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Anthony J. Crowley was many things, but a coffee shop frequenter was not one of them. Sure, he had nothing against them as a concept, but he had to admit that it was not how he would typically choose to spend a sunny Tuesday afternoon.
Not when his plants could be allowed to run freely with all this extra sunshine. But he would have to move some of the more disrespectful ones into the shade later.
“Your six shots of espresso, sir.” Came a voice behind him as it was placed down. “Anything else, I can get you? Eccles cakes, perhaps?”
“No, no, I won’t be here long, thanks,” he murmured distractedly, tapping away at a few keys on his laptop, before immediately deleting it. “Really, it’s fine.”
He rarely travelled far for tattoos on a normal day, but well, Crowley was in for a bit of an adventure. Wasn’t room for that kind of stuff much these days.
And most tattoo shop’s didn’t have a handy coffee shop right across the street.
Heaven’s Gateway tattoo artistry and piercings. Sounds like a sex shop, Crowley had thought to himself, scrolling through the artwork. Usually, he would have clicked on the studio immediately to double check, but he didn’t know if he wanted that on his phone.
Bit too religious for his tastes.
Sometimes checking the shop reviews online were enough to ensure you weren’t dealing with strange religious zealots ready to shame you while waving a pot of ink in your face. But after begrudgingly scrolling through several saying it was ‘unlike any other place they had been too’ and had ‘heavenly ambience’ he decided he didn’t have much to lose.
But even Crowley had to admit, the outside did not look promising.
The walls were bright white, with almost invisible glass lettering over the door. Over the top was a similarly glass, and rather obnoxious halo. All in all, it rather gave the impression of a hotel attempting to be upper class with only a quarter of the budget to do so, and considerably less taste.
There weren’t even any funky lights, or artwork or anything. Name aside, he would never have guessed it to be a tattoo shop at all. Essential oils perhaps. Or maybe an upper-class laundromat.
Crowley’s phone rang out loudly, throughout the shop while he frantically clicked the button to make it stop.
‘Tattoo consult. 2:30. Get a move on’.
Well, the phone knew best. He drained the rest of his coffee in a single chug, dropping a tenner on the table and began walking towards the shop. (Directly in front of a car on his way, naturally,) and opened the door with a dramatic flourish of the hand.
“Hello!” The receptionist called out to him for her desk, while he was left to blink helplessly. The person designing this place had even worse taste than he thought. Everything from the floor to the ceiling, to the walls was coated in pure, snow white. With blindingly bright, overheads.
Celestial vibes, his ass.
“Er yes, hello,” Crowley awkwardly turned to her (never had he been in a tattoo studio that felt so much like an impossible vortex. Or a mirror maze). “‘M Anthony Crowley, here for a consultation with Aziraphale?”
The receptionist was dressed in white too, barring the glass pin on their front reading ‘Muriel, they/them’. Well, at least this place was accepting, if not a little obnoxious.
“Ah, yes of course,” their voice was loud and full of excitement, managing to block out a little of the irritating buzzing that he had just now noticed was coming from the ceiling, making the whole place feel like he was stuck in some time skip, “That’s the owners brother, frightfully talented. You’re in good hands!”
Before he knew it, a see-through visitors pass was being pressed into his hands. What was this place? What kind of tattoo parlour required visitor passes? He shoved it in his bag, hoping he wouldn’t be challenged.
“Just…right down that way,” Muriel said, pointing into the white-ness where Crowley could just about make out a few doors. The place seemed huge, and yet no art decorated the walls, and no tattoo beds anywhere.
He knew how many artists would kill for a space like this.
Hoping to get to the artists room without any more enthusiastic greetings, he began to walk – or saunter as he so typically did – however, whatever was up there was not on his side that day.
“Ah! A new client, I see,” said the verbose man, quickly stepping forward and shaking his hand with significant force. “We welcome you to our wonderful establishment!”
Crowley was well aware he was being given the look up and down.
