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Chapter Text

The autumn air was sharp and crisp. The leaves shocked in sharp contrast to the black, wet bark of the trees that lined the street in regularly-spaced placement. The grey light of a dreary, rainy morning bent color into bold hues. The colors flowed into the storefront of one A. Z. Fell and Co.: Antiquarian and Unusual Books, casting yellow, red, brown, orange, and grey rays onto brown, black, red, green, and blue books, shelves, and carpets. And in this midst was one bookseller, E. Z. Fell, who was particularly yellow and orange. Striking light be damned, though, Ezra Fell was about to turn red.

The shop was quiet but for the soft footfalls of the one customer of the shop: a young man wearing dark spectacles--even as he read in the shaded section of an aisle!--and black everything else. He appeared as a hole in the picture of the bookshop. Black soft leather shoes. Black wool trousers. Black cable knit sweater. Black military jacket. It might have been an illusion of the light, but even his hair seemed black, with the highlights all in red. The customer seemed to notice the eyes lingering on him. He looked up from the book in his hands and smiled brightly. With a dramatic swish, he pivoted out of the narrow aisle and sauntered up to the counter.

Ezra Fell stepped behind the counter with a stern glare assuming its customary position. “You're not... intending to purchase those, are you?" the bookseller asked with barely concealed nerves.

The dark-haired young man looked around the bookshop, noting the lack of customers. It had been similar each time he’d come to the bookshop so far.He arched a dark brow over the dark spectacles, and affected a nervous hand brushing through his hair. "Ahm... yes? I’d thought I might?" He carefully spread out the three books he’d selected on the counter.

"Hmmmm." The sound was little more than a grumble from the proprietor. While the handsome young man had been coming and touching and reading and appreciating , it had been one thing. But now that he wanted to purchase ? And presumably leave with the books and not return? What about the other uses and importance of the books? Ezra began to speak, spinning rational as he spoke. "Well. I note you've selected this William Morris publication." He slid one forward. "You'll see that despite the price, it is only a facsimile. Not the initial publication. The price upon it is certainly not worth a 20th century facsimile. And this one!" he touched a red leather binding. "This one I suspect of leather rot." (It was pristine.) "If not now, then perhaps in only a few years. Oh!" He lifted the remainder of the stack to the last of the pile. "This is a lovely piece of incunabula, isn't it?" His eyes glittered. It didn't need to disappear into some stranger's private collection. "It was earmarked for... the British Library... to examine... I'm so sorry, you shouldn't have been able to see it at all." He efficiently tucked it behind his small counter.

“I see,” said the customer. “That’s all of them, then?”

Ezra smiled brightly. “I’m afraid so. Oh, well, next time!”

The customer looked around the two levels of shop, packed to the brim with treasures. “Why do I have the intense suspicion that, were I to spend another month searching and brought another three items to you, you’d simply tell my that one was mis-marked and was in fact several thousand pounds, one was molding, and one actually claimed by a House of Lords members and he’ll pick it up next week?” He gave a rakish grin.

Ezra flushed. “Ah.”

“On the nose?”

“Oh, this is awkward.” Ezra placed a protective hand on the Morris facsimile.

“Don’t look so glum. So long as you’re not actually throwing me out, I at least can still find some pleasure. I had honestly hoped for your recommendations of which was more enthralling. I find I need to be taken out of myself more and more these days." A quirk of the lips offered a far more self-conscious smile than the previous curl of lips. "My more typical poison is music, but I thought I might give the fantasia of the written word a try." He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

Mr. Fell's eyebrows shot up. He looked again at the selected works, then again at the fashion selections of the man in front of him. He computed some specific algebra. There were a number of young men these days who’d come home worse for the wear of The War. What sort of monster would deny such a young man the chance to enjoy the masterworks of text? “Naturally. Well, I, ah, still cannot possibly sell you these. But there’s no reason that I need ask you to leave! You seem like a perfectly lovely gentleman. Be my guest. Allow me to put the kettle on.”

“Excellent and a half,” said the other. He shoved a hand forward, almost touching Ezra in his chest. “Name’s Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley. I take it you’re A. Z. Fell?”

Ezra took the proffered hand. “I’m afraid not. I’d need to be a hundred years older for that. I’m Ezra Fell, great-grand-nephew to Aristophanes Zachariah Fell. Crowley?” He said, delicately returning the shake. "Like the theologian?"

"No, but if Mother had known it would come up, she would have named me differently." He chuckled in a good natured way. "She never agreed with the Occult."

"A right-thinking woman indeed," Ezra murmured.  "Well! Now that we know each other properly, I'd like to ensure that you do keep returning. I have a number of items that," and here he sped his speech sharply, "that are not for sale! In which you might also be interested?"

"I’ll take it. But I thought that sort of thing was frowned upon in bookshops?" He tilted his head, a sharp smirk coming to his lips.

Mr. Fell flushed. "Ah, well, it's just..." He fidgeted his fingers, trying to find the most reasonable words. "It's clear to me that you're in no fashion a good customer. You select only materials I cannot sell you. So you might as well keep coming to read, at least."

The tragedy of book purchasing averted, Ezra went on to serve tea to a customer who spent no money and read quietly in the shop for six hours, at which point the light had receded to absolute grey. The customer, Anthony J. Crowley, finally put away the book he’d pulled ( Alcibades the Schoolboy , the 1891 French edition). “So long, Ezra,” he called over his shoulder as he exited, the bell tinkling Ezra’s presumed return farewell.

It was a peculiar, warm autumn day, and Ezra found himself oddly cheerful.

***

It was the quietest of friendships. At least once a week, Anthony J. Crowley would come to the shop and quietly read. He would artfully drape himself over any of the antique chairs (or tables, frankly) and carefully turn pages. Ezra found himself watching the other in the absence of anything else to do. His expression was somewhat guarded by the dark glasses, but small touches of pleasure, emotion, and so on scampered such that Ezra could almost feel him empathically.

After two months of this, they had taken to discussing the stories and works that Crowley read. Ezra had spent most of his youth in the shop and had read prodigiously, and as of late December, Crowley had not yet found a book that Ezra had not both read and, in fact, loved completely. Ezra, for his part, noticed immediately to what Crowley gravitated: The Illiad , Catullus, Carmilla , A Year in Arcadia: Kyllenion , Joseph and His Friend: A Story of Pennsylvannia , and, of course, Fanny Hill .

At one point, Ezra had offered Oscar Wilde, but Crowley declined, stating that he’d already read all of the Irishman there was to read.

All of this is to say that Ezra determined rather quickly that he and Crowley, despite coming from seemingly different backgrounds and temperaments, shared one characteristic rather well. Thus, in mid-December, Ezra decided to share a true treasure.

"I have something that might interest you. But you can't purchase it.”

“Naturally,” said Crowley.

“No, this time I truly do mean it. It's an unpublished manuscript."

Crowley’s lips spread into a full grin, the way one would grin when trusted with a secret clubhouse in the woods, just past where the adults tended to go. The proprietor moved to the front door and flipped his open sign to "closed.” He even pulled a curtain to cover the large front window. Crowley then followed Ezra to the back room of the shop. Ezra shuffled a bit, shifting and moving a few piles of paper clutter and pulling a chair to the desk. He withdrew a carefully packaged manuscript from a well-hidden alcove in plain sight. "Here," he said, offering the treasure to Crowley. The exterior wrapping read "MAURICE" in larger type, with the hand-written text, "For my good friend Ezra, who understands."

Crowley carefully took the packet in hand. He looked to Mr. Fell. "May I?" He spoke softly, indicating that he wished to read.

Mr. Fell's fingers quivered slightly. He tried to affect a cheerful chirp. "Well, if it tempts you, please, stay." He gestured to the larger, well-stuffed chair in this, his desk area. "If you don't mind, I'll keep the curtain out front drawn."

