Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aziraphale pulled his coat around himself tighter, the autumn wind of central London stronger than he expected. Standing on the cobblestone path leading into the building he had worked exhaustively to get into, he slowly breathed in and out again, reminding himself to keep his steps even and his posture straight.

He belonged there now. He had earned his place. And he was going to remember that.

But even as Aziraphale made his way through the vast courtyard, covered with pockets of flowers and luscious trees, it was hard not to feel intimidated. The shadow of the massive five-storey Jacobean building swallowed him. With all its grey stone and white marble splendor carved down to intricate patterns and statues, Aziraphale felt his frazzled nerves fray just that much more. At this rate, he wouldn't have any nerves left.

Feeling himself begin to sweat, Aziraphale used the hand that wasn't carrying his briefcase to loosen his bowtie. He had dressed in his favourite outfit for the sake of his confidence, but now he wondered whether donning a waistcoat had been too much.

The front doors were propped open and the white noise of a large crowd grew louder as Aziraphale stepped over the threshold. He barely had time to take in the elaborate ceilings of polished wood and tiles before his wandering eyes met the eager ones of a volunteer. They were stationed at a table with a white tablecloth that had 'EDEN UNIVERSITY – FACULTY OF MAGIC' printed on the front in gold.

"Welcome to Eden!" the student greeted cheerfully. "Are you here for Welcome Week?"

Aziraphale blinked twice before his brain caught up. He quickly walked over. "Yes, Welcome Week! I did hear there would be some kind of schedule planned."

"Great!" the volunteer answered. "What's your child's name?"

Aziraphale felt his brain shut down again. "I'm sorry?" he asked over the sound of his heartbeat.

"Your son or daughter's name?" the volunteer repeated, starting to sound just as confused as Aziraphale felt.

"I-I don't have any children?"

"Then who— oh!" Their eyes lit up as if in realization. "I'm so sorry, you must be one of the guest speakers for today."

"Oh! No, no, I'm afraid not," Aziraphale said in a rush to stop the student from flipping through a different attendance list, his brain finally catching up. "I'm actually one of the post doctorates?"

"Oh, that makes so much more sense now!" they laughed. "Sorry, that's on me."

"Not at all," Aziraphale reassured with a relieved sigh. "I'm flattered you thought of me as such."

"It's just your clothes," the volunteer explained as they shuffled stacks of papers around, supposedly looking for the list of post doctorate names. "We don't see many people dressed up like that these days so I thought you must have several years under your belt already."

Trying not to feel the sting of a teenager calling him and his choice of clothing along the lines of ‘old’ and ‘dated’ in the most off-handed way he's ever heard, Aziraphale hid his emotions behind a practiced smile.

"Yes, well, I certainly do have several years under my belt, but not enough of them are academic, I'm afraid."

"That's alright, though, isn't it? That's what you're here for! And no better place to do it then Eden, right? Best in the world for magic and all that."

Aziraphale felt his mouth melt into the easiest smile he's put on all day. "Quite right."

"Could I get your name, please?"

"Aziraphale," he answered before quietly adding, "Last name, McFell."

"McFell...McFell, McFell— ah! Found you. Master of Healing?"

"That's right," he said, letting himself relax when his family name wasn't recognized. That could only mean this volunteer wasn't part of the Faculty of Magic and thank goodness for that. He wasn’t exactly in the mood to be questioned about his brother.

"That sounds like an amazing degree,” the volunteer chatted as they checked off his name. “I always wanted to practice magic but I'm not a Proxy, unfortunately. Which is a little funny considering how my mum's a harpy. So I'm stuck in Magic Theory Studies myself. Oh, could I get your student ID, please?"

"I'm sure that's a perfectly respectable degree as well," Aziraphale insisted as he reached into his pocket to fish out his wallet. "Any industry benefits from a third-person's perspective, after all."

The volunteer beamed at him appreciatively. "Thanks! It's nice to hear that from a high-levelled Proxy like yourself." Aziraphale’s smile faltered, but the student didn't seem to notice as they took his card and confirmed his student number. "Perfect, let me grab you some materials. Are you staying in any of the student residences?"

Aziraphale tucked his ID card away. "No, I, ah…already have accommodations elsewhere."

"Lucky!" the volunteer breathed enviously as they dug around under the table. "I wish I could live off campus. I'm beyond excited that I got into Eden at all, but I do wish the dorm they put me in didn't have shared bathrooms. It's my second year on the waitlist to switch into one of the nicer residences."

"I suppose you could say my privilege is a form of luck," Aziraphale chuckled, "but perhaps things will turn out better for you this year?"

The student laughed a little despairingly. "I'll need all the luck I can get. They're doing random draws tonight for any leftover singles, you see, but there are always hundreds of students on the list."

"Is that right? That does sound a bit tricky."

"Tell me about it." Then they glanced over Aziraphale's shoulder and realized the line was beginning to grow unfortunately long. "Oh, I'm sorry for keeping you, I didn't mean to start griping. Here's your welcome package and a map of the Faculty. The reception's just out in the quad over there. Feel free to ask any of the volunteers hanging about if you had any questions."

"Thank you, and I do wish you luck with the draw.”

"Thanks! And congrats on your admission!"

After a quick glance at the student's nametag, Aziraphale gave them a parting nod before turning towards the direction he had been guided towards. When he was sure no one was watching, he gave a quick flick of his fingers, a sly smile playing on his lips. He stepped through another pair of tall wooden doors and into the bustling outdoor quad.

He was certain that with the amount of Luck he funneled towards the student, they would find an email confirming their residence switch by nightfall.

Aziraphale sat in the centre of the seventh row of lecture seats. His notebook, already five pages full of writing from this morning's itinerary, was neatly angled to the side for a more comfortable writing position on the desk in front of him. He flipped through it idly, attempting to appear too absorbed to bother socializing with the chattering students around him.

Where he wanted to sit, however, was right at the front row. It had been a very long time since Aziraphale last found himself in a classroom setting (or any seated gathering for that matter, minus the theatre or a music hall), but remembered enough about his learning preferences to know that sitting at the very front would be his best shot at minimizing any unnecessary distractions.

Unfortunately for him, by the time he squeezed in through the lecture hall doors, the closest he could get to the front was where he sat now. The three rows in front of him had already been occupied and the remaining descending rows had been reserved for faculty. 

Taking a sip of his English Breakfast, which was far too cold by now since he poured it first thing that morning, Aziraphale took out his pocket watch to check the time and frowned slightly at what he saw. This morning's schedule felt like it passed extremely fast, and yet, this ten-minute break stretched on for what felt like hours already.

Aziraphale took off his reading glasses and tucked it away into his coat's breast pocket. He glanced around, taking in the excited faces to try and gather back some of his lost courage.

He had known before even applying to Eden that he was far beyond the average age range for students, even as a postgraduate applicant. He also knew that the way he preferred to dress and present himself didn't exactly age him backward either.

Still, he had been made painfully aware of just how much older he was after attempting to introduce himself to some of his fellow classmates earlier that morning. Despite trying to strike up a conversation with those that looked older than him, it quickly became clear that Aziraphale dwarfed them all without question.

It wasn't really that Aziraphale couldn't hold a conversation with those much younger than him. But to find students who could discuss topics beyond just "What brings you to Eden?" and "Which subjects are you most interested in?" and "Where about are you from?" was difficult.

Being polite was easy. Connecting? Not so much.

Aziraphale absent-mindedly flipped through his notebook again, resisting the urge to sigh. He technically hadn't come to Eden to make friends. But even as a man in his forties that preferred to keep to himself more often than most, he still couldn't help but feel just a little lonely at his prospects.

Just then, a dark shape appeared close enough in his peripheral that Aziraphale instinctively looked up. A young woman with dark, round glasses was staring down at him with an inquisitive look on her face.

"Is this seat taken?" she asked, pointing to the empty auditorium chair folded up next to him.

American, Aziraphale noted her accent before gesturing his hand welcomely towards the seat. "All yours."

"Thanks." She pushed down the seat. "This is the closest seat to the front that I could find. I thought of taking one of the empty ones down there, but I think they're all taken already. Didn't want to steal anyone's seat and start a fight or something."

"I'm sure if you asked nicely, someone would've been glad to offer you theirs," Aziraphale said conversationally, taking in how the woman's long dark brown hair shifted animatedly around her face and shoulders as she moved.

She placed her bag by her feet and took out a notebook of her own. "Nah, it's alright. It's my fault anyway. I need to get my prescription updated but never got around to it. Trying to get my student visa was a complete nightmare."

"I did hear from other international students that it was trouble for them too," Aziraphale courteously sympathized. "Where are you from?"

"California," she answered, sliding off her wool trench coat.

"That's quite far out.”

"No kidding. I still haven't adjusted to the time difference. Just moved into the dorms a few days ago. If you see me nodding off, don't be afraid to give me a little nudge."

Aziraphale laughed, finding her directness refreshing after a morning of excessive formality. "Shall we find you some coffee later then?"

She looked at him appreciatively. "That sounds amazing. I'm surviving off of one cup right now and feel like my eyes are about to fall off my face." Finally seated comfortably, she turned towards him and offered a hand. "Anathema."

"Aziraphale," he returned warmly, giving her hand a small squeeze.

"I love your outfit by the way," she said. "It's hard to find people with a good fashion sense these days."

Aziraphale was immediately taken with her. "Moving past the Victorian Era was quite a loss for society, I'd say."

"Not for women," Anathema scoffed, but with little bite. "I love me the look of a good corset just as much as the next guy, but I hate the idea of needing to wear it every day. Can you imagine sitting in these seats with a crinoline?"

Humoured, Aziraphale laughed at the mental image that produced. "I'd like to hazard a guess that trying to sit in the type of jeans young people are wearing these days aren't that much better."

Anathema's eyes sparkled with amusement. "How would you know? You don't seem like the type to wear skinny jeans."

Aziraphale playfully rolled his eyes. "My dear, I may be old, but my eyes can still recognize a torture device when I see it."

"Aw, I'm sure you're not that old," she soothed. "You don't look a day over forty."

Feeling his heart melt, Aziraphale smiled. "That's very kind of you but I'm certainly well over a few days past forty. In fact," he glanced around the room, "I'm feeling much further past forty now that I'm here."

There came a tapping noise from the speakers as someone tested out the mic. The crowd quickly quieted down and Aziraphale turned to face the front, but not before Anathema put a gentle hand on his shoulder and offered him a wink.

"That just makes you all the more priceless," she said softly before turning her attention to the front as well.

A surge of warmth bloomed in Aziraphale's chest as he felt his bundle of nerves untangling themselves, expanding and loosening from the kindness this charming woman was giving him like an abandoned sponge thrown into the ocean. Making a mental note to continue befriending her later at lunch, he switched his attention back to the podium.

Unfortunately, all the warmth his heart had gathered immediately plummeted to his stomach like a cold anchor when he saw the man standing at the mic. With a growing, twisting unease, Aziraphale tried to keep his breathing even. He knew this was coming. He had mentally prepared for it.

"Students!" the Dean of the Faculty of Magic said into the mic, his confidence bouncing off the walls and dragging several childhood flashbacks out of the box Aziraphale had carefully locked up. "I'm sure you all know who I am but by some chance some of you don't, the name's Gabriel McFell and I'm the Dean of the Faculty. Welcome to Eden!"

During the thunderous applause that followed, Aziraphale just wrung his hands in his lap, trying to keep a straight face.

Anathema leaned towards him slightly. "I'm surprised the Dean's American," she murmured loud enough to just be heard over the clapping.

Aziraphale tried to swallow away the tightness in his throat. "Spent most of his childhood there for school," he explained, keeping his voice steady. "Accent never went away much to his parents' disapproval." Then he startled a little, catching himself before quickly adding, "Is the story I've heard. Apparently."

To his relief, Anathema didn't seem to notice his discomfort and just responded with a hum. Aziraphale went back to wringing his hands, hoping that if he squeezed them tight enough, the dull pain would keep his thoughts from spiralling. The way the lights shone on Gabriel with his light grey suit and light grey turtleneck made him look like a sharp surgical tool that could cut Aziraphale open if he wasn't careful.

Shrinking into his seat, Aziraphale suddenly wished he wasn't sitting so dead centre.

Determined to block out the imperial sound of Gabriel's voice and let his mind think about literally anything else, Aziraphale concentrated on purposefully daydreaming. He remembered the savoury taste of sushi from yesterday night's dinner and reminded himself to use less wasabi the next time he goes back to that restaurant. Although the sushi tasted divine, the wasabi clearly wasn't at the same level of quality. Probably had more horseradish than wasabi, if he was being honest.

While on that train of thought, Aziraphale wondered what he should have for dinner tonight. Maybe he'll try his hand at baking again. He still had a few recipes from that old cookbook he restored for a customer a few months back that he had yet to finish exploring. Even if he was only a part-time student, he doubted he'll have much free time to spare after this week was over. He made a note to ask Anathema if she liked angel cake.

Then Aziraphale thought about the book he had yet to finish re-reading, still resting on his bedside table. He had just gotten to the part where the young aristocratic man was boldly proposing to the unsuspecting female protagonist. Aziraphale couldn't wait to read through her rejection again. He always admired those who stood up for themselves and the people they cared about.

Maybe once he finished the book, he'll marathon a re-watch of the BBC series and the 2005 film. There was always something to be said about a man in a thin, wet, white shirt or being proposed to by a man dripping from a downpour looking absolutely wretched.

Aziraphale was re-enacting several more romantic scenes in his head when the muffled sound of applause drew him out of his fantasies. Gabriel was waving at the crowd of students like some kind of celebrity as he walked off the stage and Aziraphale let himself stay in reality with a self-assured sigh.

In hindsight, part of him was a little guilty that he had been imagining being proposed to in the rain, going on romantic boat rides, and sneaking kisses in between library bookshelves while sitting in the lecture hall of one of the most prestigious universities in the world. But as he gazed over at Gabriel's painted-on grin, all feelings of regret got tossed out the window.

Missing a thirty-minute speech that probably contained ego boosts as subtle as neon signs wasn't something Aziraphale considered to be much of a loss. He had more than enough of listening to those growing up anyway.

He felt Anathema lean towards him again. "If you ask me," she muttered, "the Dean seems like a jerk."

Aziraphale noticed she hadn't joined the applause either and turned to her with a bright smile.

"How do you feel about angel cake?"

Welcome Week passed by relatively quickly despite Aziraphale choosing not to attend most of the festivities. He still went to some of the scheduled pub crawls (although he often left once the students started getting visibly inebriated) and the campus tours (mostly because Anathema wanted his company), but he firmly refused to participate in anything that involved icebreakers, strenuous physical activity, or getting wet.

He did, however, enjoy the Faculty's networking events and trivia nights. Through those, he bonded with Maggie, a PhD candidate in Healing on her second year, over their shared love of music, and met Newt, a new master’s candidate in Technology Manipulation, through Anathema.

Although they were all much younger than him, Aziraphale found instant comfort in their company. Their conversations never stopped rapidly bouncing from topic to topic whenever they met up with one another, and they visibly carried a level of maturity many of the other students didn’t have.

Much to Aziraphale's additional delight, they actually seemed to mutually enjoy his company and didn't think any less of him when they discovered his meager affinity for magic.

"You're only a four on the Proxy scale?" Newt had gasped at him from across the table one night.

During one of the pub crawls they were invited to attended on Friday, the four of them had squeezed into one of the booths in the back to be away from the rowdiness of drunk university students. It was their third pub of the night and all of them had enough of introducing themselves to the intoxicated to bother continuing to socialize.

Anathema gave Newt a whack on the arm. "That's rude," she chided.

"Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean for that to— It came out rather— It's just that," Newt struggled, looking embarrassed at himself, "I've never heard of any Proxies with a score lower than eight get accepted into Eden before."

Maggie looked equally intrigued and asked Aziraphale, "Is it because your Attributes are comparatively at a much higher grade than average?"

"I'm afraid that's not it either," Aziraphale said, swirling his fifth glass of wine of the night just so his hands had something to do. "You'd be surprised to know my highest grade is a C."

"In Healing, I assume?" asked Newt, mirroring Aziraphale's nod when it was confirmed. "That explains the degree."

"That is rather surprising though," Maggie said thoughtfully. "The Recovery Magic Department usually doesn't even consider any Proxies with grades lower than a B. It's even rarer for them to accept. I mean, that doesn't mean I don't think it's ridiculously admirable that you were. Accepted, that is." 

Aziraphale warmly smiled at her and Newt nodded. "I agree," he said insistently. "Sorry for coming across a bit rude earlier, I was only surprised. I think that's brilliant. Good on you."

"So how did you get accepted, if you don't mind me asking," Maggie said, pouring herself some more water from the carafe.

"This man," Anathema answered instead, pointing at Aziraphale dramatically, "got perfect scores on every written entrance exam."

Newt and Maggie sharply turned to him with their mouths dropped open.

"No!" Maggie gasped.

"Is that even possible?" Newt followed, eyes bulging out from behind his glasses.

Aziraphale bashfully sipped his wine and looked up at them through his eyelashes. "I'd like to point out that I barely passed all of the practical ones.”

"But that's what most of us are here for anyway," Anathema pointed out. "To get better at practicing magic."

"Or alchemy," Newt added.

"Perfect scores!" Maggie breathed in absolute awe. "You should get a PhD for that achievement alone."

"Yes, well, I won't even be able to get my master’s if I don't shape up my practical skills," Aziraphale said earnestly. "I'm hoping a part-time schedule will allow me more time to practice on top of my research."

"I'm sure you'll do fabulously. Feel free to ask me anything, I'd love to support you," Maggie offered sweetly before turning to the rest. "Oh! Speaking of which, what classes are you all taking?"

While Newt and Anathema pulled out their phones, Aziraphale reached into his pocket for his printed copy, unfolding it and smoothing it out on the table. After they took turns sharing with one another, Maggie turned to Aziraphale with a twinkle in her eyes.

"You're taking Basic Potions with Professor White?" she asked. "I tutor that course, so don't be afraid to come to me with questions, especially if it's about one of their papers. They're really passionate about their work but can often go off on tangents when you ask questions if you're not careful."

"That sounds like an excellent suggestion, Maggie, thank you," Aziraphale said, nodding as he pulled out a pen and made a little note on the paper. It was hard to see in the pub's dim lighting even with his reading glasses on and he shifted his paper towards the ambient candle in the middle of their table like it'd make a difference.

It didn't.

"Why tutor for Potions though?" Anathema asked, waving her vodka soda around after putting her phone away. "Aren't you writing your dissertation about Musical Healing?"

Aziraphale didn't need more lighting to see the blush growing on Maggie's cheeks. In fact, the two other students across the table saw her cheeks colour as well. Everyone leaned in eagerly.

Seeing their peaked interest, Maggie looked back and forth between them, blue eyes widening. "Oh, I— I-it's not that strange, is it?" she flustered.

"It certainly is," Anathema insisted with an eyebrow raised. "It's practically in a completely different department."

"W-well, it's a course shared across many departments," Maggie weakly argued.

"And you just happen to know enough about it to be a tutor in a subject completely unrelated to your degree?" Anathema pressed, clearly not buying it. "Aziraphale and I have to take Herbology but that doesn't mean I'll be qualified to tutor in it once I get my Master of Divination."

Maggie put her hands on her cheeks and looked back and forth between them again, looking so frightfully reluctant that Aziraphale wanted to take pity on the poor woman and find a way to change the subject. But just as he was about to, she made a reluctant sound and relented.

"Oh, alright," she said, squeezing her eyes shut as if bracing herself. "Just promise me you won't tell anyone."

The other three students nodded.

Maggie put her hands around her glass of water, staring into its half-emptied contents. Otis Redding's Cigarettes and Coffee played over the pub's speakers and Aziraphale aimlessly listened to it for a few more lines while he tucked away his glasses and timetable before Maggie finally spoke, drawing his attention back.

"During my undergrad, I...met this girl. Well, I say met but what I really mean is that I admired her from afar. She was doing a bachelor’s in General Alchemy at the time so we really only had the one Basic Potions course together."

Maggie's smile turned wistful. She rotated the glass around in her hands. "I figured I'd be able to nerve myself up by the year's end to...oh, I don't know, ask her out for coffee or something, but I immediately lost my nerve on the last day of class."

"Sounds perfectly understandable," Newt sympathized.

"Did you ever see her again?" Anathema asked.

Maggie visibly shrank back into the leather seat and could hardly meet anyone's eyes for more than half a second when the rest of her words came out in a rush.

"Well, like a mad woman, I tried to find more information about her based on what little I knew, and after I wasn't able to, I just ended up taking more courses in Potions for a chance to see her again. After starting my master's, Professor White reached out to see if I'd be willing to tutor their Basic Potions, which I said yes to, and—"

Anathema gasped. "Holy shit, Maggie! Is your crush Nina?"

"Wh— Anathema, not so loud!" Maggie shushed, her hands waving in front of the other woman's face as she looked around the pub in panic. "How did you know?"

Anathema gently pushed Maggie's hands back down to the table, holding them there. "It's really not that hard. Nina's the only other female tutor in that class."

"Well, gold star to you then," Maggie sighed, her sarcasm lacking any sharpness. "I was ecstatic when I found out, but I ended up just fumbling my way through most of my interactions with her."

"You still haven't asked her out yet?" said Newt.

"No," Maggie answered miserably, sinking further down into her seat. "Although, I think she knows my name now."

"You think?" Anathema echoed in disbelief. "You've already tutored with her for a year already, haven't you?"

Maggie sighed mournfully. "She just keeps calling me Skinny Latte because that's what I keep ordering for coffee."

Aziraphale placed a comforting hand on Maggie's shoulder. "Maggie, why not have a bit more confidence in yourself? You seem like such a lovely woman and I'm sure Nina will be quite taken with you once your nerves stop getting the better of you."

He ignored the voice in his head that snarked he was a pot calling the kettle black.

"That's just it, isn't it?" Maggie threw her hands up exasperatedly. "You'd think I'd be braver now, what, with a second chance at this and all. But I'm no better than I was five years ago!"

"You know," Anathema said, giving Aziraphale a quick glance. "Aziraphale here can control Luck."

Aziraphale quickly gave Maggie an apologetic look. "Not that I wouldn't love to help you, but I'm afraid that with my E grade, any Luck I send your way won't work the way you'd like it to.” Then he turned to the others. “But if you ever need a parking spot to suddenly free up the moment you get there or would like to nab the last of your favourite pastry from a busy bakery, let me know and I'd be more than happy to lend a hand there."

Maggie giggled. "Sounds like those came from personal experiences."

"Oh, I confess I can't use Luck on myself. Although, I'd be lying if I said those aren't what I'd use them for if I could."

"I could try to perform a spell for you, if you'd like," Anathema offered instead, waving down the waiter for another drink. "Or perform a minor Divination for you if you're curious to see if it works out between you and Nina."

Maggie smiled sadly and shook her head. "It's kind of you to offer but I'd rather not. It's not your jobs to sort out my doomed love life. Besides, whether it works out or not between Nina and I, I'd prefer if it came from my own efforts rather than magic."

Aziraphale smiled warmly at her. "That's very admirable of you. I'd say that's a quality only the brave would have." Maggie looked so touched, her eyes sparkled.

"So, Aziraphale," Anathema said after taking a sip of something that looked much too dark to be another vodka soda, "I never got around to asking, but what brought you to Eden? You were a bookbinder before, weren't you?"

Maggie looked at him excitedly. "A bookbinder!" she exhaled in admiration. "No wonder you have such a love for vintage records too."

"Yes, well, technically, I still am a bookbinder, which is another reason why I'm completing my master’s part-time," Aziraphale corrected, "but it’s always been my goal to become a licenced Healer."

"Why's that?" Newt asked.

Now it was Aziraphale's turn to blush. He had prepared a perfect, cookie cutter answer to tell anyone who'd ever ask him that question, copy-and-pasted straight from his admission application. It had been a convincing enough answer for Eden, so there was nothing to suggest it wouldn't be good enough to tell inquiring classmates and faculty as well.

But whether it was the fact that he was running on five glasses of wine, that it was hours past his regular bedtime, that he was in company of people he actually enjoyed being around after so many years of nothing meaningful, or that he had been moved by Maggie's story, Aziraphale found himself wanting to tell his new friends the truth.

The other three students had, of course, already noticed his burning cheeks and were leaning back in expectantly.

"Well?" Anathema urged with a wide grin.

He raised an eyebrow at her, drawing out his silence on purpose before eventually, he asked, "What are you drinking?"

Anathema frowned, visibly thrown off guard by his seemingly unrelated question. "Whiskey, why?"

"Right." He sat up a little straighter and tugged down his waistcoat. "I'll need me one of those if you'd like me to tell you."

Anathema's arm immediately shot up, wildly waving at a waiter to grab their attention.

It was officially the first day of classes and Aziraphale had arrived at Herbology thirty minutes early to ensure he wouldn't miss out on a front row seat again. He found out a quarter of an hour later, however, that he really had no reason to worry because most of the students were now avoiding the first three rows like the plague.

"Do you think it's because they expected more faculty to show up and thought it polite?" Aziraphale asked Anathema who sat beside him and was the only other person that wasn't three rows away from the podium.

"Nope, this is normal," she shrugged. "I was surprised there were so many people sitting near the front on the first day, to be honest. Maybe they're all grouped in the back because they’re scared that they can get called on now."

"Why would they be scared to get called on?"

"Because not everyone reads through the assigned readings as thoroughly as you do," she snickered, pointing a finger at his binder that had all of the assigned readings printed out, heavily marked up with notes and colour-coded with the appropriate tabs.

"But why wouldn't they?" Aziraphale asked, still confused, glancing over his shoulder at the massive crowd of students filling up the back seats and loudly talking away. "Isn't that what everyone's here for?"

Anathema scoffed. "What everyone's here for, Aziraphale, except for us and our friends and maybe a handful of other students who genuinely want to learn things, is to graduate with a degree from Eden. If they can do it by reading as little of the assigned readings as possible, they'll do it."

"But that's absurd," Aziraphale gasped. "There'll be participation marks."

"It's a curve," Anathema said, shrugging again as she opened her notebook and wrote down the date. "As long as the majority of students put in the same amount of effort, they'll all just end up around a B anyway. At least that’ll probably mean you’re get one of those limited-quantity A’s."

