Chapter Text
There are many expectations one tends to have when they select “paleontology” from the list of majors at university.
It’s been over twenty years for Crowley, but he still remembers that first week of class, sitting down in a lecture hall with all his classmates in his introductory unit. Most of them didn’t know each other, of course, but as they were encouraged to start interacting, conversation broke out all around him, mostly surrounding the same topic — their future as paleontologists.
Oh, a lot of people had this as an elective, curious to learn about dinosaurs. Crowley couldn’t fault them — he had every intention of making this his life , and he’d never been one to begrudge someone their curiosity. But those that didn’t, they talked a lot about the dig . About finding bones, piecing together skeletons, and then… well, and then moving on to the next one. Just like that, paint a picture and move past it.
Not Crowley, though.
Truth to be told, he didn’t much care for the dig at all. It sounded like an awful lot of work, if you asked him, and it certainly didn’t help that the majority of fossils seemed to have been found in one desert or another. They hardly ever seemed to pop up somewhere nice, did they, like the middle of St. James’ Park? Somewhere not too hot, not too cold, not too dry or too damp — that’s where he’d like his fossils.
No, his interest laid in actually understanding them.
Not that this seemed to be resonating with this class of eleven year olds he’s been asked to watch for “just a moment, please, while I pop off to the loo” what seems to have been about… two hours ago?
An exaggeration, probably, but Crowley would like to call on the laws of relativity for that one. He’s not half bad with children, usually, but there’s something about a horde of them who most certainly do not want to be in a museum during a perfectly nice summer day, all focused on his favorite subject and livelihood, that simply does seem to lend itself to a pleasant interaction, and he’d appreciate a quicker rescue.
“But you’ve already found the dinosaur,” says a child whose name tag reads, somewhat inexplicably, “GREASY JOHNSON” in large block letters, “what’s more to learn?”
“Well,” says Crowley, turning to gesture at the replica velociraptor on display next to him, “just look at the Velociraptor , for one. Turkey-sized, biped, got a tail, and that’s it, yeah? All you can really tell at a glance. But if you stop and pay attention…” He crouches down, nods towards the dinosaur’s feet. “Three toes, kind of like its big cousin the T-Rex. But if you look at the tracks it leaves, you can see — just two fingers make a print. Means that toe, with the big claw? It wasn’t for walking. So we figure it was meant to be kept sharp. Why? ‘Cause that’s how the Velociraptor got you. Went right for the jugular, like a lion attacking a gazelle. A well-placed puncture wound, and… well. Parents probably wouldn’t appreciate the rest of that story. Now, the interesting part’s how we know that — “
“Crowley?” interjects one Mary Loquacious, who’s been left with the task of manning the reception as everyone seems to be mysteriously disappearing on this sunny summer day. Maybe he should disappear, too. See how they like that. “There’s a gentleman here asking for you. An American? I can take over here for you, if you’d like.”
He just manages to stop the “thank Someone ” that almost escapes his lips. With free reign over the tour, he knows he could make this something to remember — he does, in fact, every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday. He’s a popular tour guide and he knows it . But this is not his tour, and besides, he really can’t stress enough what a nice summer’s day it is outside.
“Uh - yeah. ‘Course. I’ll go see about the American,” Crowley stammers out before turning his attention back to the children. “This is where I leave you, but remember — digging up bones is really just half the fun. You know, if you’re into all that digging stuff.” He makes a face, which at least earns him a few giggles, and then he takes off like a baby giraffe running from a lion suffering from a serious case of being the movie villain.
The American turns out to look not too unlike what one might imagine an American to look like if one’s sole exposure to the concept of an American were entirely Hollywood movies from the Golden Age of Cinema. He’s tall, muscular, though not overtly so, and he has the kind of brilliantly white teeth that only ever seem to occur in movies. His short, dark hair is kept immaculate, and Crowley is fairly certain that the suit that this man is wearing may very well cost Crowley’s entire annual salary. The tailoring is certainly perfect enough to make Crowley’s own — nice, but not that nice — clothes feel like they’re grumbling something about the falsity of one-size-fits-all.
He is, all in all, certainly not what Crowley had been expecting, as far as he had any expectations at all. He is also completely and utterly unfamiliar, which is baffling in itself.
Thankfully, the man spots Crowley just a moment later, and quickly takes over the interaction.
“Mr. Crowley!” he greets, his smile bright and charismatic. A hand is offered in greeting and, hesitantly, Crowley accepts it. “It’s so great to finally meet you, I’ve heard great things. Great things.”
“Uh… thanks?” tries Crowley, brows pinching together slightly.
He is one of the leading paleontologists in his field. His field just isn’t one that tends to attract men in this nice a suit. There’s a lot more fanfare around digs, after all, than around the research that’s conducted afterwards. Everyone loves a fossil.
Seeming to finally notice Crowley’s confusion, the man says, “oh, right. My name is Gabriel Messenger. Should have started with that. And I’m here, Mr. Crowley, because I have an opportunity for you.”
