtie were hideously old fashioned; the second was that he was most definitely not smiling.
In fact Dr Fell pursed his lips as he looked Crowley over from head to toe, and he stiffened under the scrutiny, tilting his chin up defiantly at the rather obvious judgement. He supposed his clothes were unconventional, even if he was dressed in more traditionally male clothing today. The slim fitting black trousers and shirt with a tailored satin waistcoat over the top stood in sharp contrast to Dr Fell’s pale, conservative clothing, but then Crowley wasn’t trying for conservative, and he knew he looked good.
“Ah, good. Would you see Dr Fell out please, Anthony?” his father said, appearing in the doorway whilst Crowley was busy bristling under Dr Fell’s gaze and trying not to let his face twist into a scowl.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak without sounding rude and gestured for Dr Fell to follow him down the hall, feeling the man’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head with every step.
“I didn’t realise your hair was so long,” Dr Fell commented, as they came to a halt by the door. Crowley paused with his hand halfway to the handle.
“The ringlets make it look shorter,” he said, feeling some sort of response was called for, even if the comment had been rather strange.
“Oh, um… yes, I suppose they would.”
Crowley could not help himself, the man was so awkward he made it almost too easy to tease. He patted at his hair, pulled back with a simple black ribbon so the full length cascaded down his spine.
“You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.” Dr Fell looked flustered. “I suppose I’m just not used to seeing long hair anymore.”
“What can you mean by that?”
Crowley flicked him his most coquettish smile, enjoying the way it made the blush spread across Dr Fell’s rather lovely cheeks.
“Well, I suppose, um...” He cleared his throat nervously, casting his eyes toward the door, as if he were considering bolting like a frightened animal. “It’s just so many young women cut their hair short nowadays. I know it’s the fashion, but I’ve always thought it such a shame.”
Crowley blinked, thinking this a rather strange line of reasoning.
“I’m not a woman,” he pointed out, as if he thought Dr Fell might be confused on that point. He was fairly sure he wasn’t, but he could think of no other reply to give.
“No! Oh goodness. I didn’t mean… well…” There was yet another awkward cough and Dr Fell looked more flustered than ever. Crowley watched him impassively and after a moment he seemed to pull himself together before saying in a much more formal tone, “My apologies if I have offended you, Mr Crowley.”
“It’s just Crowley,” he said automatically, pulling the door open a little wider. He was entirely bored of this bizarre conversation, and it was long past time for Dr Fell to take his leave.
“Of course.”
He looked as if he were thinking of taking Crowley’s hand, whether to shake or kiss Crowley could not tell, but in a moment of panic at the idea he stepped backwards, almost falling over the umbrella stand in his haste.
“Good day, Dr Fell,” he said quickly, giving a smile he knew did not reach his eyes. It usually worked to get rid of company he no longer wanted, and it did not fail him this time.
“Good day.”
Crowley had shut the door almost before Dr Fell had stepped off the porch, wondering why on earth a man with a government job in China had been to visit his father. What could they possibly have to discuss?
For Crowley, home was not a pleasant place to be.
He spent as much time as he could away from the place, avoiding his self-righteous sister and overbearing mother as often as he could get away with. His father was far more tolerable, but since he had a tendency to shut himself away in his study for hours at a time there was little in the way of diversion to be had from him.
When he was forced to spend the evening at home Crowley had long since learned the best way to avoid his mother’s sarcastic comments about his unmarried status, or cutting remarks about his sister’s greater accomplishments, was to apply himself to a task and hope it was enough to put off any unwanted attention.
So long as the tasks met with his mother’s approval he was relatively safe, which was why he could paint and play the piano with a far greater level of skill than he would have been inclined to achieve had there been no ulterior motivation to his studies.
Not that he ever received any credit for such things. Not when Harriet was there to outshine him, considered to be all the things he was not and none of the things he was. She was also engaged, something Crowley was never likely to hear the end of if he left any opportunities for conversation.
Of course, the ruse did not always work and this particular evening Crowley was halfway through Gnossienne No. 1 when Harriet decided to poke her nose where it was not wanted.
“Crowley, who was that young man I saw leaving earlier today? Had he come to call on you?”