"I will treat it better than my own child, which I don’t have." He settled into the offered chair, cradling the manuscript on a forearm and carefully lifted open a page. He pushed up his glasses and began to read. For several hours, there were no sounds from the back room except the movement of pages, the occasional noise of appreciation, and at least one indiscreet snort and muttered “ain’t that the truth?”

***

There had been no other customers, which might have been because Mr. Fell had "failed" in returning his sign to the "Open" position. No matter. Eventually, though, his sharp ears caught the cessation of soft sounds of paper flipping from one stack to another. He stood, and poured two cups of tea. He then entered the back office once more. "So," he said softly, offering the cup to his guest.

Crowley looked up from the pages, neatly stacked facedown. He noticed the absence of light from the windows. "Ah, that time already? You must be closed." Ezra nodded quickly in response. He accepted the cup that had been put in his hands.. "Ah! Thank you." He re-wrapped the manuscript and moved it out of tea’s way onto the side table. He warmed his hands by wrapping his fingers around the cup and took a grateful sip of tea.

"Is your friend going to publish this?" He airily gestured toward the manuscript.

Mr. Fell's smile faltered. "Well, ah. No? No, that simply can't be done, can it?"

“No, no, I suppose not. I think it would be rather charming to be able to simply purchase a copy in a store, beside all of his other stories." He took another sip of tea, and accepted a pink iced biscuit that had been offered from a tin. He pulled from a jacket pocket, a small paper bag of humbugs and offered one.

Ezra looked inside and did not accept. "It would be nice, wouldn't it?" Ah, what kind of world would it be if such bookstores simply stocked shelves without care regarding the perversity of content? "But, well, that won't happen in this century, that's for sure.”

Crowley set the paper bag next to the biscuit tin. "I would hope that with warfare out of the way, we might get on to allowing people to be what is natural to them." He sipped again from his teacup. “Maybe Alec and Maurice could roam the greenwood of 1920?” His words had a soft sibilance.

Ezra nodded. "I hear there's even some work in Germany to that effect. But we are still living in the here and now, and inverts like these characters will still have to do careful negotiations for their happiness." The tender feeling of danger lent a sense of excitement to Mr. Fell's words. His own heart ached a bit, as he realized that this young man, was in some fashion going to face trouble and suffering due to his proclivities. Of that he was sure. Well, at least one thing he could correct. “It’s no greenwood, but at least you’re welcome here any time you please.”

Crowley’s brows rose again over his glasses. He was alert, worried. “I…”

“After all, I’ve always had a certain love for the classic works my own self.”

Crowley paused, clearly thinking and processing the things unsaid very loudly. After a long moment, he asked, "Do you like music? Recorded music, I mean?" He set down his teacup. "I have some I could bring over, if you would like to trade experiences."

Ezra flushed again. "That might be an agreeable arrangement. You’re an angel."

***

And so it went.

Crowley became a perpetual lounger in the bookshop. Ezra wondered at the other’s lifestyle that it afforded he not work, and yet never spoke brightly of his family. There was also the fact that Crowley seemed comfortable reading in English and in German, but took a bit longer with French and Italian. He’d been in the war, and always wore dark glasses. And he wore a woolen military overcoat. Ezra was no fool, and at least assumed that Crowley had done work in the War of note. He looked through the enlisted records he had access to most easily, but found nothing. That in and of itself wasn’t too surprising. Ezra himself had done a good bit of work for His Majesty’s Service in an unofficial capacity as a translator and, well, “code-cracker.” Serious men with long coats and long faces would arrive with a twine-wrapped packet, and two days later would return with a payment drawn on the Bank of England and an empty briefcase.

It didn’t take much to connect the dots. Ezra suspected that Crowley was, in some fashion, engaged in spy work. It wouldn’t do to simply ask about such a thing, however, and Ezra decided then and there to let the young man be.

Regardless of their respective pasts, the two became deep friends. Ezra found that it took exactly half as long to go through his stock of red wine and whisky each month, and he ended up laughing harder than he remembered in all his life.

But these musings on war returned one day in early winter. Ezra had just received a large crate shipped from Egypt. A number of pieces of coptic bound books had come into his position most haphazardly from an old friend of the family, and who was he to refuse. Not many were of his personal interest, but one appeared to analyze scraps of sacred writings in Aramaic and might even contain some budding attempts at prophecy.

Ezra had just managed to pull the crate to be out of the middle of the shop, beside his counter, and had gone to look for the heavy crowbar he kept for these sorts of shipments.

Crowley arrived at this time, blasting through the door with the force of a windstorm. “Hey, Ezra!” he called.

“Just a moment!” Ezra responded from the back. He was sure the bar was here somewh-

GA-BlamM-THunK.

“Ow, bugger, dammit, fuck .”

Ezra had just clasped his crowbar when the most hellish racket came from the shop. Instantly he intuited the source of the sound. He hustled back to the front of house. “Crowley!”

His friend looked a bit more like a dizzy spider than usual, some number of limbs in different directions. “Oh, angel, why are you trying to murder me?”

“I’m not!” came the indignant reply, but Ezra quickly remembered to try to be a bit kinder. “Are you all right? Have you broken anything?”

Crowley pulled himself up, groaning all the way. “No, I’m not even lucky enough that I can take my revenge out in the form of suing you for my surgical costs.” He looked around with some frustration, patting his chest and stomach. But Ezra couldn’t focus past ensuring that Crowley was safe. Because the man’s glasses--his ever-present obscuring dark glasses--had been knocked to the far edge of the main shop, leaving Crowley’s face naked and defenseless.

Ezra caught his eyes and lost his breath. Crowley’s face and eyes were shocking. They were a sickly yellow brown, with distorted pupils, almost like a cat’s. There was faint evidence of scarring around the thinner skin of eyelids and upper cheeks. It was obvious why Crowley wore the glasses.

Ezra caught his chest, felt his heart racing. He felt as though he’d accidentally seen a Greek nymph bathing and might be cursed into the shape of a tree. Crowley realized immediately what Ezra’s reaction must be in response to, and searched out his dark spectacles. He crouched to reach and retrieve them from under the shelf where they’d skittered. “This better be the Treasure of Lima in there,” he grumbled as he straightened the spectacles. As he moved to put them back on, Ezra touched his arm.

“Wait.”

Crowley flushed brightly. “Look, I wear these so you don’t have to see….”

“I wish you didn’t feel you needed to hide them,” he said wonderingly.

“It’s iris coloboma. Mustard gas. I can see just fine.” He practically slammed the glasses back onto his face.

“The color is like acid and honey.”

“That’s just me angel. Can we talk about something else now?”

The sharpness of his tone made Ezra pull back. “Yes, of course. Do I need to get you some ice for the fall?”

Crowley nodded. “Yes, but only if it’s in a glass with scotch.”

“Naturally…”

Crowley examined the box and it’s marking, curiosity getting the better of him. The crowbar had been dangerously left near him. He picked it up and tossed it a few times vertically, enjoying the weight. He supposed there was one good revenge for a wicked box that tried to trip innocent men coming to see their friends. And it would help Ezra.

He got to work demolishing the crate. He worked efficiently.

Ezra took his time, selecting his nicest scotch. Ezra returned to the front rooms with two glasses and an expression of shock.

“Do you usually open packages by completely disassembling them before unwrapping anything?”

Crowley’s efforts had removed not only the top panel of the crate, but also most of the side panels of wood. He’d left the wax paper wrapping alone. He’d broken a slight sweat, and wore a grin that comes of physical work and succeeding in a task. “I do when they’re out for my blood. You’re welcome.” He took the scotch and saluted Ezra before drinking a larger gulp than absolutely necessary.