“Thanks,” he murmured, making a valiant effort to get away.
“My name is Gabriel,” said the man, clearly not getting the hint, “We are so glad to have you here on this fine morning!”
“It’s afternoon,” Crowley replied quickly hurrying down the room towards the door he was pretty sure the nice receptionist had pointed at.
The man patted him on the shoulder before he left, a large, heavy hand with a flapping white sleeve.
Was it some requirement that everything in this place be the colour of fallen snow? With such obnoxious lighting on top of everything else?
He blinked through it, finally finding a door that read ‘Aziraphale, artist’ in white lettering on glass. It was also difficult to see in such light, as the letters were thin and it took a moment for Crowley to be truly sure that he was reading what he thought he was.
He pushed open the door in front of him, feeling a breath escape his lungs as he relaxed. The room inside was still white, but not painfully so, the lights had been dimmed down so he no longer felt as if under a spotlight or in a particularly unpleasant tesco’s. And it was smaller, no great feat that seemed to go on and on forever in a barrage of nothingness, but instead more…cosy. Peaceful.
And the buzzing had stopped, leaving him feel significantly less dizzy than before.
The walls were covered in neatly framed artwork in small, light wooded frames to lightly contrast with the cream walls and yet not distract from anything. The tattoo bed had been pushed near the wall, as well as the cart, again, just off white.
And then, sitting in the corner of the room, on a small cream armchair with an overthrow, was the artist himself.
The man in front of Crowley didn’t look like the kind of man Crowley expected to find. As a matter of fact, he didn’t seem to have any tattoos at all, at least from what he could see behind his cream suit – tartan tie and frockcoat and all – as well as a head white hair.
Instead, Crowley could have sworn that the light coming through gave the man a halo his light blue eyes twinkling in the light, fixed on the book in his hands. The Picture of Dorian Gray he noticed numbly, watching as the man in front of him shone in the light.
“Ngh, hi.” He managed out, feeling a twinge of regret at the man nearly jumped almost a foot into the air before turning to face him.
“Oh my, I am so terribly sorry! You see I just had a client cancel on me, and I thought I had a while until my next consultation and so I pulled out a book! I must offer all my apologies, oh, dear me.” Dear me? Crowley looked at the man, who couldn’t be a few years older than he was at the most.
And, last time Crowley checked, he wasn’t seventy.
“No need to apologise, ngh, not a big deal really.”
“Are you sure? It is most unprofessional. You would, of course, not be under any blame if you decided to repot me. The fault is entirely mine. Oh, I am going to get in such trouble for reading on the job-”
“I’m not going to tell anybody. Are you?”
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley with a near heartbreaking look on his face, before slowly shaking his head.
“Good then nothing has to change, does it?”
They stared at each other for a long moment before Crowley began to fidget out of nerves. He really wasn’t a people person. Why had he decided he liked tattoos in the first place?
“No, no, nothing. I assume you are here for my two-thirty consultation. A.J Crowley?”
“Uh, that’s me. But it’s Crowley, just Crowley. Well, technically it’s Anthony Crowley, but I’ve always just been Crowley if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course, more than alright, we are more than willing to meet clients no matter how they come in or whatever life they walk from. No matter what Gabriel says,” his last words descended into a murmur and Crowley had to strain to hear.
Unfortunately, it led to another awkward silence. Gabriel? As in his boss? And brother? Well, he did seem like a smarmy enough bastard.
“Were you enjoying you, er, book?”
“I was, delightful! I admit to being a bit of fan of Oscar Wilde, myself. In fact, this particular book was a birthday present to myself. A second addition!” The man paused, looking at Crowley crooking his head. “Do you, by any chance like to read yourself?” said the man. Crowley jarred himself out of his thought. He had already relaxed at the man’s presence, feeling much more reassured.
It was always a relief to have an artist that liked to talk.
Unfortunately, being unable to read the silence, the other man already had doubt painted across poor man’s face. Like he thought he would be offended.
