Chapter Text
“What happened to ‘on time,’ Crowley?”
“It’s a work in progress,” Crowley admitted. “But I’m almost there, I’m already on Hogback Lane, just hang on a minute.”
“Right.” Anathema’s voice went muffled. “Tracy! We should get started, he hasn’t left the house yet.”
“Hey!” She hadn’t even tried to block the phone so Crowley couldn’t hear her telling rude truths about him. He zipped his backpack closed and grabbed his keys off their hook. “I will be there in a minute. Just not a literal one.”
“Tracy’s going to start outsourcing your job to the people who actually showed up. Oh, listen! Is that Newt she’s asking to direct?”
Crowley snorted. “That’s too much of a stretch,” he told her. “Newt’s not even allowed to be on the stage crew this year.”
“He is actually excited about auditioning.”
“Oh, good! We’ll be able to control what props he’s allowed to touch, that should help prevent any more disasters.” Speaking of props… “Shit. Hang on. I forgot something.” He dropped his bag to run back upstairs, where he’d left his budget spreadsheet next to his bed the night before. Not that the Tadfield Community Players had anything that could really be called a budget, but it would be good to know exactly how much money they didn’t have while they were planning what props they could make. Luckily, they should be able to find most of what they needed for Peter Pan either from thrift stores or the woods out back of town. There was a reason he’d picked this show.
“Definitely giving someone else your job,” Anathema singsonged. “Not Newt, you’re right. But I bet Deirdre could do it. Or the new accompanist.”
Crowley sprinted down the stairs and—finally—out the door. “Are you kidding?” he asked, locking up and dashing down the sidewalk. “Deirdre took on costuming as a thank-you for giving her a break from the kids for a few hours every week. I’m afraid you’re stuck with—hang on, new accompanist?”
“What, were you planning to put on a musical without a music director? Have you forgotten The Music Man?”
Crowley shuddered. That had been the first musical he directed for the Players, and it had been… an experience. The only thing that had kept him around was the promise of putting on As You Like It the following spring. They had never tried to go without an accompanist again. “I didn’t know Tracy had found someone already. Thought she was having trouble.”
“It was last minute, yeah. He seems good, though. A bit shy.”
“Hm. As long as he can play, I don’t really care.” He jumped the Youngs’ fence, taking a shortcut across a few gardens to get to Tracy’s faster. She only lived a few blocks away—there only were a few blocks in Tadfield—but he really was late, and especially if there was someone new to meet there, he didn’t want to make an insurmountably awful first impression. “I’m nearly there,” he said. “Stall for me.”
“No.”
“Please?”
Anathema blew a kiss and hung up.
Crowley sighed with what little breath he had to spare. He stopped at Tracy’s front gate to catch his breath after the run from his house, smoothing his hair back and straightening his shirt. He was in charge of this operation, after all, and he liked to look the part, while he still could. By dress rehearsals in November it would be a lost cause.
Appearance appropriately fine-tuned, he made his way up to Tracy’s door. The sun was still up, the late summer days not yet starting to shorten. Bicycle bells rang out behind him, and he turned to wave at The Them riding by, all shouting hellos.
“Are you here to plan for Peter Pan?” Brian asked excitedly, circling his bike around.
“Of course he is,” Adam said. “I told you, Mum’s here too to talk about our costumes.”
“Actually, I don’t think they can talk about our costumes yet, since we haven’t actually been cast.”
“But we will be casted. Nobody doesn’t get a part in the musical.”
“I want to be a pirate,” Pepper announced. “I’ve already got a sword and everything. Can I be a pirate, Mr. AJ?”
Crowley laughed. He had missed the kids while he was away for the summer. “We’ll see,” he said. “You lot are getting to be the big kids, now. I might need you to help out the younger Lost Boys.”
“Lost Girls too.”
“And Lost Girls, yes. Lost Kids.”
“That’s better.”
The door behind Crowley opened, and Anathema leaned out. “You kids better not be trying to get Crowley to play favorites,” she called. “That’s my job.”
“Hi Anathema!” The Them said in unison, and then they were riding off toward the village square, shouting about fairies and pirates and whether Peter Pan could be a witch, actually, if Anathema played him.
“You’re not playing Peter,” Crowley said as he passed Anathema going into the house. “And there will be no witches in this show, no matter who you’re playing.”