The two of them worked together to unwrap and inventory the shipment. Ezra’s eyes were sparkling by the last package. His fingers wriggled in anticipation. Crowley felt a bit of a wobble in his chest that he argued must have been the scotch still covering for pain, and had nothing to do with Ezra’s perfectly pure excitement over a two hundred year old musty book of theology. No, nothing at all to do with that.

***

Only a few days later, the bell jingled loudly above the door, as a familiar shape rattled through the entrance with a couple of large cases. He grinned ferally as Ezra rushed from behind the counter to see what the commotion was. He delicately danced over the occasional pile of books to his visitor's side. He was able to snatch the larger of the two cases, and caught the door from blowing with the wind too hard against Crowley's back. "What's all this?!" he exclaimed.

"My recordings and gramophone, per the Arrangement." He looked around, hoping to find an open surface amongst the shop's paraphernalia.

"Oh! Oh yes!" He secretly hadn't thought that young Mr. Crowley would have remembered the statement. But here he was, overburdened and with an almost terrifying glint in his eyes, even behind the darkened spectacles. "How about to the back?" He gestured to the sales desk.

Crowley instantly obeyed, strutting to the back, holding the case by it's handle over his shoulder.

Seeing the young man so focused, so excited, brought a peculiar warmth to Ezra. "What's it to be, then? London Symphony Orchestra? Some continental songs?"

“I have some of those, sure, but I thought I’d start with some American Dixieland jazz." He had found a spot to set down the player, and was in the process of setting it up.

Ezra's eyebrows knotted. "America? Hmm..." He's heard some of the minstrel tunes, but couldn't quite handle their cruel assumptions about the darker races, no matter how jolly the tune. But in moments, a hornéd shouting seemed to come out of the phone's horn.*

[*What Crowley put on was the “Tiger Rag,” by Nick LaRocca and The Original Dixieland Jazz Band, recorded in 1918]

"I traded my candy and pork rations to some of the Americans for this one." A bright smile cut a jagged line across his face as he turned to Ezra, expectant.

Ezra understood that statement well enough. He also was starting to realize exactly why the young man was so thin. Furthermore, he was starting to gyrate in a most terrifying fashion, and for a moment, Mr. Fell fancied that he'd not eaten properly since the war, and was toppling over, faint from hunger in this very instant.  But no, this was something else. After a moment, Ezra registered that the akimbo limbs flailing was in truth dancing. Ezra himself was a bit of a dancer, but he'd never seen anything like this. There was no order to the steps, and he had no sense of how any other person might add themself to such a dance.

"What do you think, Mister Fell?" He moved in a salacious jog to Ezra’s position.

Ezra leaned back, still a little in horror. But the music did have something like an infectious rhythm. He tried to match the motion of the other in some capacity with his hands, but failed utterly to understand the precise syncopation of the “jass” music. As soon as Ezra thought he had the sense of it, the drummer would do something quite unattainable by feet and he would stumble. Oh, in truth, he hated it, absolutely hated it.

But he would not do any action that might remove that cracked grin from his friend’s face. And so the two of them toppled around the small clear area in his bookshop.

However, as the two were haphazardly gyrating together, the bell interrupted the sounds of riotous Americanism with a shame-inducing innocent peal. Fell spun gracefully on the ball of his foot to witness to shocked faces of two customers who'd believed they were entering the stodgiest bookshop in Londinium, and not a late night sin cabaret.

Crowley lifted the needle, the music coming to a sudden shrieking stop. He had the decency to look mildly chagrined, and began to look through the other recordings. Maybe he had something more conducive to business. Maybe. Possibly.

Ah. Schubert? He had brought that because he’d thought that Ezra would like it. The insistence of horses hooves implied still added a little more doom to the atmosphere than anyone really wanted, but Crowley left it. He disappeared into the stacks, letting Ezra conduct his business (or lack thereof) as he wished.

Ezra Fell addressed his customer with a preliminary grimace. “Hello, welcome, what can I do for you?” Even the perfunctory grimace staggered as he realized that his customer was Gabriel Theobald-Vega. “Ah, hello.”

Gabriel gave a similarly insincere grin. “Ezra!” He spread his arms wide, as though about to hug an old friend, but there were no hugs oncoming. Instead, he reclasped his hands together. “I’m so glad I’ve caught you while you’re open. You’re a hard man to get ahold of.”

Ezra visibly cringed. “Yes, well, it’s been a difficult… couple of… years? Are you still, ah… state senator…?“ he trailed off, suddenly unsure what precise status Gabriel had held when last they spoke.

“United States Senator, Ezra. Keep up!” His Midwestern U.S. voice grated in Ezra’s ears.

“Yes, of course. How could I forget.”

“Indeed! In any case, I was hoping I could trouble you for some of your time. I’m not in the country for long, and I thought I’d come and purchase something from my favorite bookseller.” The emphasis on the adjective was sinister in a way that tended to indicate the opposite of the semantical meaning.

“Yes,” said Ezra dolefully. “I suppose you’ll want the back room.”

“Of course. For the sensitive nature of the books I’m looking for.”

“Of course.”

In moments they were out of earshot of Crowley (or any other customers). Gabriel again opened his arms exanspansively. “Have you thought about my offer?”

Ezra blinked with false ignorance. “Your offer?”

“You don’t read any of your mail, do you?” Gabriel shook his head. “Not a good look, Ezra.”

“Well, I’ve been busy incorporating the new stock…”

“Yes, this pornography.” He half-heartedly poke the spines of a set of Beadle’s London handbooks. “Look, you know what’s at stake. I’m not used to asking this often for what I want except at work.” He crowded into Ezra’s space. “And I’m about to be past asking. You know what’s at stake. For you, anyway.” He gave another smile that didn’t meet his eyes.

Ezra shuddered.

***

On the other side of the way Anthony J. Crowley found himself using skills he’d acquired over the years of the war, almost on accident. He leaned against the thin plaster, near a joint between wood and wall. His weight shifted the joint slightly, allowing the maximum amount of sound to travel from the backroom to Crowley’s specific position. He thumbed disinterestedly through a rather new copy of Greenmantle . He hadn’t initially meant to, but attentive listening was second nature. It was difficult to hear Ezra’s voice, but the loud American came through clearly enough.

“...You know what’s at stake. For you, anyway.”

Ezra murmured something short.

“Ha! No…” Indecipherable. “...when you could lose all of this. A whole new wild trial….”

Ezra cut him off sharply. “...if you think…”

The visitor’s voice was soft, consoling, and harder to hear. Crowley leaned a little harder into the gap he was making. “...would be great for both of us, especially you. Just… think about it.”

Crowley heard footsteps, and realized that the other was leaving. He held position, as though John Buchan was the most fascinating writer of the English language (he was not).

The visitor stalked out, sneering at a shelf on the way out. “...so stupid,” Crowley heard as he passed.

Ernestine Schumann-Heink quieted as the record came to an end.

Crowley held his pose of thoughtful perusal until Ezra came back out. The proprietor shuffled heavily to the door, flipped the sign, and sighed.

“That bloke seems like a bag of trouble,” said Crowley.

“Egads! Oh!” Ezra spun on his heel in shock. “Oh, Crowley, you were still here? Oh!” Ezra was a fidget disaster.

“Calm down, angel,” said Crowley, shocked into using over-friendly terminology. “I didn’t want to bother you, of course, but I…” he looked at the book in his hand. “I’d like to buy this.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Ezra grabbed the offered book, and rang it up. The register had not been used in so long that the buttons stuck. “One pound five,” he said, still staring at the front door.

“No,” said Crowley.

“What?”

“You would never let me purchase a book.”

Ezra’s mouth gaped like a fish. “It’s… new. It’s hard worth what I charged you.”

“Exactly. You’d force me to just read it, and not waste my money.”

Ezra threw up his hands. “Well, certainly, but you always complain about my bookselling, even though it’s my business.”