Aziraphale shook his head forlornly. "I’m not just here to get top marks, you know. I want to learn. To improve. If that's how the other students truly feel, I’d think it to be such a shame. Don't people understand what a privilege it is to even attend Eden? In the Faculty of Magic, no less."

"Not everyone worked hard for their admission," said Anathema plainly, and Aziraphale felt his stomach twist at the slight bitterness behind her comment.

He had yet to tell his friends about his brother, and Aziraphale rather hoped he could get away with it forever if he could. But Aziraphale knew that if he truly wanted them to believe that he saw them as such, he would have to tell them the whole truth eventually.

Technically, he hadn't been lying when he said he passed all the entrance examinations through his own efforts. But Aziraphale was also painfully aware that it'd be a lie if he said his background hadn't helped him secure his admission, at least in part, even if he didn’t actively use it.

Hopefully, they'd all still decide to be his friends once they heard the whole story. Hopefully, they'd understand.

Before Aziraphale could think of something else to say, the commercial door at the side of the stage was kicked open with a deafening crash, immediately and effectively shutting everyone up into silence. Aziraphale knew the door had been kicked because the long leg responsible was still there, unceremoniously toeing the panic bar until door swung back far enough for the lock to slide into place.

With the door successfully propped open, the leg lowered and walked in with the other equally long leg, both clad in tight black jeans.

Aziraphale felt his mouth go dry.

His heart was painfully loud in his ears as he watched the man's hip sway like a pendulum as he walked (if Aziraphale could even call that enticing movement walking) across the stage to the podium.

With a lifting gesture of his arms, the man all but tossed the tall pile of papers he was carrying onto the desk beside him. How the pile managed to stay intact from the rough treatment seemed like magic in itself and Aziraphale distantly wondered if maybe the papers had been enchanted to prevent just that.

The man shrugged off his black blazer and tossed it over the top of the podium, brushing past the live mic and startling some of the students with the resulting noise. But Aziraphale had been too distracted trying not to glide his eyes down the curve of the man's slim waist to notice.

Practically draping over the podium, Aziraphale could see just how little the man's clothing actually left to the imagination. The black leather waistcoat generously hugged the sinuous line of his body, and the black Henley shirt layered underneath stretched around those lean arms when he brushed a hand through his shoulder-length copper hair.

The same hand then adjusted the pair of dark sunglasses he wore, rubbed almost nervously along his sharp jawline, and gave a little wave at the sea of students before him.

"Uh, hi, guys. Sorry I'm late. Had an issue with the printer. But as you can probably tell...or maybe not if the lot of you are undergrads or new here, I'm not Professor Zebub. Bee’s jaw surgery actually got moved up to last week so they've been told not to work. They can’t exactly talk much anyway."

He shifted his body to face the space behind him and traced his hand through the air. With a whoosh, thin lines of fire copied his movements, eventually spelling out his full name midair in capital letters. He turned back to the students and jabbed a thumb at it.

"Just call me Crowley. Don't call me Professor because I haven't earned that title and definitely don't call me Anthony because you obviously haven't earned that privilege. I usually teach Pyromancy but get along well enough with plants better than anyone else in the building so...whether any of us like it or not, you're stuck with me for the autumn term.”

He scratched the back of his head. “Right, what else. Uh, I don’t grade your papers, so don’t bother trying to butter me up. But I’ll be going through the materials Bee prepared for you all until they get back. So, uh, yeah, if you have any questions, just ask. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me."

Only the sounds of flickering fire could be heard over the thick silence that followed. Aziraphale almost jumped out of his chair when Anathema leaned over to whisper in his ear.

"I know we agreed that skinny jeans are basically torture devices, but it doesn't hurt to appreciate it on the right people, don't you think?"

Unable to stop his eyes from ghosting over the entirety of Crowley’s body again at her passive prompting, Aziraphale silently agreed. But his heart was pounding loudly in his chest for another reason.

After so many years of hoping that their paths would cross again, Aziraphale couldn't believe his luck. Sure, Crowley looked completely differently from how Aziraphale remembered him. They had met so long ago and so fleetingly that he wasn't sure if Crowley even remembered him if he brought it up.

But Aziraphale was positive the man in front of him was the same teenager he had met in his youth. The same teenager who served, and continues to serve, as his catalyst for getting his degree in the first place.

Today, Aziraphale had had finally found him.

At the front, Crowley grinned at the silence, seemingly pleased at himself as his flames danced across his dark lenses wickedly.

"Right then. Let's begin, shall we?"

Chapter Text

"You're kidding," Anathema said, deadpanned at first before realizing that Aziraphale actually wasn't kidding. Her eyes widened and she sat up straighter. "You're kidding!"

Aziraphale offered apologetic smiles to anyone glaring in their direction in the coffee shop and turned back to Anathema with a playful smile.

"I can assure you, I'm not."

He had offered Anathema a tour of London, which she gratefully took that weekend after settling into the student dorms and when she was no longer so dreadfully jetlagged. But like moths to a flame, they ended up back on campus to have a sit-down once their itinerary ran dry. Tucking themselves away into the far corner of the café, they unconsciously distanced themselves from the streets of London as much as possible.

As much as they both enjoyed the variety of sounds and sights the city had to offer, several continuous hours of weaving around too many bodies, squeezing through the Underground, and trying to talk over upset drivers eventually wore them down. Even with Aziraphale’s Luck on Anathema to complete a flawless outing, it had been exhausting nonetheless.

"I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner," Anathema said. She had collapsed into the booth when they first got there like a puppet whose strings had been cut, but she was now more alert than ever.

Aziraphale reasoned, “Well, we’ve all been so busy this week, and it’s hardly something I can just discuss in a classroom.”

“Sure you can,” Anathema confidently countered. “Have you heard what people talk about in class? It’s where you get to hear all the latest gossip.”

“And hardly any of it’s usually true,” Aziraphale pushed back. Interesting, sure, but he wasn’t going to admit that out loud.

“But yours might be. Are you sure it’s the same guy? The cute redhead you told us about?”

The excitement Aziraphale had from earlier in their conversation came roaring back to life. He sat a little straighter, lowering his voice as he leaned towards Anathema like he was sharing a juicy secret.

"Almost positive. He's certainly dressing himself differently, but I don't think his face has changed much. If only I could see him without his sunglasses..."

"But it's been basically twenty years. How are you sure?"

"Hence the almost," Aziraphale admitted. He drummed his fingers on the table, concocting some version of a plan in his head. "I'll just have to find out if he’s ever visited Botany Bay Beach as a teenager.”

“A lot of people go to Botany Bay Beach, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, but not many teenagers go around just Healing random strangers on Botany Bay Beach.”

One of the café waitresses brought over their order and Aziraphale gratefully pulled his Earl Grey and apple pie towards him, immediately diving into his tea.

Anathema, on the other hand, ignored her coffee. "Are you going to ask him?"

"I plan to ask him at our research proposal meeting," Aziraphale said, a giggle that was borderline manic from the concoction of excitement and nervousness in his stomach spilling from his lips.

“And when’s that?”

"On Wednesday, two weeks from now."

"Right at the beginning?" Anathema pressed. "Or do you plan to do it at the end? What are you going to say to him?"

"I haven't gotten that far." Aziraphale forked another bite of pie into his mouth, relishing the soft, buttery crust melding together with the mix of soft fruit and cinnamon. It helped ground him a little. It forced the turbulent feelings to settle. Then he chased it down with tea. "I was just planning to see where the conversation takes us and go from there."

Anathema hummed but said nothing more as her gaze focused in and out of his face. While her coffee was left still abandoned on the table, Aziraphale finished off his pie under her watch, vaguely getting the sense that she was making several decisions in her head. He wasn't sure he liked wherever her train of thought was going based on the expressions she was making.

"Alright, what is it?" he eventually asked when he was left with no pie to fill the silence with. "You're staring a hole through me."

Anathema studied him for a few more seconds before seemingly reaching a final decision, placing her hand gently on the table between them as if betting some kind of wager.

"If this prof turns out to be the teenage love interest you told us about, I'll be over the moon for you. Really. It'll be like something straight out of a romance novel."

"I wouldn't call him a love interest," mumbled Aziraphale. "I was just...an admirer."

"Fine, crush," Anathema easily corrected while ignoring Aziraphale's look of disapproval. "But what if Crowley isn't your guy?"

"Then I'll just apologize for my assumption and hopefully, we can have a laugh at it."

"And what if it is him but he doesn't remember?"

"Oh, I'm sure he does."

Aziraphale wasn't so sure.

"But what if?" Anathema asked again. "You can't just assume someone you met for a total of a few hours that long ago is going to remember you."

"Well, I remembered."

"Because you had a crush—"

"Admired.”

"—on him.”

Aziraphale waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever happens, I'm sure it'll work out one way or another.”

“For your sake, I really hope it does.”

“I do wonder what happened to him in these last few years,” Aziraphale continued, choosing to ignore the slightly doubtful undertone of Anathema’s sincerity. “When I looked up his biography online, I found his educational background rather peculiar. Have you read it?"

Anathema put a dramatic hand on her chest and gave him a feigned look of absolute scandal. "Aziraphale, were you stalking him on the internet?"

"There's no need to call it stalking," Aziraphale gasped, ignoring the part of him that had made that deduction a few nights ago and was panicking at her accurate guess. "I was just merely curious about his background and wanted to see if he really is who I think he is.”

“It’s your motives that make it sound more like stalking.” Something about the way Anathema’s eyes focused on him made it feel like Aziraphale was laid bare for the world to see. She was making it increasingly difficult to fib.

“I looked up all of my professors' biographies before the start of school,” Aziraphale said, trying to defend what honour he had left. “I wanted to see if they had done anything I'd be interested in researching myself."

Anathema made a noise that meant she was either impressed or found him excessive. "Wow, I only looked up the prof I'm eventually going to work for."

"You mean Professor Nutter?"

Anathema nodded and her finger wagged around airily. "You know, not to go off on a tangent, but I swear she's some kind of distant relative of mine or something. I couldn't find anything in my family records but the vibe I'm getting from her seems almost...familiar."

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully as he finished off his tea, absently wondering if he should order another one seeing as how Anathema was only halfway done with her coffee. Not that Aziraphale was complaining, of course.

"Can't you just, I don't know, Divine an answer?" he asked Anathema.

"I tried but I didn't get anything I don't already know. Unless it's explicitly brought up in the future, I won't be able to see it." Then her eyes turned mischievous. "Want me to Divine your future with Crowley?"

Aziraphale had to laugh at that, remembering her eagerness with Maggie last week. "You seem to enjoy peering into people’s love lives."

"I won't do it unless I'm given permission, of course. That's just basic manners," Anathema scoffed as if she was offended that Aziraphale was suggesting anything else. "But it's just so interesting. It's like having an endless supply of romance novels."

Aziraphale thought back to his Pride & Prejudice marathon for a moment, suddenly getting the urge to do it again tonight. In that sense, it felt easy to put himself in Anathema's shoes, but it still felt almost intrusive in a way. It would be the lives of real people he’d look into, not just fictional characters, and it didn’t sit quite right with him.

But then again, he wasn’t sure Anathema shared his values on privacy, seeing as how she seemed to enjoy invading it, consensually or otherwise.

"Yes, alright, I can see why you'd be so eager to offer," he allowed. "But no, thank you. I'm rather like Maggie on this front and would prefer to live my life without anticipating the future."

"Pity. But I get that. I've had moments where I've regretted Divining too.”

Something about her tone and the way it dipped a little as if she dreaded how the words were leaving her mouth the moment they did, caught Aziraphale's attention.

"Oh? How so?"

To his surprise, Anathema actually appeared embarrassed all of a sudden. He had gotten so used to seeing her displays of confidence that watching the woman crumple in on herself while her cheeks coloured reminded Aziraphale that she really was still in her twenties.

Sensing that Anathema was having another mental dilemma, Aziraphale granted her a longer silence and swept his eyes over the baked foods on display to lessen any unspoken pressure she might’ve felt.

"Remember Newt?" she eventually asked.

"Of course," he answered, minorly entertained that she would phrase it like that. The three of them sat together in Professor Shadwell's Instruments & Tools of Magic after all. He had a sneaking suspicion that whatever Anathema was about to say would help him understand why she always chose to sit next to Newt in every seating arrangement they put themselves in.

"I was just thinking the other day about whether or not we'd...I don't know, get along," she said evasively, twirling her hand in an unknown shape. "I may or may not have looked into my future with him. But just a little! Nothing too far, of course, 'cause where's the fun in that, but...you know, enough."

Aziraphale asked slyly, "And was it a good future?"

The blush darkened on her tanned cheeks and her lips twitched into a small smile. "Maybe a little too good," she murmured.

"My," he said, laughing through his nose. "Cheeky."

Anathema groaned and slid her hands underneath her glasses in a fit of distress. "So now I can't even look at him without remembering that I know what he's going to be like in bed and it's...a confusing mix of me feeling a little embarrassed but also a little turned on, but then I start feeling a little grossed out that I'm feeling turned on for a guy that's not usually my type, but because I know it's eventually going to happen, the cycle just starts all over again."

Aziraphale honestly felt honoured that Anathema felt comfortable enough to confess these rather intimate feelings to him. Maybe it was because of her young age. Maybe it was because she was American.

Or maybe it was just because it was Anathema.

“Just how accurate is your Divination?” Aziraphale asked, trying to bury his amusement under some attempt at sympathy first. "Maybe, now that you know, you can avoid it, and it won't happen in the end?"

"It doesn't really work like that," Anathema sighed. "Usually, any future I've Divined already includes the fact that I actually Divined it."

"You still have your free will, don't you? And you're an intelligent woman who's aware of herself. You can just say no when you realize it's happening." Then Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at her silence. "Unless you mean to tell me that you want it to happen?"

She made a frustrated noise in her throat and threw up her hands. "I don't know!"

Deciding that his sympathy was no longer needed, Aziraphale smiled innocently "Something to look forward to, then.

He got a withering glare. "Let's go back to you and Crowley—"

"Don't you want to tell me more about Newt?"

"What exactly did you find interesting about his bio?"

Aziraphale gave Anathema one more self-satisfying smirk before deciding to be merciful. He thought back to the night (or several nights) he spent reading and re-reading through Crowley's biography on the Faculty's website. He was pretty sure several of his tabs showing his history of not-stalking-Crowley were still open on his laptop too.

He'll have to remember to close those.

"Well, you see, he has a Master of Pyromancy, which makes sense, but he also has a Master of Healing," Aziraphale explained.

"How accomplished of him," Anathema said dryly. "But that makes sense, doesn't it? You told us that your teenage crush wanted to be a Healer."

Aziraphale pointedly ignored her continued use of the word crush. "Yes, which is also why I believe that Crowley's the same person. But what I found peculiar was that he graduated from his Master of Pyromancy eight years after his Master of Healing."

Anathema's brow furrowed. "That is a little weird. Why the long gap?"

"I'm not sure," Aziraphale agreed, "and now, he's a Lecturer in Pyromancy instead of Healing."

She seemed to consider this. "People can change a lot in twenty years," she reasoned. "Maybe he just lost interest and decided to do something else instead."

"After seven years?"

“Assuming he took one year to do his second master’s,” Anathema shrugged. "Does his bio say anything about what else he's been doing that might explain the gap? Another job, maybe?"

Aziraphale shook his head.

"Then maybe he decided to do something outside of academia before coming back to specialize in something else.”

"I know it's possible,” Aziraphale pondered, “but it'd just feel so hard to believe if that's truly the case. His bio doesn’t have anything to show for it either."

"Does his bio say that he's a licenced Healer?" she asked.

Aziraphale shook his head again. It wasn't uncommon for people to change interests several years into their lives. Some stayed in one field or industry forever. Some bounced around between interests for one reason or another. Others took long breaks and revisited old passions many years down the road. Aziraphale himself was only just starting his own journey of rediscovery, and he had met enough people in his life to know there were more directions in life than he could ever imagine.

But Aziraphale could still feel that stubborn root of denial planted in his mind. He found it so difficult to believe that a person who had spoken to him with so much passion and care could move on from those feelings and leave them unfulfilled. He knew it was possible, but until it was confirmed, he still wanted to hope.

Feeling a little deflated, he said, “I still remember how excited and eager he was when he told me he was going to Eden."

"Oh yeah, Crowley always looks really excited in our Herbology classes."

"Yes, he does have the loveliest smiles," Aziraphale sighed dreamily until he saw Anathema's expression. "Oh. Sarcasm."

"Again, twenty years, Aziraphale. And based off of how you described him to us last time, Crowley isn't exactly matching bright-eyed or cheerful. If anything, he's the exact opposite, always irritable and frowning all the time behind those shades."

"He's not that bad," Aziraphale defended. "He's a little sharp-tongued, but he seems to be a very respectable teacher.”

“In what way?” Anathema asked, unconvinced.

“Well, he always takes the time to answer every student's questions."

"By answering with more questions."

"That help the students answer their own questions," he followed. "You have to admit they would've already known the answer to their questions had they just done the readings or listened to his lectures."

"Yeah, alright, that's true," Anathema relented despite a roll of her eyes.

"And you can tell he's quite fond of the subject even though it's not in his department," Aziraphale added. "He always treats the plants with a lot of care during his demonstrations."

"You consider yelling at them treating them with care?"

"With his…version of care, I suppose. They seem to be doing quite well. They’re very luscious.”

Anathema shook her head at him. "I think you might just be idealizing him through what you remember about your crush.”

"Am not," he bit back confidently before shrinking a little under her unflinching gaze. "Am I?"

"I'm just putting it out there in case you get too hopeful about your meeting outcomes," Anathema said. "I think you might be the only one in that class to see him so positively. I've actually heard rumours from the other students that his eyes can turn people to stone."

Aziraphale huffed. "Don't you think you're a little too old to be believing in rumours?"

"There's no harm in just listening," Anathema replied, unperturbed. "Besides, rumours usually stem from truth."

"Or someone's hyperactive imagination," Aziraphale scoffed. But then he spent a moment thinking. " I suppose it wouldn't be too odd if it turns out he actually has Petrification."

"On top of Pyromancy?"

"It's not unheard of for Proxies to have more than one Attribute," he answered rather sarcastically, knowing full well that Anathema knew.

She rewarded his efforts with a look. "No, but it's rare for Proxies to have more than one Attribute above a B grade. And Crowley's Pyromancy is at least an A if he's teaching it at Eden."

"All the more reason to debunk that rumour then. Turning biological matter into stone is hard enough— oh, hush, you child," he chided Anathema's snort, "so I'd assume Petrifying humans would be even...more difficult and would require a high grade."

Visibly satisfied that she managed to make Aziraphale aware of the implication of his words, Anathema shrugged away his logic. "Maybe Crowley's one of those rarities, you never know. Ooh, do you think I'll be able to find his Attribute record on the internet anywhere?"

"If you did, that would be an egregious violation of privacy," Aziraphale pointed out. "How would you feel if your medical records were published to the world?"

"Absolutely indifferent," responded Anathema with a scornful laugh. "Actually would've saved me a bunch of time from getting doctor notes for my asthma whenever I wanted to join any sports teams."

"Yes, I'm sure it must have been an awful inconvenience for your parents," he agreed insincerely. "But I'm sure there must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Crowley's change in demeanour."

"Assuming he is the guy you knew back then, it must've been something pretty bad if he did a complete one-eighty."

The possibility of it worried Aziraphale too, if he was being honest. But he’d argue that Crowley wasn’t acting completely different from how he remembered him, and Aziraphale was sure he wasn’t projecting.

He had been carefully watching Crowley during their classes – whether it was while he lectured or when he was answering Aziraphale’s chain questions – and had naturally begun to categorize everything he observed. Whether it was in Crowley's posture, facial expression, or tone, there were definitely flashes of warmth and brightness behind the loudness of his bark.

Sometimes Crowley's unfriendly smiles would turn just a little soft whenever someone asked a question that wasn’t redundant. Sometimes his eyebrows, usually clamped down onto his sunglasses, would rise in wonder and something akin to joy whenever he completed demonstrations with his back turned to the rest of class. There were even times when the cold, defensive frame of his entire body relaxed as he brushed an unexpectedly soft touch over the plants he'd bring in despite the insults and threats he shouted at them.

Any such moments, however, were brittle and subtle and brief. So much so that Aziraphale definitely would've missed them had he been sitting anywhere but the front row every class. Rather than projecting, Aziraphale was certain he was just being intensely observant. He was surprised he managed to take down any notes these past weeks seeing as how his eyes and brain refused to drag themselves away from anything other than Crowley.

Anathema seemed to be considering his silence. "Are you going to ask him about it?"

Aziraphale blinked and remembered he had company. "Ask him what?”

"About what happened to him?"

"I think that would be a much too personal question to ask at our first meeting, don't you think?"

Anathema looked at him like he was speaking another language. "I wasn't saying you should do it right away. You can ask him about it in later meetings, you know that right? Build up to it? Spend more time with him to warm him up?"

Then Aziraphale realized that she was right. His mind had completely disregarded the reality that he would have more than one meeting with Crowley to discuss his research paper. He had been so focused on planning how to meet with him that he had forgotten that he would continue meeting him.

Whatever expression was on his face seemed to amuse her. "You don't have to rush this, you know. You're not only interested in the guy only because you think he's your long-lost crush, are you?"

"Certainly not," he immediately answered.

"Then there you go," she said. "Take your time with it. It’s probably going to take a lot of meetings for someone like Crowley to warm enough to tell you something like that. To be honest, he doesn't seem like the type of person to warm up to anyone."

"I'm sure the man has friends.”

"With that attitude?"

"Everyone has at least some friends."

"Snakes don't have friends," muttered Anathema.

"Yes, well, Crowley's not a snake.”

She snickered. "Might as well be in those jeans."

"Look, whatever happens," Aziraphale said stubbornly, vaguely hearing the door of the coffee shop get violently opened by what he assumed was a student having a bad day, "I'm just hoping to connect with him on some level. It’ll be wonderful if he’s the boy I knew, but if not, perhaps we'll end up as friends regardless. Either way, I'm sure it'll all go according to plan."

Anathema glanced over his shoulder then. A pause. "And how would feel about speeding up that plan?" she asked.

Aziraphale frowned. "How do you mean?"

He barely had enough time to process she was grinning at him when Anathema shot her hand up to wave at someone behind him.

"Mr. Crowley!" she shouted.

Like a vacuum, Aziraphale suddenly felt sound, air, temperature, gravity, and whatever else was holding onto the world get sucked up into a dark, bottomless void. It left him with nothing but his screaming thoughts, yelling at the decibels of alarm bells in his head.

He whipped around, saw the red hair and sunglasses looking their way up front by the till, and immediately snapped his head back.

"Anathema!" he hissed. "What are you—"

"Mr. Crowley, hi! Could you join us here for a second?" she brightly called, ignoring him.

Unsure of whether to strongly scold Anathema for her manners or for her to stop getting Crowley's attention at once, Aziraphale ended doing none of those. Instead, he froze and stared wide-eyed at the table, his ears hyperaware of the sound of Crowley's boots approaching.

The footsteps stopped behind him.

“Uh, what's up?" Crowley’s voice, a little rough around the edges, sounded closer than Aziraphale was anticipating and he had to force his body not to show the full-body shiver that ran down his spine upon hearing it.

Anathema’s voice dripped sweetness, ignorant to Aziraphale’s plight. "Sorry to suddenly call you over but we were wondering if we could talk to you for a minute. I'm not sure if you remember us, but—”

"Device, right? And this over here's McFell?" Crowley plainly interjected.

Being distracted by Crowley’s presence behind him, it took a second too long for Aziraphale to realize his last name had just been blatantly revealed. His body ran cold the instant he did. Quickly lifting his eyes up at Anathema, he prayed that she wouldn’t have noticed or hadn’t made the connections in her head, but Aziraphale should’ve known that Anathema was much too sharp to miss such a thing.

She was indeed looking back at him, visibly shocked. But without missing a beat, she turned her attention back to Crowley with a blink and a brilliant smile.

"You remembered us.”

"Whether I'd like to or not," Crowley responded. Aziraphale could practically hear him smirking. "It's hard to ignore the only two faces up in the front row that ask questions. Or rather, you two hardly ever seem to stop asking questions."

Anathema seemed to take that as a compliment and just smiled wider. "You see, Aziraphale here was worried that he might not be able to make it to the research proposal meeting you have with him in two weeks, so when I saw you, I thought it’d be a good chance for you two to have a talk now to make up for lost time. If you’re not busy, of course.”

Aziraphale was stuck between feeling like he wanted to strangle the girl for such an obviously rotten lie and flee from his seat. The two continued to talk while Aziraphale’s brain shut itself off from the world and tried to conjure up potential excuses to avoid speaking with Crowley right now.

His heart wasn’t ready. His well-thought-out plan!

But then Anathema’s shocked expression flashed through his mind and sent Aziraphale down another whirlwind of panic as he realized she probably recognized the significance of his family name. What would she think of him now? How was he going to explain? Any plan he came up with originally was now being smashed to bits before his very eyes.

Then a worse thought came to mind.

Oh lord, does that mean Crowley knew? What did Crowley think of him now?

Aziraphale was startled out of his mental blue screen when Anathema stood from her seat. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth to ask her where she was going because any semblance of thought malfunctioned into dust when he saw Crowley slide into the booth to take her place.

Crowley, in all his grey crew neck, black cardigan, hair half-tied up gloriousness, was now sitting in front of Aziraphale like some kind of fever dream. Aziraphale vaguely registered that Anathema was saying something to him, but by the time he remembered he had a body to move, Anathema was gone. He then flipped his eyes from her retreating back to the man across the table from him.

They sat there in silence, Crowley, presumably, waiting, and Aziraphale clumsily trying to piece his fragmented social skills together into something recognizable.

It was one thing to admire the professor's figure from the respectable distance between the podium and the first row of seats. It was another thing completely to have the man so close that Aziraphale could smell his aftershave.

That new piece of knowledge alone made Aziraphale feel like he was gluing his mind back together with liquid soap, never mind how much clearer he could see the curve of Crowley’s throat and the faint freckles decorating his face.

"So," Crowley broke the silence with a drawn-out vowel. "McFell, right? No relation to his royal smugness, Dean Gabriel McFell, is there?"