“I should hope so, y’know, being an author and all. It’s kind of a requirement.”
The angelic man in front of Crowley startled, looking up with giant watery blue eyes.
“Oh! Oh, my apologies, my dear, could I possibly know any of your work? I read widely, I assure you!” He sure did apologise a lot, this guy. Angel or not. Though, he could be with how old he talked.
“I’d been concerned if you had, wouldn’t have taken you for a thief personally.”
The man in front of him blinked slowly in clear confusion. It was all the time Crowley needed to know that his joke hadn’t made sense to the poor man.
“It’s not available yet, just got my author copies through, really. Only my agent and editors and publishing people have been reading it so far,” Crowley hastened to explain, fighting the urge to collapse from sheer embarrassment. He had know this man for a moment, and already made the impression of being an awkward fool.
There was a reason writers wrote things as opposed to saying them.
Crowley reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a copy of his book, nearly shoving it towards the other man.
“Who should I sign it to?” And he made it worse. So, so much worse. Screw tattoos, who let him interact with humans in general?
“My name is Aziraphale Fell,” the man answered with the softest voice Crowley had ever heard. And then a sharpie was being pressed into his hands along with his book. His very hands felt limp around the pen.
The man’s skin was soft, and pleasantly warm compared to Crowley who always seemed to run cold.
First time I’m signing one of these and it’s for a basic stranger, Crowley thought vaguely as he flicked the book open to the title page, propping it up on the room’s desk.
To Mr. Fell, thanks for giving this a read for my tattoo! Best, Crowley.
“Where are you looking to receive your tattoo?” said the angelic man, standing up to stand besides Crowley, picking the book up and snapping it closed. His whole body seemed to give off a warmth about it, drawing Crowley closer and closer in. Like a fucking moth to a candle flame. Like the sun itself.
“Left arm.”
Aziraphale’s eyes gave him another look up and down, to which Crowley realised he had shoved on his (slightly muddy) black turtleneck and jacket from the day before.
“Would you mind removing your shirt so I can get a better look at the area, and measure for sizing?”
Crowley gave a forced shrug, before near yanking the thing over his head before he lost his nerve. He wasn’t ashamed of his body, as such, but, well, there was a reason that he loved covering it in tattoos.
Crowley was very aware as the artist scanning over his existing tattoos.
“You have several, good quality.” A fingertip touched his right pectoral at the giant tree that lay across it, twisting around like it was screaming. “Especially this one. Very…fantastical.”
Crowley wondered if he should tell the man that it was inspired by a mix of the magical bat-crazy killer tree from a popular book series he read as a kid as well as the apple trees in The Wizard of Oz and a heaping dose of religious trauma, before deciding that might be a little weird and not something that should be said when you first met someone.
Especially Aziraphale, a literal fucking angel, he realised after a moment. How had he not recognised that name? It wasn’t exactly common (especially when paired with Gabriel of all things, Crowley seriously doubted the poor man’s parents).
At least his settled on Anthony, just a J, and plenty of snark.
“Thank you.”
“You have very little bleed through, a good record for somebody with as much ink as yourself.”
“Yeah, care a lot about aftercare, me. It’s on me forever if you catch my drift.”
“I assure you, that I do. Actually, I have created many myself.”
Crowley winced internally.
“Yeah, course, didn’t mean to imply you didn’t know what you were doing.”
Aziraphale gave a vague humming noise before a single figure touched the side of his face. If he was a weaker man, perhaps he breath would have stopped.
"Most artists won't put anything on the face until both sleeves and hands are done."
"You suggesting I got a backstreet Job, Angel?"
They both seemed to freeze at the unexpected nickname and Crowley internally winced knowing just how that sounded.
“Ngh, nah, I don’t fuck around with the whole 'sit at home and stick needle in my skin on an infected bedsheet' stuff. Professionally done, all mine. Not gunna risk an infection from a mate with a single art unit from college, and shaky hands to boot y’know.” He quickened to change to subject, hoping that he wasn’t rambling an insufferable amount.
