Chapter Text
Doors, metaphorically speaking, can be terrifying things.
Whether they lie behind winter coats in forgotten wardrobes or behind bathroom mirrors or in the reflections of puddles, doors are thresholds to the unknown. You cannot pass through one without emerging different—even should the change be ever so small—on the other side.
Normal doors, like the one to Aziraphale’s apartment, were no different.
Today was the day he would try , he’d promised himself. To be brave, put his hand around the knob, turn it, swing the heavy oak slab inward, and step across his “Welcome Home” doormat, and leave his apartment. Baby steps, just one after another. It was nothing, really. He was a grown man, Lord knew he’d done plenty of other things before, hell, even opened plenty of other doors before. He could do it—he was sure of it. Today was the day.
His fingers gripped the doorknob so tightly his already pale knuckles turned Snow Queen-white. He kept his eyes scrunched closed, his other hand clutching the lapels of his favorite vintage dinner jacket, and did his best to tone down the noise outside—the cars running and sputtering back and forth, and people, so many people, all talking and walking so loudly , the rain pattering on the glass windows as if it had a personal grudge against him. Some tires squealed and what sounded like several automobiles all started honking at once in disharmony.
His chest began to tighten and constrict, and his breath came in increasingly short, wheezing puffs. The nerves along his thumb began to throb painfully from his tightening grip.
Don’t panic, Aziraphale, don’t panic, DON’T PANIC…
He attempted to coax his lungs into expanding and contracting at a rate that didn’t feel like a panic attack. He turned the knob, ever so slightly, feeling the solid chunk of metal resist, resist, resist…
You can DO this Aziraphale, you can do it—it’s just a silly little shortness of breath, it will pass. You just have to TRY—for Tracy! Do it for Tracy!
He could push through, he knew he could, he just had to try harder…
The knob turned a fraction more, but Aziraphale couldn’t breathe.
Doors, Aziraphale remembered, are terrifying things.
~~~~~
“Yes, three dozen yellow roses, delivered as soon as possible. Chocolates? Do you happen to have those lovely milk chocolate caramel and nougat ones? You do? Lovely. Yes, add one of those as well. You’ve been terribly kind, Mina, thank you. Oh of course, let me just grab that for you.”
Aziraphale, changed back into loose trousers and his chunkiest, coziest knit sweater (still wearing a crisp button down and bow tie, because while he may be staying home tonight, he wasn’t a heathen), dug around the piles of books on his coffee table, holding the landline phone between his cheek and his shoulder.
“Where did it go, blasted thing…” he muttered under his breath. Pushing aside a copy of Dante’s Inferno , a dark brown leather wallet, worn and straining with the sheer volume of coupons and photobooth strips he couldn’t bear to throw away, lay tucked between empty cups of tea and no less than three different copies of Persuasion . He really should donate at least one of them. “Ah, there you are, you naughty thing. No, not you, my dear—terribly sorry, just couldn’t find—yes, of course, my apologies. The number is—”
He rattled off the number and hung up the phone, pressing the red button with more force than it deserved. Heaving a sigh, he dragged his address book on his lap and found Tracy’s number before he could talk himself out of it—she deserved that much, at least. He punched in the number without looking at the address book. The numbers on the outdated landline were faded, the oil of his fingers wearing away the markings. As it rang, Aziraphale sat up straight (well, as straight as he could on his very squishy and heavily cushioned couch) and braced himself. Flowers and chocolates were easy enough—apologizing to Tracy was another thing entirely.
“Darling! Where are you? We’ve been waiting to congratulate you!” a brassy voice chirped from the other end of the line, shouting over the din of Elvis Presley and laughter from friends with access to a significant amount of sherry.
“My dear, I’m afraid—I’m afraid I wasn’t able to—to—” Aziraphale stuttered.
“Oh, Azi…” Tracy’s voice sighed sympathetically.
“I tried, Tracy, I really did. I just couldn’t bring myself to turn the blasted doorknob. I’m so sorry, my dear.”
“It’s all right, dearie. You’ll just have to come to the next one, won’t you?” Tears came to his eyes as he heard the disappointment shining through the placating voice of his best friend on the other end of the line.