His fingers stuttered on the keys and he stopped playing abruptly.
“I invited him.” His father’s voice came as something of a surprise, since he rarely spoke, even when he did join them in the parlour after dinner. Last time Crowley looked round he had been reading the newspaper and he rarely paid attention to anything around him when he was reading.
“Who is he?” Harriet asked, though Crowley could not imagine why she would be interested.
“His name is Dr Fell. He manages a government laboratory in Shanghai.”
“A civil servant?”
If his father noticed the disdain in Harriet’s voice he did not acknowledge it.
“I got talking to him at that party your mother insisted we held. Nice young man. Very clever. I invited him to take a look at my Shakespeare.”
“Goodness, he must have made quite the impression,” Crowley couldn’t help but say. His father had a small collection of rare Shakespeare folios that he guarded fiercely, rarely allowing anyone to see or touch them. Crowley himself had only seen them a handful of times, watching almost without breathing as his father turned the pages. Personally, he could never see what was so fascinating about them, nor understand the point was of owning a book one never actually read, but he held his breath nonetheless because such moments of connection with his father were rare and precious, and Crowley would rather have fainted through lack of oxygen than allowed his exhales to damage the fragile pager.
“The point is, did you make an impression on him ?” his mother interjected sharply, interrupting whatever his father had been about to say.
Crowley flinched and turned back to the piano, hoping to put an end to the conversation. “Since he was not here to see me, I hardly think that’s relevant.”
“Do you not like him?” his father said, sounding surprised.
“Not really.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Harriet asked, at almost the same moment his mother said, “Is he in love with you?”
Crowley gave up on playing the piano and turned back to glare at both of them.
“I don’t know,” he snapped, answering his mother’s question and ignoring Harriet’s prying. His mother gave him a baleful look.
“I should have thought by now you’d know when a young man was in love with you.”
“I don’t see why this is at all relevant,” Crowley pointed out, hoping to turn the conversation away from whether or not Dr Fell was in love with him. “He was here to look at books, not to court me. And I have no wish to gain his attentions or his affections anyway.”
His mother was not to be put off, regarding him with narrowed eyes as she dug her needle viciously into her sewing. “You’d better be careful, Anthony. Time can run out, you know.”
“I am not prepared to marry just anyone who happens to come along regardless of my feelings,” he grumbled, half under his breath. Unfortunately his mother heard and had something more to say.
“How much longer do you expect your father to go on supporting you?”
That stung. Crowley wanted to snap that it was all very well for her to say this now, when he was too old to train in a profession that might have been of some use in allowing him to support himself.
It was entirely his mother’s fault he had been taught by a succession of governesses rather than being afforded a proper, modern education. She was the one who had insisted on him staying at home with his sister. His father had been given very little say in the matter, managing to argue only for additional tutoring in the modern languages when Crowley had shown an aptitude for such things. Mother had thought it a waste of time and money, but for once his father had got his way. Crowley had always wished he had been as insistent when it came to the rest of his education.
His father glanced up now, surprised at being dragged back into the conversation and looking at Crowley with something like sympathy.
Crowley rose and left the room, ignoring his mother’s protests and his sister’s mocking laughter.
----
It was unfortunate Dr Fell appeared to have decided to court him anyway, despite what Crowley thought was his clear disinterest. He turned up at the house again a few days later, supposedly to visit his father, though he spent most of his time in the sitting room watching Crowley paint and attempting to make conversation.
Crowley squirmed in his seat and did his best to put him off, but apparently Dr Fell was more than a little stubborn because he stayed far too long and kept turning up over the next few weeks.
His mother noticed and tried to interfere at first, plying Dr Fell with tea and cakes, and inviting him to dinner. It was only because Dr Fell seemed no better at conversing with her than he was with Crowley that she was eventually forced to give up, though Crowley did have to admit, at least to himself, this was the one impressive thing Dr Fell had managed to achieve.
He was unfailingly polite to Crowley’s mother, and she noticed nothing wrong with his manners, eventually declaring him to be, “polite enough, though an odd sort,” but something in the way Dr Fell spoke to her made Crowley think it was less about social awkwardness and more that Dr Fell did not like her at all.
