Chapter Text
“Where the FUCK is Anathema?” Crowley’s voice boomed across the entire office in an almost inhuman way, leaving the poor occupant (Crowley’s secretary, Dierdre) sitting right across from Crowley’s office with ringing in her ears.
Before Crowley’s phone rang almost 5 minutes ago, it had been a tranquil Thursday afternoon in the Cotswolds. It was four past five, and dappled sunlight flooded the office with a warm golden glow. A family of chaffinches had set up house on a branch right outside Dierdre’s office window and they’d been singing all afternoon.
“It’s bird fucking season, I reckon,” Nina, who was Chief of Religious Programming told Dierdre while they were making a coffee in the tiny pantry Crowley had so generously provided the staff. The pantry could fit maybe 3 people, 2 if one of them was Charles, but not because of his size, although that was certainly a contributing factor, but because he refused to stand anywhere near the microwave due to a superstitious belief that it would give him brain damage.
“Someone must’ve put him in the microwave as a kid then,” Nina had also said one time, after she’d been waiting for more than five minutes for Charles to finish making his coffee while staying one meter away from the microwave at all times, effectively blocking the entrance. She simply pushed him in, spilling his hot coffee all over his cashmere sweater, and most horrifying, right in front of the microwave. Charles had run out screaming. He never used the pantry again.
Diedre remembered thinking, “If only Tony paid me enough to afford a camera. I’d frame a photo of Charles running and put it up somewhere. Probably next to that snotty photo of Tony meeting Princess Margaret.” She didn’t say it of course, because Crowley was very protective over that photo of him meeting Princess Margaret. Also, he hated being called Tony. There was another little company up north near Manchester called Corinium headed by a man named Tony Baddingham who was cartoonishly evil, and Crowley had been mistaken for him not once but twice at the British Television Awards. Champagne glasses were thrown that night.
In her opinion, Crowley and Tony looked so alike they could almost be brothers, apart from Crowley’s obnoxiously red hair. He said he’d been born with it, and no one had ever seen any natural roots, but Dierdre was almost certain she’d seen him through the office curtains with a box of hair dye one Monday afternoon. There was obviously also the futuristic-looking sunglasses he never took off. But that was just one of the many mysteries about Lord Anthony J Crowley.
It had been a calm day at the office, when a call came through Dierdre for Crowley. “You’ve reached the office of Chairman and Managing Director of Corinth, Lord Anthony Crowley. I’m his secretary, how may I help you?”
The voice on the other side of the phone was solemn. “It’s Crawford, from the IBA. I’ve got bad news for Crowley.” “Give me a moment,” Dierdre lowered the phone slightly and tilted forward towards Crowley’s open office door and yelled. “Lord C! It’s Crawford!”
“There’s no need to shout, Dierdre. Patch him through.” Crowley had been dozing off over some ratings reports on their popular drama, “Paradise Lost”. On paper it was a cop show, but most of the scenes consisted of the main lead, Johnny Friedlander sleeping with every woman he came into contact with apart from his wife.
Crowley didn’t see what the appeal of the show was. Johnny basically slept with every woman that appeared on the show, there was no suspense at all, no will-they-won’t they. If the character was younger than his grandmother, and had a pussy, Johnny was going to pound it before the credits rolled. But according to Hell’s statistics, the show had increased adultery four-fold since airing, and so Crowley continued to sign off on it, season after season.
Crowley picked up the phone. “It’s Crowley. Is there anything I can do for you Crawford?” “I wanted you to hear it from me first. Parliament’s on my back. The higher ups think I’ve been too lax on television censorship. Driving the nation to sin, Thatcher put it. They want more stuff on traditional values, you know? Maybe dial back your racy cop show a bit.”
Crowley furrowed his brow as he slid down his office chair. This was bad news, both for Corinth and himself. Corinth was successful because viewers were desperate for something different, something sexy on their televisions. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just turn on the BBC? As for himself, the only reason Hell let him run this little sideshow on Earth was because he was contributing to “gathering souls for our master”. He didn’t want to go back to tempting priests and violent men, or whatever Hell’s ambassadors on Earth did nowadays. It was inelegant.
Truth be told, Crowley didn’t like to get his hands dirty. He didn’t like to feel personally responsible for someone’s eternal damnation. But he would surely throw a champagne glass at you if you suggested anything of the sort.
Crawford, who had been left on silent for a while now, took this as an opportunity to spring more bad news on Crowley. “Also, you might have competition for the franchise next year. I’ve heard a hotshot Tory MP, you might have heard him, Rupert Campbell-Black? He’s been recruiting staff and talking around about fighting for the franchise. He wants to start an independent broadcasting company centered around Christian values. I’ve heard he wants to call it Angelview.”
“Campbell-Black? He doesn’t know a thing about making television. Isn’t he the ex-athlete who thinks that his charm can compensate for an utter lack of actual political talent? He’s no match for my Corinth.”
Crowford pressed on, undeterred. “You know he has connections, Crowley. Especially now that parliament isn’t happy with the way your programmes are going. If he gets the right backing, he could be a serious threat. You know how persuasive he can be.”
