1975.
Crowley crosses Abbey Road.
It’s a quiet residential street, totally normal, other than the fact that one of the world’s most famous recording studios is plonked right in the middle of it. And, aside from all the tourists trying to re-enact the Beatles album cover.
Crowley invents the photo bomb a few decades early as he wanders across the road behind a nice German family taking picture on the zebra crossing.
He’s here to see Freddie. Crowley hasn’t seen Freddie in a while, and he’s a little apprehensive. Only because a call from Freddie on a Monday morning means he’s got something to say, and doesn’t just want to go for a few drinks or traipse around Vauxhall or Soho in their glad rags. The message on his answering machine (which is brand new, and still a little confusing) makes it sound like it’s good news, at least. Either way, the moment Crowley’s phone chimes with Freddie’s voice saying Listen, lovey, come on over to the studio tomorrow morning, I want to show you something, there’s very little that’ll keep him from going.
It’s a little chilly today. Crowley zips up his leather jacket and puts out his cigarette on the pavement, stamping it out under black boots. He saunters over to the studio and hops up the stairs two at a time. Nudging the door open with his shoulder, a wave of warmth and cheap vanilla air freshener hits him. Crowley wanders straight past the reception desk towards the room that he knows Freddie usually takes.
The receptionist doesn’t look up from her computer when she announces the usual, “Hello sir, how can I-” and it’s interrupted when she eventually casts her eyes over the rim of her glasses. “Oh- Mr. Crowley, sir- go right on through.”
He’d been planning to, anyway. He flicks his hand in a dismissive wave of thanks and idly makes his way down the corridor.