Crowley grit his teeth. “It’s that man, eh? He giving you trouble?”

Ezra blinked and his usually generous mouth narrowed into a thin, cool line. “Here, the book is a gift.” He handed it with almost force back to Crowley. “I can’t thank you enough for the day, but you need to take this book and head home, right away.”

Crowley tried to protest, but it was clear that he was being dismissed.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, Crowley perhaps lingering in the doorway a little bit longer than strictly necessary. But Mr. Crowley finally pulled his coat lapels more tightly up around his ears and bade Mr. Fell farewell. They didn't make a specific date to meet again, but the promised return was implicit.

Once the shop was again quiet, closed, and darkened, Ezra found himself with his fingers pressed to the glass of his door. He wondered why he wasn't moving. He wondered why he was still staring into the end of the street where the scant lights no longer illuminated, still remembering the specific way the edges of Crowley's pea coat flapped up in the wind. It was obvious, wasn't it? The reason was as clear as anything, as clear as this window, as clear as the jangling tune still ringing in Ezra's head. "Oh, damnation," he murmured. His life had become so much more complicated than he was willing to admit.

***

Crowly lived in a well-appointed flat in Mayfair, the odd result of his higher than the average enlisted man’s pension and a certain heightened respect. He was on the sixth floor, and the prospect of hauling furniture into what was likely to be a temporary living environment ensured that the flat was sparsely furnished. Crowley had ensured that there was a certain elegance to the living areas, entirely to his tastes as he doubted anyone would ever actually come to the flat. Prominently he had a set of several recording and music playing devices, and one bookshelf comprised of several large slats of wood over heavy blocks that he’d brought in one by one. It was at the least less cumbersome than a full shelf. He fed himself from the large pot of spicy soup he had in the fridge, then placed his new book on his shelf in its appropriate place. His fingers browsed over spines in meditation. What would Ezra value in them, if at all?

He puzzled over what he’d heard. He’d picked up that the visitor was an American senator, and was trying to pressure Ezra into something. What would an American senator want from his bookseller? Oh, dear. “His” bookseller.

As the night moved on, sleep evaded Crowley, which of late was not uncommon. His thoughts were over in Soho, imagining what might be happening in the book shop. Would Mr. Fell be up still? Was he reading into the night, tea or cocoa next to him? Would he be up fretting about the conversation with the American? Or would he be in bed, blond curls crushed against the pillows? Crowley smiled at the idea. There would naturally be a book near the man's bed for him to peruse. A small tulip vase with a single flower? His eyes would be bright, perhaps his cheeks flushed with excitement.

Oh no. Ohnooo. Crowley shut that thought out tightly. Crowley turned over in bed, actively turning away from those thoughts.

Dammiit.

***

It was quite a while before the two met again. When next Anthony returned to the shop on Monday, there was a note pointed to the door:

"Deliveries to be held at post. AJC: Returning on Thursday." 

Crowley bit his lip, more concerned than ever. He considered that there was some issue yet unresolved with the American. But then he recalled that Ezra had mentioned that he’d be travelling on a purchasing trip to the continent this month. Crowley tried to ignore his overtrained gut and accept it.

On Thursday, Crowley sauntered along the street, looking forward to seeing his friend. He seemed just in time, as he could clearly see Ezra fighting the bulk of a large crate stamped “fragile.” But he also caught sight of a dove grey overcoat and steel-brushed hair. The American had arrived at all. Crowley took a subtler position in the street, certain that he’d not been spotted in the lazy afternoon traffic.

Ezra looked stressed, but kept his features placid. Gabriel was too close and using his height to lean far too closely to Ezra.

Crowley made a decision. It’s not like he hadn’t done it before, with less personal investment. He followed the line of buildings until he could duck into the narrow alley between Ezra Fell’s shop and the rest of the street. The package he’d been carrying had a ribbon, which he was able to bite easily enough. He quickly found purchase on the bricks and braced his back against the next door building. Luckily, it was a tight enough alley that, with a bit of an awkward scrabble, Crowley was able to crabwalk up to the fire escape. He caught the iron bars and tugged up his weight onto the platform attached to Fell’s second story. Crowley knew that this window was in the Poetics section, very near Ezra’s small bedroom. He tested the window. It would definitely make a noise. Better one short and confusing sound than long and discoverable!

With his whole strength, he lifted the window. The weights clattered in the wall, and a shrill shriek pealed out. Crowley crawled in and slammed the window back down in one motion. In moment he hid inside Ezra’s (unlocked? idiot…) bedroom, just in time to hear the bell ring as Ezra, and presumably the irritating American, entered. He could hear the dragging sound of the crate. Good. With any luck, they’d either not heard the window or would presume it was meaningless outside noise.

“--I don’t think you know what the word ‘no’ means, Gabriel. We’ve both had our pasts, and best to just leave them lie.”

The American, Gabriel spoke then. “I know you’re happy with this life here, but that’s just because you’re growing moldy. I need a man like you. I know what you did for your country during the war. You could help me, and we could have each other for,” and here there was a pause carrying twins and about to enter labor, “ company .”

Ezra pushed closed the door behind him. From Crowley’s vantage point, he could see that the sign still was turned to the “closed” side.

“Look, I’m just not interested. You are married now, and you need to have left the wild club life behind you. You’ll have to accept that your oats are sown.”

Crowley tilted his head. Now this was interesting.

Gabriel laughed. “Ezra Fell, I’m not asking anymore. I tried to tell you when I was here last. I am a married man. I’m above reproach. But you? You’re a confirmed bachelor. You’re a little too concerned about your appearance, and your place of business is littered with very specific sorts of pornography. A word from me, and all of this disappears. But if you come with me, you’ll have access to learénd spaces rarely accessible to simple booksellers, even well-liked ones. And you remember the good times we had.” Gabriel touched the lapel of Ezra’s coat. Ezra stepped back to the back room, repelled.

“You’re threatening me?”

Gabriel stepped forward, pacing the other. “I would hate to use such coarse language, but… yes? So, how about it?”

Crowley was already wriggling along the upper level, careful to make no noise that would not be taken for the settling of the building. He circled around the visible areas, then caught Ezra’s face. He popped up behind a shorter shelf and pressed a finger dramatically to his lips. The motion caught Ezra’s eyes, which nearly bugged out in shock. Crowley ducked just in time to avoid the over-the-shoulder glare of Gabriel. Crowley bit off the “ Idiot! ” that he wanted to say.

“Look, my fine fellow, you could just enjoy your life that you’ve built for yourself. Or you could pursue the… the greenwood… but you can’t ask me to follow you around as your bit of something at your beck and call. I- I won’t have it!” Ezra held Gabriel’s forearms to make sure he didn’t look again in Crowley’s direction, but he was also firm in his statement. He might be in danger of being revealed to all of society, but he wasn’t about to debase himself without at least a fight.

Gabriel leaned forward, took Ezra’s shoulder forcefully, and placed a kiss directly on his lips.

Crowley reached up and in a cleverer move than ever appeared in Crowley’s favorite fiction, grabbed the door handle. With one fluid motion, he opened the door, causing the bell to ring, stood, and did his best to appear to have just walked in. Gabriel whirled around and snarled flatly “He’s closed.”

“Sorry, guv,” Crowley said in a low dialect. “But you see it’s this delivery….” He held up the ribboned box he had been carrying. It did look a bit worse for the wear. “Only, I have ter get a signature, y’see.”

Gabriel glowered with narrowed eyes that glinted a peculiar dark shade. “Right.” He turned back to Ezra. “Last chance,” he said. “Yes or no?”

Ezra looked at Crowley, “No,” he said crisply.

Gabriel backed up slowly, expression hardening with every footfall. “It’s a shame. A damn shame.” He reached the door. “Good-bye, Ezra. It could have been great.”

