I don't think that was meant as a compliment, but it really still feels like one. After Crowley doesn't answer his final, rather snarky text, Magnus doesn't give the exchange another thought. Less than a week later, the invitation arrives: the new conclave of High Warlocks, held every ten years, this time to be held at the home of Ragnor Fell, the High Warlock of London. Of course. Fate has a hilarious sense of humor.
In spite of Magnus's reservations toward visiting London again, he does look forward to visiting Ragnor. They've been best friends for centuries, after all, and after the other High Warlocks disperse back to their home cities, Magnus lingers, drinking and bickering and reminiscing with Ragnor until dawn. He should go home, get some rest—he has a nightclub he's opening, after all, he needs his rest—but, well. He's already here. He borrows a dose of Ragnor's energy-restoring potion and portals to a friendly shop in Chelsea.
Walking down the street, he fishes out his phone and calls Crowley. "It just so happens I'm in the neighborhood. Well, I'm in Chelsea, I don't know your neighborhood."
"Sorry, who is this?" The response manages to simultaneously sound drawling and distracted, as if the being on the other end is doing something else more important. He isn't, but he can put on a good show of it. Honestly, he's mostly just been explaining to his his plants that they can stand to be a bit greener, if they know what's good for them. A distraction isn't the worst thing in the world.
As long as said distraction doesn't know about it.
"It can't be a certain wizard of my acquaintance, he's allergic to England or some such thing."
"Ugh." He knows it's exactly the reaction Crowley's looking for, but Magnus still pulls the phone away from his ear and glares at it, as though he'll somehow sense the disapproval. "It's 'warlock,' for the eightieth time. I know they both start with 'w' but really, I'm starting to worry about your absentmindedness."
"Oh no, you must have heard me wrong. Probably those allergies acting up." Crowley snorts down the phone, even as he gives the shaking greenery in front of him one last hard look and then turns, already making for the door. He does stop long enough to grab his sunglasses and slip them on just as he lets himself out. He doesn't bother to lock up.
"Enjoying myself. I like Chelsea. I had fun here in the 60s and 70s. And I've already been distracted by two antique shops." But mostly he'd come to Chelsea because it doesn't hold any particular memory for him of Camille, the way Blackfriars does.
He browses the spines in a rack of used books, overpriced for what they are, no intention of buying, and strives for the same level of disinterest Crowley manages when they talk. Of course, he falls short by quite a lot. He just can't help but be interested, it's in his nature. "Where did you end up? Not in Chelsea, I'm guessing. Westminster? Kensington? Living down the street from Parliament, to keep it within your evil sphere of influence?"
"I'm fairly sure half the things you own could be considered antiques." Nevermind the statues dotting Crowley's flat. That's very much on purpose. But if the warlock is out wandering, Crowley probably needs to corral him. Before he runs into the angel, go- sa- somebody forbid. He'd never hear the end of it.
"Westminster," he finally says, sounding more reluctant than he feels. "Though I'll thank you not to lump me in with the politicians, that's none of my business."
"Thank you," Magnus says serenely, "I bought most of them from new." It's not a compliment, probably, but he likes to take things as compliments when they refer to his immense age. It's more fun that way, especially with Crowley.
"No, of course not, even a demon wouldn't stoop so low." He's half-serious. It's probably useful to be in proximity, to make it seem as though he's doing something with the politically-minded, without actually needing to get involved. "Westminster, hmm? Should I meet you somewhere, then, or just walk that way?"
"There's a half-decent cafe, if you're needing your caffeine fix." The coffee's alright, anyway, if the number of people who wander in is any indication. Crowley himself usually drinks tea, and that's only mostly because the angel insists. But he rattles off the address without much in the way of hesitation, considering he's most of the way there already.
"I'll meet you there, shall I?" It is his territory, after all.
"Well, I do love a good caffeine fix," he says, checking the location and wheeling in the middle of the sidewalk to cut up a side street toward the cafe. Perhaps they'll have sandwiches.