“An opportunity?” echoes Crowley, not making an effort to hide his skepticism. “If you’re going to try to sell me on vitamins, or —“
“Oh, no. No, this is more… I have an opportunity where your expertise is needed.”
A moment, then Crowley crosses his arms over his chest, one eyebrow raised in clear doubt. “A job offer. And you decided to come here personally, to my current place of employment, instead of… I don’t know, sending an email? A phone call? Hell, even smoke signals would be more appropriate than this .”
Gabriel’s smile doesn’t falter for a moment. It’s a little unnerving.
“Oh, it’s not that kind of job offer. You’d be well-compensated, of course, but it’s a little more… informal, I think would be the word? Just give me a week. A week at Isla Nublar, all expenses paid, the works.”
Crowley frowns. “Isla Nublar, Isla Nublar… Hang on, I know that name from somewhere, it’s… oh, fuck , don’t tell you’re from that theme park, that… Jurassic Park? Oh, that’s just embarrassing . Why would you even need me for that? ’S a theme park, you can do whatever you want! Not like there were rollercoasters or carrousels when the dinosaurs were around anyway, what’s one more creative liberty?”
Still, Gabriel’s smile doesn’t falter. “Tell me, Mr. Crowley, is Jurassic Park a theme park?”
The question gives Crowley pause.
His work, aside from research, has long since been to put together tours and write up educational information for the paleontology section of the museum. With this kind of work, it’s important to become aware of anything surrounding the field that starts to make enough of a wave — movies like The Land Before Time, for example, anything that might shape people’s questions, interests, and the misinformation that the museum should endeavor to correct.
So when Jurassic Park started to show up in the news, Crowley naturally went to investigate. Admittedly, he did not find much.
The website was minimal — no pictures of the establishment, only illustrations of dinosaurs, and it promised only “an experience.” There was little way to book it, either, the website only offering an idea of how many tickets were available for given dates, a brief overview of what the tickets included (admission, hotel stay, and a ferry to and from the island at the most basic level), the minimum stay and the prices for each tier ticket. To purchase them, people were told to book an appointment either online or at one of their many ticket offices.
Shady, Crowley had figured, and expected that soon it would turn out to be a rather obvious scam.
But people kept talking about it. People claimed to have been there, though no one ever seemed to offer up any details on the trip. There were never any pictures, never any information, and eventually Crowley supposes he just… accepted it. Filed it away as a theme park — because with that name, what else could it be? — and tried to forget the whole unnerving thing.
Now here this man is, trying to ferry him off for a week to a place he’s still not entirely sure exists.
If this didn’t seem like far too much work, and himself rather a strangely specific target, he would think someone might be trying to… what, kidnap him? Kill him? That John Mulaney sketch regarding secondary locations came to mind.
He definitely feels like he should be scared.
Still, he answers, “I don’t actually know. Think no one knows, do they?”
“Oh, some people know,” says Gabriel, far more ominously than Crowley thinks he meant it. “Everyone that’s already come to our park knows. I know, of course. And you will, too. Say… a flight on Friday works for you? It’ll get you as far as the coast, and then I’ll have my helicopter pick us up and fly us over to the island. Much better view than the ferry. Pity they can’t carry a lot of people. I played around with the idea of just having a fleet of helicopters flying people in, but that was a nightmare.”
“I — I haven’t actually said yes ,” points out Crowley, who feels it may be in his best interests not to get into an argument regarding the merits of helicopter versus ferry-based travel for large groups of people wishing to reach an island from the mainland coast.
Gabriel blinks.
“Oh. Yeah, I guess you haven’t. But you want to, don’t you?”
And dammit, yes. Crowley does.
Curiosity – everyone’s always told him that story about how curiosity killed the cat. He’s always found it unbearable. It’s a saying, nothing more — is he really supposed to follow it blindly? Ignore how curiosity is what got humanity to where it is now? How if no one had ever wondered, “huh, I wonder what happens if I bang these two rocks together?” or, “what if I roll this stick in my hand a lot while I press it against this really dry bit of wood?” society would probably never have gotten past a hunter-gatherer stage? And when he’d learned about the second part of that saying, he was over the moon.
Right now, he’s not so sure that satisfaction is going to bring him back.
But damn it if curiosity isn’t going to kill him.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, I really think I do.”
“Perfect!” exclaims Gabriel. “Then just say yes, and I’ll send you an email with your flight information. Don’t worry, it’s a private jet, so you’ll have all the comforts. Just make sure you pack for Costa Rica, and everything else will be provided.”
Crowley glances back towards the doorway that leads to the dinosaur exhibits.
The truth is, he really shouldn’t. Even not counting the very clear red flags all over this offer, his job isn’t one that he can simply leave for a week. Sure, the dinosaurs and their fossils aren’t going anywhere, neither is the museum, but there’s tours . They’d need to get someone to cover for him, and he knows there’s people who pick certain days, certain times, because they know it’s going to be him.