The bell rang again to announce Gabriel leaving. Through the glass, Crowley watched him. He waved cheerily with a perky smile before turning back to Ezra. “You… all right?” he asked softly.

Ignoring the question, Ezra stalked straight up to him and poked him in the center of Crowley’s chest. “What the devil were you doing in here?!” he demanded in a half-hushed snarl. “How did you get in? I know the shop was locked!”

Crowley offered the little box tied with ribbon. "Welcome back?”

Ezra glowered at the box in confusion, then noticed the script on the golden stamp peeking out from under the ribbon. It was definitely the stamp of Wensleydale’s Patissiere, one of the most nourishing and tasty bakeries in the district. But Ezra would not be sidetracked.

“You’re saying you broke into my establishment, my home , to deliver me puff pastry?”

Crowley held up a hand in defense. “I hadn’t planned on breaking in for the delivery alone. But it got rid of the American, didn’t it?”

“Explain.”

Crowley deflated. “I broke in because I gathered that man was giving you trouble. I thought maybe I could help or something.”

“How did you get in?” Ezra asked, astonished. He became even more so as Crowley described the ease with which he climbed walls and entered through a higher level. “I can’t begin to believe this.” Ezra took the box, catching a whiff of lemon and butter. "What's this?"

"Just a little gift to welcome you back." 

Ezra opened the box. Inside was a selection of dainty petit fours. Ezra half-fluttered with delight. "Oh, myyyy..." His fingers slowly reached inward to touch the curving sheer shavings of white chocolate and ganache, brush at the candied citrus slices.

"I had an inkling you liked sweets," said Crowley.

Ezra didn’t know what to do with this day. He still needed to claim his deliveries from the post, but the weather was supposed to turn bad and he was still trembling with adrenaline. “Oh, I better put on the kettle, oughtn't I?" he muttered to Crowley. He still hadn’t forgiven him for cat burgling antics, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. And he really shouldn’t eat all of these by himself.

The kettle was soon singing on the top of the cooker. Crowley had sheepishly followed Ezra into the kitchenette, but he kept being distracted, watching Ezra. Ezra He selected cups, puzzling for a full minute over which one to offer Crowley. He always did. Today, he selected a cream-colored porcelain cup with a strong black stripe along the widest point, and a silver metal edge about the mouth. For himself, as always, the winged mug would do from his Czechoslovakian artist friend. He periodically checked behind him. Crowley's eyes were covered with the usual dark glasses, but he thought he could still detect his friend’s emotions: worry, pride, hope? “Other than your practice for your spider-themed vaudeville act, what's on  your mind today, my dear?"

Crowley sat up a little straighter, and plated up the petit fours on the small plate that had been offered. "I needed to see my friend, Ezra Fell, after his return from abroad. And see if he needed help with the many crates of books with which I am sure he has returned.”

Ezra grinned. "It's just the one crate, actually." He nodded in the direction of the main shop floor. Ezra had hefted the crate in without much effort himself earlier, but he felt a certain delirious charm in the idea of acquiring Crowley's help after his illegal efforts to help. "But if you want to exert yourself on my behalf, please, don't let me stop you!"

Crowley took off his jacket, and laid it over the back of his chair. He rolled his sleeves and faced Ezra, hands on hips. "Where do you want them?"

On the inside, Ezra made a low whistle. The young veteran's form was, well. Pleasant to say the least. He cleared his throat in a vain attempt to clear his mind. He was too excited from the day’s stresses. "How about we do this: if you'll unload that crate -- carefully! -- I'll check in all the items and appraise them. During that, you can enjoy a book, and then you can help me again in placing them. It will be suitable service in payment for your strange break in.”

"Finish making the tea, and I'll get this open." He turned, picking up the small pry bar, and began to open the crate carefully.

Ezra steeped, poured, and stirred perfunctorily, watching his friend with more than an average amount of lust as his strong arms removed wood bars and packing hay. Bit by bit he placed the paper-wrapped packages onto the desk, until they fair towered. Every time Anthony bent over, Ezra's heart leapt a little higher in his throat.

He dusted his hands off, and hooked the pry bar through a belt loop. He looked over the manifest, reading off the contents and checked them against the books.

Ezra had presented him with his tea, and a few of the petit fours. He had knicked another book, reading quietly in a tucked away chair. A recording was playing softly, occasional gentle humming from Ezra along with the music, the soft shuffle of leather and paper, all soothed him, letting him fall into the story. It was only at the gentle tapping on Ezra on his shoulder, that he looked up.

"It's started," he said, softly. He nodded to the front of the shop. Through the windows, soft snow had begun. It was gentle now, but later it would grow more troublesome to get back across town. Crowley looked up at Ezra, and stroked his hand back through his own dark hair, as though wiping the last of his reading fog from himself. He looked around "Right." He stood up, stretching until his back popped.

Ezra's heart sank a little. There hadn't been a single customer, given the threat of weather, and Ezra had grown very happily used to a safe presence near him after the day’s horrible beginning.

He glanced over at the stack of books that were still piled up on the counter. "I... I could stay, and help you finish this. If you would like? I don't have anything, really, to particularly get back to."

Ezra paused thoughtfully, accepting the excuse. "I suppose you could shelter here, if you preferred not to go out in the storm." He bit his lip slightly, nerves almost overtaking him.

Crowley’s mouth curved a sheepish smile, a hand slipping to the back of his neck and rubbing it. "If you don’t mind the company. I’ve been here all day, so I didn’t get any groceries.

Again, that welling wish in his heart made the silent offer of warmth in response to Crowley's lament. But now was not the time, when it would be unpleasant to leave. "Well, you're welcome to stay here. That settee you're on can be made more comfortable with that ottoman there."

"Thank you." Crowley hid his smile with the clipboard in his hands.

Ezra looked around. "I suppose we should produce for ourselves some sustenance. Are you hungry, dear chap?"

"I could eat." He murmured as he checked the listing of books.

Ezra waited a moment, then caught the man by the clipboard. "They'll not wander away, Anthony."

Crowley turned to look at him, dark lenses, opaque in the low light. "I hadn't wanted to intrude on your living spaces, after, you know." Colour rose to the surface of his cheeks.

The night was uneventful. Food. Wine. Friendship, and some talk of war. Perhaps it could be noted that the topic of the War was easier to approach than the opening of the day.

Late in the night, Ezra retired to his room and Crowley took the suggested furniture downstairs, piled high with all but one of Ezra’s blankets.

Neither man slept that night. Crowley left for his own home before Ezra came downstairs.

***

Crowley’s apartment was cold. He didn’t bother to kindle a fire. He sighed dreamily, landing back in his bed, the scarf in his hands, held close to his chest. It still held the scent of old books, and fine tea, and a bit of cologne, all combined to evoke Ezra's scent. He held it close to his face, the gramophone playing softly, lulling him into a gentle space. He stroked a hand over the fabric of his own shirt, feeling the rough weave beneath his fingers. He felt himself stir to life, his hand slipping further south, imaging the hand to be much stronger and thicker fingered as it cupped over him.

"I turned down a powerful man, because all I want is right here." What kind of nonsense was this he was hoping for? No matter, what was fantasy even for if not getting to enjoy some nonsense? He shivered, undoing his belt, and slipping a hand down, cupping his own backside. He gave a soft moan. He pressed the scarf firmly against his mouth and nose, breathing deeply the lingering scent. He slipped his trousers down, a brushed over himself, imagining a broader palm weighing him speculatively.