Just when Aziraphale felt relieved that Crowley had broken the silence first, he immediately wished they could go back to it. Of all the conversational subjects to start with, it had to be the one Aziraphale wanted to avoid the most.

But based on how Crowley’s words dripped sarcasm, Aziraphale assumed Crowley wasn’t a huge fan of the Dean, and if that was truly the case, he could work with that. He wasn’t a fan of speaking poorly of people behind their backs, but at least it put him more at ease than the alternative. Any time a conversation showed any signs of praise towards his siblings, it usually ended in Aziraphale receiving backhanded compliments on a good day. If he was being offered the choice to slander his brother a little, he’d take it.

Taking a fortifying breath, Aziraphale tried to control his racing heart and wear some semblance of the appearance of a functional adult.

"Brothers, I’m afraid. But we're anything but close,” he answered, proud that his voice didn't shake. "Have you…worked with Gabriel before?”

Crowley scoffed, clearly put off. “Can’t even stand to be in the same room as him. If it weren’t for the Faculty meetings, I’d make sure he comes nowhere near me.”

That was something Aziraphale furiously related to. “He does have a rather strong presence.”

“Always a prick, was he?” Crowley rephrased with a hint of a smirk.

“Never known him to be any different,” came Aziraphale's honest, and surprisingly easy, reply.

Crowley seemed to be extremely satisfied with the answer, and Aziraphale swore he saw the smirk turn gentle before his view was blocked by the waitress dropping off Crowley’s order. She paused when Crowley raised a hand to stop her leaving. He raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

“Want anything?” He jutted his chin towards Aziraphale's empty cup. "Going to be here a while, right?"

Then Aziraphale suddenly remembered Anathema had forced this impromptu meeting onto their professor rather inconsiderately.

“Oh, no, thank you, I-I don’t want to impose,” flustered Aziraphale, words tumbling out of him before he could attempt to stop them. "You really don't have to feel obligated to stay. I think Anathema may have misunderstood me earlier. I have no problem making it to our meeting and I apologize that you’re here under that belief. You were pulled into this quite abruptly and I don't want to inconvenience you.”

Crowley's eyebrows had raised higher on his forehead the longer Aziraphale rambled, and seeing the reaction had caused Aziraphale to overflow even faster. But when he saw the smirk return to Crowley's lips, his words eventually faded off and he stared, a little lost, at the man’s amused expression.

“I insist,” Crowley said, no longer the least bit impacted by Aziraphale’s spiel. “I’ll be able to get my own coffee reimbursed if you order something. Consider it doing me a favour.”

Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek. “Well, if you put it that way, I wouldn’t mind another Earl Grey with milk please.”

“What did you eat?” Crowley asked while gesturing to Aziraphale's empty plate and fork.

“Apple pie?"

"And one of those,” he added to the order. "I'll take the receipt."

If the waitress was pissed off that the two of them had taken up so much of her time, she didn’t show it. She just nodded at the instructions and gathered Aziraphale’s empty plates to start on their order without so much as an eye roll. Aziraphale couldn’t tell if the poor girl was just terribly good at customer service or she was too disgruntled to care. Either way, he made a note to tip her generously when they left.

Across from him, Crowley sank further down into the seat and propped an elbow over the top of the booth, chugging his coffee with the other hand. Aziraphale was acutely aware of how the man’s slim legs stretched out to bracket his under the table.

"A misunderstanding then, is it?" Crowley drawled after putting his cup back down. He seemed more entertained than annoyed, but Aziraphale worried that it also could’ve been read as an irritated grin hiding behind a wall of sarcasm.

"Ah, yes,” he replied sheepishly. "I think Anathema…jumped to conclusions about my circumstances. I really do apologize if I'm inconveniencing you."

"Not an inconvenience. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

The statement seemed genuine, and Aziraphale tried to ignore how that caused a ripple of warmth to pool in his chest by sharply reminding himself that Crowley was just being a dutiful professor. But maybe this meant Crowley’s previous expression did imply amusement after all.

"Did you come to campus to complete some work?" Aziraphale asked, trying to remember his assortment of small talk starters.

Crowley wrinkled his nose. "Not really. I, uh, actually live nearby and came to grab some coffee for me and the guys. Lost a bet.”

"The…guys?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry, I mean my flatmates. They bet last night at the pub that I wouldn’t be able to chat someone up and bring them home.” Crowley gestured to all of him. “So here I am. Bet lost.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale tried to ignore the conflicting feelings of envy and selfish excitement in his stomach. He couldn’t tell from Crowley’s face whether the man was happy or indifferent about his loss, but Aziraphale wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. “Then they must be waiting for you to return, aren’t they?”

“Nah, they can wait. I’ll head back eventually. They can get their coffee then.”

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Aziraphale promised. “I wasn’t exactly prepared to have a meeting with you today so I’m afraid I don’t have my notes with me. I’m sure it won’t be a very long meeting.”

“No, no, have at it,” Crowley offered. “Didn’t have anything else planned for today so I’m happy to chat. About your paper or…whatever else that comes up.”

Aziraphale felt himself smile just a bit easier. He thought back to Anathema’s critiques of the professor and firmly decided that they really weren’t fair observations of the man.

Crowley had flatmates, for one. And while that didn’t necessarily mean they were his friends, it had to mean something to have relationships beyond just the level of acquaintances if they felt comfortable enough to drink with each other and make bets.

For another, Crowley was going out of his way to speak with a student outside of working hours. Aziraphale knew how precious weekends were to people and even more so to teaching professionals. The man could’ve just rejected Anathema’s prompting, told Aziraphale to email him with another proposed meeting time, walked off, and called it a day.

Instead, he was sitting in front of Aziraphale, on his day off, treating him to tea despite basically being tricked into it. How could anyone think that Crowley was anything other than a selfless, kind professor?

Speaking of tea, the waitress came back with their order and laid everything down on the table with practiced ease before returning back behind the counter. Aziraphale gratefully thanked Crowley again and pulled the cup closer to him, breathing in the comforting scent of Earl Grey.

Although, he might’ve inhaled a little too hard and caught the scent of Earl Grey mixed with the spice of Crowley’s aftershave, and that was a whole other level of intoxicating.

Aziraphale felt his legs go numb.

Then he saw Crowley push the plate of apple pie towards him and his mind went blank. He looked up, blinking. His confusion must’ve been apparent because Crowley just raised an eyebrow at him.

“All yours.”

Aziraphale was at a loss. “Isn’t this yours?”

“No, I ordered it for you,” Crowley answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then he must’ve realized where Aziraphale’s confusion lay because his mouth opened and closed a few times before a string of sounds came out after. “Oh, uh, well— It’s just that, er, you finished the first piece, so I thought you liked it enough for a second one. And then I thought since we were going to be here for a while, why not? Have something to nibble on or whatever while we…discussed.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help staring. If he’d been in his right mind, he would’ve called himself ridiculous for basically swooning just from a man demonstrating two acts of minor thoughtfulness for him.

But Aziraphale wasn’t in his right mind. Rather, he was pretty sure his mind had left the atmosphere entirely ever since Crowley sat down in that booth.

He watched the usually articulate professor trip over his silver tongue to explain himself. Aziraphale didn’t see the need for any justifications since it was clearly his own misunderstanding, but he felt so charmed by the attempt that the urge to reach out to grab Crowley’s waving hand, to touch, surged violently in his chest.

Instead, Aziraphale quietly reached out and pulled over the slice of pie, effectively silencing Crowley from any further ramblings.

“Thank you,” he said, willing himself to look back up at Crowley despite being unable to completely lift his head. “It’s very nice of you to offer.”

Crowley stared at him with an unreadable expression for a few more seconds before he made a noise in his throat that Aziraphale guessed was acknowledgement and turned away.  

Aziraphale cleared his own throat. “So, you went out for drinks last night?”

Looking a little less tense at the subject change, Crowley picked his coffee back up, swirling it around like he was reminiscing about whatever liquor he’d consumed the previous night.

“Yeah, just to a pub near our flat. Purgatory?"

"Oh, yes, that name sounds quite familiar. I believe a few of us went there a few times for pub crawls during Welcome Week.”

Crowley stopped swirling the cup. "You went to pub crawls?"

"Indeed I do.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at his tone. “Why, does that surprise you?"

"To be honest, yeah,” Crowley admitted. “Didn't take you as someone who enjoyed that kind of scene. You know. Dressed like that."

Aziraphale huffed through his nose at the comment. "I can assure you, the way I dress suggests nothing about my scene preferences."

He tried to give Crowley's tone the benefit of the doubt, but enough of an edge must've slipped through because Crowley immediately started trying to explain himself again, sounding almost worried at the possibility that he had offended Aziraphale.

"What I meant was, you just dress so...neatly. In a good way. Clean and white all the time. Even during morning classes when everyone can't keep their eyes open, you're so...” He waved a hand in Aziraphale’s general direction. “Presentable. I just have a hard time imagining you enjoying a loud, dark, sticky pub surrounded by drunk people."

Aziraphale tried not to overthink the fact that Crowley had been observing him in class. It wasn’t like Crowley was conscious of him, that’d be silly. It was just a general observation anyone could make. That was Crowley’s job. Professors observed everyone, and Aziraphale wasn’t exactly making it hard by sitting in the front row every class.

"With how you're describing it, I'm surprised you'd want to frequent there either," Aziraphale said, taking care to soften his tone back into conversational by mixing in some humour.

"Who's to say I don't enjoy that kind of thing?"

"And who's to say I don't either?" Aziraphale lightly countered, feeling extremely and unreasonably accomplished for Crowley’s sharp bark of laughter. "But you're not completely wrong. I don't tend to go to pubs unless it's with friends, I'm there to try and meet people, or something has gone so wrong with my life that I need a distraction beyond what my books and the silence of my home can offer."

"I think you've just exhaustively listed the purpose of every pub's existence,” Crowley deadpanned.

"I can also see why people would go there just for pure enjoyment though. I found Purgatory to be quite a lovely venue myself. It's a bit more tasteful in its atmosphere."

"Less wasted teenagers and more rowdy middle-aged professionals?" Crowley suggested, swallowing more coffee.

Aziraphale tried, and failed again, to not stare at the movement of Crowley’s throat. "Yes, actually. Especially when you consider its proximity to Eden. Not that I mind teenagers, but sometimes they can be quite…aggressive.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement. "That's the main reason why the boys and I are regulars there. We still like to think we're young but compared to actual kids these days, we're practically grandfathers."

"In that case, I must be ancient," Aziraphale murmured into his tea.

"Oh, you can’t possibly be that much older than me. And it doesn't mean you don't look good,” Crowley easily followed. Then the air between them seemed to freeze.

"Uh, for your age, I mean,” Crowley quickly added. “You look good for your age. We need more mature students like yourself, in my opinion. Someone for the, uh, less-developed minds to look up to."

Aziraphale carefully finished swallowing the tea he kept trapped in his mouth, mildly impressed he hadn't choked on it or spit it out. He was overthinking it, surely. It was just a polite compliment to soothe his mild self-criticism. Why would it be a slip of the tongue if it carried nothing else with it?

"That’s very generous of you to say, thank you. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little conscious of my age compared to other students, but it's also a quality of mine I'm rather proud of."

"As you should be," Crowley agreed. And he said that so genuinely that the heart Aziraphale had just managed to calm down shot right back up again. "If you don't mind me asking, and feel free to tell me to mind my own business 'cause I've been told many times that I ask too many questions for my own good, but why come back to school?”

Aziraphale hesitated. He couldn't very well say "you” when there still wasn't any solid proof Crowley was at all related to the boy he met all those years ago. And it wasn't like he could just suddenly ask him if he took a trip to Botany Bay Beach as a teenager. Choosing either of those two options would likely result in an awkward reunion at best or absolute rejection for coming off as completely bonkers at worst.

Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to take either of those risks.

"Becoming a licenced Healer is a bit of a life goal, you see,” he said carefully but truthfully. “But because I place so low on the Proxy scale, especially compared to the rest of my siblings, my parents never believed I could do it. As a result, they, ah…strongly suggested I follow a different career path growing up.”

"What did you end up doing?"

"Anthropology."

Crowley stared for a beat. "Can't say I'm entirely surprised but I'm also just a little surprised.”

"Were you expecting something else?"

"I don't know, philosophy? Classical Iit?"

"Oh, those were my minors," Aziraphale said smoothly. It took a solid five seconds for Crowley to realize he'd been played. Aziraphale thought the wicked grin he earned from that gamble had definitely been worth the effort and resumed his story.

"As interesting as it was, I wanted to do something a bit more practical and decided to equip myself with some education in bookbinding.”

Crowley gave a sagely nod. “Now that’s not surprising at all.”

Aziraphale found it rather easy to shoot him a look, which Crowley seemed to take with practiced ease.

“I found it much more interesting,” Aziraphale explained. “After a few more years of specialization under my belt, I made a career out of it. But I just knew I’d never feel completely happy with myself until I became a Healer."

Crowley finished off the rest of his coffee like a shot. "Parents won't have anything to say about it anymore?"

"I don't believe I'd be able to hear it either way," Aziraphale said wryly. "They both passed away last year, you see."

"A bit of rebel, you are,” Crowley said with what Aziraphale assumed was admiration and humour in his voice. "Immediately decided to subvert expectations the moment they kicked the bucket, did you?"

Trying not to look too pleased, as these were his deceased parents they were discussing, Aziraphale agreed with a little hum. "I technically did as I was told. And they were gracious enough not to leave instructions for me on my inheritance.”

"Still, that's some determination,” Crowley said. "How you'd get in with your ‘supposedly low’ Proxy score?"

"I wasn't exaggerating when I said I placed low on the scale. I'm a four.”

Crowley whistled. "Didn’t think I’d see the day Eden took anyone under an eight. Huh, brilliant.” And Crowley looked like he actually meant it, stirring sparks of warmth deep in Aziraphale’s gut. "Always thought weeding through admissions based on the scale was a bit medieval. Can’t all be perfect tens.”

"Yes, well, unfortunately, it was still a major reason for Eden almost rejecting my admission. I only got in because I received perfect scores on all of my written exams.”

Crowley laughed wickedly. The way it stressed the curves of his jaw was still so mesmerizing and utterly distracting. "Oh, yeah, I did hear talk about a student who completely massacred the written tests. That was you then? Had a lot of fun watching the old farts scrambling around back trying to figure out whether to be offended or impressed.”

Aziraphale tried not to feel too smug, loving how full Crowley’s laugh was. His head felt a little fuzzy knowing he caused it. “I’m sure that was certainly a sight.”

“It was,” Crowley agreed. “I should’ve taken a picture of their faces and framed it on the wall. And here I thought you pulled some strings with the Dean."

Aziraphale’s smile quickly dropped, panic flaring. "I would never!”

Crowley just appeared nonchalant about it going either way. "Wouldn't be the first time someone has. You’d just be one of many legacy students here."

"But Eden has explicitly stated they'd stop giving preferences to Iegacy applicants,” Aziraphale urged. While he personally didn’t have anything against those types of students, he feared that Crowley would associate him with that group.

Crowley scoffed. "Eden can publish as many official statements as they'd like but that's not going to stop the admissions council from making biased decisions.”

“That’d be rather improper, wouldn’t it?”

“Very,” Crowley agreed. “But like hell they’re ever going to admit it.”

Aziraphale was going to deny it further before remembering how his brother used to preach about Eden’s long-standing reputation at family dinners. He was rather amazed Crowley was talking about a controversial topic so indifferently. That did give him a little bit more hope, however, that Crowley wouldn’t judge him too harshly for his own circumstances.

"I’d like to think the council knows better than to make biased decisions,” he tried justifying, grimacing all the while. “When they reached out to me, I did insist on being treated with the same level of consideration as a student without any internal connections at Eden."

“And why do you think they reached out to you in the first place?” Crowley asked, sounding so rhetorical that Aziraphale just sighed in resignation.

“They recognized my name and wanted to confirm my relations with Gabriel.”

"Then there you go.”

“I did insist that they consider my application package separately,” Aziraphale emphasized. “I’d like to think my scores and my application package earned me merits of my own.”

“I’m sure it did,” Crowley said, appearing to genuinely agree. “But all of that’s not going to change the fact that your brother's the Dean. And I bet money that it didn't change the council knowing that little fact either and making a decision based on it."

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. While it didn't sound like Crowley was accusing him of anything, this was exactly why Aziraphale wanted to keep his last name secret as long as he could.

He was painfully aware that blatantly rejecting the idea that his relations with Gabriel had nothing to do with his admission would be an awful lie to everyone and himself. But he didn't want it to come at the cost of trivializing the exhaustive work he put in to get those perfect scores.

"I don't believe you're wrong in thinking that,” Aziraphale said. “But I do intend to earn my degree through my own efforts.”

"I'm sure you will," Crowley agreed with more confidence than Aziraphale felt. "Personally, I could care less about how you got in as long as you care enough to be here and do a damn good job at it. Can’t exactly change an ancient, overrated admissions process of an equally ancient educational institution, but nothing pisses me off more than privileged students who come to Eden for nothing more than a shiny piece of paper.”

"I'm relieved you think so,” Aziraphale said in earnest.

He was starting to find comfort in the way Crowley would evidently drip venom whenever he spoke about something he didn't like or agree with. Seeing more instances of it only reassured Aziraphale that he had yet to be at the other end of that aversion.

Crowley didn’t even seem too bothered after confirming he was related to Gabriel. Rather, he had just seemed more concerned about whether Aziraphale was anything like him. For something that usually served as a point of shame to turn into a preferment returned some semblance of confidence back into Aziraphale. 

“Does Gabriel know you’re here?” Crowley asked.

"Oh, yes,” Aziraphale sniffed a little haughtily. “He reached out after I received my acceptance actually. I tend to avoid his calls, so he ended up leaving me a strongly-worded text instead. Something along the lines of reminding me not to soil the family name."

“Oh, I bet you won’t,” Crowley said, grinning like he was challenging Aziraphale to prove him wrong. He should’ve felt a little offended because he would never, but it did funny things to Aziraphale’s stomach, and he couldn’t do anything but smugly smile back.

"While on that note,” Aziraphale continued, the topic of their conversation rudely reminding him of Anathema’s earlier stunned expression, “I was wondering if you could do me a favour and not use my family name to address me in public. Based on our discussion, I'm sure you understand that I'd rather not be associated with the implication it carries. Not everyone is as understanding as you are."

Crowley huffed a laugh through his nose. "Yup, understanding. That's me alright. First name then?"

"If you don't mind.”

"Not at all.”

Aziraphale was trying not to grin like an idiot at the ridiculously charming smile Crowley was giving him when the loud sound of a repetitive intercom buzzer startled them both. Reaching into his jean pocket, Crowley tugged out his phone and answered it.

Trying to do the polite thing by pointedly not eavesdropping on a phone conversation someone sitting directly across from him was having, Aziraphale busied himself by taking a few bites out of his pie. But it was hard not to have all parts of his brain be drawn towards Crowley whenever he was in the vicinity, and so he carefully took his fill.

Aziraphale didn’t stop his eyes from lingering on Crowley's fingers as they held the phone by his ear. He had watched those fingers trace fire into the air and twirl around vines and leaves. He had seen how they firmly gripped the heavy plant pots and the edges of the tables he learned on.

The urge to know how those fingers would feel over his skin was forced back down by Aziraphale's last surviving sense of reason when Crowley hung up the call and let out an unhappy groan.

"Sorry to cut this short but I should go,” he sighed, moving to stand. "The guys back at my flat are threatening to drown my laptop if I don't head back with their promised coffee soon. Knowing them, they’ll do it.”

"Oh, of course!” Aziraphale stood with him out of courtesy, refusing to feel disappointed despite how obnoxiously loud it was. “No need to apologize, this was all forced on you last minute after all."

"Not forced," Crowley corrected firmly after sliding out of the booth to stand in front of Aziraphale. "I wanted to.”

Aziraphale only registered how close Crowley was to him when the lingering smell of coffee on Crowley’s breath brushed over him. Even through the dark lenses, Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s eyes piercing through him from the other side. The idea that they could turn people into stone didn't seem all that unlikely now.

The moment lasted all but half a second before Crowley shuffled further out between the tables and started gesturing to the till. "I'll just. Wrap things up. Stay all you'd like to, you know, finish the pie and whatnot.”

"Thank you again," Aziraphale said, defaulting to his manners like slipping into a well-worn shirt. "I'll see you on Monday?"

Crowley’s feet stopped, looking flustered for some reason. "Uh, for?"

"...Class? Herbology?"

"Right!" Then Crowley winced and quickly turned away with a graceful wave of his hand. "Monday."

It took about five minutes for Crowley to walk out the door with a tray of drinks, but only then did Aziraphale dare to sit with his back towards the shop again.  Letting out a haggard groan, he melted into his seat, trying to process what had happened. The half-eaten slice of apple pie taunted him.

Deciding that he needed some more time to himself to recover from all of that before calling Anathema, Aziraphale picked up his fork to finish off Crowley’s precious offering a little reluctantly. He only realized much later and much too late that they never got around to actually talking about his paper.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale tried not to wish the booth cushions would swallow him whole, but it was extremely difficult not to when he had three disbelieving pairs of eyes staring him down like some kind of alien specimen in a cage.

A waiter came over with their drinks, cheerfully describing them one at a time as he placed them on the table, completely oblivious to the thick silence that hung over the patrons like a guillotine. Only Aziraphale bothered to thank the boy, temporarily ignoring everyone’s owlish gaze to practice his manners.

Despite not being a fan of rowdy pubs, Aziraphale was glad Purgatory wasn’t spared the Friday night rush. His friends’ silence was much easier to bear amongst thundering music and conversations.

At least, Aziraphale hoped they’d still be his friends after breaking the news that his brother was the Dean.

Anathema cracked first.

"I knew it," she said, hitting the table with her palm and startling Newt into shutting his gaping mouth. "I didn't want to assume, but after you made that face at the coffee shop, I knew there had to be something more."

Maggie jumped to reassure him, shaking herself out of her shock. "It’s quite a surprise! But I still think you're here because you've earned it. It's not like you could choose which family to be born into or have a say in who your brother is."

Aziraphale nervously eased into a grateful smile, but before he could thank her, Anathema groaned into her drink. "I just wished you had told us sooner. I mean, I get why you didn't, but I wish I didn't have to get blindsided like that. I don’t like learning about people that way."

"I am sorry," Aziraphale said sincerely. "I wasn't very sure how to bring it up.”

"For the record," Anathema continued, pointing a finger at him, "I also don't care that your brother's the Dean. So what if the admissions council let you in because of that? It'll have nothing to do with you when you graduate at the top of your class and show them what for.”

Aziraphale didn’t even have time to be modest when Newt nodded from beside her. "It's your degree at the end of the day. And nothing changes the fact that you got perfect scores on your written exams."

"That's right," Maggie said resolutely. "I don't think it'd be fair to discredit yourself because of all this."

"But I'm still a little mad at you,” Anathema huffed. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us sooner.”

Newt tried reasoning with her. “We've technically only known each other for three weeks. He might've needed more time.”

"I never said I was being reasonable," Anathema quipped back, causing Aziraphale to fully smile.

He pushed Anathema's rum and coke towards her, meeting her heatless glare with a pacifying smile. "Perhaps if I buy you all a few more rounds, you could find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Anathema kept her eyes narrowed for another second before turning to Maggie. "I hope you're going to order the most expensive virgin cocktails tonight.” Then she turned to Newt. "Don't hold back either. I want a bill so big, Aziraphale's inheritance won't be enough to cover it.”

Aziraphale feigned a sorrowful sigh. "Looks like I'll be out on the streets by the end of the night."

Anathema cackled, a devious glint in her eyes and all previous grievances gone. "Don't worry. We'll adopt you."

But by the time they finished their first round, the pub had grown too crowded for them to easily wave someone down. One of the downsides to preferring a corner booth, Aziraphale supposed. Even Anathema’s outdoor voice couldn’t project through the thick layers of noise and bodies around them to grab someone’s attention.

Volunteering himself for the cause, Aziraphale shoved and slid his way towards the bar, trying and failing to wave down the bartender while being shoved around by bigger bodies and louder voices.  He was starting to grow extremely frustrated when a familiar voice tucked itself by his ear.

“What are you trying to get?”

Aziraphale snapped his head towards the voice, almost brushing noses with Crowley. He saw his eyes turn into saucers through the reflection on Crowley’s sunglasses.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale squeaked.

With a small twitch of the corner of his lips, like he found Aziraphale’s reaction either curious or amusing, Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Drinks?” he repeated over the crowd.

Aziraphale stammered out the order with a hurried thanks. Why was Crowley here? Not that Crowley couldn’t be here. The man had the right to be at a pub. Aziraphale even vaguely remembered Crowley saying something about liking Purgatory before.

But why was Crowley here?

This would be the second time Aziraphale’s unexpectedly come across Crowley and he wasn’t sure whether to feel giddy at the opportunity or frustrated that he never seemed to be emotionally prepared for it. Technically speaking, it was the third time they’d met like this if he counted their chance encounter on Botany Beach all those years ago.

Then any further thoughts flew from Aziraphale’s mind when Crowley suddenly leaned over him, chest pressing into Aziraphale’s arm to get to the counter and shout the order.

Almost instinctively, Aziraphale shrunk to make himself smaller to allow Crowley the space. But it was mostly because Crowley’s neck was suddenly a hair’s breadth away from his face. The few curls that fell out of Crowley’s loose ponytail dangled mockingly in front of Aziraphale’s eyes, and he watched, hypnotized, as the strands swayed from his shallow breaths.

Caught between wanting to press up further into Crowley’s body and lean further away before he did anything untoward, Aziraphale just froze and let his mind home in on the feeling of Crowley’s leather jacket against him, the firmness of Crowley’s chest, the sharp dig of a hipbone. It wasn’t like he could move further away even if he tried. The harsh dig of the counter in his back made sure of that.

Realizing that he wasn’t breathing, Aziraphale tried reminding his lungs to work, immediately regretting his decision to inhale when his nose flooded with the scent of Crowley’s aftershave and the earthy smell of leather.

Aziraphale suddenly felt faint, and maybe it was the lack of oxygen that caused him to reach out with the arm that wasn’t pinned down and grab Crowley’s arm.