“Persuasive? More like insufferable,” Crowley scoffed, rolling his eyes behind his shades. “Christian values? That’ll be a laugh. I can already picture the programming—endless sermons and daytime dramas about Jesus and redemption. Riveting.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Crawford warned. “He’s got a following, and with the current political climate, there’s a market for that kind of... content.”
Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Then I suppose it’s time to remind Mr. Campbell-Black that angels don’t always wear white. A man like that must have plenty of skeletons in his closet. I might need to pay him a visit—after all, it wouldn’t do to let him think he can just waltz in and take my franchise.”
Crawford chuckled. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Crowley scoffed. Of course he would, Crowley paid him thousands of pounds in bribes every year. “There are still a couple of months before its franchise year. I’m sure you can get someone to revise some scripts, make some new, family-friendly shows before the renewal rolls around.”
”Corinth. Making family-friendly shows. What are my hefty donations to the Tory party for then? I must have a word.” Crowley balanced the phone on his shoulder while he rummaged through his drawers for his book of contacts. He needed to make some very angry phonecalls.
“Anyways. I’m going to run along now. Oh by the way, I heard Campbell-Black got a pretty famous director from America on board. A.Z Fell, don’t know if you’ve heard of him? Such an odd name, funny people, these Americans.” The name sounded vaguely familiar to Crowley.
“Oh, but he makes these amazing ensemble comedies. Have you heard of the Golden Girls? It’s brilliant.” Crowley could almost picture Crawford’s eyes lighting up. Everyone in showbiz had heard of that show. It was such an odd premise, somehow it was funny and charming, and to Crowley’s disgust, it was morally-upright and ethical, but not boring.
“I’ll have my men look into it. Goodbye Crawford, see you next month at my place. We’re hosting a shooting party.” Crowley tried to keep his temper down until he was sure he hung up with a definitive click of the receiver.
“Where the FUCK is Anathema!” He roared, not noticing that he was miracling his voice to be so loud that even Daysee two floors below could hear him. If she’d been just a little less daft, she would have realised that it was not humanly possible that Tony’s voice could have carried past two insulated floors and the soundproofing foam of the studio control room. But if she’d been a little smarter, she probably wouldn’t still be working under Crowley, chairman from hell (literally).
”Good god, do you have to be so loud, Anthony?” Anathema Device, Controller of Programmes and one of the most stunning women in the Corinth building, possibly the whole of Rutshire stood in his doorway. Her dark hair was slightly tousled, and she wore a blue and purple plaid powersuit. Sometimes, especially when they were on air, she wore glasses, but today she’d forgone them.
“Close the door behind you,” Crowley said, his irritation quickly shifting into something more heated as he caught sight of Anathema. He closed the blinds with a harsh snap.
She stepped into the room, the door sealing shut with a soft finality that seemed to seal away the outside world. “Did you have to make such a scene?” She said, a teasing smile on her lips. “Here I thought you were trying to summon the whole building.”
“Maybe I was,” he retorted, his voice lowering to a sultry rasp as he stepped closer. The tension in the room shifted, charged with an unspoken understanding. Anathema tilted her head, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “You know, shouting doesn’t exactly exude confidence, Lord C. Something’s bothering you, what is it?”
“We can talk about work later,” he said, closing the distance, their bodies almost touching now. Her breath hitched slightly as he leaned in, the air thick with anticipation. “You sure? I thought I was still on the clock,” she whispered, a hint of challenge in her voice.
With a smirk, Crowley captured her chin gently, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “Just consider it a very hands-on approach to management.”
Before she could respond, he pressed his lips against hers. The kiss deepened, a mix of urgency and desire, as Crowley’s hand crept down to her waist, pulling her closer.
Anathema melted into him, her easier teasing forgotten, replaced by the heat of the moment. His hands traced the curve of her back, igniting a spark that made her pulse race.
He let her fingers glide down the buttons of his shirt, she could feel his body tense as she pulled down his zipper, revealing his growing arousal. "Let me take care of you," she whispered, pressing her lips against his neck before pushing him back towards the office table. The ratings report scattered across the floor, forgotten in their urgent need for each other. With a swift motion, she knelt down and took him into her mouth, eliciting moans of pleasure from him.
When suddenly, came a knock on the door. Crowley froze, his hand tangled in Anathema's hair. "Ignore it," he hissed, but the knocking persisted.
"Lord Crowley?" Dierdre's muffled voice came through the door. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's someone downstairs for you. They're insisting on speaking with you immediately."
“Tell them to fuck off,” Crowley growled. He gripped the back of Anathema's head and pushed her back onto his lap. She struggled to catch her breath as her nose grazed against his auburn pubic hair. “I’m fucking busy.”
“He says his name is Rupert Campbell-Black. He’s an MP.” Dierdre didn’t sound like she wanted to be doing this either.
“Fuck. I didn’t expect him to have the balls to show up here so soon.” Crowley loosened his grip on Anathema’s head. Anathema pulled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Duty calls," she said with a wry smile, standing up and smoothing her skirt.
Crowley cursed under his breath, hastily zipping up his trousers and buttoning his shirt. "This isn't over," he growled.
"I should hope not," Anathema replied, pulling down her skirt. “But you better fill me in. I’m assuming he’s part of the reason you’re so hot and bothered. You’ll want me there.”
“That’s a good girl,” Crowley smirked and gave Anathema a peck on the cheek. “Now let’s go to war.”