"So handsome.” Would Ezra call him handsome? “So lovely." Words of praise that made him almost tremble. Crowley shivered, and turned to his bedside drawer. He pulled out the small jar of ointment and slicked his fingers. "Bend over the desk for me." Crowley groaned, ached for the firm order of a strong man who stood his ground. He curled his fingers to press against himself. First just two, to imagine those hands, treating him as something to be prized. He groaned out, burying his face against the fabric of the scarf, as he pressed home quickly, and rolled his hips. "Tell me what you want, dear boy?" Crowley’s long fingers were able to find his prostate and his other hand slid up and gripped into his hair. "You… I want you, Ezra..." He cried this outloud. He moaned down into the scarf as he pressed in with a third finger. He thrust in hard, imagining hands at his waist. He turned until his knees found purchase beneath him. He slid his other hand down to work over his prick. Crowley’s face pressed hard to the mattress. A keening moan drifted out from between his lips, muffled only by scarf and blanket. Orgasm quickly found him, leaving him gasping on his side, with a bloodied lower lip and a distinct pang of guilt.

He rolled over. He was cold, damp, and alone.

The ceiling had done nothing wrong. That did not stop Crowley from glowering up at it now. His thoughts were not on whatever crimes had or had not been committed by the architecture. Instead, his thoughts were half of London away, in Soho. His thoughts were still on the feel of the firm hands at his waist, steadying him on that ladder and then lifting him safely down when the lowest rung had almost given out.

His thoughts were still on how his legs had wanted to wrap around Ezra's waist, his arms. He wanted to stroke his fingers through that sunlight hair and let Ezra do what he wished. Let him have whatever he wanted.

He turned on his side now to give the wall a good scowl, just in case it thought it was off the hook. Ezra wouldn't take advantage. No easy exchange of bodies in payment or to get more wouldn't be Ezra's style. That much was absolutely clear now. Nor would Ezra be interested in the sudden, furtive grinding of bodies that Crowley had found more plentiful in the War.

He curled up, hugging his knees close to his chest, the stretch of the lean limbs sharp but soothing.

What about the Senator? Crowley had some thoughts about that, but it would take a little bit of work. He decided to get back up and get to work. He certainly wasn’t about to sleep and just dream pathetic dreams about a man who wasn’t in a position to accept him.

He wondered if Beales still had those six American representatives on the take. He decided to send a letter.

***

Ezra closed the flue a bit in his chimney. He could use a chiller night. It had seemed far too warm as of late.

He wasn't a fool. He knew what this was. He was fully aware of the longing of two men of a certain temperament. This was sexual desire, coupled with the longings of what was looking more and more like love.

But these early stirrings weren't shared. Or rather, he couldn't know for sure. And one did not simply ask another gentlemen for their proclivities. Oh, he was absolutely certain that Crowley, should he have considered it, was attracted to menfolk. But even the “regular” and “normal” folk struggled to tell: “does he like me back?”

In his youth, Ezra has spent a small fortune in membership to a few discreet clubs. Those contained almost all of his sexual experiences. In such a scenario, it would be easy enough to initiate sex. Everyone present, after all, was of a type, as it were, and already interested. These members-only organizations made a haven for the loose invert, and the steep entry costs helped prevent blackmail, as everyone had equal position to lose. And while Crowley wasn’t necessarily incapable of affording such a fee, he was entirely unknown to be a part of the “scene.” Perhaps his time abroad made it less crucial?

And the quick pleasure of the discreet club not at all what Ezra hoped for with Crowley. This was so very different from heated moments, followed by luxurious bath and then a game of chess. Rather, he simply longed to spend more time with Anthony J. Crowley, hear his words and spar his wit, and then lean over and kiss him in between words.

It was a paradox. He simultaneously wanted Crowley to talk, and to shut him up solidly.

Ezra leaned into the fantasy. Crowley would be talking about that dreadful improvisational music. "And here's why the ragtime background is so important. But you can't beat the banjo in melody--"

"Yes, yes, jass this and jass that, but right now the only wailing I want to hear is you." There was something about Crowley's sheer competence and enthusiasm for his terrible interests that made Ezra want to completely take him over, press him back, hear him open and cry.

Ezra touched his own lips softly, lost in the imagining of what it would be to kiss Crowley until his lips were deeply colored. He imagined that Crowley might be shocked, but would catch on quickly to give as good as he got.

Ezra moaned out quietly, tensed his other hand into a fist to resist a bit longer.

"Is this what you want, Ezra?" In the fantasy, Crowley was looking over his dark spectacles, strange and unique eyes wide and gentle, but keen.

"More than," Ezra sighed quietly. He would kiss the other man's lips again, and be subtle about slowly stripping him right there on the chaise lounge. The squawking of the gramophone would eventually end, and by then, Crowley would be loudly panting and moaning from the ragged kisses that left small purple welts all across his chest and stomach.

Ezra would be running fingers roughly over Crowley's thighs…

That was it, the moment that Ezra was no longer at to stop himself. He palmed over his own straining arousal through his loose pajamas.

Yes, right, hiis thighs. Crowley's thin, taught thighs, over his knees, and along shapely thighs. Donatello's David had the same legs, he mused. Crowley's skin was always cool, but Ezra wanted so much to warm him.

He groaned again, imagining what the low, gruff moan might sound like if he could coax if from Crowley's throat. "Please, Ezra..." Oh, would he beg? Or would he try to regain some dignity. Make wry joke? No. No, there was good in him, for all his posturing.

Yes, he'd simply ask for what he wanted, wouldn't he? Ezra was palming for firmly, reaching in through his fly to touch skin to skin. "Please, take what you want from me," his fantasy cried.

He imagined what it would be to kiss the tip of it. He was already rather sure of the size of what he might be working with. Those trousers were always a bit tighter than modesty desired. He could simply press back Crowley's hips, tug his buttons open, then delve in, kissing through underwear.

No, it was too fast. Much too fast. Ezra took his hand away from himself and returned to touching his lips. He pressed his fingertips against his lips, then pushed forward into his mouth. He moaned hard and kissed at the diameter. Crowley's cock: so hot against his lips and tongue. He wanted to make the other keen with pleasure. Ezra fancied he could manage. He treated his fingers to a wicked undulation reserved for Crowley's underside and tip, moaning softly as he worked.

His own prick strained to desperate hardness, but all he did was roll his hips up.

He wanted to hold Crowley down, not cruelly, but with complete dominance. He wanted to *make* the young man come apart completely. He wanted Crowley to be absolutely truthful about his love and lust. "Yes, Ezra, please, please let me come, please..."

Ezra sucked deeply on his own fingers, drawing them back into his throat for a minute, then pulled back. He used his now wet fingers to finally touch himself again. He felt himself throb and pulse.

Then there was the thought of Crowley desperate, struck dumb, and pouting (God yes, that pout would absolutely ruin him).

Lifting one of Crowley's legs and working him open. Crowley mewling with want, prick leaking, but not yet able to finish without just a little more. Ezra was well and truly working himself hard. He wouldn't last with the image of his pale, flushed (friend!) companion spread and ruined.

He imagined what a lush pressure it would be to sink into Crowley's body. Crowley was a man of spring-tight muscles and catlike relaxation. Oh no, oh no... "Ezraaa… angel ...."

Ezra cried out in wicked lust as his finish overtook him. He couldn't hold out with such a devil in his mind. His body tensed with orgasm.

"Oh, dear." There was so much mess , but it had felt so very good. He waited a moment until he was cold and miserable again, then got up to clean himself.

This was definitely an awkward problem.

***

Crowley received a letter back from Beales in a harsh, jagged script.

C:

You’re using up all of your owed favors all at once, aren’t you? (You are.)

Yes, I can see what I can do. No promises.

B

Beales did have a large set of favors to repay, after all. Beales had managed to rise rapidly as an officer, despite having a curiously marked birth certificate. Beales had been born in India, and both parents taken in an uprising. Crowley had helped Beales enter the military without quite so many medical checks. Enough times being “caught” dancing with ladies had been very beneficial for the both of them, it should be said.

Beales had some pull with the American government. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure of the nature of the strings Beales would pull, but he knew that Beales would at least make things interesting.