“How long will you be here tonight?” he asked when Crowley pulled back slightly to look at him. And Crowley really had pulled back only slightly. Aziraphale was still very aware of the heat of Crowley’s chest against his hand.

“Knowing the boys, probably until closing,” Crowley answered, the soft gust of his breath making Aziraphale’s knees tremble somewhat.

“Let me buy you a drink later,” he ventured on instead. “To thank you for last week’s coffee. I’m just here with some friends at the moment.”

Crowley’s eyebrows briefly raised in surprise and was silent for so long that Aziraphale almost took the offer back before Crowley rewarded him with a small smile.

“Sure, I’ll be around,” he said just as Aziraphale heard the sound of drink glasses being placed on the counter behind him.

Aziraphale pushed himself away from the counter, fully expecting Crowley to react as well. But for whatever reason, Crowley didn’t move, and Aziraphale ended up fully pressed up into Crowley’s chest for the briefest moment. Crowley made a soft grunt from the impact and Aziraphale quickly withdrew as far back as the counter would let him, feeling his face burning.

“Oh, pardon me,” he stammered as Crowley moved a half-step back.

Afraid Crowley would see right through him, Aziraphale didn’t wait for a response and turned away to grab the drinks.  Against what was left of his rationality, he knew the feeling of Crowley’s chest pressed down into his would haunt his dreams for days.

But trying to hold four drinks at once wasn’t something Aziraphale was exactly experienced with, and the embarrassment of his struggles lasting far longer than he intended them to wasn’t making things any easier.

“Need a hand?” Crowley shouted over the crowd after a while.

Aziraphale nodded helplessly. “If you don’t mind. We’re just in the back.”

With two drinks each, Aziraphale led them through the crowd, distantly worried if he was going to give his friends an unwanted scare by suddenly appearing with a professor from the Faculty. He was proven right when all three pairs of eyes went wide at the sight of them approaching.

Aziraphale tried to put on his most reassuring smile. He seemed to be making quite a reputation for startling his friends and wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

As always, Anathema recovered first, another overly sweet smile on her face that rivalled the one she used at the coffee shop. “Mr. Crowley! What a coincidence to see you here.”

“Device,” Crowley greeted as he slid their drinks across the table.

“Hello Crowley,” Maggie said warmly with a little wave. “Here with your flatmates again, are you?”

Crowley cocked a shoulder up. “Yeah, it’s turned into a bit of a tradition now. They’ll be kicking and screaming at home otherwise.”

Aziraphale’s gaze flickered between the two, momentarily surprised at the familiarity before Newt stood up to offer out a hand.

“P-Professor Crowley,” Newt stammered. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Newton. Newton Pulsifer. I’ve heard so much about you from Professor Shadwell.”

Crowley spent a second too long looking down at Newt’s hand before ultimately returning the gesture with a curt shake.

“Pulsifer,” he mused. “Uh, yeah, I think I heard Shadwell ramble about you in the staff room a few days ago. And it’s just Crowley.”

Then Crowley turned to Anathema. “Drop the mister too.”

Anathema didn’t seem too bothered though and just said, “I’ll try,” which earned herself a scowl.

Aziraphale cleared his throat loudly to avoid Anathema starting another passive-aggressive face-off with Crowley. Witnessing those in class was hard enough.

“Crowley was kind enough to help me with our order and carry our drinks over. I believe some gratitude is warranted, don’t you?” Aziraphale pointedly stared at Anathema who just batted her eyes back at him.

Crowley just waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing to it. Have fun, drink responsibly and all that. See you kids around.” But before he turned to go, he leaned back towards Aziraphale’s ear. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

Aziraphale nodded, his ear tingling as he watched Crowley’s retreating back. Before he could even turn to his friends, Anathema grabbed the sleeve of his sweater and shook it.

“And what did that mean?” she asked, the look in her eyes crushing Aziraphale under its weight.

Aziraphale slipped out of her grasp with a withheld smile and slid back into the booth. “Well, after you so kindly forced the man into an impromptu meeting with me at the coffee shop last week, I thought it’d be rude if I didn’t make it up to him somehow by offering to buy him a drink.”

While Anathema made some horribly excited noises, Maggie used her straw to stir her drink around, her eyes thoughtful as she stared at nothing. “I’ve been thinking. I know you texted us that you’re still not sure if Crowley’s your childhood crush, but after seeing how Crowley’s been acting around you, I have this feeling that he does.”

“What makes you say that?” Aziraphale asked.

“He’s not usually this friendly to people,” Maggie continued, a smile too sweet to be teasing on her face. “I’ve heard rumours from the Recovery Department that he hates getting anything spontaneously sprung up on him, and he has a history of rejecting meeting up with students outside of school or working hours. But with you, he’s already agreed to it twice.”

Anathema grinned. “Maybe Crowley’s recognized you already.”

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves here. Nothing’s been confirmed and he hasn’t said anything that suggests it,” Aziraphale chided. “Besides, if he’s truly remembered, why hasn’t he said anything?”

Maggie hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. Although, does it matter too much whether he has?”

Aziraphale considered this. Originally, he wanted to confirm whether he and Crowley had a past to act as a sort of excuse to break the ice more easily, but Maddie did have a point. If he and Crowley have already broken past that initial barrier, was there still a reason to bring it up? Why bring it up to form a connection when a connection has already been made?

“But why would he treat Aziraphale differently if he’s not the guy he met years ago?” Newt asked.

“I can think of a lot of reasons,” Anathema answered around her straw. “Besides me, Aziraphale’s the most active student in our Herbology class, and unlike how he acts towards me, he actually seems like he enjoys answering Aziraphale’s questions.”

Then her smile turned sly. “And not only is Aziraphale curious, smart, and great at conversation, but he’s handsome too, so that’s certainly a bonus.”

Aziraphale clucked his tongue at her despite feeling his cheeks redden. “I don’t see how my looks have anything to do with this. It’s not like I’m hoping for anything more than friendship.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Anathema scoffed. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed already considering how you sit at the front of the class with that hungry look in your eyes.”

“Hungry—” Aziraphale choked mid-sip and started coughing the wine out of his lungs, his face burning something awful now.

Was he really that obvious? No, that wasn’t the point here. He didn’t look at Crowley like that, surely. Well, maybe he did, but maybe not to that extent, did he?

Aziraphale nervously glanced around the pub, praying that Crowley wasn’t within earshot.

While he coughed, Newt turned to Maggie. “Do you know if Crowley’s even interested in men?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Maggie admitted. “I’ve never even heard rumours about him dating anyone before, and people always assumed he was too prickly to be dateable. Although, I’ve heard that there are pictures of him wearing dresses to formal events back in his student days floating around social media somewhere.”

Aziraphale tried to interject, wine still stinging his throat. “I don’t think it’s our place to assume—”

“So he definitely isn’t straight,” Anathema declared with an absurd amount of unwarranted conviction. “If Crowley isn’t your guy, that means there’s a high chance he’s coming on to you instead. Now I’m actually starting to hope he isn’t your guy.”

“Honestly,” Aziraphale admonished after drinking some water. “Straight men are perfectly allowed to wear dresses without it implying anything as to their sexuality.”

“But those people are the minority!”

“And have you never considered that perhaps Crowley is just seeking companionship simply because of our similar ages and our shared interest in an academic subject?”

“Yes, and I’ve logically cancelled that out,” Anathema said with finality.

“You’re incorrigible,” Aziraphale huffed, rolling his eyes. Anathema just stuck her tongue out at him.

Maggie shook her head. “Crowley has plenty of opportunities to get along with other people, but he has a reputation for being a bit distant and difficult to get along with for a reason. He usually actively avoids getting close to people.”

“That just proves my point,” Anathema said, waving at Aziraphale’s face. “You’re either too enamoured to see his faults or Crowley’s dimming them down on purpose around you.”

“Or you’re so enamoured that you find his faults endearing,” Newt added unhelpfully to Aziraphale’s predicament.

“Whatever the case may be, I think it’s lovely either way,” Maggie said sweetly.

Aziraphale tried to change the subject, not wanting to continue speculating about Crowley’s sexuality regardless of how the possibilities secretly excited him. “Speaking of rumours, Maggie, have you worked with Crowley before? You seem familiar with his schedule.”

“Only slightly,” Maggie answered. “I’ve spoken to him about some of the articles he worked on back when he was completing his PhD in the department. He always avoided scheduling anything on Friday nights because he often came here with his flatmates.”

Aziraphale frowned. “PhD?”

Maggie nodded. “In Healing Magic.” Then she seemed to register their confused looks and made a little noise of realization. “Some of the other students who have been in the program longer than I have told me that Crowley was completing his PhD before he decided to get his Pyromancy master’s instead. No one’s really sure if it’s because he was kicked out or he willingly dropped out.”

“That explains the eight years on his biography then,” Anathema said, sharing a look with Aziraphale.

“Whatever happened, I hear it’s a touchy subject for Crowley,” Maggie continued. “If anyone asks, you didn’t hear it from me.”

Aziraphale turned to look around the pub again, trying to find a head of red hair as his chest filled with the desire to offer comfort. He wondered if that was why Crowley was always so adamant that no one called him Professor. Spending seven years on an uncompleted PhD was no small feat, and to then stack on another year for his Pyromancy masters?

If what the other students were saying is true, the eight-year gap suddenly made so much more sense.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale finished the rest of his wine and offered his friends another round. Rumours stayed rumours until he heard it straight from the person themselves. He wondered if Crowley considered him close enough to tell him.

Two more rounds of drinks later, Maggie decided it was time to head home to get some work done. Anathema had been reluctant to leave until she remembered that a certain professor was still waiting on Aziraphale’s company. Then she happily dragged Newt off to find other ways to occupy themselves for the night, sending Aziraphale on his way.

By the time he paid the tab and saw his friends out the door, the pub had emptied out considerably. All the tables were still relatively full and festive, but the bar was mostly empty and there Crowley sat, waving at Aziraphale, beckoning him over like he had been watching Aziraphale the entire time.

Crowley greeted him with a toothy smile while he propped his head up with an elbow on the counter. “Hi, Aziraphale. Finally sent the kids home, did you? Saved you a seat.”

The lights of the pub gleamed over Crowley’s black leather jacket, reflecting off the metal like winks. The shine seemed to travel lower and Aziraphale’s eyes went with it, his throat seizing when he noticed Crowley was wearing leather pants too.

It wasn't like the skinny jeans Crowley usually wore left anything to the imagination, but smooth leather that showed every stretch and crease of Crowley's thighs and hips completely eradicated any remaining need for it. Crowley was also holding his drink lazily in between his legs like a lazy arrow Aziraphale didn't need, causing Aziraphale to grip at the hem of his sweater to steady himself.

Oh dear. Maybe Anathema had been right about the way he looked at Crowley. Aziraphale just hoped Crowley couldn’t read his face as well as she could.

Aziraphale remembered to smile. “Hello, Crowley. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

Crowley shook his head. “Nah, it was about time I got away from the boys this late in the night. They’re either too plastered to be enjoyable company anymore or too busy dragging random strangers into the back for a quick shag to notice I’m gone.”

Aziraphale was glad he wasn’t drinking because he would’ve choked up a storm. “I see,” he managed to squeeze out, not appreciating how his head decided to make things difficult for him by conjuring up an image of Crowley doing something similar.

It didn’t help that he was imagining himself on the receiving end either.

“It’s a bit surreal to see you here,” Crowley went on. “I still wasn’t sure whether to take you seriously last time at the coffee shop when you said you went to pubs. Was a bit hard to imagine, but I guess I don’t have to anymore.”

He grinned and dropped his hand up and down Aziraphale’s cream jumper and dress shirt combination. “You fit right in.”

Feeling oddly complimented despite the obvious tease in Crowley’s voice, Aziraphale offered back a haughty look. Then he idly wondered whether Crowley was even remotely sober at this point. He didn’t seem to have any trouble holding a conversation, despite the slurred speech, but the compliments rolled off his tongue with so much ease, Aziraphale would’ve been shocked if Crowley wasn’t closer to drunk than sober.

“Really Crowley, you should know better than to make fun.”

Crowley straightened out of his slouch. “I’m not! Really! S’like I said last time, all neat and proper. S’a good look.”  

Perhaps not drunk but definitely past tipsy, Aziraphale mused to himself, feeling more delighted than he probably should have. Crowley looked so genuinely worried that he had taken him seriously that any remaining sass Aziraphale had left was promptly thrown out the window.

All things considered, one compliment from Crowley meant more than a lifetime of compliments from other people.

“Let me get you that drink I promised you,” Aziraphale diverted, waving down the bartender without difficulties this time. “What will you have?”

“Just another one of the same,” Crowley told the bartender as he raised up his half-empty tumbler while Aziraphale ordered his fourth glass of wine.

"You know, you're the only student so far that doesn't add something in front of my name,” Crowley drawled on. “S'great thing, that. No one else listened to what I said the first day.”

“It probably has to do with my age,” Aziraphale said, smiling at how Crowley looked rather disapprovingly at his choice of words even though he had meant it objectively this time. “And I don’t mean it negatively. I think the younger students just feel that being more formal is the safer choice.”

“It’s annoying, that’s what. Mister is tolerable, but Professor is just,” Crowley made a face before finishing very eloquently, “not.”

“You seem to feel very strongly about the whole Professor business,” Aziraphale commented. He didn’t want to pry, especially when the bitterness in Crowley’s voice basically confirmed what Aziraphale and his friends had suspected earlier that night. But he hoped he could hear the truth, whatever it was.

The sensitivity of the topic seemed to be confirmed by the way Crowley made another face at Aziraphale’s observation, and it was dark enough that Aziraphale almost immediately regretted following down this conversation.

“You’ve probably seen my profile. No PhD there to speak of. S’like a slap to the face every time I hear someone use that title in front of my name.”

Aziraphale tried to keep his tone light. “Do you want to obtain a PhD?”

“I already tried. Tried and burned for it,” Crowley scoffed, his tone turning even more acidic. “Spent seven years on that blasted thing only to get sent back for major corrections and toss years of work into the bin because it was unpractical and unrealistic and there was no way to correct anything without changing the whole thing.”

Aziraphale felt almost apologetic. Even though Crowley had willingly offered the information, Aziraphale couldn’t shake the feeling that it was like he bullied it out of him.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said softly, trying to offer the comfort he longed to give earlier that night. “You must’ve put a lot of work into it.”

The frown on Crowley’s face loosened slightly, but his sunglasses still focused on the drink coaster he was idly flipping in his hands. “S’fine now. All in the past. I try not to take it out on the students who don’t know any better, but…it’s not exactly something I enjoy remembering.”

As casually as Crowley shrugged, Aziraphale knew it was a way for Crowley to bury his true feelings back into the hole Aziraphale dug up.

“I understand,” Aziraphale said, hesitating before his urge to further reassure Crowley ultimately won. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe it makes you any less of a professor. You're still a university professor to me and, I'm sure, to many other students in the literal sense of the word. It makes no difference to me whether the person teaching the class has many degrees or none at all so long as they teach and teach intently.”

Aziraphale hadn't meant for his words to be anything but act as a way of an apology for picking at a nerve he seemed to have struck in Crowley but seeing Crowley's frown waver from momentary surprise into a small, lopsided smile gave him the delayed embarrassment that he may have just delivered a very forward compliment.

“You better not be buttering me up,” Crowley chuckled. The low rumble of it coming deep from Crowley’s chest made Aziraphale’s stomach do something funny.

“You made it very clear that doing so would be ineffective,” he softly replied.

Crowley took a sip of his drink, staring at its contents. “Just for class," he mumbled, barely audible. "Didn’t say it’d be ineffective elsewhere.”

The funny feeling in Aziraphale’s stomach clambered up to his lungs, but before he could think of something to say in response, Crowley breezed on forward, voice loud and purposeful like he wanted it to be a distraction.

“Speaking of titles, last week at the coffee shop. I realized I called you McFell when Device was there. Did she know? About you and Gabriel, I mean.”

Aziraphale shook his head, smiling at the memory of his panic now that it was over. “My friends and I came here tonight so I could explain it all to them. But no, Anathema wasn’t aware of my relations with Gabriel at the time.”

Crowley winced, hissing through his teeth. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. How did they take it?”

“It definitely came as a shock to them, but they were all very understanding about it all. Not unlike you, actually. And there’s no need to apologize,” Aziraphale reassured, finding their exchange of polite apologies humorous. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I tend to use last names on students because there’s usually a few that share the same first name,” Crowley explained. “Unless they’re siblings. But even then, I’ll just call them by their last names ‘cause I’m too lazy to remember their first names. I can barely remember anyone’s names unless they’re as persistent as you and Device.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me to stop asking so many questions in class?”

Crowley looked absolutely offended at that, mouth dropping open as he furiously frowned. “Don’t you dare. I look forward to those classes because of you.”

Aziraphale couldn’t stop a giggle. All these compliments were going straight to his head, and he would’ve reminded himself to be more modest had he been more sober. Three and a half glasses of wine in addition to Crowley’s company apparently cancelled out years of etiquette lessons.

“I’m grateful that that you humour my interrogations,” Aziraphale said. “Sometimes I feel a little guilty for it because it feels like I’m taking away from the other students’ experience.”

“If anything, you’re contributing to it. They’re welcome to join in on the fun too but considering how they’re always squished at the back and avoid my eyes like the plague, something tells me that they don’t give two shits.”

Crowley suddenly slapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Shouldn’t be swearing in front of a student.” Then it looked like he couldn’t bother caring anymore and any previous regret was promptly abandoned. “Eh, whatever. You’re all adults, who cares. You’re definitely an adult.”

“You don’t sound apologetic in the least,” Aziraphale laughed at Crowley’s unburdened grin. “Not afraid I’ll leave you a bad review?”

“Nah, you don’t seem like the tattling sort.”

Uncertain whether to feel flattered or a little offended, Aziraphale sniffed in mock offence. “Keep that up and I’ll become one.”

“There’s still time,” provoked Crowley. “Got another two months until I’m out. Make sure to forward it to me if you do get around to it.”

Aziraphale decided that he liked how much more Crowley seemed to genuinely smile when he had alcohol in his system. They certainly held the same amount of sarcasm and mischief as they did when the man was sober, but these were lively and so purely joyful that Aziraphale felt like he was witnessing something rare.

It made conversing with Crowley easy. It made Aziraphale feel proud for being able to do so without being so nervous for once.

But Crowley’s factual rehashing left him sighing a little sadly at his wine glass. “Time really does fly. We’re almost a month into the term already. Who will answer all of my questions once you leave?”

“Definitely not Bee,” Crowley laughed. “They’re great at what they do, but not someone I’d call a ray of sunshine. If you ask them questions at the rate you’ve been asking me every class, they’re going to end up throwing chalk at your face.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Looks like I’ll have two bad reviews to write this term.”

Crowley gasped in mock horror. “What a nightmare student. Bit of a bastard, you are.” Then he slapped another hand over his mouth. “Sorry, sorry. Really shouldn’t be calling a student that. I act like I don’t, but I do actually like my job if you can believe it.”

“I don’t actually mind,” Aziraphale reassured. And he really didn’t. Crowley had said it with so much affection it was practically an endearment. Aziraphale practically felt honoured. The fact that they were even able to tease each other this way was already far exceeding Aziraphale’s expectations.

“No, no, don’t say that. That’s just gonna enable me,” Crowley said, raising a hand at the bartender to order some water. “At this rate, all of my professionalism is good as gone…not that I had much to begin with around you actually now that I think about it. You’re not like the other students.”

Aziraphale froze, his friends’ suggestive teasing from earlier that night popping back up through the dirt like daisies “I’m…not?”

“It’s like you’re not a student. Well, I know you’re a student, but not really my student, but also, you don’t feel like a student. Feels different with you. Easy. S’nice.” Then Crowley frowned at something and promptly started chugging his water, which Aziraphale was glad for because he wasn’t sure he could hide the way his hammering heart had climbed its way up to his face now. He vaguely wondered if Crowley could read minds.

“Perhaps it was something to do with my age again,” he suggested weakly, falling back to the excuse he was quickly growing comfortable relying on.

Crowley didn’t seem to notice and just made an enthusiastic noise. “Must be. It’s like I’m just talking to a friend. Better than talking to the wall of undergraduates falling asleep in the back.”

Friend.

Aziraphale felt his heart sing and there was little he could do to stop it. In hindsight, it was a little silly to be reacting like he was watching the creation of the universe. He had bonded with his other friends without all of this emotional fanfare.

But this was Crowley, and whether Aziraphale wanted to admit it or not, Aziraphale knew that Crowley held a different part of his heart. For Crowley to be the one suggesting the potential of it made the roots of Aziraphale’s hope dig that much deeper.

He thought back to Maggie’s earlier comment. Maybe it didn’t matter whether Crowley was the same boy from his childhood after all.

"I feel the same," Aziraphale answered, soft around the edges. "Herbology won't be the same in your absence."

"I'm sure the students will agree that it'll be much better," Crowley joked, but Aziraphale tutted.

"I disagree. I rather think you'll be sorely missed."

Scoffing, Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Doubt it.”

“I, for one, definitely will,” Aziraphale reverently insisted before he could stop himself. Realizing he was leaving too much of his feelings out in the open, he quickly added, “Especially since it seems like Professor Zebub isn’t as open to answering questions as you are.”

But despite his attempts, Crowley visibly stilled, his snide expression faltering slightly as his gaze held Aziraphale’s. Then time seemed to start up again because Crowley cleared his throat and set his water down to switch back to his drink of choice.

"I'll still be around. It's a big building but I'm easy enough to find,” he said, looking down at his glass. Crowley’s mouth opened hesitantly. "Er, you're welcome to swing by with any questions Bee doesn't answer. Or anytime you need help with something, really. Not just office hours."

The unexpected softness in Crowley's tone made Aziraphale flush and he quickly looked down at his own drink, suddenly overwhelmed for some reason. He internally scolded himself for his reaction. It wasn't like he was being asked out on a date. He needed to get a grip. Crowley was just being generous. Friendly.

But the roots of hope gripped tighter around his heart. Crowley wasn’t this friendly to everyone, was he? Aziraphale selfishly hoped not.

Fixing his posture, Aziraphale willed himself to smile courteously. "That sounds wonderful, thank you. I’m sure I’ll take you up on your offer in the new term.”

If Crowley noticed Aziraphale’s internal turmoil, he didn’t show it, a small twitch of his lips the only hint that he liked the response.

The rest of their conversation went on smoothly, easily flowing between how Aziraphale’s classes were going and how Crowley was finding this year’s Pyromancy students. There was one particular student who seemed to be having trouble controlling the output of his flames, accidentally singeing the ends of a classmate’s hair earlier that week.

“But he has a good heart,” Crowley had said. “That’s what matters most.”

Aziraphale quickly realized that he loved watching Crowley talk about teaching just as much as he loved to watch the man teach, discovering how much enthusiasm Crowley hid behind the cold veil he wore when he usually taught. While Anathema had been right about Crowley’s snarky behaviour in class, Aziraphale was happy to find he had been right about Crowley’s intentions.

Crowley was certainly a sight when he was truly excited, reminding Aziraphale of how the teen in his memories had looked when he told him he had been accepted to Eden. Hands waved wildly, lean body swayed with enthusiasm, face bright even with the shield of his sunglasses.

Aziraphale wondered whether Crowley’s eyes sparkled just as much as they used to, just like the rest of Crowley did. Then he wondered why Crowley was hiding them.

Aziraphale had to smother the drunken impulse to ask why Crowley was wearing shades despite the dim pub lighting. If Crowley was wearing them despite all that, there was surely a good reason for it. A reason that was potentially just as sensitive as Crowley’s feelings toward his unfinished PhD.

The last thing Aziraphale wanted was to muck things up again when the night was going so well.

Another hour or so passed before Crowley excused himself to go to the toilets. Aziraphale poured out some water for the both of them in the meantime. He had polished off his wine some time ago and Crowley had nothing left in his tumbler but a melting block of ice. Any more to drink and Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could keep any deeper urges at bay, but he was reluctant to think this meant the night was nearing its end.

Then someone took Crowley’s seat, stirring Aziraphale out of his thoughts.

"What's a handsome gentleman like you doing in a place like this?"

A young man with dark curls and tanned skin smiled back at him. He was clearly under thirty and carried an air of arrogance that matched. The reality of seeing such a young face grinning so suggestively at him was so jarring that Aziraphale ended up checking over his shoulders to make sure it was him the boy was speaking to.

"Yeah, I mean you," the young man laughed, seeing Aziraphale’s confusion. "Mind if I buy you a drink?"

When Aziraphale’s brain finally caught up to him, he wasn't sure whether to be suspicious, flattered, or concerned. He eventually decided on all three.

"No, thank you, but that’s…generous of you to offer.” He eyed the boy’s hoodie which looked like some kind of educational institution Aziraphale didn’t recognize. Or maybe it was a sports team. “You do realize I'm most likely twice your age, don't you?"

The boy didn't seem at all bothered and, if anything, looked that much more interested.  “That’s why I asked.”

He said it with so much conviction and youthful confidence that Aziraphale found himself feeling appreciative for the effort against his better judgment. It hadn’t been the first time someone came onto him, but it had certainly been a long time since.

Just as he was about to continue politely rejecting the boy, however, a familiar leather-clad arm cut its way between them.

"Hello there, can we help you?” sneered Crowley, oozing with sugary sarcasm as he blocked Aziraphale off behind him.

Partially distracted by the smell of Crowley’s aftershave, Aziraphale heard the boy scoff. “You can help me by pissing right the hell off.”

Hearing Crowley’s low growl was enough to snap Aziraphale back to reality. He quickly put a hand on Crowley’s extended arm, applying gentle pressure to his elbow so it bent down enough for Aziraphale to peak over it.

He smiled kindly at the boy. “I’m flattered by your advances, but I’m not interested. And as you can see, I already have a previous engagement, and I do believe you’re taking up his seat.”

The boy didn’t hide his disappointment, glancing between Aziraphale and Crowley as if considering his chances before relenting. “I’ll be around if you get tired of this tosser,” he eventually decided. Getting off the seat, he shot Crowley a look and muttered something under his breath before he left the bar to go back into the crowd.