They do have sandwiches, but they also have fresh-made scones. Magnus lingers at the window, looking over the menu with approval, and then peers inside to see if Crowley's already arrived. He slips through the door with a smile directed at the table containing one demon. "Hello, my dear. I must say, tea service just isn't the same in New York."
"I'd think not," Crowley says with a somewhat disdainful sniff as he watches the warlock settle from behind dark glasses. He looks good, much as he always does, which is a bit of a relief. Considering how much time Magnus spends avoiding London, Crowley had expected...well, honestly he's not sure what. But he hasn't gotten it, so that's fine. "What do Americans know about proper tea?"
He tips his head down just far enough for a flash of yellow eyes over the rim of his glasses, a smirk very visible in them. "And to think you said you'd never come."
"Yes, yes, you've tempted me into a visit," Magnus says, wiggling his fingers a little dramatically, and turns the gesture into summoning over one of the servers to order a pot of tea and a scone. "You can't take all the credit, you know. I was already in the area on business, and visiting a friend."
But it did seem like quite a coincidence. One it didn't seem wise to pass up. And he does enjoy seeing Crowley, just about the only demon in Hell worth spending any time around.
Taking the credit for occasional happenstance is almost entirely what Crowley does, but he lets that go with just a look of vague amusement from behind his glasses. Mostly because Magnus is ordering them tea, and he wouldn't put it past the warlock to slip something horrible in there if he's too obnoxious.
He waits until the server wanders off again before lifting an eyebrow. "Do I want to know what business your lot has around here? Should I be on the lookout for a plague of frogs?"
"Please, the plague of frogs thing is more than a little passé. Not to mention angelic, historically." Magnus dismisses the idea with a flick of his fingers, filling their water glasses at the same time and taking a sip of his own.
"Around here, in London? The High Warlock get-together. Every ten years or so. Ragnor Fell hosted this year. It's just a little gathering. Keeping everyone updated. Why?" He blinks innocently across the table. "What business does your lot have around here?"
"Excuse me, I live here," Crowley says with a sniff. His lot have absolutely nothing to do with it, which is exactly how Crowley likes it. "And a heads up about a ton of warlocks running around might have been nice. Who knows what drunken insanity you all get up to."
Though more, it's likely to be hilarious and Crowley definitely wants a front seat. But he's mostly avoided the magic types for a reason, present company excepted. Some people get entirely too many ideas about demons.
"There were only six of us, thank you, and the only insanity we got up to was a brief argument about which city had invented risotto. Besides," Magnus smirks as he sits back, "there are already a ton of warlocks running around here."
But he understands why Crowley might not realize that. Most demons are bad news, Crowley is the very rare, perhaps unique, exception. Besides, most warlocks keep themselves hidden quite well, and contrary to the natural assumption, most New Age style crystal-and-herb stores aren't run by warlocks. Tailor shops are more likely to have warlock proprietors, as it happens, and he knows at least one long-established Savile Row label has had the same tailor since 1806.
"Better than a ton of demons running around, though. Why London?"
He can't help but make a face at the idea of that many magic types running around under his nose, but if he hasn't had any issues with them so far, Crowley can't really complain too much. As much as he might like to.
"Why not?" He says instead with an insouciant shrug. Mostly because he can't actually remember why he and the angel had decided to settle in London in the first place. Seemed like a good idea at the time. "Guarantee I've been here longer than any of your lot, anyway."
"Oh, I had no idea you owned London," Magnus says tartly, then beams up at the server when she brings over his pot of tea. "This looks delightful," he exclaims, leaning over to inhale the steam, though he knows the tea needs a little more time to steep. Much as he's looking forward to it, he's patient. Good things are worth the wait.
Crowley may not eat, but he's got plenty of experience with someone who does, which means he ca just wait patiently for Magnus to finish his ritual. Honestly, he can't tell if introducing the warlock to the angel would be the worst idea in history or a source of endless amusement. Or both.