“Yes, of course I will, my dear. I’m just so sorry—”
“No no, darling, none of that. You know that I’m—Gerry, get that cabernet off my couch, you saw the sign! You too, Gladys, white wine ONLY on the white couch. Sorry, love, everyone’s all a-tumble ‘round here,” she said, giggling. Delighted shouts and the sound of a champagne cork popping buzzed in the background. Sobering up a little, she continued, “You know I’m very proud of you, don’t you? You didn’t even touch the doorknob last time, and look at you now!”
“You don’t have to humor me, dear. I just feel terrible, missing first your granddaughter’s graduation and now your birthday…”
“Oi, is that Azi? Lemme talk lemme talk—” another familiar voice piped out over the din.
Tracy chimed in, “Anathema wants to talk to you. And darling, don’t be too hard on yourself. You’ll be here next year, alright?” then more faintly, “Here you go, love. Cheer him up a bit, would you?”
“Anathema?” Aziraphale asked. Dear god, were they all to know of his failure?
“Hi Azi,” Anathema said, slurring slightly. It sounded like she was smiling.
“Hello, Anathema. Are you enjoying yourself?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile back a bit, although his was a bit frayed at the edges. Hold it together, Fell. No crying on Tracy’s birthday.
“Oh god, yes. Tracy got the-the whoooole party champagne. And the nice stuff too! No two-quid bottle of M&S prosecco for the birthday girl. Oh–Newt says hi, too.”
“Hello, Newt.”
“He can’t hear you, but I can—” Anathema yelled, her voice from close and clear to muffled and very loud, “Aziraphale says hi—love, would you grab me a glass of—thanks, you’re the best. Right, uh, where was I… Azi! Well done! You got to the doorknob, right? That’s good, that’s good!”
“I still couldn’t bring myself to leave the bloody apartment though, could I?”
“No no no no—none of that. Look, I know someone who might– hic –be able to help. Let me just see if I can find…” Her voice trailed off into incoherent mumbles.
“Anathema? Are you still there? Anathema?” Aziraphale asked.
“Yeah, yeah I’m still here, just digging through my bag—” the sound of a large group singing Happy Birthday rang out in the background. “Shit, sorry Aziraphale, can I call you back? They’re singing and I don’t want to miss—”
“No, no, go ahead dear. Enjoy yourself. Give my love to Tracy.”
“Will do, kisses, byeeee!”
The line went quiet, and only the soft tick tick tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway broke the silence. Heaving a sigh, Aziraphale got up and did the only sensible thing to do, and made himself a cup of tea.
Today, unfortunately, was not the day.
~~~
The music—some EDM thing, Crowley didn’t know what—was loud and hot, and clouded in air that surely qualified as a failed collective breathalyzer test, wafting in between lasers and pheromones like a dancefloor fog. Humanity is disgusting , he thought (not for the first time), and grinned. He loved humanity. Sweat dripped down from his forehead and joined the sweat of dozens of other bodies pressed against each other. The beat of the music was something he could feel vibrating in his bones, and he raised his drink high in the air, nodding along to the music, letting the weight of the glass skewer right through him and spin him on an axis of scotch and sick beats.
“Oh, helllllooo,” he drawled at the hands coming from behind him to rest on his hips. With his free hand, he gently tugged the stranger behind him closer and pressed his back against a smooth chest. Whoever it was, they certainly liked gyrating their hips, and Crowley didn’t mind in the least. He tossed back the rest of his scotch and turned in the stranger’s grasp. A bright smile and glitter-covered half-lidded eyes looked back at him, still holding him about the waist.
“Hello, you. What’s with the glasses? It’s dark in here!”
Crowley put the tip of a finger on the edge of his sunglasses, which had begun slipping down his nose, and tilted them down to look at his dance partner. A low-cut sequined tank top and a feather boa greeted him.
“Why, don’t you like them?”
They threw their head back and laughed, the lasers reflecting off the sequins and the eye makeup, making them glow.
“Sure sure, they’re very cool. You’re right fit, mate!” the person yelled. They stared at Crowley, eyes flitting from his shielded eyes, down to his lips and back again.
“Likewise—love the glitter,” Crowley yelled back, grinning.
“I’m Jay!”
“So am I!”
Jay stepped closer and pressed themselves against Crowley’s chest. “Sounds like fate to me,” they shouted, biting their bottom lip, glancing at Crowley’s mouth again.