“Are you kidding? Any part I play will be a witch, as far as they’re concerned. Come on, there’s cookies.”
Everyone had gathered in Tracy’s kitchen at the back of the house, pulling in spare chairs from the garden and the living room. There was a seat—and a large amount of table space—left empty in the breakfast nook, and Crowley made a beeline for it.
“There you are!” Tracy exclaimed when she saw him.
“Yes, I know, late as usual,” he said, dropping his bag on the table and starting to pull out various folders. “Five minutes and I’ll be ready to start.”
The room returned to the chatter that had been going on before Crowley arrived. It wasn’t a large group, just under a dozen people who had each shouldered some of the work of running a community theater. Volunteers all, except for Tracy, who was the manager of the Tadfield Community Center, Crowley, who got paid a little to run the center’s theater program, and their hired accompanist, who Crowley was scanning the room hoping to spot. This was the person he would be working side by side with for the next several weeks. He figured he should at least introduce himself.
It turned out not to be much of a challenge. The only person in the room who Crowley didn’t know was a squat blond man by the kitchen counter, making a cup of tea and talking with Tracy. Leaving his things on the table, Crowley made his way around the gathered chairs toward him.
Tracy saw him first, and her smile over his shoulder made the blond man turn around. He had very striking grey eyes, Crowley noticed as soon as he saw them, crinkled up in a web of laugh lines.
“Hello,” the man said. “You must be Mr. Crowley?”
“Yep. Just Crowley, though.”
He nodded and held out a hand, introducing himself as Aziraphale.
“Aziraphale is also going to be accompanying the choirs and some of our ballroom dance classes,” Tracy said, eyes sparkling. “He was quite the catch.”
Aziraphale blushed, round cheeks looking positively cherubic adorned with that pink stain. “I was just happy to find somewhere that needed me.”
“Have you done this before, then?”
“Not theater,” he admitted. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little patient with me. But Tracy has said the first few weeks of rehearsal are just teaching the cast the music?”
Crowley tipped his head from side to side. “More or less.”
“Well, that part I know how to do, at least. We’ll tackle the rest when we get there, I suppose.” Aziraphale took a sip of his tea and made a face, nose scrunching up.
“Alright?” Crowley asked, amused.
“Mm.” Aziraphale smacked his tongue, grimacing. He frowned severely down at his mug. “Decaf. That’s… highly unfortunate.”
A laugh burst out of Crowley, and he reached for the kettle. “I’ll make you a new one,” he offered. “I could use a cuppa, too.”
“Oh, no, I’m afraid not. I had the last proper tea bag before this.”
“Had?”
“I gave it away,” Aziraphale sighed.
“You… what?”
“I gave it away.” He nodded to Mrs. Gardener, who was sitting next to Deirdre, a plate of biscuits resting on her belly. “I ran into her husband and their son on the way in. I’ve worked with three year olds. It seemed she needed it more than me.” He tsked at himself, and took another cautious sip.
“I’d bet you anything Tracy has more squirreled away somewhere,” Crowley started to offer, but Aziraphale shook his head.
“I’ll make do. I really shouldn’t be having caffeine this late in the day, anyway. I’ll be up all night.”
Crowley grinned. “We’ll break you of that optimistic thinking soon enough, don’t you worry. Give it a few weeks, and you’ll be up all night singing Peter Pan songs whether you had tea or not.”
Crowley felt a little thrill when Aziraphale laughed. It was a low, bright sound, and Crowley immediately wanted to hear it again.
Anathema had other ideas. “It was five minutes five minutes ago,” she called from her seat next to Newt. “Get over here and tell us what your great plan is. I need to know how many bake sales we’re going to have to run to afford it.”
Most of the meeting was old hat for everyone there; they went over the schedule, the budget, the list of costumes and props and set pieces Crowley already knew he wanted. Tracy sighed and shook her head and made a list of things she would bring to the community center’s board of directors in an attempt to get a little more funding. Newt took copious notes that he would give to Mr. Shadwell, who would promptly lose them and make his usual snide comments about knowing how to build a set better than Crowley ever could, and then complain later about not having been given instruction about what he was meant to be building.
While Dierdre, Eve, and Anathema discussed whether they could pull off a convincing Tinker Bell with a narrow spotlight and a tambourine, Crowley started sketching out vague thoughts about what he needed to look for during auditions. He had some ideas already, but he had learned a long time ago that casting was hellish enough without making it harder. If he decided ahead of time that none of the pirates technically needed to be able to sing, he’d be able to take notes that were actually useful to him later.
