How My Light is Spent (or: did I just start writing a fucking coffeeshop AU? Oh dear, how sad, never mind)
There were three things that Anthony J Crowley strove for in his day-to-day life. The first was a strict absence of clutter in his living and working spaces. How people could get things done with so much stuff around them was beyond him entirely.
The second, a well-planned routine. He needed to know what he was doing, where and how, at all times.
The third, a strong coffee at the end of the day. Some might have said that was the most important thing to him, and half the time, he wouldn’t disagree.
After finishing class, tidying away, and a quick meeting with a nervous student, Crowley went his usual route - onto the tube at Temple and off at Tottenham Court Road. Then it was a quick left turn onto Oxford Street and straight down on the left side of the pavement, past the construction works, and to the Whittards opposite the bus stop. On a good day the whole journey took no more than twenty minutes, but, well...London foot traffic and all that. It was one of the good days today, and Crowley stepped into the cafe at quarter to five on the dot.
It sounded quiet, minimal chatter, very little clinking of cups and silverware, but he suspected that would change soon given the hour. He inhaled deeply and sighed. There wasn’t much better in the world than the rich scent of roasting coffee beans after a hard day’s work. Sheer bloody bliss.
He tilted his head slightly at the rustle of cloth to his right, where he knew the counter to be. Heavier footfalls, slower gait, so…
“Hiya, Newt.”
A squeak and a muttered curse, then, “Bloody hell, AJ, how do you do that?” Poor Newt sounded startled. Crowley never got tired of scaring the shit out of him; worked like a charm every time. Newt placed something on the counter with a click as he came forward. “Your usual?”
“Yeah, cheers.”
“I’ll bring it over. There’s a seat free at the window.”
“Nice one. Bentley, left. There’s a love.” The young black labrador sat dutifully at Crowley’s feet immediately stood up and made her way through the chairs, stopping where the light became a little brighter through his dark glasses. “Good girl.” Crowley scratched behind Bentley’s ear, soft fur under his fingers, and felt her head turn, the wet rasp of an affectionate tongue against his wrist.
He sat down, arranged his lanky sprawl of limbs, and leaned back, eyes closing in relaxation. Nothing else mattered now. This was his time, his moment. Destination: double espresso.
Smash. Crowley winced at the sudden noise.
“Ah, fu-u-udge!” Anathema, Newt’s girlfriend, was most definitely in a flap. Her voice became louder as she hurried onto the floor, heels tapping. “Newt, give me a hand, will you? I dropped a load of jars.”
“Oh, dear,” Newt said sympathetically.
“I know, I’m an idiot,” she moaned.
“No, you’re not, and I’ll be with you in just a minute - hang on - Aziraphale, can you take this? Thanks. Just over there. Be back soon.”