Fuck it, Crowley thought, and wrapped his arms around Jay’s neck and pressed his lips to theirs.
The mid-makeout walk to the all-gender restroom was lit by lasers and the sparkle of several disco balls. When the door closed and Crowley reached behind him to lock it, Jay grabbed Crowley’s face and kissed him furiously.
“Christ, the glasses are hot, oh my god,” they panted, squeezing Crowley’s ass, who groaned.
“Told you. Oh god yes, fuck fuck fuck…”
Jay dropped to their knees, looked up at Crowley, and raised an eyebrow in question. Crowley nodded and leaned his head against the sticky, sharpied wall of the club restroom, closing his eyes. They laughed as Jay fumbled with Crowley’s the admittedly enormous snake belt buckle, stroking Crowley’s cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. When they stuck out their tongue, a silver stud glinted in the filmy fluorescent lighting.
“Oh fuck. Now that’s hot,” he gasped, growing harder by the second.
Jay grinned toothily and replied, “Just wait ‘til you can see what I can do with it,” before swallowing Crowley’s cock down to the root.
Jesus Christ. I can still pull. Fuck yeah, Crowley. Way to go. Oh dear god…
“You’re so—ahh—so good. So good, Jay. Yes, keep going, keep going, oh fuckity fuck FUCK— ”
Jay’s knees spread wider on the grimy tile as they ducked their head to take Crowley deeper and deeper with every suck and thrust. Crowley put his hand on the back of Jay’s head, gripping the teal mullet, guiding as gently as he could, and Jay moaned throatily. The tension that had been slowly building deep in the pit of Crowley’s groin faltered as Jay’s rhythm slowed and grew more erratic. Opening an eye, Crowley asked, “You alright there?”
Pulling their lips off Crowley’s dick with a loud pop , they circled the tip with their tongue, panting heavily. He wasn’t sure if it was just the unflattering bathroom lighting, but Crowley thought Jay’s face was rather paler than was probably normal.
“Yeah, yeah! I’m f-fine. Yeah. Just a little out of–of breath. C’mere, big man.”
“Big man? Nhgk, yeahhh, not using that one ever again. Look mate, you look a bit peaky. Maybe let’s get you some water, eh?”
“Nah, not when there’s this enormous cock just waiting to be sucked,” they said, wobbily moving to take Crowley’s cock back in their mouth. Crowley put his hand on Jay’s shoulder, holding them back, brows scrunching in concern. Jesus, how old is this kid? 28? 30? Was I like this back then?
“Nnnnnngk, I think we’re done here. No harm done—let’s just get you some water so you don’t—”
Well… fuck.
The next thirty minutes were spent holding Jay “I swear I can usually hold my liquor” Silver-Stud’s teal hair away from their face as they puked their guts up while crouched over a toilet seat. After exiting the restroom to face a very disgruntled toilet queue, Crowley located an embarrassed but no-longer-throwing-up Jay’s friend group, one of whom apologized profusely and shuffled them into a cab.
“Sorry, they’re not usually like this!” team captain said as she bundled drunken limbs into the waiting car.
“No worries,” Crowley said, shrugging, “It happens to the best of us.”
“Thanks anyway. We can take it from here. Have a nice night!”
Crowley waved the cab off as rain started pouring down, leaking between his toes, his bare feet chilling against the pavement.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he muttered to himself. Nothing quite like someone vomiting over your shoes mid-fellatio with your dick swinging bare to the wind to remind you that your entire existence is a cosmic joke. The whisky hadn’t even been that good, and he certainly hadn’t had near enough of it to laugh at the situation now. What had started as a way to get out of the house had turned into an unfortunate reminder that he was pushing 40 and getting no closer to 2.5 kids and a white picket fence, or whatever it was the gays did to be respectable nowadays.
Hailing a cab with his shoes held high in the air, gutter water running over his bare feet, Crowley pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Four missed calls from Witch Girl, and one from his mother. He ignored the second, and pressed redial on the first. A cab pulled up, sending a wave of rainwater onto Crowley’s trousers, soaking his skinny shins.
“Oi! What gives?”
“Sorry, mate—it’s wet out here.”
“No, shit, Sherlock!”