It’s not that he can’t ever take leave, of course, but this is so sudden. [Mother Superior?] would have to scramble to find someone to take over for him, and that just wouldn’t be fair on anyone.
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.
But…
Oh, everything’s just been such a drudge the past few months. It’s felt like a never-ending winter where he needs to drag himself through the snow that’s somehow always just at the right level to make everything harder, but turns to sludge whenever he wants to appreciate the scenery. Maybe this is crazy, but maybe crazy is the right way to go now.
What kind of travel insurance covers “may in fact be some kind of really elaborate… something”?
“Alright,” he says in a breath, and feels his heart do something weird inside his chest that he’s certainly not sure is good or bad. “Alright, I’ll go.”
“Wonderful! I’ll see you on Friday, then. Don’t forget, pack for Costa Rica!” Gabriel has already turned on his heels, heading out the door with the look of a man who got exactly what he wanted, and knew all along that he would.
Smug bastard.
“Where the hell else would I pack for,” grumbles Crowley, “Antarctica?”
Crowley has travelled a fair bit in his time, but never by private jet, and it’s awkward .
There aren’t dozens of other passengers for the airport staff to concern themselves with — it’s just him and extremely personal, extremely courteous service coming from people who are clearly very used to dealing with those who hold their livelihoods in their hands. Crowley doesn’t like it one bit, squirming under their pleasantries and just telling himself that at least once he’s on the plane, he’ll presumably be left alone for several hours.
Maybe he’ll take a nap, prepare himself for what couldn’t be less personal service once he gets to the part where he’ll be helicoptered into the island.
Finally, he’s directed onto the runway, where the plane awaits with stairs fitted to its door. He climbs it awkwardly, squinting against the noise and the sun that decided to make an appearance just to reflect off the metal frames, and at last he’s inside. Someone he takes to be the air stewardess Gabriel has somehow figured his single passenger might need (he doesn’t, and would spend the entire flight feeling far too awkward to ask for anything no matter how desperately hungry or thirsty he might be) directs him to sit anywhere, and he runs off towards the back, eager to get this whole thing over with.
It’s a comfortable seat, he has to give Gabriel that. Crowley sprawls into it, letting his spine assume shapes that most people find somewhat disturbing to look at but which he finds to be a perfect fit, limbs askew and eyes beginning to grow heavy with the promise of some ten hours to sleep.
And that’s when he hears it .
The voice, the familiar voice that Crowley cannot believe belongs on this plane.
The perfectly pleasant, perfectly polite greeting to the stewardess — “ oh, good morning! Anywhere? Ah, thank you. Just before I sit, could I trouble you for some cocoa once we’re in the air? No rush, of course, I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time for some refreshments. Oh, and I’d love to hear about the food selection, I have a feeling I’ll get rather peckish. Thank you so much, dear. ” As opposed to Crowley’s grumbled “thank you”s and rushed exit, as if he could somehow feel worse about the awkwardness he’s sure he created.
Crowley straightens, then relaxes into his best imitation of nonchalance, eyes alert behind shades that thankfully hide them.
Footsteps approach, and a familiar blond figure approaches, carrying a briefcase of all things, and dressed in a suit that would still be out of place in an academic conference, but would certainly feel much more at home there than on a tropical island. Not that Crowley himself is dressed for it, clad in skinny jeans and suit jacket and vest that are just a little bit too tight, but that’s besides the point.
“ Crowley? ” asks the voice, whose owner has suddenly stopped on his tracks. “What on Earth are you doing here?”
Crowley raises an eyebrow carefully, leaving it up long enough that it may be noted. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“If you must know, I’ve been invited to visit Jurassic Park.”
“Me too.”
“Oh, you have to — of all the people in London, all the paleontologists…”
Crowley huffs, straightening once again, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Oi, I’m not happy with this, either!”
“I didn’t mean it like that ,” he says in a tone that implies very much that that was precisely how he meant it. But far be it from him to be impolite , right? That wouldn’t be proper .
“Sure you didn’t,” replies Crowley, rolling his eyes in a practiced manner that he knows can be understood even through his sunglasses. He’s spent quite some time perfecting it precisely for moments like this.
There’s no reply, just an awkward shift in position that implies that yes, Crowley was right. He did mean it like that.
A sigh, then Crowley gestures towards the empty seats. “Might as well take a seat now, yeah? ‘Cause I’m not backing down from the trip, and I doubt you’re backing down from it — “
“Certainly not!”
“ — so,” he continues a little more forcefully — “we can just get on with it, yeah? Plane’s not going anywhere until we’re both seated.”
A moment passes in silence, and Crowley turns his eyes back to the window, watching the ground crew and assorted vehicles whose purpose he could only guess at pass by. There’s a shuffling sound, then a small thud and a heavy sigh, which Crowley mirrors with one of his own. He’d thought this trip would be a mistake, but he never would have guessed at how much of a mistake it could turn out to be.
“One week,” he says, still not tearing his eyes away from the runway. “One week, and then we can go our separate ways, Aziraphale.”