“Interesting” came several weeks later, after the start of the new year, in the form of a large parcel from Ezra Fell. Inside was a newspaper. Below the fold was a column headed “Theobald-Vega First Since Buchanan!” The article was circled with red ink and contained a wild tale of a U.S. Senator who’d been caught in bed with a man, who turned out to in fact be a woman dressed as a man, but who was not the Senator’s wife. Under the article, also in red ink, were the words, “Is this you?”

Crowley let out a low whistle. He got a spare paper and wrote “I’m not planning on wearing a dress just yet, so no, not me directly. Why do you ask?” He popped the newspaper and his note into the package and reclosed it.

Two days later, a letter arrived from Ezra Fell on rather nicer stationary. The letter read, “Regardless, I miss you, and it seems there won’t be much further trouble? -E.”

Crowley smiled to himself. “Not from mean-spirited Americans, no, perhaps not.” It seemed an awkward friendship might continue unabated.

***

Chapter Text

The gramophone crackled softly in the background, content to be ignored. The sound still masked the soft noises of the two gentlemen, the paler of whom was currently worrying a mark onto his companion's neck, his thick fingers carding into the other's darker hair. His lover, straddling his thighs, whose own hands were working through golden curls, pulled him in for a deep kiss, the both of them panting into it. Mr. Fell's hand slipped beneath Crowley's shirt, and smoothed it off over a thin shoulder, tracing fine musculature downward to cup against the swell of his chest. Crowley gasped into the kiss, moaning Ezra's name.

Ezra tangled his lips into the hot passion of the man in his lap. He was needier than he could remember ever being, even though he thought his libido had long quieted from his more youthful indiscretions. But Crowley pulled all the fire and drama from him that he could remember. He breathed in the offerings from Anthony's mouth. He sighed and cried a little, working his hands deeply into the muscles of the other's back.

Crowley pulled back, his hips rolling against Ezra's own. He lifted a hand to his lover's face, brushing away the beginnings of tears. His brows furrowed over his glasses. "Ezra?"

"So sorry. A bit overwhelmed. But," he said firmly, "this is not distress. No, not that at all." He kissed his own tears away from Crowley's fingertips.

"Right." He still looked concerned, leaning in to kiss Ezra's cheek, his arms wrapping around his shoulders. "You let me know if it's too much, or too fast." Crowley breathed in to steady his own speed. "What might I do for you?" He kissed the tip of his lover's nose.

"You're doing everything for me, my dear boy." He tilted his head to catch Crowley's neck. "You've donated your body and time to my shop and to me. You’ve tried to steal my heart from the start, even breaking in! You've given me your company." With a heated whisper, he said, "Please let me do for you for once." He placed his left hand gingerly against the front of Crowley's trousers.

Crowley nodded mutely, and pulled Ezra's right hand to his lips, his spectacles slipping down his nose as he kissed the knuckles.

"Oh my..." Ezra cooed. "Have you been told that you're breathtakingly beautiful?"

Crowley felt his features redden. "Not for some time or in so many words." He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Ezra.

Ezra took the chance to offer a sweet smooch. "You are." He hefted the other man (like a large book crate) and placed him back down on the couch. He positioned him in what he hoped was a comfortable pose, petting him with gentle hands.

Crowley slipped his spectacles off, blinking even in the soft light of the bookshop. He folded them carefully, and held them tightly in his hand, letting it rest against his thigh. He looked up at Ezra almost shyly and handed them to his lover. "We should set these out of the way."

Ezra did so with a smile. He treasured the look of Anthony's eyes, naked and gentle. He didn't love the look of Crowley's eyes in spite of their unique properties or because of them. Rather, it was the joy of being permitted the trust to see what Crowley kept hidden from all else in the world. There was a soft wickedness to his expression, but without the glasses, tendrils of pathos began to dominate. Ezra looked away, afraid that his heart would pop. Returning to the task at hand, he palmed over Crowley's trousers again, but avoided his erection. He pressed his palms hard into the other's thighs. He massaged and raked his eyes hungrily up and down over the other's clothed form. "Absolutely ravishing."

Like a courtesan of olden times, Crowley purred, "So ravish me, Mr. Fell." He held out his arms, his shirt still loosely draped in his elbows, his eyes bright with piqued interest.

Ezra leaned over him and began to kiss him with absolute gusto. He pulled Anthony back up a bit so his other hand could trace the long line of Anthony's spine. Their mouths danced against one another's. One of Crowley's palms cupping Ezra's cheek. He traced the pad of his thumb down his jaw and came to rest on Ezra’s only slightly mussed bowtie. Crowley fingered the fabric and then slowly tugged it loose. He whispered. "May I? You seem amenable."

"Hold on, hold on," grumbled Ezra. He tilted his body, accidentally grinding hip to hip. He had noticed that his reading book was in grave danger, and so shifted in order to move the book to a safer location. He then returned his attention to Anthony. "Now. Yes. If you please." The bookseller sounded fussier than a man being offered sexual favors usually might. Crowley found that adorable. He leaned and kissed down the length of Ezra's throat, unfolding the bowtie and spreading the man's collar. One of Ezra's hands idly traced Crowley's spine, the other trailed over his hip. Crowley's fingers slithered downward (the first couple of buttons of Ezra's shirt coming undone as though by magic), and came to rest, warm palm against trouser front.

"Slower, slower, my dear boy. We have nowhere to be and no interruption pending." He reassuringly kissed Anthony's neck. He emphasized his words with actions, stroking slowly up and down Crowley's slim body. "Let me enjoy you as well."

"You're right." He sighed dramatically. "I might be a little overeager." He let Ezra fully remove his shirt, watched his hands as he popped buttons free and smoothed over Crowley's skin, as though smoothing a page in a book. Finely manicured fingertips teased over the newly exposed skin.

Each button was given as tender a touch as Ezra could ever manage. His fingertips tugged at the thin wool weave of Anthony's warm shirt. He sighed softly as the scent of him blossomed up from the parted collar. "Oh, Crowley." he purred in praise. Crowley tilted his head, those soft lips worrying at a spot just below his earlobe. He groaned softly, his one hand cupping over Ezra's as he gently explored.

Ezra took his time, savoring his friend. He set aside all the worries about anything other than getting to enjoy, and enjoy pleasuring, this tasty snack in his lap. He removed all of Anthony's clothes from the upper half of his body, then finally began pressing their forms together. (Well, he wasn't about to let the dear man get cold!) He cupped the other's face in his hands, their kisses deep. He suckled his friend's tongue, eventually pulling back for air. Lamplight brightly lit Crowley's distinct pupils. His thumbs brushed over Ezra's cheeks.

"May I pleasure you, dear Ezra? With my mouth?"

Ezra choked a little, tried to cover it with a cough. "You... ah... well!" How did one even respond to so direct a statement? "That... might... could... maybe... be somewhatveryniceohmygod!" The last was a prolonged squeak.

Crowley’s hand moved as though to push his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. A nervous habit, but now without the safety of his dark glasses. "That is to say, if you would like such a thing? Not to be a pressure-er, dear Ezra." That had been too fast. Perhaps he shouldn't have pushed, perhaps steamy kisses were all the other man wanted?

"Oh! Oh." The second "oh" was a little bit disappointed. "I didn't feel pressure, per se. Excitement. Thrill." And here, the "r" was unnecessarily trilled. "Certainly passion! But I can't possibly just take that from you." He kissed the incredibly cute pointed tip of the other's nose. "Rather. I want that very, very, veryvery much. But I want to make sure you know that I am not just using you for a quick one." His creamy complexion flushed even deeper. "Anthony Crowley, this means much more to me than that. You know that, don’t you? Do you?"

“You’re babbling.” Crowley cupped his dear friend's face, and leaned in, and kissed him achingly slowly, exploring with lips, tongue and teeth. Finally, he rested his forehead against his lover's. "I would never begin to think that you would use me, Ezra."