“You getting in, or what?” the cabbie yelled from inside.
Phone pressed to his ear, Crowley grumbled and got inside. He gave the cabbie his address, and settled into the fabric seats. Ha. Try getting club stank out of these, idiot. I dare you. Satisfied with having played his part in the cosmic karma machine, waited for Anathema to pick up.
“Crowleyyyyy!!” sang Anathema on the other end of the line.
“Anathema, what’s wrong? You called four times , idiot.”
“Hey! I am not an idi–idiot–hic. I’m very smart, thankyouverymuch.”
“Never said you weren’t. What’s up, witch-girl?”
“I have a job for you! M-my friend, he’s lovely and you’re lovely, and I think you would be really good together… I have his– hic –his number! I’ll give it to you, I just need… where’s my purse? Hey! Everyone! Where’s my purse!”
Holding the phone away from his ear, Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. Babysitter twice in one day, jeez. At least he wasn’t half-naked for this one.
“Ana. Ana. Anathema! Listen to me. Where are you?”
“Oo I found it—I’m at Tracy’s birthday party! It was so lovely, there was cake and balloons , and– hic –here, I need to—”
“You need me to pick you up because you forgot how strong Tracy’s sherry can be, and drove instead of taking the Tube?”
“Youuuu’ve got it!” He held the phone away from his ear again as Anathema laughed loudly into her end.
“Newt can’t come get you?”
“He was here but he left early for D&D! And do you really want me to die getting a ride in Dick Turpin?”
“Fair point. Ngk, fine. You owe me one, witch-girl. Be there in ten.” Crowley hung up, sneering fondly. Leaning forward, he tapped on the plexiglass between him and the cabbie. “Change of plans. Take a right up here.”
~~~
Crowley didn’t like doors.
Can’t be trusted, doors. Never know what’s on the other side of ‘em. Even if you’ve gone through a door a hundred million times, all it takes is once for something to change and WHAM, instant disappointment. And honestly, sometimes knowing what’s on the other side is worse, because you know you have to go through it anyway, when the whole time you’re wishing you were on the other side of it.
Rather like Crowley’s front door, actually.
Crowley had picked up Anathema from Tracy’s—which for Crowley, meant that he’d waited inside the car and blew up her text messages for ten minutes while she hugged and kissed and goodbye’d every single guest there (multiple times) until she finally teetered safely into the cab—and immediately took her home.
Now, Anathema’s door, he didn’t mind so much. He liked what was on the other side of Anathema’s door. He’d texted Newt in advance, so he didn’t have to carry her to the couch like he’d been afraid of. He needed his knees to function in the morning—and his spine too, come to think of it. Instead of blowing out his back, the smell of palo santo and some kind of Eritrean curry wafted out, and her gangly and accident-prone, uber-nerd boyfriend opened the door and helped her inside, thanking Crowley profusely with too many words to be coherent. He waved it away and stalked back down the corridor, down the elevator, and back into the cab. Then paid the cab, walked six blocks west in the pouring rain barefoot (because at this point, he was soaked anyway, so what the hell), went up another elevator, and up another corridor, until he reached his own front door.
The door to Crowley’s apartment was gunmetal grey and reminded him of prison. He’d never been in prison, of course (although he loved prison tattoo designs), but it was standard issue for the steel and glass takeaway carton that passed for his apartment building, and he hated it. He didn’t mind industrialist architecture, necessarily. The apartment— his apartment—on the other side of that gunmetal grey door was full of designer leather furniture and state-of-the-art appliances and a view of London that took breath away. It might have everything a single man of 38 with expensive taste could possibly want, but there was nothing to cushion the echo of water boiling in the electric kettle in the mornings. Nothing to soften the concrete emptiness of total darkness when he switched his light off at night and rolled into a bed that was always half-cold. At least on a dancefloor, he could blend in, hide in the liminal space between strangers’ bodies and pretend he was one of them, that he belonged.
The door handle was all 90 degree edges and cold brushed steel as he held it, standing on the threshold. Rain dripped from his soggy black jeans onto the chic low-pile carpet of the hallway. He didn’t know how many minutes passed, but his ribs were shivering when he finally turned the handle and opened the door.
“Welcome home, idiot,” he muttered into the darkness.
The door closed behind him with an empty click .