When Crowley took his seat back, any trace of his previous temper was gone, replaced by a wide grin as he tilted his head at Aziraphale.

"Called me a wet wipe." He barked out a laugh. "First time I've heard of that."

“Kids are certainly getting creative these days,” Aziraphale agreed with a light smile, still feeling a little dizzy from Crowley's protectiveness, regardless of where it came from.

Then Crowley seemed almost embarrassed, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Just to be clear, I don’t make a habit of picking fights with kids. But snotty brats like that just rub at me the wrong way. Probably see myself in them too much.”

“Are you saying you went around trying to chat up men twice your age as well?” The question came out before he could stop it and Aziraphale swiftly bit his tongue. Hard.

Of all the suggestive things his traitorous mouth could say! Teasing and sarcasm was one thing, but to breach into Crowley’s sexual preferences? Maybe Aziraphale needed to chug some water. Yes, water was a good idea. Maybe it was a good time to end the night after all. He was going to end up an open book desperately asking to be read at this rate.

But Crowley easily went along with it like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Never tried, but I definitely had a cocky enough attitude to try if someone dared me. Wasn’t one for manners as a teen. Thought the whole world was against me back then, especially during the whole PhD business.”

Well, that was curious. Aziraphale thought back to his memory of teen Crowley, someone he remembered as significantly less defiant than Crowley was currently making his past self up to be. Had he mistaken Crowley’s identity after all?

“What were you like as a teenager?” Aziraphale decided to ask.

Crowley snorted. “Imagine a more spiteful version of me today. I know. It’s hard. But I was a nightmare back then. Still studied the shit out of school ‘cause I was depending on scholarship money to keep me afloat, but that didn’t stop me from being a rebellious prick. Hated authority. Talked back to teachers. Asked questions until they sent me out of class. Yelled at people a lot.”

Aziraphale sympathetically nodded. “I’ve known many who went through similar emotions. If you don’t mind me asking, was there a reason behind all of it?”

Crowley looked at his glass of water on the counter with a complicated expression. “You could say that. Wasn’t always a little shit but…some stuff happened between me and my parents around the time I moved out for university, among other things, so it took a while until I pulled myself together again.”

“I see,” Aziraphale commented softly, unwilling to pull too much on that thread. Nothing Crowley said was contradicting Aziraphale’s memories, per say, but the possibility that Crowley lost much of the youthful wonder because of whatever happened since they saw each other last felt so much crueller. “I was never really close with my family so I’m afraid I’m a bit lacking on that front.”

“I guessed as much from our last talk,” Crowley said. “Is it because everyone in your family is like Gabriel?”

Aziraphale had to laugh. “You’re right on the money with that one. Everyone else seemed to get along fine with each other, but never me. My family was always comprised of proud people, so the fact that I placed considerably lower on the Proxy scale compared to everyone else made me stand out in all the wrong ways.”

Crowley’s nose scrunched up in distaste. “Your family definitely sounds like a medieval bunch, especially with the whole inheritance thing. Don’t tell me your parents were the type to silo you off into arranged marriages and all that too.”

“If they were still alive, I wouldn’t be surprised if they did. My eldest brother’s marriage was something close to it and I did hear of them trying to arrange something for my eldest sister before their passing too.” Aziraphale refilled his water and allowed an ungraceful snort to escape his nose. “Although, I doubt they’d have bothered with me, what with my low Proxy score and all that. In that regard, I’m grateful for my low score. I wouldn’t have been able to experiment in my youth as much as I did otherwise.”

Crowley spat his mouthful of water back into his cup and roughly coughed a few times before a laugh erupted from him. “Bit of a wild thing, were you? Went around breaking a few hearts, did you?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Nothing of the sort. If any hearts were broken, it was purely accidental.”

Crowley’s smile curved into something more wicked if that was even possible. “I highly doubt that. Did you see the face that kid had earlier? Pretty sure you broke a heart there with full intention.”

Then Crowley’s face pulled down into something like concern, his previous brightness vanished. “Oh, uh. Now that I think about it, were you…Did I interrupt—”

“Oh, goodness no!” Aziraphale rushed to reassure after realizing what Crowley had suggested with a start. “Heavens, no. He was much too young for me. I always preferred men closer to my age.”

Then Aziraphale closed his mouth with a snap. It seemed particularly disobedient tonight because what on earth was he thinking, just volunteering that information like it mattered in any way? The water clearly hadn’t done a thing, chugged or otherwise.

“A-anyway, I was surprised he was even interested in someone like me,” he said in an attempt to away from the situation he put himself in.

But Crowley didn’t seem to be perturbed at Aziraphale’s floundering. Instead, there was now a look on his face that either suggested he was ready to make fun of Aziraphale or that he was something like relieved.

Aziraphale credited the latter to his own wishful thinking and went with the first. Why would Crowley, of all people, be relieved about any of the stupid things he blurted?

"Kids are into all sorts of things these days,” Crowley pointed out, tone too even for Aziraphale to deduce anything more until he said, “Not too surprised you’d get chatted up often."

Aziraphale tried not to think too hard about what that meant and laughed a little nervously. “Well, this was actually a first for me. At least, in a long while. Didn’t even have half a brain to react properly, it’d been so long.”

Crowley stared at him with a frown. “You’re joking.”

His obvious expression of disbelief wasn’t what Aziraphale expected, and he struggled to come up with a response. “Well, when I was younger, perhaps, but I barely leave the house anymore for there to even be other opportunities. And I don't exactly fit current societal standards of beauty."

"Oh, fuck those," Crowley muttered. “You exceed them.”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw to prevent it from falling open, failing to ignore how his chest seized up in excitement at the implications behind Crowley’s words. "T-thank you. Yes, well, needless to say, tonight was an interesting surprise. But certainly nothing you need to feel bad about.”

"Good,” was Crowley’s curt reply before his body jolted. "Uh, I mean, glad I didn’t end up sticking my nose where it didn't belong. Wouldn’t want to stop you from…a good time, or something."

"No good times were ruined, I assure you,” Aziraphale insisted, smiling. “I was having a much more enjoyable time in your company and I’m grateful for the save.”

Crowley’s lips quirked up into a small smirk. “Anytime.”

They were in the middle of picking up where they had left off in their previous conversation when a man slinked over to Crowley’s side and slung an arm around his shoulders, putting his full weight on him with a drunken smile stretched across his face.

“Crowley!” the man slurred as he shouted his order at the bartender. “Whatcha doin’ over here, mate? Come back and join us! We found a great group to have fun with. Some swing both ways, s’great for you!”

Crowley groaned and tried to shove the man off him. “Eric, get off me, you drunk. Not interested.”

Eric, who Aziraphale quickly deduced was one of Crowley’s flatmates, seemed to realize Crowley had company and gave Aziraphale a very obvious and unfocused once over.

“Ooh,” he cooed. “Already found yourself a date, did you? Well, don’t let me get in the way. Don’t be afraid to put on a show if you make it home.” Grabbing his drink, Eric waltzed away, leaving Aziraphale to feel like he had just gotten swallowed up and spat out by some kind of typhoon.

“Sorry ‘bout him,” Crowley sighed once they were left alone. “He and the others can get a little out of hand when they’re drunk.”

Aziraphale smiled as calmly as he could. He had originally offered Crowley a drink to repay him for coffee regardless of whether or not it had come from Crowley’s pocket, but did Crowley consider this a date? Was he considering it to be a date?

He pulled his manners out of his mental turmoil. “No harm done. I’ve seen my fair share of inebriated individuals throughout my years. It seems you’re quite close with your flatmates.”

“In our own way,” Crowley said, shrugging. “We’ve shared the flat for a long time now, but I couldn’t tell you where they’re from or what they like to do outside of the house even if you paid me.”

“Is that a normal occurrence between flatmates?” Aziraphale asked in surprise. “I would’ve thought you’d be closer considering how long you’ve all lived together.”

Crowley made a disagreeing noise in his chest. “You don’t have to know a person’s whole history to be close to someone. What matters is that we’re able to share a drink with each other, have a good time, argue about chores, try not to piss each other off and all that.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t believe it’s the same. I believe friends should share something deeper. Care for each other. Be curious about each other.”

Crowley was shaking his head in such a way that Aziraphale felt like his notions of friendship were strange. “Not with my friends, we aren’t. The boys don’t ask questions, and I don’t ask much either. But we get along just fine.”

“What about when one of you has some sort of personal difficulty you need someone to talk with?”

“Oh, yeah, we complain about stuff to each other. S’great.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Aziraphale pressed, unsure whether to feel more confused or concerned. “When you need a shoulder to lean on, I mean. Someone to listen to you and be there for you.”

Crowley frowned like he’d never heard of such a concept. “No, we…we don’t do that. We don’t need it.”

“Everyone needs it.”

“I’ve been fine without it,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale was starting to wonder if that was true as Crowley shrugged. “People have different standards for friendship. What you’re suggesting almost sounds like something…more than that.”

Frowning, Aziraphale looked off to the side to consider Crowley’s words. He couldn’t imagine what it was like not getting to know his friends thoroughly. It didn’t need to happen all at once, but wasn’t it good to just know?

He didn’t know everything about Anathema or Newt or Maggie, but they had all taken turns exchanging stories about their lives leading up to the present. It felt rewarding to know he was trustworthy of their thoughts just as he trusted them with his.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Crowley said, waving a dismissive hand and smirking at whatever conflicted expression Aziraphale was sure he had on his face. “If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it.”

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” Aziraphale explained. “I’m just trying to understand.”

“Save that for class. Life’s too complicated to understand. Trust me, I’ve tried.” Crowley pointed to the ceiling, or likely, what was far beyond it. “Every time I try to think about personal stuff, it just gets me into more trouble. I like to think someone’s up there watching over me, but I’m also pretty sure they like playing games with my life just so they can watch it like a sitcom.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That’s a rather grisly optimistic way of looking at things.”

“At least it’s still optimistic.” Crowley stirred the melting ice cube in his cup with a smooth motion of his wrist that Aziraphale was struggling not to get hypnotized by.

He looked down at his hands instead. The way Crowley said it all had felt rather…sad. He spoke about his values like he’d been forced to accept them and didn’t think that he could benefit from anything different.

As if sensing his internal debate, Crowley leaned towards him slightly to get his attention. “You’re thinking about something, I can smell it.”

Before Aziraphale’s wine-addled mind could digest how it was possible for Crowley to smell his thoughts, he seized his courage and looked up to meet where he thought Crowley’s eyes were, trying not to let his reflection on the dark lenses deter him.

“I was just thinking that…while our perspectives on friendship differ, I do want you to know that if you ever need someone to lend an ear or to be there to support you through anything, just know that I would be happy to do so.”

The easy smirk on Crowley’s face froze in place and twitched into something more nervous under Aziraphale’s gaze. Just as Aziraphale was about to default back into a safer conversation topic, Crowley looked away and a few choked words came out of him.

“You— I mean, yeah, sure, thanks. I’ll—” Crowley swallowed before he sniffed and cleared his throat. “Want another glass? On me.”

It took a second for Aziraphale to follow the wayward stream of their conversation, and it was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but he was pretty sure he saw Crowley’s cheeks darken in colour.

Aziraphale’s heart unhelpfully flipped over his ribs. “Do you plan on staying?” he asked, fully aware of how eager he sounded.

Crowley looked up. “I’m not planning on going anytime soon.”

Perhaps more alcohol wasn’t the best idea. Perhaps staying any longer, more alcohol or not, would only mean letting the hope in his chest fester into something unmovable.

But Crowley’s company was wonderful, and he was giving Aziraphale a different sort of smile. One that softened out the harsh frowning and emphasized the fine lines by the corner of his eyes. One that was almost shy and so frightfully endearing that Aziraphale could do nothing but fall towards Crowley like repeated ocean waves on sand.

So Aziraphale smiled back.

“Then neither am I,” he said.

Maybe alcohol wasn’t the best idea, but spending more time with Crowley wasn’t a bad one.

Chapter Text

There really was no need to be antsy. At least, that’s what Aziraphale was trying to tell himself as he stood outside a closed office door that had ‘ANTHONY J. CROWLEY’ etched on the nameplate.

The two of them have had several exchanges both in and out of class by now, one of which included the lovely time they had at the pub last week, so Aziraphale knew he was being rather ridiculous for feeling this way.

And yet, his heart and hands refused to still.

To prevent himself from pacing, Aziraphale sat himself down on one of the lounge chairs across the hall, pushed up against the floor-to-ceiling windows. He stared out into the front courtyard, tracing his eyes over the manicured trees, trying to still the hands twisting the hem of his coat.

He kept glancing towards Crowley’s door, checking his pocket watch again. Still ten minutes left until their appointment. With a bit more force than what was necessary, Aziraphale stuffed it back into his pocket.

This wasn’t nervousness, he reluctantly realized. It was anticipation. Excitement.

Perhaps being early wasn’t a virtue for once.

Last Friday's pub encounter ended with the two of them chatting until closing, and even then, Aziraphale had sensed that neither of them wanted to leave. In the end, they took turns shuffling around a few parting words out in the street before Crowley’s flatmates dragged him off into their plastered hurricane.

He remembered the way Crowley had looked back over his shoulder. Something like an apology and hope on his face. But it was too dark to clearly tell, and considering the amount of alcohol he had in his system by then, Aziraphale had brushed it off as wishful thinking.

But what was he to do, invite Crowley back for a nightcap? It would’ve been much too forward and inappropriate, wouldn’t it? But Aziraphale couldn’t deny the disappointment he felt for not doing so.

But then he remembered he had to go and make that bold offer to Crowley about being a shoulder to lean on and whatnot. Just remembering his choice words (not to mention the other accidental flirtations he sprinkled throughout the night) made Aziraphale want to find the nearest hole to bury himself in.

Crowley had made it clear that Aziraphale’s basic standards for friendship were much higher than his. And yet, he went ahead and offered that level of intimacy despite knowing this. He had practically asked Crowley out.

Leaving his coat and briefcase on the lounge chair, Aziraphale stood and decided to pace anyway. There had to be something around to temporarily distract him, surely.

He looked around the corridor. At the dark wood of the ceiling beams and the royal purple and gold of the carpet.

It wasn't the first time he'd visited the faculty wing. Gabriel's office was on the floor above him, and it looked identical to the one he was on now. It brought a strange mix of feelings to his stomach as he tried to marvel more at the smudge-less mirrors, polished stone columns, and dust-free tables. There was familiarity from it all, but with that familiarity came the inherent sense of unsettlement.

And even that was familiar.

Aziraphale unconsciously twirled the ring on his pinky with his family’s crest, trying to ignore the spike of anxiety he felt.  

While Aziraphale always preferred being surrounded by books and antiques he'd collected over the years, his choice of comfort had never garnered his parents' approval. It was one thing to be subjected to countless lessons and discipline (only to find a sliver of gratefulness for them years later), but Aziraphale could never get behind his family's desire to keep things pristine. The surgical serialization of it all was suffocating.

Aziraphale smoothed his hands over the waistcoat he had decided to wear today, relishing how the patchy velvet near its hem felt under his palms. There was comfort to be found in things visibly loved and treasured. It required so much more care than most people bother giving to anything these days.

He loved his collection just as they had been loved. He felt as if he could live vicariously through them and the imperfections, the wear, and dusty parts. The faded colours, the lingering scents, and the hidden stories. Whether it was by him or others, Aziraphale enjoyed surrounding himself with things so obviously loved.

And deep down, he hoped that maybe one day, he'd be able to experience it for himself. Maybe one day, he'd feel like he'd belonged among them.

Letting his heart descend into something more manageable, Aziraphale pulled out his pocket watch and went back to gather his belongings, approaching Crowley's door a few seconds past noon. If he was left alone with his thoughts any longer, he wasn't sure he'd be good company anymore.

He only knocked once when the door suddenly tore open with so much force that Aziraphale almost stumbled forward from the rush of air. He was glad he had been steady on his feet because all it would've taken was one step for his nose to touch Crowley’s.

Neither of them expected the sudden proximity and both of them jumped back.

"Christ," Crowley hissed, gripping the door handle for dear life.

"So sorry!" Aziraphale yelped. "I wasn't expecting— I didn't mean to—”

"No! No, no, sorry, it's my bad. My fault.” Crowley’s body relaxed with a large sigh as a hand pushed up his sunglasses, slightly skewed from how violently he had recoiled. "It's just. You were late so I— Maybe you couldn't find my office and I thought I'd be better if I waited out in the hall for you."

Aziraphale checked his pocket watch again with a little frown. It had just ticked a minute past noon. And from a quick glance at the wall clock, he could see over Crowley's shoulder, his watch wasn't running behind either.

There came a disbelieving laugh before he could follow that trail of thought further.

“You carry a pocket watch?"

He looked back to see Crowley smirking at him. "It's frightfully outdated, I know, but I do believe it's still fully functional.”

"As is the tartan?" Crowley asked, pointing at Aziraphale’s bowtie.

"Tartan's stylish.”

"Only because you make it so," Crowley said easily, which really didn’t help settle the state of Aziraphale’s stomach. Before he could say he thought Crowley would look delightful in tartan, however, Crowley reached behind his door to grab his coat, stepped out, and locked the door behind him with a shuffle of keys.

“Did you have lunch yet?” he asked as Aziraphale stared blankly at the door handle. His brain was still reeling at how he almost suggested what clothing Crowley would look good in.

“No, I was going to have it after our meeting,” he finally answered after a hard swallow.

"Well, let's have lunch, hm?" Crowley gestured down the hall and began walking without waiting for an answer.

Aziraphale found himself following those slender legs before his mind could fully process what was happening. He was sure there wasn’t any alcohol in his system, but why was he still finding it so difficult to keep up?

"Are we not having our meeting?" Aziraphale asked, slipping on his coat when Crowley did as they walked down the chiselled stone stairs.

"We are. We're just going to do it over some lunch." Crowley opened the side door for him when they reached the ground floor. "You're not going to deny me some substance, are you?”

"Of course not, but..." Aziraphale wasn’t sure what came after. The words that never existed never came.

He slipped out the door first but waited for Crowley to take the lead as they walked, unsure of where exactly they were going.

"So, what's for lunch?" Crowley asked as they neared the street.

Aziraphale shoved his confusion into a box to unpack later. "What are you in the mood for?"

Hooking his thumbs onto his belt loops and cocking up his shoulder in a way that made Aziraphale's throat tighten, Crowley was grinning by the time Aziraphale dragged his eyes up and away from the silver belt buckle. "Something not appropriate for work hours so let's do this instead. What were you planning to have after our meeting?"

"Crêpes,” Aziraphale blurted, praying Crowley hadn’t noticed his ogling. It was the first thing that came to mind aside from wanting to hook his own fingers around Crowley’s belt loops.

It technically wasn't a complete lie. Crêpes were among the contenders when he considered his lunch options earlier that day.

"Really? For lunch?" Crowley asked in a way that made Aziraphale almost feel defensive. And he actually would’ve been if it wasn’t for the wobbly things Crowley’s smirk was doing to his gut. Spontaneity aside, crêpes seemed like a perfectly wonderful thing to have for lunch.

"Yes, actually, unless you have other suggestions,” he replied. “There’s a new shop that opened recently that I wanted to try. Although, it is a few blocks out.”

Crowley moved his sharp shoulders in another shrug. "Fine by me. Could do with a walk. I've got nothing planned until my class at three."

Aziraphale smiled. "My next class is at two, but we should still have plenty enough time to walk there and back."

"Lead the way then, esteemed student of Eden.” Crowley swept a dramatic arm forward and Aziraphale had to laugh. A fan of theatrics, Crowley was.

They chatted idly as they walked through the streets of London, Crowley following Aziraphale’s lead. The streets of London were never quiet during the day, but Aziraphale found the world wonderfully silent in Crowley’s company. It didn’t mean they were immune to the occasional blare of a horn or get knocked into by uncaring pedestrians, but with a subtle wave of his hand, Aziraphale made sure that no one and nothing else would rudely invade Crowley’s space again for the rest of the walk.

As Crowley updated him about the student in his Pyromancy class (he had accidentally burnt his presentation script in front of the class on Monday), Aziraphale enjoyed how the autumn wind whipped through Crowley's half-pulled-up hair. The meagre glow of cloudy sunlight was still able to set even his darkest strands ablaze. It looked like the haze of a desert sunrise and almost instinctively, Aziraphale walked closer to Crowley, searching for warmth, as he wrapped his coat tighter around himself.

Aziraphale only stopped admiring Crowley’s features when they reached the crêpe shop. Making sure he was one step ahead of Crowley, he opened the door for him and gestured him in with his own sweep of the hand, earning him a smirk for his troubles. He then followed Crowley to the till.

"It's my first time here so I'm not sure what they have," Aziraphale commented, eyes scanning the menu. "Oh, but the classic strawberries and cream looks scrumptious."

"Sure,” Crowley agreed, reaching into his coat to pull out his wallet. "Why don't you find us a table and I'll bring it all over?"

“Oh! No, please, I couldn’t—” Seeing his intent to pay, Aziraphale quickly reached out a hand to stop him, only to freeze right before his palm touched Crowley’s arm. Suddenly very conscious about how familiar his movements were, Aziraphale drew his hand back, forcing himself to finish his thoughts before the pause grew into awkward silence. "I’m more than happy to pay for myself. I couldn't possibly let you treat me again."

Crowley just smiled as if Aziraphale hadn’t gone through three seconds of internal conflict. "Reimbursements for mentorship meetings and such, remember? Technically, the University's paying for both of us so don't worry and just help us find a table, yeah?"

Aziraphale worried his bottom lip, searching for any signs on Crowley’s face that might've suggested he was being insincere, giving in when he couldn't.

"Very well. Thank you,” he said, returning Crowley's smile with one of his own. "I’ll treat you to another drink sometime then.”

The shop hadn’t reached peak lunch hour rush yet, seeing as how they beat it by about three-quarters of an hour, but it was still much more crowded than Aziraphale hoped for. The shop wasn't intended to be a sit-down restaurant, so with the sparse amount of tables already taken, he had no choice but to claim two of the highchairs by the shop's front window.

Glancing suspiciously at the high table’s surface, Aziraphale decided against taking off his coat and just carefully placed his briefcase on his lap instead as he sat. Looking out onto the bustling London street, Aziraphale could faintly see Crowley’s dark shape reflected on the glass. Just as he was feeling a little disappointed that he wouldn't be able to openly appreciate the man this way, Aziraphale sternly reminded himself that, unlike their previous encounters, today was a formal meeting.

It just happened to overlap with Crowley’s lunch hour, that’s all. Just like how Aziraphale just happened to notice the way Crowley would switch sides to position himself between Aziraphale and the street. It was also purely incidental that he saw Crowley’s hand come up behind his back whenever there were puddles or obstacles on the street as if trying to guide him out of the way—

Crowley arrived with their order on a tray and set it down between them, handing Aziraphale his strawberries and cream and a steaming cup. "Noticed you have a bit of a sweet tooth, so I got you an Earl Grey to wash it all down. You take it with milk, right?"

...Aziraphale was determined to convince himself that there definitely wasn’t anything special or domestic about how Crowley remembered how he took his tea, even as his heart swelled painfully in his chest.

"Yes...thank you," Aziraphale said, hearing the roughness of his voice and trying to discreetly clear it by taking a sip. Then he noticed Crowley's to-go box in the tray. "Are you not eating?"

"Yeah, I’m not too hungry right now so I’ve ordered for later," Crowley explained as he lifted up his large mug while he squeezed into his seat, their shoulder briefly bumping into each other. "Needed the caffeine more. But no need to hold back for my sake."

Aziraphale wasn’t sure caffeine counted as the substance he had in mind, but Crowley’s mind seemed to frequently categorize things differently. "Well, alright, if you insist. But I do suggest eating crêpes when they’re freshly made. They could turn soggy after.”

Crowley let out a short laugh, the scent of coffee softly floating between them from his breath. “That’s exactly what the lady at the till said. Are you sure you don’t work here?”

“I don’t have to work in the food industry to have standards,” Aziraphale noted.

“Right, I remember you saying that at the pub,” Crowley replied, practically snickering. “And yet you can’t cook anything beyond eggs on a hob.”

The swelling in his heart turned into goo as Aziraphale found himself trapped between feeling delighted Crowley remembered the little details he offered about himself and embarrassment that he did. He huffed in feigned indignation.

“Perhaps I made a grave mistake in telling you all of this information about myself. All I’ve seem to have done is give you more ammunition to poke fun at me.”

“No, no! No poking fun here,” Crowley quickly defended but looking far from sincere, his grin only growing wider. “Just restating the facts, aren’t I? It’s great, tell me more.”

“At this rate, you could write my biography if I give you any more details,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head sarcastically as he turned to his food.

He ignored the tiny, hopeful voice inside him suggesting that Crowley’s curiosity potentially meant he was edging closer to Crowley’s “something more.” For someone who claimed needing to know more about people was unnecessary for friendship, Crowley was certainly showing quite a bit of unexpected interest.

Aziraphale drowned that voice with another gulp of tea, trying to think of an alternative to Crowley just watching him eat instead.

He hovered his hands over the buckles of his briefcase. "Shall I show you my notes then? Perhaps you could have a look at it while I eat to save some time."

"You put that thing down,” Crowley said, looking more appalled than anyone had the right to at the thought of working and eating at the same time. "We have time for all that later. Eat."

"You know, the last time you implied that you weren't pressed for time, we ended up not talking about my paper at all,” Aziraphale said, picking up his utensils regardless.

"I technically wasn't, but my laptop was being held hostage. It was my work laptop too, and I didn’t want to get it cut from my paycheck if anything happened to it.”

"And are there any other important items that might be subject to a kidnapping today?"

"None whatsoever. I'm all yours for the next...” Crowley checked his watch, a sleek, black, modern slab on his wrist. "Hour and a half-ish.”

Forcing down another smile using sheer willpower, Aziraphale cut into his crêpe a little too forcefully, feeling the knife grind down into the plate.

He thought he’d gotten used to Crowley’s allusive phrasing after spending hours bantering with him at the pub, but at the rate Aziraphale felt his ears starting to sting with a blush, he guessed he wasn’t as immune as he thought he was.

“I do hope we have enough time to get to it,” Aziraphale went on saying. “I enjoy savouring my food, but I have been told I’m a slow eater because of it.”