He was pondering the Crocodile issue when he felt a nudge at his elbow, and found Aziraphale passing him a plate of biscuits.
“Thanks,” he murmured, taking one blindly and sliding the plate back to the middle of the table. The Crocodile really didn’t need to be able to sing, or remember lines; as long as he picked someone who could follow directions and wasn’t too self-conscious to be a bit silly on stage, they’d be golden.
Another touch to his arm made him look up. Aziraphale was crammed into the corner of the room next to Crowley, and had his own notebook open in front of him. He was looking at Crowley’s curiously. “May I ask what you’re working on? You don’t seem especially invested in the fairy situation.”
“The fairy’ll work herself out,” he said. He pointed out Anathema, who was now standing on Tracy’s sofa in the next room using her phone’s torch and a rolled up sheet of paper to demonstrate the potential of the spotlight strategy. “Or, well, Anathema will work the fairy out for her. You know she’s only supposed to be here to help organize the fundraising? But she can never leave well enough alone. Just wait till we start rehearsing, she’ll be everywhere at once constantly.”
“I see.”
“Yeah, she’s great. Don’t tell her I said that.” He shuffled through his notes. “’M not working on anything special. Only audition prep. Just writing down things I want to look for.”
“Ah. Do you have anyone in mind for any roles yet?”
Crowley shook his head. “Nah. Way too much changes in a summer for that. Especially the kids. Plus, ‘s not really fair, judging before auditions.”
“Oh, of course. Of course.” Aziraphale stared at the table, cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean to imply that you—no, of course not.”
“I don’t do everything based on auditions,” Crowley added. “Some people it’s an absolute nightmare to put on stage together. And I did know there were people who could pull off all the roles in Peter Pan when I picked it. You weren’t wrong. Not even close to wrong. Ages and ages away from wrong.”
A small, grateful smile started to show on Aziraphale’s face. “I really didn’t mean anything by it,” he insisted.
Crowley waved him off. “’S okay. Want a biscuit?” He pulled the plate back toward them, offering it to Aziraphale first. He picked a chocolate chip cookie after careful consideration, and Crowley grabbed another shortbread. He popped the whole thing into his mouth, and it was only then that he realized it wasn’t the same as the one he’d taken earlier. There was something citrusy bursting across his tongue. He yanked the plate back, blinking at the flecks of grey in the shortbread.
“Wh’ kind’f—” he started, then realized his mouth was full, and grabbed a napkin to cover both his mouth and his suddenly red face.
Aziraphale coughed a cough that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “Earl grey,” he said. “They’ve got tea leaves in them. And a bit of lemon.” When Crowley looked at him quizzically, his eyes flicked away. “I thought it would be nice to bring something, since Tracy said there would be nibbles.”
Crowley finished chewing his—actually quite good, once he got used to it—biscuit. “You made these?” he asked, picking up another one and examining it.
“I like baking. It’s soothing.”
“Hm.” Crowley took a bite. “For my money, the soothing part is the eating, but somebody’s got to do the baking first, I suppose.” Aziraphale coughed again, and Crowley’s lips quirked up. “Oh, and see! You said you gave up the last of the tea, but you brought your own anyway.”
Aziraphale didn’t manage to cover that laugh in time, and ducked his head shyly when Tracy looked towards them. But she just smiled and gave Crowley a pleased look.
Crowley could see why. He’d never gotten along with his accompanist well; cordially, sure, but it was always tense by the time opening night came around. But Aziraphale… Aziraphale could be different. He thought he was going to like Aziraphale, not just muddle through with him. He might, for once, not dread his accompanist returning for a second show. What a wonder that would be.
They wrapped up around eight, when Deirdre and the other parents started to make noises about bedtimes. Crowley was pleased with what they’d gotten done. They were in good shape to get started, to hit the ground running right after auditions next week. He still had a lot of work to do ahead of time, all on top of prepping for the start of the school year the week after next, but there was time. He’d always gotten it done before.
He caught Aziraphale as he was packing up the remainders of his shortbread. “Hey,” he said, leaning against the counter and trying to look cool. “Can I walk you home?”