Aziraphale gave him a sideways look, small grin crossing his face.
“But admittedly,” Crowley said, “it was from one of those ‘press the button and get a random tattoo in an orb thing’ and I saw it and fell in love. Just felt right, y’know. My friends always say that I’m a snake in the body of a human, so I said fuck it and put it on the side of my face.”
The smile across the man’s face grew.
“I do always love an unexpected addition to ones collection. A mentally stimulating experience, and not just because of the financial gain for myself.”
Crowley chocked at the man’s confession.
Brutally honest, he thought to himself, adding it to the list of things he knew about his latest artist.
Out loud, once he could breathe easily again, a genuine chuckle escaped his lips. That hadn’t happened in a while.
“Can you possibly give me more specifics about what you actually want, or am I going to simply have to invest in some strange pinball device to tell me.”
“Ngh, I had this idea, tell me if it’s stupid, but, I have quite a few…straggler tattoos on my left arm and I was just thinking we could kind of fill up all the gaps between them with linework flowers with elements of my book hidden in and around them.”
Aziraphale seemed to think for a moment.
“Like a cobweb to make all your tattoos into one cohesive sleeve?”
“Yeah, exactly that. I want it to be like all the elements are like caught and tangled in the flowers. Because, you know, it’s all my imagination and it’s a part of me as a person so. Anyway, symbolism. If you could help the existing tattoos fit into that too, it would be great.”
Cause I just thought like ‘hey all the ones on my left are black and grey so it could work’ and I wanted something to kind of border them but also invoke more of me.”
“You said linework flowers?”
“Yeah, but I like more detailing in the leaves, just some little lines and shit. Probably fade in a few years, but I quite like the effect of that in leaves, gives some unique shading.”
“Any reason for the florals? And particular ones you would want me to include?”
“Uh, well, I was, well, do work in a garden centre looking after all the plants and stuff. Sort of grown fond of ‘em in an antagonistic sort of way. I guess I would like a mix of flowers, in the same style. But I think I would like roses, orchids and things like that. Maybe lilies or forget-me-nots or pansies. As long as there conjoined by leaves and look kinda pretty I’m open. Not looking for a straight up bouquet.”
“Well, as you’re talking about a sleeve, I would put that into at least three, maybe four sessions as you have some ink already.” Crowley looked at the angel in front of him, who was already in the process of pulling out his sketchbook, tongue trapped between his teeth in concentration as he thought through the design.
How could anyone look that like just existing in an everyday place with everyday people? He wondered if the man himself had angel wings tattooed across his back, before thinking it might be a bit cliché for such a man. Especially one literally names after an angel in a tattoo shop called Heaven’s gateway.
Somehow, he thought that Aziraphale would have come up with something better if he himself owned the studio. Just a hunch.
“Any particular elements of your book you want transferred into the design? I know you’ve annotated it, but if there is anything specific you want me to overly focus on?”
“I know it sounds ridiculous, as I wrote the damn thing, but I just haven’t been able to get some of the things out of my head. Like for example, there’s a scene where a werewolf gets caught in these like, magical plants, and I think that could work really well with the tattoo like having them stringing him up kind of like a puppet? And there’s this fireplace that twists into Victorian times out of a spaceship, and that could be really cool to have like hanging off the edge, maybe some leaves wrapped around it like its being pulled up, the more detailed descriptions are in the book, of course. And if you do decide to read it, you can use pretty much anything. I’m open to your creative interpitations.”
Aziraphale turned the already rather battered hardcover in his hands.
“That all sounds quite amazing, I am so glad to have such inspiration to work from.” His eyes caught Crowley’s, and for that second nothing else mattered. “You would not believe how many clients come in asking for nature tattoos, expecting me to pull something quite out of thin air!”
Crowley laughed.
“I bet they do, angel. Probably would’ve been just as bad if I hadn’t been in tattoo groups and following artists since long before I plucked up the courage.”