"Oh, so good..." Ezra purred lustily. "I mean! That's good!" Ezra was rapidly losing his resistance. But it was so very important that he understand . "Anthony." He pulled back. "Let me be entirely clear. I have had. A past that might shock you. Maybe it wouldn't. My point is... Ahem, my point is that you and I are both of a certain stripe, and that stripe doesn't include many of the things that other... stripes... do. Birds and bees, but without the birds means without the nests, you see?" He spoke in a rapid fire, sure that he was making perfect sense. "But maybe nests aren’t needed, exactly. Or maybe bees could make nests, too." He touched a Anthony's face, naked longing on his own.

His face scrunched gently in bemused confusion. He pressed a gentle fingertip against Ezra's lips. "Angel, please. I have a past, too. But that’s what past means. I will nest here very happily." Crowley offered a slight naughty wiggle of his hips into Ezra's lap for emphasis.

"N-nest?" Ezra murmured. He stood promptly. "Nest!" He rudely caught Anthony up in his arms, princess-style, and with some speed took them both up to his small loft bedroom up a creaky back stairwell.

He would never admit to it later, but the delighted laughter that slipped out of Crowley as Ezra hefted him up and toted him quickly up the stairs sounded for all the world like a giggle. They kissed again, Ezra's hands firm at his waist as he set him down on the small bed. Crowley immediately began to trail long fingers wickedly through Ezra's bright curls.

"Carried to your nest, meine schoner vogel?" He chuckled, his hand stroking the back of Ezra's hand that rested against his stomach.

The natural accent on the other was more enchanting than he'd anticipated. "Yes. Now to see if I can make you squawk." He grinned a little at his admittedly terrible joke. He leaned forward and kissed at Anthony's fingers.

Crowley crawled forward on the bed, and caught Ezra’s lips in a rather bold kiss, teasing against Ezra's bottom lip with his own. His palms pressed against the other's chest, fingers curling in his waistcoat lapels. He pulled back after a moment, giving a wink. "Ready to make me squawk, Angel?"

"Ahaha! Indeed, you old devil." He easily fell into the other's clutches, and pressed both of their bodies together. His thicker form entirely covered Crowley's, and he leaned into it. It was as though he wanted to overwhelm everything about Crowley.

Crowley slipped his arms around Ezra. He held him close, tightly. His mouth now worked against the hollow of the other man's throat, licking, sucking, and occasionally raking of teeth against his skin.

The raw carnality was breath-taking, thought Ezra. Ezra dodged one sharp nip to try and get another foothold. He took Anthony's hands gently, kissing the back of each in turn, then lifting them over the other's head to press them tightly into the pillows above. He just wanted to very gently restrain him. The effect was utterly palpable.

He relaxed back into the pillows, his expression soft, his eyes playing over Ezra's features. The tip of his tongue flickered over his lips nervously. His wrists relaxed in Ezra's grip.

"Good boy," he purred, punctuating it with a long kiss. He controlled the kiss, keeping an agonizingly slow pace.

He could feel his heart racing in his chest, Ezra's slow pace thrilling as it was frustrating. He groaned into the kiss, his lover slowly exploring his mouth with lips and tongue, his side with gentle fingers, and warm palm.

Murmuring praise, Ezra touched all over the top half of Anthony's body. He pressed tenderly into his chest, along his stomach... He tutted softly, "Do you never eat?" But he hardly meant it, as he'd seen the man eat many a time, all in one gulp. At last his lust got the better of him, and he began to thrust his tongue roughly into Anthony's mouth in lewd suggestion of desire. Crowley moaned, suckling at the other's tongue, and flicking his own against it. He raised his legs, curling them about his lover's waist. He pulled from the kiss, Ezra working his way down Crowley's jawline and down to his throat. "Ezra...what do you want from me?" He murmured, his head tilting back, allowing his lover greater access.

"Just you," he said, by way of a dodge. "Also, you haven't squawked yet." Kiss-nip, suckle-kiss.

Crowley sat up, settling the other back on his heels. He gave him a soft little smile, and kissed gently at the corner of his mouth, his fingers finding the top button of Ezra's waistcoat. He began to slowly work them free, kissing slowly, carefully at his mouth, along his jaw. He found his earlobe, and nibbled at it carefully. He hissed softly near his ear. "I want to pleasure you. I want to breathe with your breath. I want to hear my name on these lips." He brushed a gentle fingertip against the soft fullness of his lover's bottom lip.

A long gasp pulled from Ezra's chest. "I-I.... yes!.... Give me a thousand kisses, and then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then another thousand without resting, then a hundred." Ezra's eyes grew heavy lidded, and his voice was low and throaty. "Then, when we have made many thousands, we will confuse the count lest we know the numbering, so that no one can cast an evil eye on us through knowing the number of our kisses."* The poem burst from him, as if by accident, but the heat in the words sang in him. "Please, take as you will."

[*Ezra has been brought to poetry, particularly Catullus 5. The translation from The Carmina of Gaius Valerius Catullus. Leonard C. Smithers. London. Smithers. 1894. For a more... modern?... translation, consider The Dirtbag Catullus available on the world wide web.]

Croiwley laughed, "With pleasure, angel." The words rolled out as a hiss, and his fingers trailed downwards, and found the fasten of Ezra Fell's trousers. He shucked them downward and pulled him close to kiss his stomach.

It was no longer the Ezra’s game, and together they became a twined mass of lurching lust. Crowley's fingers led Ezra into a writhing arch that he just couldn't control. "An-anthony!" he gasped in pleasure at the grip to his backside. He clenched slightly, but not in distress. He just very much liked the feeling of that strong hand squeezing just so. He was so preoccupied that it came as a shock when the other hand cupped directly over his prick.

Everything went white.

***

Crowley looked up at him, brows arched above his spectacles. "What did I do during the war?" He closed the book, fingers holding his place. "I served. Why, Angel?"

Ezra looked a little perturbed. "I don't wish to push, but I should also say that I'm not without observational capacity. You've been injured in an uncommon fashion. You're exceptionally clever. I refuse to believe that His Majesty's government would squander that. And in passion, you dissolve into flawless German. I trust you completely, so don't think I assume the worst. You're no agent for the Kaiser." He leaned back thoughtfully. "But an agent for the king? Possibly?" He corrected his posture, and, as warmly as possible, said, "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand, though."

He stood from his seat and checked, looking around for other patrons. Finding none, he came to alight next to Ezra. "I have served at His Majesty's pleasure, yes. As I have an aristocratic mother in one country and an aristocratic father in another, I had a certain freedom of travel."

"Ah," Ezra remarked understandingly. "That's a rare privilege indeed." He paused. "I'm not unfamiliar with the work of secrets." He tried to keep his voice gentle.

"I had gathered. I thought I knew someone of your last name during service. I would hand off information to him, and while I was waiting, I would see notes of flowing, delicate handwriting." He lifted the top of Ezra's correspondence tray, pulling out a half finished note of Ezra's.

"You are clever," Ezra said with a note of appreciation. "You've caught me, Britain's queerest code-cracker." He gestured such that it implied a bow, but they were both lying down.

"So, you are Principality?" He smirked. He replaced the top of the correspondence tray, and took the offered glass of wine.

"I assure you that I did not select that moniker." He swirled his own glass gently and took a delicate sip.

"It suits you. A little country all your own in here." He gestured to the surroundings.

"Oh, I do protest!" He looked mischievously indignant. "I rather prefer that all the wisdom of all the countries might pass through here eventually!" He downed the glass in a go for flourish.

They chatted quietly about books, soon tucked in together on the couch, Ezra reading, Anthony dozing, his head on Ezra's lap, long limbs curled close. Nothing could possible trouble the peace of 1920.