Aziraphale lit up with a friendly smile, followed by a chuckle. “I’m afraid it’s a bit far to walk.”
“Drive you, then? Oh—fuck, wait, you’ve got a car here, haven’t you? Not drive you then. Walk you to your car?”
“My dear boy,” Aziraphale laughed. “There’s no need to go to any such trouble. I took the bus here. But Tracy and I already made plans for her to drive me back.”
“Ah. Gotcha.” Crowley tried not to be disappointed, but found the task easy when he remembered that auditions were only a week away. He’d have many more chances to get to know him.
“I’ll see you in a few days, then,” Aziraphale said, tucking the tin of biscuits away in his canvas bag and taking a cream colored cardigan from the back of his chair.
“Yep, just next week. Can’t wait.” He grabbed his own bag and followed Aziraphale and Tracy to the door, waving them off.
Everybody else was already on their way home, so Crowley took his time on his own walk. It had been an adjustment, moving to Tadfield, where it was simultaneously easier and more complicated to walk places than it had been when he lived in London. Walking past flower-filled gardens was certainly nicer than city streets, but he missed the option to take a bus or the tube, however much he might have complained about them once. Here, he had to either walk or drive, there was no inbetween.
But it was still early enough that the sun wasn’t quite down yet, and the street lamps were just coming on, so he took the opportunity to have a bit of a stroll, after his rush earlier in the evening.
It was looking to be a perfectly nice stroll, too, until he turned a corner and very nearly tripped over a dachshund.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, just as R.P. Tyler saw him and his usual grimace warped into a full on scowl.
“Anthony Crowley,” he accused. “And what might you be doing out at this hour?”
Crowley groaned. Of all the people to run into, R.P. Tyler was always the last person on his list. “It’s hardly even dark yet,” he pointed out. “Not to mention that I am, among other things, a full grown adult, with a house of my own, which I am within my rights to walk to any time I like.”
Tyler bristled. “I’ll take no cheek from you, young man. I know what you’re up to!”
“Oh, imagine that! Care to let me in on the secret?”
“It’s been a peaceful summer without you here encouraging all your noise and theatrics.”
“Yes, well, theatrics come with theater, don’t they?”
“And now you’re back, and planning to start it all up again. Do you know how much nicer the community center is when your—your troupe isn’t in there making a racket? Singing, and running down the halls, and singing down the halls—”
“Look, Mr. Tyler, I know you aren’t a fan of the Tadfield Players, but community theater’s an amazing thing, and everyone involved gets so much out of it—”
“Oh, it’s not theater I have a problem with. It’s you.”
Crowley’s jaw snapped shut, cutting off his rote spiel about the virtues of his program.
Tyler took full advantage of his quiet. “Yes, I reckon if we got in a good, conventional director, all that nonsense would stop. No more unrestrained noise, no more rowdy kids. Unless, of course, you made an effort to keep your people under control?”
The argument—and anger—building in Crowley’s chest died out. “Yeah,” he choked out. “Yeah, could, ngk. Could probably… try.”
Tyler glared at him. “See that you do, young man. See that you do.” And he pressed on down the quickly darkening street, Shutzi trotting along behind him.
Crowley stood there for a moment. He’d known R.P. Tyler didn’t like him. He knew he hated anything that failed to keep the village kids quietly out of the way, much less taught them to project their voices across a whole room. He didn’t know he’d be so… direct about it.
That could be a problem. It was, potentially, very very bad. Crowley as a rule didn’t give a shit about what people thought of him. He was too old to waste his time on it. But this might be a problem, because Tyler was, among many things, the president of the Tadfield Community Center’s board of directors.
Yeah. There was going to have to be some sucking up in the coming weeks. Nobody else on the board cared enough about the theater program to have a strong opinion, and R.P. Tyler was nothing if not loud. And in Crowley’s experience, loud was all that was needed when there wasn’t an opposition. Tracy would probably defend him, but… better not to go there to begin with. He could deal with a bit of arse kissing if it meant he got to keep his job. He liked his job. A lot.
His feet started him home before his mind caught up, and soon enough he was at his kitchen table with a glass of wine and everything from the meeting laid out in front of him. He’d just try to rein things in a bit more than usual. Keep the kids in the room during breaks, avoid other groups that might be in the building at the same time. Be a bit more—how had Tyler put it? ‘Conventional.’
Yeah. That wouldn’t be difficult at all.