Aziraphale gave a long, slow nod, staring back down at Crowley’s book. Somehow, in every excruciating hour of sending the book to agents, having editors and publishers work with him for months to the point he thought his hands might start to bleed from the amount of editing, he had never imagined the book to go into such perfect hands.
Ironic, since all he knew the man in front of him liked classics, and not sci-fic fantasy adventure. But those perfectly manicured nails – Crowley’s were crooked and often broken – and the soft, plush hands, gave such a promising feeling.
Honestly, Crowley rather thought that the man could tell him how much he despised the book with every fraction of his being, and he would still thank him profusely.
“I do hope nobody will be called on me for having this?” The man looked up at Crowley with an expression of pure innocent upon his face, and Crowley hurried to explain.
“Us writers get a stack of like twenty of them a bit before the book comes out. The proper market hardbacks, not the questionable paperbacks they send to early reviewers. We can do whatever we want with them from there. So, definitely no ‘calling on’ for it.”
“So not a thief then?” The man said with a slight grin, and Crowley’s legs nearly gave out from under him at the force of that smile. How did he make a follow up to one of his truly horrific jokes sound even remotely decent?
He tried to think of a clever way to hit back to that. Perhaps, well I don’t know…can angels steal? But instead, only managed a stuttering, “No, no definitely not. In fact, you can keep this one, only if you really like it of course. Or if you don’t and just want some shelf filler, I don’t judge-”
“I am sure it will be quite delightful,” Aziraphale interrupted, “I most look forward to diving into the world you have spun out for me. I’ve never worked with an author before, and I must say, it is quite exciting.” He paused for another second before continuing, “If you don’t mind, I will reach out via email once I have a basic design settled and then we can discuss detailed placement, further pricing and how long each session should be. I’m afraid I really don’t understand the whole instant-gram thing.”
Crowley couldn’t help the snicker at the old-fashioned man’s tone. Did someone transport him from Adam and Eve’s time, hit him with a few modern ideologies and send him on his way?
“Yeah, course, I don’t mind. Whatever’s comfortable for you and all that.” Then he paused, thinking to himself for a moment, “Can I ask about the ‘visitor’ badges? I couldn’t find out about you guys being a chain, and your also not a restaurant. Not bad, just haven’t seen them before.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips.
“That was Gabriel’s decision. He thought it would make us more…prestigious. I think.” It was quite a wonder to watch the fussy man speak with such obvious distaste that it made Crowley grin.
“You don’t wear yours.”
“Well, no. I have one on my door, you see.”
“A compromise then,” Crowley nodded pulling out the cockiest grin he could. Aziraphale nodded, giving a brief look that showed a mixture of pure exhaustion and understanding.
“Yes, I do think that would be the best way to put it. Now, I think with your book and notes I have enough ideas to work off of in order to create a full tattoo design, but do you mind if I take a few photographs of your arm just so I can work off that?”
“No, I mean, yes that’s fine, I don’t mind.”
Aziraphale reached into a leather sack that Crowley’s hadn’t noticed on the floor, and pulled out some ancient style flip phone that Crowley was genuinely shocked even had a camera function. The angel took a few photographs from each side of his arm before pocketing the phone. Crowley tried his best to stand neutrally, knowing full well that these would not be the most attractive images, and hoping the angle remembered his face well enough to look past them.
“Right so, I will send my design through email when I have a sketch, and we can of course go back and forth and edit and change as you please. It’s you who it is on forever, so please remember that you are the one with final say over everything. My email address in on the card they give out at the front desk, so if you need to contact me before I contact you please do so.”
Crowley gave a nod, before turning on his heels and walking out of the room.
“Thanks, angel.”
But the man waved him off.
“No thanks necessary, I have a book that needs reading as soon as possible. One that I am very much looking forward to, in fact.”
As he stepped back into the white vortex, Crowley could only hope he didn’t mean Dorian Grey.