Jutting his bottom lip out indifferently, Crowley raised his mug to take a sip. “Take all the time you need. I don’t think any paper talk is going to take very long anyway.”

Something about his tone made Aziraphale frown. “And why’s that?”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t grade your papers, remember? I’m just here as Bee’s middleman. They’re the one that needs to approve your proposal.”

“Yes, I’m quite clear that it’s Professor Zebub’s name on our syllabus,” Aziraphale replied, still confused.

“There you go then,” Crowley said like the puzzle had been solved. “The only reason I’m having these meetings is to write everything down and it pass along to them when they’re back. There’s usually not a lot of talking unless students have questions about the logistics of it all. Not very useful in the long run.”

Aziraphale didn’t like the implication in Crowley’s choice of words. “On the contrary, I’d argue that I very much think this meeting will be quite useful. I’m having trouble pinning down a topic and was hoping we could have a deeper discussion about some ideas I’ve had. I would appreciate your opinion and any advice you’d be willing to give me.”

Crowley set his mug down, his eyebrows lifting. “You want my advice?”

Aziraphale’s frown deepened. “Yes?”

He wasn’t sure what he said to have caused Crowley to wear such an obvious look of disbelief, but the pause stretched on long enough for him to grow increasingly confused about why it did. Did he say something strange? Did students not ask their professors for advice?

He couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes, but he was sure they were studying him. What for, he had no idea, but Aziraphale made a conscious effort to show nothing but sincerity on his face.  

After a few more seconds ticked by, Crowley’s expression flattened into something more pensive as he turned to stare at his mug. “You’d be among the select few who do.”

Then a second later, his trademark sarcastic grin was back on his face, looking at Aziraphale like that flash of something solemn never happened.

But Aziraphale knew a practiced smile when he saw one, especially since he already knew what Crowley’s genuine smile properly looked like. Even without that piece of knowledge, Aziraphale had seen that smile on his own face before. It usually meant there was something else lurking beneath the surface, purposefully buried and ignored, and seeing it on Crowley’s face made his chest ache with the desire to soothe away whatever started it. He wondered if it had something to do with Crowley’s parents or the “other things” Crowley had mentioned last week.

Feeling disrespectful if he stared any longer, Aziraphale turned back to his crêpe, cutting up a few more pieces for convenience and trying to keep his tone light. “I’d happily be among them. I consider myself to be a good judge of character, you know?”

Crowley grunted. “People can make mistakes.”

Aziraphale made sure Crowley saw the look on his face which meant he didn’t like what Crowley was suggesting. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I do,” he said decisively.

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, looking either embarrassed or apprehensive. Maybe both.

“It’s not that I mind,” he explained. “Flattered, really. But I’m sure you’ll be fine without my input. And you’ll have Bee. Their input’s what matters.”

Aziraphale shook his head, still feeling disgruntled that Crowley was stubbornly undermining himself. “Simply because they’re my supervisor? No, I think I’ll do very poorly without your help. Of course, I’ll have discussions with Professor Zebub in due time, but since you’ve made it clear that I won’t be able to pester them as much as I can pester you, I’m afraid you’re the next and only name left on my list.”

Aziraphale’s attempts to convince Crowley in a more roundabout, facetious manner seemed to do the trick because he was rewarded with a small, soft smile. One that was closer to the real deal.

Crowley’s tone, however, stayed sardonic. “I’m surprised you’re this worried. If you were able to demolish Eden’s exams, a research paper’s going to feel like primary.”

“As well as I did on the written exams, I’m afraid my paper writing skills are a little rusty,” Aziraphale disagreed. “Any advice you can think of right now?”

Intending to give Crowley some time to think, Aziraphale finally took the first bite of his crêpe. And, oh, it tasted divine.

He closed his eyes, savouring the delicious mix of fresh cream and strawberries in his mouth. The milky taste washed over his tongue like a luxurious bath and was perfectly balancing out the slight acidity of the fruit. The buttery shell, fragrant with vanilla, swirled everything together like one intoxicating harmony of flavours.

Content and in his happy place, Aziraphale momentarily let his senses drift away to relish the experience before he noticed that Crowley had gone uncharacteristically quiet beside him. He turned to find Crowley staring, his lips slightly parted.

“Is there something on my face?” he asked, using a napkin to dab around his mouth.

Jolting like he had forgotten how to move, Crowley reached for his coffee cup a little wildly as he cleared his throat. “N-no, you’re fine. Nothing there.”

Aziraphale frowned at the strain in Crowley’s voice. “Everything alright?”

“Peachy,” Crowley said into his mug.

That did nothing to ease Aziraphale’s concerns, but he decided against pressing the issue despite how fast Crowley was chugging his coffee. He rephrased his question instead.

“So how difficult would you say writing my paper is going to be? Anything I should plan for if I want to potentially use the topic for my thesis?”

“It’s usually not the writing that’s tricky,” Crowley said, lowering his mug to glare into it. “It’s, uh— you know, coming up with a novel idea or finding enough evidence to back it up that most students struggle with.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” Aziraphale forked in another bite as Crowley tipped his head back to drink more. “Was it hard for you?”

There suddenly came a loud choking noise as Crowley coughed into his mug, coffee splashing all over the rim before he slammed it back onto the counter and coughed violently into his elbow. Startled, Aziraphale quickly passed him some napkins, which Crowley urgently took.

“Goodness, are you alright?” he asked.

“Yup, fine,” Crowley croaked out after coughing into the napkins a few more times for good measure. He wiped off his hands and coat, grimacing. “Drank too fast. Sorry. W-what— uh, what was your question again?”

Aziraphale smiled sympathetically. Crowley’s face had gone red from the coughing fit, the poor man. “I was just asking if you shared the same difficulties back when you wrote your degrees.”

"Er, yeah. But no.” Crowley cleared his throat with some difficulty as he looked off somewhere to the side. “I personally never had any problems coming up with ideas. Too many ideas and questions, me. It was the research bits I found hardest. Not enough work already exists in the field for me to use as proof."

"That does sound challenging,” Aziraphale commented. “May I ask what your theses were about?"

"Phoenix flames for my Pyromancy master’s. They're said to be extinct, but that’s how I started experimenting with combining my Attributes.”

“That’s marvellous!” Aziraphale gasped, putting down his utensils to give Crowley his full attention. “Is the paper published somewhere? I'd love to read it."

There was no hiding the embarrassment on Crowley’s face. "Nng, yeah, I'm sure if you dug around enough, you'll find it online.”

“I’ll make sure to find time for it then.”

"I wouldn’t go that far. I'm sure you have better things to do," Crowley said, sounding very convinced Aziraphale did.

"Not at all,” Aziraphale exclaimed. "If anything, I’ll be inspired. I know a lot of work gets put into a thesis and I’m sure yours is no different. What about your other thesis?”

"Remote healing and whether there were ways for Healers to treat people without needing to travel,” Crowley said a little reluctantly like he was preparing himself for another barrage of unexpected praise. “I was hoping it’d help with accessibility issues and remote communities.”

“Well, that sounds lovely!” Aziraphale said excitedly. “I’m rather looking forward to reading that as well now.”

Crowley visibly squirmed, his mouth curving down like he had stepped into a puddle with socks on. “I really wouldn’t bother. It’s not exactly useful for you.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue in disapproval. “I don’t need an article to be useful to me to read it, Crowley. If it’s something you spent all your time and effort writing, it deserves to be thoroughly read.”

Crowley made some indistinguishable noises and it almost felt rewarding to Aziraphale to hear them. “So what ideas did you come up with for your paper?”

Aziraphale swallowed his mouthful of food, granting Crowley his attempt at moving the conversation away from his accomplishments. “I came up with a few, but there’s one I’m the most interested in. It might be a bit selfish for me to admit, but I was rather hoping I could research whether it’d be possible for me to use my Healing on plants.”

“Lots of students write papers that involve their Attributes. I did. Not selfish at all.” Then Crowley hesitated. “But, uh…just based on what I’ve read, Healing plants isn’t exactly…novel.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale realized. “Yes, you’re quite right, but I suppose I haven’t told you about the particulars of my Healing, have I?”

Some of his excitement must’ve been contagious because he saw a small tug of a smile on the corner of Crowley’s lips. “Particulars?”

Aziraphale wiggled in his seat. “Yes, my basic skills in Healing are all very minimal – you would know, the non-fatal, physical wounds and such – but where my Attribute differs from others is how I’m able to Heal the invisible wounds of a person’s mind.”

Crowley looked intrigued now, his eyebrows drawing up. “Kind of like brain surgery?”

Shaking his head, Aziraphale sighed around a bite of strawberry. “Not quite that biological, I’m afraid. With my low Proxy score, I can’t exactly rewire a person’s brain. It’s more of a temporary solution. An exchange, of sorts. I’m able to offer a person some relief from their emotional burdens by either taking those feelings away or by supplying them with some of my own positive ones.”

“Huh, that’s the first I’ve heard of such a thing. Taking empathy to a new level, eh?” Crowley mused, expression relaxing into something a little thoughtful. Whether consciously or not, Crowley leaned closer, lightly pressing their shoulders together.

“I’ve heard it’s not very common,” Aziraphale agreed, using every remaining strength in his body to resist melting into the touch. “But it’s also not very impressive, I suppose.”

Crowley’s face pulled into a deep frown at that. “Why does that sound like something your family would say?”

“Because it is,” Aziraphale admitted, feeling a little caught. “My specific Attribute means that it can be very taxing on the body to perform, and it can require a lot of mental strength to do so efficiently. The stronger a person’s emotions are, the more strenuous it is for Healers like me to help, and my family always considered such Attributes…unbecoming.”

It was too personal, too vulnerable for his family to look at it with anything other than contempt. Emotions were messy and unnecessary. They were unpredictable. A weakness. To them, emotions were only useful when other people had them. Tools to be manipulated.

“Not very impressive,” Crowley mocked. “Think about all the good you can do and the people you could help! Not very impressive indeed. I’ll show them impressive. Burn Gabriel’s eyebrows off at our next meeting, I will.”

The offence Crowley showed on his behalf was beyond touching, and before Aziraphale could decide against it, he placed his hand on Crowley’s shoulder in an attempt to stop the man from working himself up. “That would be assault, but I appreciate the thought.”

“I could make it look like an accident,” Crowley brainstormed. “Or maybe I’ll burn his coffee beans, and he can be stuck with gross-tasting coffee for weeks.”

Aziraphale stifled a laugh by stuffing more crêpe into his mouth. “Knowing Gabriel, he’ll just toss the whole bag out and replace it. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’ve long accepted that I will never gain my family’s approval. Experience has taught me to stop looking for it too.”

Crowley didn’t look particularly pleased. “The more I hear about your family, the more I don’t like them.”

“I pray you’ll never have to meet more of them,” Aziraphale agreed. Simply knowing that Crowley saw his Attribute in such a positive light felt like all the praise he’d ever need.

“You’re hoping to use your Attribute to emotionally heal plants then?” Crowley continued, morphing his posture back into something less defensive. “What makes you think they have feelings in the first place?”

Aziraphale gave him a judgmental look. “That’s surprising, hearing that from you. The way you criticize your plants seems to have clear effects on their health, so I’d be shocked if I found out plants don’t actually have feelings. I’m curious about the way my Attribute could be used to support their growth.”

“This paper’s starting to feel like a direct attack on my character. Next thing I know, you’re going to start telling me that plants need more emotional support and kindness.”

The way Crowley spat out the words like his plants were less than deserving of them made Aziraphale smile. “Well, don’t look too disappointed at that possibility, I’m sure you’re plenty capable of doing both of those things.”

Crowley let loose a gruff laugh. “As if. Complete opposite of the spectrum, I am. Pretty sure you were going to write a review about how awful I am to my students, weren’t you?”

When he gave Aziraphale a playful nudge with his shoulder, Aziraphale forced his painfully simplistic heart to march back down to where it came from. But he teased back regardless, simmering happily in the comfort of it all.

“Yes, you’re absolutely right. I almost forgot. Thank you for the reminder.”

“Just don’t forget to send me a copy,” Crowley replied, grinning. “Speaking of Attributes, how’s your Intro to Recovery Magic going? Still getting those side effects?”

Aziraphale looked down at his plate, focusing on how the cream mixed with the fruit with a sigh. “Unfortunately. Still no signs of progress. I’m still losing feeling in my hands any time I use my Healing for more than several minutes at a time.”

He supposed he should’ve expected it though. Going from years of inactivity to full power for two hours straight twice a week wasn’t exactly doing his body any favours. Technically, he had already made progress too. When classes started two weeks ago, the effects were so severe he couldn’t feel anything past his elbows and knees.

Crowley frowned. “It’s not uncommon for people to experience side effects, but nothing that intense for something so basic. Uh, not to say your Attribute’s basic. I mean the basic parts of Healing.”

Smiling, Aziraphale chased a strawberry around his plate. “I just hope the effects go away with a few more weeks of practice. The professor’s been very accommodating so far, allowing me frequent breaks and such, but I won’t have that luxury when midterm assessments come about.”

“You still have two more weeks,” Crowley reassured. “How long do these effects usually last?”

“If I don’t allow myself to fully recover during breaks, it can take around an hour for me to fully regain feeling in my hands again.” Aziraphale clenched his utensils, grounding himself in his current ability to feel the metal in his palms. To control his strength.

Last week, he ended up missing several hours of work at the library because could barely walk out of class. Had he known that the effects would last so long, he wouldn’t have chosen the evening option for that class and lined it up so closely with his timed access to the library’s rare book collection. What was originally a choice made for convenience was now a hindrance.

Crowley drummed a long finger on the side of his mug, a more thoughtful version of his frown creasing his forehead. “Have you tried keeping your body warm? Maybe it’s something to do with circulation and your body not physically being able to handle the strain of your Attribute right now.”

Honestly, Aziraphale was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before despite how deathly cold his hands would get. Perhaps he’d been too distracted fighting off his feelings of inadequacy to come up with solutions. That didn’t exactly help his case either.

He laughed. “You know, I actually haven’t tried that. I feel a bit silly for not doing so now. Thank you for the suggestion.”

Crowley made a saluting motion with his cup. “Let me know if alcohol helps. I’ll indirectly suggest that you start a petition for the school to allow people to drink in class. Medical reasons, and all that.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes with absolutely nothing but fondness. “I’m pretty sure this is far from a medical problem and more of a personal hurdle. Even if it does work, I’d prefer not to rely on alcohol to make up for my lack of practice.”

“Pity. Could’ve given us an excuse to go to the pub more often.”

Crowley had said it so casually that Aziraphale almost didn’t think twice about it. Almost.

As expressive as Crowley’s face was, the man was frightfully good at keeping his expressions practiced and unassuming when he wanted to. But then Aziraphale saw the telltale glow of Crowley’s ears, betrayed by his half-pulled-up hair whether Crowley was aware of it or not.

The simple sight of those pink ears made something bubble in Aziraphale’s stomach, the tiny voice from before unhelpfully suggesting taking Crowley’s words beyond face value. That the invitation was more than just friendly. Perhaps the looks Crowley gave him last week as they parted ways from the pub weren’t just something he concocted out of wishful thinking.

Aziraphale took in a steading breath, spurred on by nothing by pink ears. “I don’t think an excuse like that is needed for us to go to the pub. Aside from the drink I owe you from today, I’m happy to join you so long as there’s an invitation.”

At this point, he was fully aware he was letting the roots of his hope grow wildly out of control. It was far too late to weed them out and Aziraphale sincerely prayed he wouldn’t have to. Pulling them out now or at any point later down the road would be devastating.

Thankfully, it seemed he didn’t have to. Not today at least, because a rare smile returned to Crowley’s face. “You do realize you’re offering to owe me drinks for stuff I’m making the University pay for, right?”

Not the least bit surprised Crowley was able to snark back with such a lovely and open expression on his face, Aziraphale scoffed and turned back to his food with an overly dramatic eye roll, a need for vengeance brewing in his stomach. “Of course I do. All the more reason for me to spend more time with you. Keep up.”

Crowley’s stunned look felt almost too rewarding, and the bark of laughter that followed even more so.

Something like resolve settled in Aziraphale’s chest. He allowed himself to hope.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale walked up the tapered stone stairs towards Eastgate Library, watching how the shadow of his free hand clenched and unclenched in the sunset. Still unable to feel anything beyond a deep numbness, he sighed.

Pushing through the revolving doors at the top of the stairs, he made his way across the expansive ground floor of the library’s oval atrium, past the beautiful gallery behind the info desk, and up the inclining floor leading towards the attached coffee shop in the back.

A few hours earlier, the rumble of a larger crowd and children would’ve echoed through the building. Only a solemn buzz was left now, and Aziraphale could hear the slight squeak of his shoes as he walked.

Ever since Crowley’s suggestion last Wednesday, Aziraphale had experimented with different ways to keep his hands warm. Heat packets and hot rubber water bottles reduced the recovery time to just under an hour. Drinking something warm, however, sped it up to thirty minutes, which was just enough time for Aziraphale to still make it to his evening shift on time.

Walking up to the barista, he ordered a ginger tea, choosing to forgo the cup sleeve once he received it.

With midterm assessments just over a week away, Aziraphale hadn’t had the chance to thank Crowley for his helpful suggestion. There was hardly a moment before or after class where Crowley (or any professor for that matter) wasn’t getting swarmed.

Although it was a little amusing to watch the usually disinterested students sitting in the back flocking to the front like vultures, it also meant Aziraphale wasn’t able to get a leg in before the crowd got ushered out of the lecture hall for the next class. A week had passed and he still hadn’t been able to snag any of Crowley’s time for himself.

Not that he really had any right to it. Crowley’s time wasn’t his to claim.

But that didn’t stop Aziraphale from wanting it.

He wasn’t completely faultless either. Crowley hadn’t reached out to make good of Aziraphale’s offer for drinks but Aziraphale hadn’t brought it up again either. He also couldn’t find it in himself to go to Purgatory last Friday despite the high likelihood that Crowley would’ve been there. That was, assuming Crowley was there and that he wanted Aziraphale to join him.

Aziraphale didn’t want to think too hard about that last bit.

The thought that Crowley would’ve definitely invited him out to the pub if he had the time to go shouldn’t have felt so narcissistic, but that splotch of doubt made it incredibly hard for Aziraphale not to.

He was sure that Crowley enjoyed his company in the times they’d spent together. At the very least, he didn’t dislike it based on their previous conversations. Aziraphale also wasn’t oblivious to the way Crowley seemed to enjoy crowding into Aziraphale’s personal space. The lingering touches. The soft smiles.   

But doubt was a stubborn thing and Aziraphale had to wonder whether he’d been too hyper fixated on the little things when they possibly meant nothing at all, dressing them up like some kind of make-believe fantasy.

Because if Crowley went to the pub last Friday, he would’ve asked, wouldn’t he? But again. This was assuming Crowley even went to the pub.

Sighing a little forlornly, Aziraphale walked back down the sloping floor, hoping to leave his circular anxieties behind. Perhaps he had been too forward. Or maybe, he wasn’t forward enough? If so, did he even want to be more forward? For all he knew, Crowley’s actions and reactions just stemmed from a purely platonic direction and Aziraphale was just slapping his rose-tinted glasses all over it.

He pressed the button for the lift, looking around him at how the glow of the sunset painted the cascading wooden stairs in a rich caramel from the sunset. Perhaps sitting in his favourite reading room on the top floor could ease away these thoughts. The panoramic windows there were always quite cinematic.

There was hardly a murmur when Aziraphale stepped out of the lift and onto the fourth floor. It was a designated quiet workplace, consisting of several reading rooms all designed with different themes while surrounded by London’s skyline. He set his eyes on his favourite, with its green carpets, lounge chairs that looked like moss balls, and rose-themed cast iron patio furniture, all encompassed by a massive pergola and trellises woven with vines.

As much as Aziraphale enjoyed being indoors, he sometimes wished he had a way to easily enjoy his books outdoors under a shade and surrounded by greenery. But if it was one thing his flat didn't provide, it was a balcony. He actively made that decision when he bought his penthouse, especially since central London wasn't exactly a city known for its serene outdoors, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still wish for the idea of it.

Then again, if it was one thing Aziraphale’s body didn't provide, it was a green thumb. Even with a balcony, it wasn’t like he could grow anything on it himself. Not unless he wanted to be surrounded by depressed and deceased plants.

But Aziraphale had only taken three steps forward when a flash of red in his peripheral caught his attention, heart immediately flipping like some kind of pavlovian response. His breath lodged tightly in his throat.

It was Crowley.

Sitting at the end of a long table in what looked like a large observatory of a reading room, Crowley’s red hair gleamed like tinsel as it reflected the constellations and shifting nebulas projected above him. The hand that had just combed through his hair came back down to gently turn the page of the book in front of him while the other propped up his forehead with a fist. His sunglasses were folded on top of a small pile of more books just under the reading light.

Mesmerized, Aziraphale unwittingly made his way towards him, overcome with the desire to have a closer look. To study. To admire.

Even though most of Crowley's face was hidden from how bent over the book he was, Aziraphale saw the concentrated furrow of his brow. It drew familiar lines over his forehead that Aziraphale had started to map out and commit to memory.

The crew neck of Crowley’s long sleeve hung loosely around his slender neck, pulled forward ever so slightly more by the weight of a long silver chain tucked underneath. It would be so easy to just hook a finger into the gap, pull at the collar, and close the difference between them. As wonderful as Aziraphale imagined Crowley to be in several states of undress, the slight hints of skin were always so much more tempting.

Crowley turned another page and Aziraphale’s eyes were once again drawn to the curve of Crowley's knuckles, the purposeful, but lithe, motion of his fingers as they held the edge of the paper. He imagined the strength of their grip. The press of his fingers as they dig into skin.

Then, from somewhere within his heady thoughts, Aziraphale found himself yearning for the safety Crowley's hands looked like they could easily provide. He wasn’t sure if it was the soft light that mirrored the ones back home or how Crowley’s edges seemed to have melted because of the loose shirt he wore, but Aziraphale wanted.

He wanted the soft brush of a thumb over the back of his hand. The security of an embrace. The lingering smell of aftershave he was sure to find with a nose pressed into Crowley’s neck.

Aziraphale wanted intimacy. Tenderness. And perhaps it was laughable to want such things from Crowley. Someone whose presence embodied the very phase leave me alone. But Aziraphale knew what Crowley had been like. And surely, that softness was still very much there. He couldn’t imagine why it wouldn’t.

"Crowley?"

Crowley jumped at the sound of his voice and looked up. Aziraphale froze, his smile morphing into a gasp of shock at the sight of Crowley’s eyes.

Aziraphale had seen many eyes before, of humans, humanoids, and other species that walked among them. He had seen the freckled stone of minotaurs and their horizontal pupils, the rippled smoke of amphibious hybrids, the glass-like void of merfolk.

But none as jewelled as these. None like Crowley’s.

Molten gold with cuts of black stared back at him, wide-eyed. The reading light’s faint glow from below and the colours of space and stars from above created a shimmering, shifting gradient of amber that rivalled the rays of dawn, piercing and breathtaking as they returned Aziraphale’s stare.

Captivated, Aziraphale let out a prayerful, "Oh."

It was the boy from his youth. But the eyes…

The whisper of sound must've snapped Crowley out of his own shock because he immediately scrambled for his sunglasses, shoving them on his face with a quiet but harsh, "Shit."

That mutter of a curse, in turn, startled Aziraphale out of his daze and forced his dropped jaw shut. He was more certain than ever that Crowley was the same boy he met on the beach, but there was still enough doubt stemming from twenty years of complete absence to stop any questions from tumbling out of his mouth. His whole body was starting to shake from the revelation but he held his tongue.

"Aziraphale," Crowley greeted first, surprise pitching his voice up.

Aziraphale mentally reprimanded himself for staring so openly and quickly regained his smile. "Hello Crowley. Fancy meeting you here."

"Yeah, uh, hi."  

"It truly is a small world. What are you doing here so late?" Aziraphale asked, causing Crowley’s eyebrows to lift in response.

"Is it?" Crowley glanced at his watch and then at the sparse amount of people around them. "Oh, I guess it is. This place is open twenty-four hours though, isn't it? What, are we getting kicked out?"

"Yes, to the first, and no, to the second," Aziraphale answered, chuckling. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"Oh, uh, no, not at all." With an expression like he was still deciding if he was hallucinating or not, Crowley gestured to the seat across from him.

Placing his briefcase to the side on the table with a quiet "Thank you," Aziraphale pulled out the black wooden chair and sat down, cradling his cup on the table with both hands in front of him. "I'm surprised to see you. Do you often come here to read?"

As if caught doing something he wasn't supposed to, Crowley hurriedly shut the book in front of him, tossed it onto the pile, and pushed it all to the side in one frantic motion, the shove causing the top three hardcovers to slide off and skid over the table. Both men winced at the sound.

"Often, but never to read," Crowley said as if nothing odd had occurred, oozing nonchalant sarcasm despite his ridged posture. "Flatmates were driving me up the walls with the gaming and music so I had to just get out of there before I lost it."

"Isn’t the point of flatmates to enjoy each other's company?" Aziraphale asked, still glancing over at the toppled book pile, itching to straighten them out and give them the respect they deserved.

Crowley seemed to be studying him, his mouth pulled into a strange grimace as his sunglasses reflected the swirling projections above them. "You've never had a flatmate before, have you?"

Not noticing, Aziraphale just shook his head. "How did you know?"

"Because no one who can afford it will choose to have flatmates," Crowley answered, reaching a slender arm over to stack the fallen books on top of each other. "The elderly and people in relationships don't count."

Aziraphale refocused his attention back to Crowley with something like an itch that was finally scratched. "Is that why you’re living with your flatmates now? Out of necessity?"

"I don't know how much you think lecturers get paid, but it's not enough for an entire flat in central London, that's for sure. Not a good one, at least."

Aziraphale frowned. "But you teach at Eden."

Crowley huffed out a curt laugh. "Teaching a minor position at a top university isn't exactly going to give me a shining salary. I don’t know where you think your tuition's going, but it's definitely not in my bank account."

"Oh, I see," Aziraphale sympathized, a little embarrassed that Crowley seemed to have guessed his assumptions so easily. "I admit I don't know the mechanics behind teaching positions very well other than that it's hard work on all levels, but I’ve always held professors in high regard."