It was an impression only heightened each time he caught Crowley’s eye when his mother’s back was turned, and Crowley would swear he could see a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. It was always gone in less than a second, but it made Dr Fell a little less tedious than he would otherwise have been, though Crowley still did not wish to encourage his attentions.
----
“You play so beautifully,” Dr Fell said as the last notes of the piano faded away. It was the same thing he said every time he heard Crowley play and he had unfortunately heard it many times over the last few weeks.
Usually Crowley merely thanked him, but today he was not feeling at all magnanimous and instead blurted out the truth.
“It is one of the only pleasures allowed to me when I am at home.”
Dr Fell looked startled, but recovered quickly, his eyes straying to the bookshelf in the corner.
“Do you not read?”
“I'm not much for reading I’m afraid.”
It wasn’t true. At least it was only partially true. Crowley had read all the books worth reading in the house years ago and since he was not allowed access to his father’s collection and no one else seemed inclined to buy more he had given up bothering.
“I love to read, it is one of the great pleasures in life.”
“Is it?”
“To me at any rate.”
Crowley regarded him for a few moments, watching the steady blue eyes gaze back at him and wondering not for the first time why Dr Fell was interested in him at all.
“I think we are very different, Dr Fell.”
“Perhaps.”
They lapsed into silence. Eventually Crowley started playing again just for something to do. He heard Dr Fell cross the room to sit in one of the chairs and realised with a sigh he would need to do his duties as host before his mother returned and caught him behaving in such a manner.
“Can I offer you some tea?” he said, once the song ended and he had no choice but to turn around.
“No, thank you. I cannot stay long.”
Crowley tried not to look relieved at the information, covering what he feared would be obvious by rising from the piano stool and instead taking a seat opposite Dr Fell, shuffling internally through his knowledge of acceptable small talk for something appropriate to say.
“I have bought you something,” Dr Fell said, before Crowley could comment on the weather, or on the latest fashions, or voice whatever other drivel had been about to come out of his mouth. He loathed small talk and was temporarily thankful at being saved from having to engage in it. At least until the full meaning of Dr Fell’s words sank in.
“Oh,” was all he could think to say in response.
Dr Fell seemed to take this as encouragement, though in reality Crowley was filled with horror at the idea of receiving a gift from someone he did not care for. Reluctantly Crowley reached out to take the small bag he was offered, unable to think of any realistic way in which he could refuse without being unkind.
The bag had the name “Harrods” on the front and Crowley knew whatever was inside would be something ridiculously expensive. He just hoped it wasn’t also hideous.
Filled with trepidation he opened it, pulled out the tissue paper wrapped gift, and peeled back the layers.
Inside was a silver bundle, which when he picked it up unspooled into a thin silver scarf, the fabric silken and luxurious feeling under his fingers. It was undoubtedly an item Aziraphale had purchased from the feminine clothing department and Crowley couldn't help but tense at the thought.
It was silly to be offended. He bought feminine clothing, he wore feminine clothing; no one cared anymore who wore what. Even his conservative parents had been forced to accept the new social convention eventually, though his mother still didn't bother to hide her disapproving sneers, even if she no longer passed comment.
He didn't know why the idea of Dr Fell buying him something like this bothered him so much, but it did, even though it was beautiful and exactly the sort of thing he would enjoy wearing.
“Do you like it?” Dr Fell asked, anxiety clear in his voice.
Crowley let the material flow through his hands, watching the thread sparkle as it caught the light, before answering.
“It's beautiful,” he said, trying to keep the reluctance he felt at admitting it out of his voice.
There was such a thing as good manners after all, and despite what his mother thought Crowley wasn’t totally devoid of such things. Dr Fell had bought him a gift and it was pathetically clear the man was rather besotted with him. There was no need to be rude.
When Dr Fell continued to look unsure Crowley looped the scarf over his neck and tied it, letting it hang loose around the open collar of his shirt. Dr Fell looked pleased and Crowley managed to fumble his way through a few more trivial pleasantries before finally Dr Fell excused himself to go and attend to some business matters.
As soon as he was gone Crowley pulled the scarf from around his neck, wrapped it back up and went to tuck it away in a drawer where he would hopefully be able to forget about it, whilst Dr Fell returned to China and hopefully forgot all about him .