"Maybe I do," he says with a flicker of a grin. "It's as good a place as any to own."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@hisstorical
After Crowley doesn't answer his final, rather snarky text, Magnus doesn't give the exchange another thought. Less than a week later, the invitation arrives: the new conclave of High Warlocks, held every ten years, this time to be held at the home of Ragnor Fell, the High Warlock of London. Of course. Fate has a hilarious sense of humor.
In spite of Magnus's reservations toward visiting London again, he does look forward to visiting Ragnor. They've been best friends for centuries, after all, and after the other High Warlocks disperse back to their home cities, Magnus lingers, drinking and bickering and reminiscing with Ragnor until dawn. He should go home, get some rest—he has a nightclub he's opening, after all, he needs his rest—but, well. He's already here. He borrows a dose of Ragnor's energy-restoring potion and portals to a friendly shop in Chelsea.
Walking down the street, he fishes out his phone and calls Crowley. "It just so happens I'm in the neighborhood. Well, I'm in Chelsea, I don't know your neighborhood."
no subject
As long as said distraction doesn't know about it.
"It can't be a certain wizard of my acquaintance, he's allergic to England or some such thing."
no subject
no subject
"What on earth are you doing in Chelsea?"
no subject
He browses the spines in a rack of used books, overpriced for what they are, no intention of buying, and strives for the same level of disinterest Crowley manages when they talk. Of course, he falls short by quite a lot. He just can't help but be interested, it's in his nature. "Where did you end up? Not in Chelsea, I'm guessing. Westminster? Kensington? Living down the street from Parliament, to keep it within your evil sphere of influence?"
no subject
"Westminster," he finally says, sounding more reluctant than he feels. "Though I'll thank you not to lump me in with the politicians, that's none of my business."
no subject
"No, of course not, even a demon wouldn't stoop so low." He's half-serious. It's probably useful to be in proximity, to make it seem as though he's doing something with the politically-minded, without actually needing to get involved. "Westminster, hmm? Should I meet you somewhere, then, or just walk that way?"
no subject
"I'll meet you there, shall I?" It is his territory, after all.
no subject
They do have sandwiches, but they also have fresh-made scones. Magnus lingers at the window, looking over the menu with approval, and then peers inside to see if Crowley's already arrived. He slips through the door with a smile directed at the table containing one demon. "Hello, my dear. I must say, tea service just isn't the same in New York."
no subject
He tips his head down just far enough for a flash of yellow eyes over the rim of his glasses, a smirk very visible in them. "And to think you said you'd never come."
no subject
But it did seem like quite a coincidence. One it didn't seem wise to pass up. And he does enjoy seeing Crowley, just about the only demon in Hell worth spending any time around.
no subject
He waits until the server wanders off again before lifting an eyebrow. "Do I want to know what business your lot has around here? Should I be on the lookout for a plague of frogs?"
no subject
"Around here, in London? The High Warlock get-together. Every ten years or so. Ragnor Fell hosted this year. It's just a little gathering. Keeping everyone updated. Why?" He blinks innocently across the table. "What business does your lot have around here?"
no subject
Though more, it's likely to be hilarious and Crowley definitely wants a front seat. But he's mostly avoided the magic types for a reason, present company excepted. Some people get entirely too many ideas about demons.
no subject
But he understands why Crowley might not realize that. Most demons are bad news, Crowley is the very rare, perhaps unique, exception. Besides, most warlocks keep themselves hidden quite well, and contrary to the natural assumption, most New Age style crystal-and-herb stores aren't run by warlocks. Tailor shops are more likely to have warlock proprietors, as it happens, and he knows at least one long-established Savile Row label has had the same tailor since 1806.
"Better than a ton of demons running around, though. Why London?"
no subject
"Why not?" He says instead with an insouciant shrug. Mostly because he can't actually remember why he and the angel had decided to settle in London in the first place. Seemed like a good idea at the time. "Guarantee I've been here longer than any of your lot, anyway."
no subject
no subject
"Maybe I do," he says with a flicker of a grin. "It's as good a place as any to own."