"Do you now?" Crowley asked in an amused lilt, shifting to sit sideways in his chair and hooking an elbow over the back of it.

Aziraphale tried to refrain from tracing his eyes down the curve of Crowley’s body. To run an imaginary finger across the sliver of skin peaking just over his hip from the movement.

"Of course I do," he said, willing his eyes back to Crowley’s face. "It's a pity you don't get paid more for all the work you do. Perhaps you'll have more favourable living conditions once you've taught for longer."

"Yeah, give me a few more years and I'll hopefully find a better place," Crowley said with something very far from belief. "Either that or flatmates that believe in headphones and washing the bloody dishes. Great guys, but I don’t think they’ve done a chore in their lives."

Aziraphale thought back to his own flat. He wasn’t one for cooking, his cupboards and fridge were more often empty than not save for the ingredients he needed for a consistent supply of tea and the odd baking itch to scratch. Dishes were never used often enough to be much of an issue, but he never exactly enjoyed the process. He couldn't imagine dealing with other people’s mess appearing in his sinks without any accountability.

"That sounds rather bothersome," he eventually said, frowning at the thought. "You live with three others, you said? Not one of them helps you out with chores?"

"Nope," Crowley answered. "We live on separate floors in one of those nice, terraced houses a few blocks out from here, but I'm right across the shared kitchen, so unless I do something about the stuff they leave out, the first room it'll stink up is mine."

"Have you thought of perhaps just talking to them about it?" Aziraphale asked.

"Better yet, I have talked to them about it," Crowley said with his nose scrunching up at the memory. "But all I get are empty promises and I'm stuck doing them anyway because I like a clean house and they can live just fine in a tip."

Aziraphale’s self-consciousness worried about whether Crowley would consider his flat's clutter unclean. He wasn’t the best at keeping things orderly and he probably should clean more often than he does.

But then he pushed those worries aside. Why would Crowley ever need to come visit his flat? Unhelpfully, his mind thought about offering up his flat’s spare bedroom to Crowley. Aziraphale promptly sent that part of him into the corner.

He defaulted to general sympathy instead. "That sounds awful, I'm sorry you have to go through that."

Crowley shrugged resignedly. "I've managed it for a few years already. A few more won't hurt. The company’s nice sometimes."

"Well, I'm glad this library offers you some comfort. I'm surprised I haven't seen you around before if you’re here often."

"I'm not usually here this late. I just got caught up with…" Crowley waved a hand at the books and Aziraphale was surprised to see some religious titles on the spines now that he had a longer look.

"Not reading?" he supplied.

"Exactly." Crowley grinned. "I’m mostly here during the late afternoons when the guys come back from classes and want to let off some steam. I usually go home for supper ‘cause I know they’ve quieted down by then." Then he quirked his head to the side. "What are you doing here this late?"

"I work here," Aziraphale said proudly. "Well, sort of. I have a contract with the library. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, I have access to their rare books collection in the back."

"That's right, the bookbinding," Crowley recalled. "Didn’t realize you did it in the evenings. Guess it makes sense with the class schedule though. Twice a week on top of school? That's quite the commitment. Eden not keeping you busy enough?"

"You know full well that Eden's keeping me plenty busy. I wouldn’t have it any other way," Aziraphale said. "But I didn’t want to stop my services even after returning to school. That’s part of the reason why I applied to complete my degree part-time in the first place."

Crowley lolled his head to the side, looking amused. "Despite everything I’ve told you about my experience with academia, you’re still insistent on the two years, huh?"

"If I want to keep up the other parts of my life that I enjoy, then yes. I'm determined not to let you convince me otherwise," Aziraphale chuckled.

"Suppose it's a bit easier when you've been away from it all for so long," Crowley allowed. "But I guess if you're here to become a licenced Healer, the academic part of it’s not really your point of interest, is it?"

"You're quite right. But it's nice to do research into my Attribute alongside the workshop aspects." Then Aziraphale sighed, continuing dolefully as he sipped his tea. "At least reading and writing are things I'm good at."

With a bit of a start, Aziraphale remembered why he had been seeking out Crowley’s company in the first place and lifted his cup up towards him. "Actually, I had been hoping for a chance to talk to you. I wanted to thank you for your advice last week. Keeping myself warm has significantly reduced the recovery time of my side effects."

"Is that ginger tea?" Crowley asked. Aziraphale thought his surprise must’ve been obvious because Crowley then tapped a finger on the side of his nose. "I’ve got a sharp sense of smell."

Aziraphale wanted to ask if that came with the eyes, but after remembering Crowley’s abrupt reaction to hide them earlier, he decided against it. He looked down at his tea instead. "Yes, ginger’s apparently good for warming up the body. I was pleasantly surprised they offered it downstairs."

He wondered if Crowley had reptilian ancestry. It would make perfect sense as to why Crowley’s eyes were so beautiful, but it didn’t explain why he didn’t have them when he was younger. They were a lovely brown shade then. Soft and nurturing as the earth.

There came a long pause, long enough for Aziraphale to look back up and find Crowley frowning at his hands.

"Would you mind if I tried something?" Crowley eventually asked.

Blinking, Aziraphale saw Crowley's open hands being offered out to him on the table. His eyes followed Crowley’s palm lines, the outline of his fingers, the softness of his fingertips lit up under the reading light.

His mind stopped working. Then it started repeating Crowley’s question in his head a million times over. Then his heart decided it no longer wanted to live in his chest anymore and started hammering against his ribs for freedom. He looked back up at Crowley, who quickly started to look like he was regretting asking.

"Uh, I just—" Crowley cleared his throat. "I thought about it some more over the weekend. Just wanted to see if my Attributes would work on you." His hands slowly withdrew. "If you’re uncomfortable—"

"No!" Aziraphale cried out, shrinking immediately at the volume of his voice and offering apologetic looks to the library’s other patrons. "I-I mean, not at all. I was just surprised. Sorry, I didn’t—"

Words failing him, Aziraphale let go of his tea to slide his hands across the table, hoping they weren’t visibly shaking. Or, if they were, that Crowley would take it as a sign of them being cold and not because he was grasping at whatever was left of his slipping composure. His courage apparently liked to nosedive off a cliff whenever spontaneity was involved.

He offered Crowley a tentative smile. "Please."

After a beat, Crowley seemed to brighten and brought his hands back up from under the table. But when their fingers drew close, his hands hesitated, stopping just barely a twitch away. If Aziraphale had feeling in his hands, he would've been able to sense the tips of their fingers brushing.

Before Aziraphale could question it, Crowley sucked in a breath and slipped his hands underneath his, connecting their palms.

Despite not being able to feel much of anything, an involuntary shiver ran down Aziraphale’s spine and he forced his body to keep still. The way his body acted so touch-starved was almost embarrassing, and he hoped Crowley couldn’t feel his racing pulse through the fingertips pressed against his wrist.

"Tell me if anything feels weird or uncomfortable," he heard Crowley murmur through the haze of his thoughts.

"Of course," Aziraphale replied, practically mouthing the words.

Then Crowley’s palms began to glow.

Upon closer inspection, perhaps glowing wasn’t entirely correct. There were delicate flames flickering in between their palms, spilling out of the gaps in languid wisps. Aziraphale watched in fascination as the rest of his breath left him in an awed exhale, following their dance dreamily, equally hypnotized and intensely riveted.

Bit by bit, the faint tingling in his hands turned into a solid, soothing warmth, and while regaining his sense of touch brought him so much relief, Aziraphale was now quickly growing hyper aware of how his hands sat in Crowley's.

He felt the gentle curl of Crowley’s fire drawing intricate patterns on his palm, the slight flutter of his fingertips as he controlled the flames, the press of skin as he relaxed into Crowley’s hands.

Aziraphale risked a glance up. The flames mirrored over the lenses of Crowley’s sunglasses and sharpened the contrast of his features. The soft shadows hinted at where Crowley’s cheekbones peaked and where his nose sloped, the shallow wrinkles on his forehead as his eyebrows pulled together, the bump of his long throat and the way it moved when he swallowed.

Other than the fine lines of age, Crowley really did look the same as Aziraphale remembered him. The same warmth, the same gentle, caring touch. The overlap of his memories made his lungs feel too big in his chest and Aziraphale stifled them back down to a reasonable size with calculated breaths.

He wasn't sure how long they sat there, but by the time the sound of Crowley clearing his throat shocked him out of his thoughts, the flames were gone and Crowley was staring at him.

With a slow, creeping embarrassment, Aziraphale realized that he had unwittingly curled his fingers around Crowley’s hands.

Startling immediately into a more alert state of mind, Aziraphale pulled his hands back. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I must've lost myself for a moment there."

"Feeling better now, I take it?" Crowley asked. He sounded like he was trying to tease, but it also didn’t quite hit the mark, his voice laden with something thicker.

"Much," Aziraphale said, distracting himself by testing the strength of his hands. "Thank you for this, it was very kind of you to offer."

Crowley folded his hands over his elbows, muttering something under his breath while he gave a small shrug like he didn't just Heal Aziraphale of what could've been thirty minutes of discomfort.

"Wasn’t sure if it’d work, to be honest," Crowley mumbled. "I can’t practice it on myself, and I haven’t tried it out enough on other people to know more about it."

"It was truly nothing short of feeling absolutely marvellous," Aziraphale said.

Crowley rubbed at his neck. "Well, now that we know it works, like I said, you’re welcome to stop by my place anytime you need help with this sort of thing." Then he frowned. "Uh, ngk— not my place-place, but my office-place, I mean. My office. On Fridays. I finish teaching my class right before yours, so I’ll hang around."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose," Aziraphale rebutted reflexively despite how wonderful the idea sounded. "I don’t have work on Friday nights so I’m sure I can afford a slower recovery time with some tea."

"But you don’t have to," Crowley said, so earnestly that Aziraphale's mouth almost popped open again, and during his failed attempts to keep his face level, he saw something shift on Crowley's face as he pressed his lips into a tight line.

Worried that Crowley was about to take his offer back, Aziraphale let something more outrageous fall out of his mouth instead.

"How about replacing tea with that drink I still owe you instead?" When he saw Crowley's eyebrows lift, he hurriedly added, "Unless you've already made plans this Friday."

Anxieties be damned, Aziraphale still wanted Crowley's company at the end of it all, regardless of the form it took. But until he was blatant about his feelings or Crowley with any rejections, he was going to try harder.

To his relief, Crowley answered just as hurriedly. "No. No plans here. Well, the boys always drag me to Purgatory, but I don't mind putting them off for the night."

The appearance of eagerness tingled over Aziraphale's palms like stardust and it made him smile. "I was thinking we could go there anyway, and I'm sure I won't take too much of your time," he said courteously, mostly out of habit.

But Crowley seemed to take it to heart and shook his head. "Take as much of it as you'd like. It's—" He stopped as if catching himself. "I mean, I don't mind."

Aziraphale smiled wider, happy with the implication that Crowley wanted his company too.

But when Friday did come around, Aziraphale found himself pacing again, much to his chagrin. His feet were practically walking divots into a square of the carpet leading down the hall towards Crowley’s office.

Although Crowley had said he’d stick around after class to help with Aziraphale’s hands, that meant waiting around for an hour and a half before Aziraphale would arrive. It felt like a long time to just 'hang around' for someone, especially for someone as busy as Crowley. What if he had gone home already?

No, Crowley wouldn’t just up and leave, especially since he’d been the one to offer. But what if he changed his mind after all?

Aziraphale paused to glance at the stairs, still so close to him. He had barely made it through the doors separating the hall from the stairwell before his nerves dug their claws into him.

Oh, this was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

Steeling himself, Aziraphale marched his feet right to Crowley’s door and knocked…

Only to find it was slightly ajar, drifting open a few centimetres more at his first knock. Frowning, Aziraphale hesitantly pushed open the door the rest of the way.

Crowley’s office was surprisingly green, all sorts of potted plants darkened with the window shade drawn and only a desk lamp on. Then again, Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he was at all surprised when the man was asked to substitute for Herbology simply because he "got along well enough" with plants. Almost every open flat space had at least some version of a pot with something green growing out of it and it made Aziraphale feel like he had just stepped into a greenhouse rather than a professor’s office.

Seeing that Crowley wasn’t in, Aziraphale was about to turn back into the hall when a dark shape sitting on Crowley’s desk caught his attention. He blinked a few times and then jumped.

"Oh my," he breathed out.

Sitting under the spotlight of the desk lamp was a black snake, curled around itself like a bundle of rope large enough to hold with two hands. Its scales, iridescent in the light, shimmered as it stirred at the noise, revealing a vibrant red underbelly as it lazily lifted from the pile to stare at the intruder.

And those eyes. Aziraphale recognized those eyes. He had taken them in like a drowning man back at the library.

His voice was barely a whisper when he said, "Crowley?"

A few seconds ticked by. Neither moved.

"Aziraphale!" The snake’s head sharply flung back and swiftly hit its head on the edge of the lamp. A loud, metallic thud echoed into the hall. With a loud hiss, it slumped off to disappear behind the desk. "Ssshit."

It was definitely Crowley.

"So sorry," Aziraphale apologized quickly, unsure whether Crowley was swearing at the pain or at the unexpected sight of someone else standing in his office. Either way, he found it borderline amusing that this made it the second time Crowley swore upon seeing him. "I didn’t mean to startle you."

Crowley emerged from behind the desk, now transformed back into a human with a pained expression on his face as one hand rubbed the back of his head while the other waved dismissively at Aziraphale.

"No, it’s…I thought I locked the door," Crowley mumbled. His hand reached out to grab his sunglasses off to the side, seeming to hesitate for a moment before ultimately grabbing the black shades and sliding them onto his face.

Belatedly, Aziraphale thought it’d be wise to close the door behind him at the mention, making extra sure it was shut. He turned back to Crowley, laughing nervously. "I really am sorry. I seem to keep catching you off guard. The door was slightly open when I tried to knock. I didn’t mean to intrude."

Crowley grunted, wincing when his hand brushed up against a particularly sore spot. "Must’ve bounced out when I closed it or something." He waved his hand towards the chair opposite of him across the desk, motioning for Aziraphale to sit.

"Would you like me to help?" Aziraphale offered before he could stop himself.

Crowley looked up in surprise, mouth falling slightly open.

"I-I just came from my Recovery Magic class," Aziraphale stumbled on when the intimacy of his request started to sink in. "And you’re already doing so much for me by agreeing to help me with my hands, so I figured, I could help you out with this little thing by way of thanks. It’s technically my fault for barging in on you."

Crowley’s lips pressed into a line and his length of silence led Aziraphale to believe he’d stupidly crossed a line.

"I’m sorry, if it’s inappro—"

"Okay, sure."

They spoke at the same time and promptly fell into another stretch of silence. Aziraphale saw Crowley swallow thickly, the action causing his throat to bob, and he couldn’t help but mirror the movement. He waited, breath held.

Finally, Crowley turned his chair to face the window and made some incoherent sounds on the way. "Go for it. S’good practice, I guess."

Feeling a little shellshocked that Crowley had actually accepted his offer, Aziraphale took off his coat with a bit of trouble and placed it onto the chair with his briefcase before walking over. He took shallow breaths, trying to keep them quiet, but if anything wasn't quiet, it was his pounding heart. At this rate, Crowley was sure to hear it.

Aziraphale closed the distance and hovered his hands over the back of Crowley’s head. "Here abouts?" he asked, voice wavering slightly.

He gently traced his fingertips over the wounded area and couldn't help but internally curse at how his numb fingers prevented him from feeling the texture of Crowley’s hair. It always looked so soft and yet, even with those glorious locks gracing his hands he couldn’t feel any of it. A downright tragedy this was.

"Yup," Crowley answered, an odd tightness in his voice that made Aziraphale's chest feel too tight for the hope that continued to grow.  

Taking in one more deep breath, Aziraphale set to work, a golden light emanating from his palms. Seeing Crowley’s shoulders relax, he knew was doing something right. They waded in the comfortable silence, and Aziraphale appreciated how the light of his Attribute made the colour of Crowley's hair almost as vibrant as the underbelly of his snake form.

"I didn't know you were a shapeshifter," he commented, not noticing how Crowley's shoulders tensed.

"Uh, yeah, it's not exactly something to just bring up in a conversation without notice."

"I suppose that explains the eyes." Too occupied with adoration and mourning his chance to fully take in how Crowley looked as a snake, he forgot the potential delicacy of the topic and let the question that haunted the back of his thoughts since that day at the library slip out.

"Why do you hide them?" he asked. "Your eyes."

This time, he noticed Crowley's entire body turn rigid, the movement so obvious, that he almost took back his question. But Crowley spoke before he could.

"Saw them the other day, did you? Nothing slips past you." He was laughing but it held no humour, and it pained Aziraphale to hear it.

Unsure of how to defuse the situation and back away from the precipice of this cliff he put them on, he kept his tone light, trying to find a way to give Crowley an out. "In my defence, it was very difficult not to. I think they're simply breathtaking."

Crowley didn't answer and they fell back into silence, one that wasn't nearly as comfortable as the one before. The air was so thick that Aziraphale felt it cling to his skin, and he silently scolded himself for being brash.

Just because he enjoyed opening up to people didn't mean Crowley did. He should've known as much after what he gauged from Crowley's take on friendship. It didn't take a genius to know Crowley was the type that kept his heart locked in a steel box, and Aziraphale didn't want to give off the wrong idea that he was the type to pry something like that open.

But he often wrestled with impatience for these sorts of things, as selfish as that felt to him. While Crowley didn't seem adverse to his (albeit subtle) attempts at asking him out, that sort of intimacy didn't necessarily carry over into other types of emotions. It wouldn't be the first time Aziraphale got told off for being nosy.

Perhaps for Crowley, caution was a better choice. But what good would walking on eggshells do them? Any more caution and Aziraphale felt like he couldn't even be a proper friend.

Then Crowley spoke, surprising him.

"Don’t like people seeing them," he said grimly. "Me included."

Aziraphale wanted so badly to ask why. To ask what happened for Crowley to feel like something so beautiful wasn't worth being seen?

But while Crowley offered an explanation, his tone didn't welcome further questions, so Aziraphale kept to himself. He wasn't trying to forcefully break down Crowley’s walls. He wanted to provide Crowley with reasons to leave them behind. To build a window, or maybe even a door, if that’s what it took for those joyful smiles to become regular occurrences. And if Crowley's tone and rigid posture were anything to go by, he just wasn't ready.

"Well, I think they’re lovely," Aziraphale said with extra finality. Then he made an audible show at glancing around the room, purposefully raising the volume of his voice into something more energetic. "You weren’t joking when you said you like to collect plants. I can tell you take great care of them all."

Crowley didn't miss a beat. "Tell that to the plants," he said, voice betraying nothing despite his hands still holding the arms of the chair in a death grip. "No matter how much I discipline them, I’ll find a spot here or a yellow leaf there. A bunch of ungrateful rebels, that’s what they are."

"Why not just Heal anything that pops up?" Aziraphale asked.

"They don’t deserve the special treatment." Crowley's knuckles were fading from white to pink as his grip loosened and his shoulders began to relax. "If they want to enjoy the benefits of life, they have to earn it themselves. Otherwise, I’ll send them straight into my Pyromancy classes to get experimented on."

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. "Isn’t that a little excessive?"

"Like I say in class. Sometimes you need to set them straight with fear. Can’t have them thinking they’re in charge or else they’ll start acting like they’re the boss of you."

"I don’t think they’d dare," Aziraphale said, offering the plants around him an encouraging smile. "They’re doing wonderfully."

"Don’t spoil them. If they start wilting on me because they’re getting used to your shining praises, I’m dumping them all off at your place." Crowley's arms were fully relaxed now, slumping over the armrests, and Aziraphale quietly sighed in relief at the sight of them, unaware that Crowley was entertaining the idea of dropping by his flat.

"Oh, but I told you that I’m terrible with plants," he protested.

Crowley lazily pointed a finger back at him. "Exactly. That’ll teach them a lesson. Better not bite the hand that feeds them."

It took a few more seconds until his brain caught up with him, but when it did, Aziraphale felt like his heart short-circuited before it slammed back into frantic motion. Crowley. Visiting his flat. In his flat. Sitting on his couch. Sitting on his—

Aziraphale had to shut his eyes to will away the frightfully clear visual of Crowley lounging on his bed, but the darkness only made the image clearer. He'd never been so glad that Crowley couldn't see his face and he cleared his throat with some difficulty.

"You know, the research I’ve found for class strongly suggests that plants do actually have feelings and grow better in a positive environment. Have you maybe tried encouraging them once in a while?"

"No, tell me it isn’t so," Crowley groaned, completely unaware of Aziraphale anguishing behind him. "I need to tell Bee not to approve your paper topic. I can’t have someone publish something academically labelling me as a plant abuser."

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley's dramatic flair, its familiarity like a soothing balm on his nerves. "Well, I wasn’t considering publishing this one, but you’re starting to convince me otherwise."

"You cheeky bastard. Keep that up and I’ll never Heal your hands again," Crowley said without a morsel of threat. "How is the research going, by the way? Other than successfully insulting me."

"Not as well as I’d like," Aziraphale answered truthfully, shifting his hands to a different spot on Crowley's head. "Although, I’ve discovered that Empathy is the academically correct term for my specific type of Attribute."

Crowley barked out a laugh. "Who would’ve thought. Can’t believe I basically guessed it."

"I knew you’d get a kick out of that," Aziraphale said, feeling that strange sense of pride he felt the night he discovered Crowley's intuition had been right return. "I’m also sure you’d be happy to know that it isn’t a coincidence you've never heard of my specific Attribute before either. This variant’s so rare, I’ve hardly found enough academic resources to support a research paper."

"Oh," Crowley said, sounding far from happy. "That’s unfortunate. I mean, it's nice to be right, but I won't be happy at the fact it’s going to make your life harder. You could try changing the topic a bit after you dig around some more. See what’s out there. Read up on the existing articles and choose something that just fleshes their research out a bit, yeah? If you’re not looking to publish it, the world’s your oyster now."

Maybe Crowley was just being a helpful professor, but the appreciation of him trying to come up with suggestions made Aziraphale's heart feel all sorts of growing tenderness. He shook his head in quiet amusement despite knowing Crowley wouldn't be able to see it.

"I’m not usually one to say such things, but I can confidently say now that I told you so. I really would do very poorly without your help, and that sounds like wonderful advice."

"Can't guarantee the quality of it. You're probably better off not taking it," Crowley answered, but for once, he didn't sound like he meant it. He actually sounded like he was accepting the compliment, and it brought a smile to Aziraphale's face.

That was all he really wanted. For Crowley to believe.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t completely true.

Aziraphale wanted a lot of things. He wanted to get to know Crowley more. For their budding friendship to bloom. He wanted to spend more time with Crowley and, if he was lucky, for that "something more" to happen between them.

But Aziraphale also wanted a lot of things for Crowley regardless of how their relationship turns out. He wanted Crowley to feel comfortable opening up. For his confidence to be more than just something to be worn as a protective shield. He wanted to prevent Crowley's heart from shutting itself up.

Maybe Crowley could allow him to care for it properly one day. Maybe one day, if Crowley ever let him, he could Empathize with him. 

"Really, Crowley," Aziraphale said, puffing out a laugh through his nose. "I don’t see why you’re so reluctant to accept compliments when you so easily give them out."

Crowley craned his neck a little to the side in obvious protest. "I don’t easily give them out."

"You do to me."

"No, I don't," Crowley rebutted. "The only thing I know how to do is insult people."

"Not me," Aziraphale insisted, undecided on whether Crowley was being intentionally oblivious. "Have you not realized how much encouragement you've given me already? It’s more than I deserve, really."

"Probably less than," came Crowley’s easy reply that went straight to Aziraphale’s chest like a bloody arrow to the sodding heart. It was moments like these that Aziraphale found himself clinging to. That fed his hope and stubbornly kept it alive, rose-coloured glasses or otherwise.

"Case in point," Aziraphale mumbled, not expecting Crowley to hear it.

But then Crowley suddenly rotated his chair around to face him, shifting his long legs so that they bracketed Aziraphale’s as he looked up. "Better not go around telling people I’m doing it then. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know."

Then his voice dropped in volume, coming out hesitantly. "People to impress."

It sounded so pointed, Aziraphale inadvertently sucked in a breath loud enough for both to hear.

He had yet to lower his hands from how abruptly Crowley had spun around, so now they hovered in the space between his chest and Crowley’s face. It would’ve taken only a slight reach forward to cup that sloping jaw and brush his thumbs across those smooth cheekbones. Feel the faint shadow of his beard.

"You don’t need to try very hard," Aziraphale eventually replied in an airless whisper.

Something electric grew within the thickness of the calm, and it was so quiet, Aziraphale could hear the muffled sound of traffic outside the office window. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Crowley saw the look of pure want on his face from this distance. If not that, then he surely could hear the skip of his heartbeat now.

Crowley audibly swallowed and held his gaze for a few more seconds before turning his head to stare off somewhere across his table. "You should sit," he said, voice cracking slightly. "That’s enough of spoiling me. It’s your turn now."

Unsure of what else to do but nod, Aziraphale walked his way back to the other side of the desk with a bit of difficulty, his legs weak and his breath too heavy in his nose. By the time he sat, Crowley’s hands were already opened out over his desk and Aziraphale wordlessly placed his palms into them, still somewhat in a daze.

Crowley's sharp hiss at the contact brought him out of it.

"Damn, you’re cold," Crowley said through gritted teeth.

Reminded of how comfortable Crowley looked while resting under the heat of the desk lamp earlier, Aziraphale apologized just as Crowley's flame flickered to life in the space between their palms. He wondered about whether Crowley's shapeshifting meant he was more snake than human. That would explain the aversion to the cold.

"Were they any better today?" Crowley asked after a few minutes had passed.

Aziraphale pulled his head out of the clouds and shook his head. "I think they were, but not enough to make a large difference. I admit I’m still quite worried about my assessment. It’s not as if I’ll be allowed to take breaks then."

"Is the assessment still three hours long?" Crowley asked.

"Yes," Aziraphale sighed. "The first hour’s the written exam and then it’s two hours straight of Healing."

Crowley grunted in disapproval. "Can’t believe they haven’t changed it up since I took that class. I tried bringing it up to Bee once. Figured they could change the curriculum, being the department head and all, but they said it was good practice. Toughened students up and weeded out the weak. Always thought they had a bit of a sadistic streak, more like."

"Ah yes," Aziraphale laughed humourlessly. "Weeding out the weak."

"Hey." Crowley’s assertive tone made Aziraphale look up. "You’re not weak. You’re just out of practice. Horribly out of practice, no thanks to your parents. The curriculum’s not catered towards students with an arsehole of a family."

Aziraphale smiled appreciatively. Crowley really was oblivious to his own kindness.

He looked down at where their hands met, certain that Crowley wasn’t consciously stroking the back of his hand with his thumb. "I just hope the written portion can balance out my overall grade."

"It’s just an assessment. You’ll have more time to prepare for the final," Crowley assured, and while Aziraphale nodded in agreement, it wasn't with full confidence.

"I do hope I’ll make some more significant progress by then. Perhaps I could use the holidays as extra time to practice."

Crowley smirked. "I still think you should sneak in some alcohol. A little vodka. Some gin, perhaps. All clear, they’ll never know the difference."

Aziraphale was close to rolling his eyes. "Really now, Crowley, if I wanted to cheat, I would rather pour something more tasteful into an opaque tumbler than resort to something like gin."

"Let me guess, you’d rather bring a bottle of that wine from the pub?"

Feeling almost offended, Aziraphale huffed. "Certainly not. No, I would open something better from home, of course."

When Crowley laughed, his hands briefly squeezed Aziraphale’s. "Careful now. Say that in front of anyone else and they might mistake you for being fussy."

"Fussy implies that drinking wine is trivial, which I can assure you is most certainly not."

"I’ll be sure to come to you for suggestions next time then. I just stick to the hard stuff ‘cause any wine I buy always ends up tasting awful."

Aziraphale beamed. "I’d be more than happy to. We could do a little tasting to see if there's a specific year you prefer. I have a rather large variety of options for you to try if you'd like to…" He steeled himself. "If you’d like to stop by my flat one day."

However Crowley wished to interpret that invitation, Aziraphale was sure he’d be fine with it either way.

"What neighbourhood’s your flat in anyway?" Crowley asked, seeming to take it in stride. "It always sounded like you lived pretty close to the pub."

"I’m just in Mayfair a few blocks down from campus."

"Mayfair!" Crowley whistled. "Bet it’s a beauty. Your inheritance really came in handy."

 "I bought my flat with my own earnings, thank you very much," Aziraphale said primly. "Most of my inheritance went towards my tuition, actually."

"Maybe I chose the wrong profession," Crowley snorted. "Should’ve been a bookbinder instead."

"It’s never too late." Aziraphale gently pushed his fingertips down to nudge at Crowley's palms, feeling Crowley's hands twitch in response. "Although, I doubt you’d make a very strong case for yourself as someone with Pyromancy. I think seeing that on your resume alone will scare any libraries and museums off from working with you."

"Discrimination, that’s what that is. They should pay more attention to how high my Pyromancy grade is instead."

"Now you sound like Gabriel."

Crowley made a face. "Oh, yuck, bollocks to that then. Must be all the extra Faculty meetings we’ve been having now that midterm stuff’s coming up soon. Besides all the conferences and golf tournaments he talks about, he won’t shut up about how important these assessments are to the University’s representation."

"Glad to see he’s nothing if not consistent," Aziraphale murmured sarcastically. "Back when we had family dinners, that’s all he’d ever talk about too."

Crowley groaned. "Does he ever get tired of listening to the sound of his own voice?"

Aziraphale wished he did. Their relationship wouldn't be so strained if that was the case. "Unfortunately not. At least, not until everyone he knows has heard about the amazing things he’s done at least once."

"After everything you’ve told me, family dinners sound like torture."

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. "I never did enjoy them. Luckily, no one’s organized one since my parents’ passing. I rather enjoyed spending Christmas as I saw fit rather than catering to my parents’ whim."

"Were your parents the religious sort?" Crowley asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Of sorts," Aziraphale answered, surprised. "What gave it away?"

"Your names. Gabriel, Aziraphale," Crowley listed, "and I remembered hearing Gabriel talk about a Michael a while back too or something. These are all names of angels from the Bible, aren’t they?"

"That's right," Aziraphale answered, impressed that Crowley had made the connection. "I wouldn’t say my family was particularly religious, but it definitely contributed to their sense of entitlement."

"That explains Gabriel then," Crowley grunted.

"My parents’ wealth didn’t help," Aziraphale agreed with a sigh. "It’s because of that my other siblings are very similar to Gabriel in one way or another. Even our youngest sister, Uriel, despite the fact that she’s adopted."

Crowley frowned. "Were your parents just super fans of the church or something?"

That conjured up an image of his parents wearing memorabilia with #1 Churchgoer on it and Aziraphale fought down his smile. "You’re not too far off. This is going to sound presumptuous, but my parents believed us to be descendants of angels back when they supposedly roamed the earth. I’m not sure what proof they have, but they believed there’s evidence of a traceable bloodline."

"…You’re not telling me your family thinks you’re Nephilim, are you?"

Aziraphale pulled a face to show Crowley he also thought it sounded absurd. "I certainly hope not, considering the stories behind them, but I suppose it sounds like that’s what they were suggesting. They never bothered going into it in much detail, however, and no one really questioned it. Well, except for me, but they never answered my questions. My siblings all went along with it all quite willingly."

"Something must've gone wrong somewhere if Gabriel’s a descendant of a mythical, heavenly creature," Crowley grumbled. "He's too much of a prick to be one."

"Could be a fallen angel if you believe those Nephilim myths," Aziraphale offered as a well-meaning jab at his brother, earning himself another wonderful laugh from Crowley.

"Well, if anyone actually lives up to their name, it’s definitely you. Gabriel certainly doesn’t, and if the rest of your siblings are anything like him, they don’t either."

It sounded so genuine, so matter-of-fact, that Aziraphale felt his cheeks flush instantly in response. He looked away from Crowley's face and stared at their hands, which really didn't help his racing heart all that much either.

"Yes, well, my parents didn’t share your sentiments, unfortunately. It’s the reason why they adopted Uriel in the first place. They realized their former youngest didn’t have the same potential as the rest of his siblings and wanted to have a stronger finish to their line of children." Aziraphale hesitated. "That, and because they wanted seven children to honour the Bible."

"Seven children?" Crowley exclaimed, looking like he wanted to flip the table if their hands weren't connected. "That’s it, I’m officially declaring your family fucking mental. Are you sure you’re related?"

"I wondered the same myself for years," Aziraphale admitted with a dab of dry humour. "My family certainly didn’t seem to think so with my low Proxy score and all. The others used to joke about how I was the adopted one instead."

"Twats, the lot of them," Crowley growled. He looked so insulted, Aziraphale almost wanted to comfort him.

He gave Crowley's hands a squeeze, smiling at how inviting and comforting Crowley's flames were between their hands. "I’ve long accepted that I’ll always be the black sheep of the family. It used to bother me, but I’ve grown since then. I’m happy with who I am and what I’ve achieved."

"The way I see it, if we're talking sheep here, is that you're the one with white wool and the rest of them just painted it on."

Aziraphale turned his smile to Crowley's disgruntled face. "That’s certainly an interesting take on that metaphor. My parents always considered Gabriel to be the mightiest angel of the family."

The corners of Crowley’s lips pulled down comically far. "If angels are anything like Gabriel, I’d rather sign myself straight into Hell."

"Speaking of which, are you religious?" Aziraphale asked. Crowley's comments reminded him of how they started this topic of conversation in the first place. "People who haven’t studied or read the Bible usually don’t pick up on our names."

Crowley shrugged nonchalantly. "Never liked church, but my parents used to go. Your name felt so familiar that I looked it up back at the—"

Then his entire body went stiff.

"Um, I mean—" Pulling his hands away, Crowley stood so suddenly, Aziraphale felt like he got whiplash. "Right, that’s enough out of me. Hands should feel good as new, yeah? Pub time?"

Before Aziraphale even had the chance to reply, Crowley was taking long-legged strides to the door to grab his coat, shoving a hand into its pockets in search of keys and ripping open the door after he found them.

Primarily out of habit, Aziraphale stood and gathered his things to follow Crowley out the door, temporarily distracted by the feeling of Crowley guiding him out with a hand on his waist before his memories started to click themselves into place.

Earlier that week at the library. The religious titles scrawled across the spines of the books Crowley had piled up. Encyclopedias of biblical creatures. Various editions of bibles. The panic that had been on his face when Aziraphale called out to him and how quickly he’d slam the cover shut.

Aziraphale let himself stare at Crowley's profile as they walked to where he assumed was the pub, seeing Crowley babbling on with conviction. Something about the weather and complaining about how busy the pub's been these days maybe? Either way, Aziraphale heard none of it.

He was distracted. Dazed, even.

Crowley had looked his name up. Now wasn’t that something?

Chapter Text

"The Apocalypse Christmas Ball?" Aziraphale repeated after Maddie, slowly because he wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly over the sound of loud restaurant patrons and the clamour of the Cantonese kitchen staff coming from behind the curtained doorway they sat next to.

"Yes!" she sighed dreamily, eyes drifting off into seemingly happy memories. "The Faculty of Magic arguably has the best one out of all the faculties of Eden because of how much more magic goes into the planning."

"But why Apocalypse?" Newt asked as he stuffed another spring roll into his mouth. "That’s a bit…I don’t know, macabre, isn’t it?"

"I think it’s perfect," Anathema grinned, swiping the last spring roll and stacking the empty plate on top of a few others to make some more table space.

"Apparently, the name came about because the Faculty wanted the students to treat it like the end of the world," Maddie went on to explain. "Go a bit nuts before the term finals, so to speak."

"Do the students act in such a manner?" Aziraphale asked apprehensively, dragging over the plate of beef ho fun to scoop some into his bowl.

The idea of a ball had interested him at the start, with images of Jane Austen’s cotillions immediately coming to mind. But getting pushed around by sweaty, drunk bodies while they all bounced to a beat wasn’t exactly what Aziraphale wanted to participate in. He could just go straight into a club if he wanted that kind of a scene. 

"Of course they do!" Maddie exclaimed. "Well, it’s mostly during the second half of the ball where things turn into more of a rave."

Aziraphale hummed, trying to imagine a bunch of young adults grooving or breakdancing in formal wear. Is that what young people even do anymore these days? "To be honest, I’m surprised you’ve attended every year. I thought you didn’t like those types of parties."

Maddie poured herself more tea. "It’s not the second half I like, it’s the formal ball that usually comes before it. Everyone’s still relatively sober then and some will even waltz or slow dance with each other."

"Now that sounds lovely," Aziraphale said, sharing Maddie’s smile.

"I think you’ll all love it. This year’s theme is Intergalactic," Maddie continued with a little fanfare wiggle of her hands. "The Faculty encourages students to dress for the theme as best they can. Everyone always looks so lovely."

Anathema twirled her chopsticks around in thought. "But are we talking ‘wearing a planet blow up costume’ or ‘a four-piece suit with stars on it’?"

"It’s one of Eden’s biggest so of course it’s a black-tie event." Maddie gaped, sounding scandalized. "I’m surprised you all haven’t seen the advertisements. They’re plastered practically everywhere, what with tickets going on sale in a month."

Anathema didn’t bother hiding her disappointment. "Guess there’s always Halloween," she grumbled, making Aziraphale wonder if Anathema had brought some sort of inflatable over from America just to be extra prepared.

"I’m guessing this is a dinner event?" Newt asked as his chopsticks struggled around a bean sprout in his bowl. "Will there be food?"

Maddy nodded vigorously. "Oh yes, there’ll be at least a seven-course meal and live performances too!"

Aziraphale felt his interest reignite and turned to her. "What sort of performances are we talking about here?"

"Oh, lots! A few short theatre performances here, some quartets there. Live jazz and rock bands to end the night." Maddie looked around the table expectantly. "Oh, please tell me you’ll all be there. I’d love to share the dinner table with you all."

Anathema dragged the noodles back from Aziraphale and over to her side. "Count me in. I’d never miss a chance to dress up."

"I’ll go too," Newt followed easily, the way he looked to Anathema when he said it didn’t go unnoticed. Aziraphale smiled into his teacup and wondered if Anathema’s previous Divination had come true yet.

Then Maddie put a hand on Aziraphale’s arm and turned her baby blue eyes toward him, wide and hopeful. "You’ll come too, won’t you?"

Aziraphale smiled reassuringly. "It sounds like a wonderful time. I wouldn’t dream of missing it. I rather think it’s about time I brushed off my waltz."

"Holy shit. The tickets cost an arm and a leg," Anathema hissed in interjection. The light of her phone screen flashed colours over her glasses as she scrolled. "Is that why they’re giving us a month’s head start? So we can find a way onto the black market or something? How the hell am I going to afford this?"

Newt quirked his head curiously at her. "Aren’t your parents super well-off though?"

"Yes, but it’s not my money," Anathema specified. "I’m trying to earn my own keep here. I don’t think the next release of my student loans come out until December either."

"I’m happy to lend you what you need until then," Aziraphale offered, thoroughly amused by how Anathema looked at him like she wanted to worship the ground he stood on.

As their meal continued, talks of space had Aziraphale thinking back to Crowley and the library. The sparkle of red hair in the observatory. The first brush of hands. The realization that Crowley had looked up his name. The "something more" becoming increasingly obvious in the way they sat at the bar last week. The way they leaned into one another throughout the night.

Aziraphale wondered if Crowley would be going to the ball. He had looked exquisite under the stars. He had looked like he belonged there.

Walking out the lecture hall doors on the following Tuesday, Aziraphale sighed as he tied his scarf around his neck, feeling a little dejected when he heard a quiet whistle behind him. Curious, he turned towards the sound, heart leaping a little at the sight of Crowley’s dark silhouette perched on the stone window ledge a few metres away. Hips first, Crowley got up and walked over.

It shouldn’t have been that hard not to stare, but it was one thing to watch the man strut across the lecture stage like he owned it and something else entirely to watch Crowley’s long legs stretch deliberately toward him. Aziraphale was sure he'd never get used to it.

"Crowley," Aziraphale greeted, unable to stop the wide smile that grew on his face. "What a lovely surprise. I thought you didn’t teach on Tuesdays?"

"I had some stuff to print off tonight for assessments next week," Crowley said, tucking his hands into his jean pockets while Aziraphale tried not to imagine what it’d be like to join him there. "Thought I’d check in on you while I was here. How did class go? Hands alright?"

Aziraphale's smile turned a little forced then. "That’s very thoughtful of you to do so. It’s ah…a little embarrassing, but I admit I overexerted myself today and needed to lie down in the infirmary."

Nurse Potts was a lovely woman though, and Aziraphale would’ve enjoyed spending more time with her if she hadn’t rushed off back to the student dorms after briefly seeing him to a bed. Aziraphale thought that, if any of Eden’s faculties needed medical professionals, it’d be the Faculty of Magic with all of its Proxies and hazardous Attributes being pushed to their limits. Yet, Nurse Potts was left to her own devices. A very skilled Healer, but clearly overworked.

"That’s no good," Crowley answered, frowning, and when he offered out a hand like it was second nature to him, Aziraphale looked down at it and stared. Then he looked back up.

"H-here?" he asked, stuttering. Of course he had to stutter. His heart was good at making other parts of him bend to its will at every spontaneity.

It wasn’t like he didn’t want to take Crowley’s hand. In fact, he wanted nothing more. But despite the increasing amount of clues Aziraphale gathered that Crowley saw this thing between them as more than just a growing friendship, all Aziraphale knew was that whenever Crowley offered his hands out over a desk, it meant it was an offer to Heal.

But to offer him a hand in this open like this? The assertion felt so sudden, Aziraphale doubted Crowley knew what the implications behind his actions were.

His hunch was apparently correct because Crowley eventually seemed to realize something was off in the way Aziraphale reacted and looked down in confusion. As if surprised to see his hand outstretched, Crowley scowled at it like it had done something egregiously wrong and shoved it back into his jeans with more force than what was necessary.

"Uh— hah, turned into bit of a habit now, I suppose," Crowley laughed mockingly, his ears turning a few shades of pink darker. "Um, off to the library now, are you?"

Aziraphale almost felt reluctant that he didn't just take the hand. "I’ve asked to take the week off actually. I wanted to take more time in the evenings to practice for next week."

"Smart," Crowley praised easily. "Did you…still want me to see to your hands then?"

Aziraphale beamed. "If you don’t mind."

There was a bone-deep ache of contentedness in Aziraphale’s body when he stepped back into Crowley's office. Seeing the desk lamp made him remember the coil of beautiful black scales underneath its light.

Then Aziraphale spotted a duck planter underneath Crowley’s monitor. He didn’t remember that being there last week.

"Do you like ducks?" he asked while he took off his layers and set aside his briefcase.

"Current hyper fixation," Crowley confirmed as plopped down into his chair and slid his hands over the desk. "Big fan of ducks, me."

"I do enjoy feeding them over the summer," Aziraphale said, placing his hands over Crowley’s with a murmured apology.

To his surprise, Crowley didn’t even flinch and even gently tugged at his hands, encouraging him to sit closer. "Not bread, I hope. S'not good for them."

Aziraphale swallowed thickly. "So I've heard."

It was so frightfully natural. The way they moved and accommodated each other felt like they'd been doing it for centuries. Like they were sharing a couch after coming home from a long day at work rather than clinically sitting across an office table from one another.

Aziraphale was more than aware of his greedy absorption of this newfound domesticity. Knowing what he knows now, the rapid beating of his chest no longer came from nervousness, but from something closer to pure want. The yearning brewed in his stomach for the rest of the evening, fueled by their easy conversation.

He wondered if Crowley felt the same. Surely, with the way Crowley acted around him, he did to some extent.

The two of them continued to converse a while longer until the sound of rain against the window caused them to glance outside. The sun had long set. The raindrops, like sequins, glittered on the glass as the streetlights fractured through them.

"Good thing I always carry an umbrella with me," Aziraphale said, admiring the darkened view.

Crowley’s flames subsided but he made no moves to pull his hands away, still glancing over his shoulders at the window. "Should probably be fine if I run," he was grumbling, seemingly to himself.

"Why don’t I walk you home?" Aziraphale offered warmly, happy to leave his hands where they were, stealing the extra time he had to finally appreciate what he could feel from Crowley’s palms. "I’d hate for you to catch a cold."  

Snorting, Crowley turned back around. "I’m sure my students wouldn’t mind. I’ve survived this long without an umbrella."

Aziraphale blinked. No umbrella? In London? How exactly did this man live?

"Well, I mind," Aziraphale reproached. "Especially when I have an umbrella that’s perfectly suitable for sharing. Please, I insist."

"Bully," Crowley scoffed through a smirk. He looked down at their hands, hesitating for a few more seconds before he slowly slid his out.

Happy that it felt like he wasn't the only one mourning the contact, Aziraphale dug through his briefcase as they leisurely made their way to the exit. When they stood under the stone archway outside and Aziraphale moved to pop open his umbrella, Crowley made a bit of rude noise.

"Really? Is everything you own tartan?" he asked, easily taking Aziraphale’s briefcase out of his hands.

"Not quite," Aziraphale answered smoothly with just a hint of cheek, finally able to use two hands properly to open the umbrella. He glanced over at Crowley. "I’ve yet to find any tartan pants, if you must know."

He felt devilishly delighted when Crowley's cheeks turned dark and a choked noise got stuck in his throat.

As they walked side by side under the shelter of the umbrella, Aziraphale tried not to pay too much attention to how their shoulders kept bumping into one another. He did notice that Crowley was holding his briefcase in between them though, keeping it away from the rain, just as effortlessly as he took it away from Aziraphale when he saw him struggling earlier.

Without realizing it, witnessing and receiving Crowley’s kindness had turned into an addiction for him. An insatiable craving perfectly suited to his gluttonous nature. Knowing that what he was experiencing was a rare privilege made it all the more appetizing.

They resumed their conversation for a few blocks more until they walked by a tailor, the display of sharp suits jogging Aziraphale's memory. He turned to Crowley who had his shoulders tucked up to his ears like some kind of turtle. Really, how did this man survive?

"I remember I wanted to ask, but do faculty and staff attend the Christmas Ball?"

"The Apocalypse?" Crowley mused. "Oh yeah, I suppose that’s coming up quickly now. Has Gabriel never bragged to you about it?"

Aziraphale sniffed. "I’m sure he has, but I’ve made a point not to listen to what he says at family dinners anymore."

Crowley looked almost proud. "Yeah, the faculty and staff are all invited but we usually have our own separate section of the venue. Keep us boring adults away from the kids to let them have their fun and whatnot."

Then he grinned, a flash of white canines. "But I usually crash the kids’ tables later on into the night anyway. Those guys know how to mix their drinks."

"I was thinking I’d only stay for the dancing bit at the beginning before anyone got too intoxicated, but perhaps I’ll stick around for the rave bit Maddie was telling us about," Aziraphale said, playfully thoughtful. "I’m sure you’ll be very entertaining to watch."

"But it’s the rave bit at the end that’s the most fun," Crowley insisted, which made Aziraphale smile curiously at him.

"I thought you didn’t enjoy being surrounded by wasted teenagers."

"I don’t," Crowley clarified with a scoff. "But the venues are always big enough that I don’t need to worry about people throwing up on my shoes. Besides, we’re the ones who confirm the music playlist for the night, which means I can finally dance to songs I like."

"Oh!" Aziraphale perked up. "Do you enjoy dancing?"

"Nothing anyone would call good dancing, but yeah, I like to let loose once in a while."

Aziraphale hummed appreciatively, imagining Crowley doing all sorts of dance movements. "In that case, I’m sure I’ll be thoroughly entertained."

"Don’t say it like I’m letting you off the hook. I fully intend to watch you flounce around as well."

"I’m not going to flounce around," Aziraphale gasped. "I’ll happily observe your horrid dancing from the side."

"Not one for dancing?" Crowley asked.

"On the contrary. I love dancing. Just not the sort you’re thinking of." Aziraphale sighed a little wistfully. "If it was one thing I appreciated from all the lessons my parents put me through, it was the dancing. Have you ever waltzed before, Crowley?"

Crowley looked like he wanted to tease, but then his face morphed into something softer. "Haven’t had the pleasure," he replied.

"It’s a most dazzling experience once you get the hang of it," Aziraphale said breathlessly. "It feels like you’re weightless as the world spins around you. After a while, everything just disappears and there’s nothing left except you and your dance partner."

"That…sounds pretty great."

Aziraphale nodded, a phantom soreness collecting like smoke in his lungs as he remembered the lightness of his feet. The confidence in his steps. The strength of his arms.

"It was the most freedom I’d ever felt in my life before I moved out of the family home," Aziraphale said, absentmindedly tugging on Crowley's arm to sidestep a puddle. Crowley easily followed. "I clung to those lessons like a lifeline. They were the only times I felt like I mattered back then and the only times I felt like I lived up to the Biblical name my parents gave me."

He huffed out a small laugh. "Silly of me, now that I think back on it. A naïve little tike who thought walking on clouds meant he could be recognized as an angel by his parents."

When Crowley didn’t immediately reply, Aziraphale smiled at him apologetically. "Sorry, I didn't mean for this to take such a sour turn."

Crowley opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he looked like he decided against it and turned to stare at the path in front of them, shaking his head. "It's fine. I'll listen."

Heart warmed, Aziraphale let the silence settle a little as they walked together under the rain, simply enjoying the feeling of Crowley's closeness before he had enough clarity in his thoughts to speak again.

"I suppose it's why I enjoy Christmas so much despite the memories it brings. There's something about the way it brings people together and the simple joy of it all."

"I thought you hated the family dinners and all those traditions," Crowley said.

"I did," Aziraphale agreed. "But Christmas brought with it just a tad more warmth. Well, as much warmth one could get from sterile metal." That stirred a low chuckle from Crowley and Aziraphale glanced over at him. "Do you like Christmas?"

"I used to," Crowley replied with something unspoken laced into his words. "Although, it doesn't mean much these days."

Humming in acknowledgement and already familiar with how Crowley hedged around his answers, Aziraphale led them down a different path. "Do you do anything to celebrate?"

"Drink," Crowley answered with a snort. "Sleep. Drink more. Watch awful rom-coms and the like."

"Didn't take you as a romantic," Aziraphale teased gently.  

Crowley looked like he was struggling to decide whether to say something snarky or act offended, his mouth visibly fighting off a grin. "Hey now, mind your tone. Just because I'm awful at it, doesn't mean I'm not one."

"Oh, I doubt you're awful at it," Aziraphale countered easily.

"A lot of unwarranted confidence, that is," Crowley said after a sharp laugh. "You've seen how awkward I am."

"Which can be charming in its own way," Aziraphale said before trying to stave off the blush that was threatening to rise on his face as he teetered between giving encouragement and giving himself away.  

Crowley scoffed. "Now you're just blatantly lying."

"I'd never!" Aziraphale exclaimed, taking the accusation personally. "And based on what your flatmates have said, it doesn't sound like you've had any trouble with it in the past."

Crowley actually started sputtering. "Don't go around believing everything they say, it's usually a bunch of crap."

Aziraphale raised an amused eyebrow, remembering Eric's offer for Crowley to join whomever they had found for him like he had his pick of the litter. "When we saw each other at the coffee shop that second week of classes, you had a bet with your flatmates about picking someone up, didn't you?"

Now Crowley's ears were starting to turn red, already pink from the cold. "Yeah, a bet that I lost, mind you," he grumbled. "I never wanted to make that stupid bet in the first place."

"I'm sure you were always successful when you cared enough to try," Aziraphale said, refusing to feel disheartened at the idea that perhaps he wasn't worth Crowley's efforts just yet, regardless of what he felt was growing between them. Despite Crowley's habit of putting himself down, he must've been aware of how he looked and the effect he had on people, surely.

"It's actually the opposite," Crowley corrected with a laugh that died before it began. "Was never successful when I cared."

Aziraphale felt his brows furrow in confusion and vaguely hoped Crowley was just fishing for compliments and wasn't actually being serious. The possibility of someone not wanting Crowley felt incomprehensible. "I'm sure there must've been times when you were, weren't there?"

Crowley didn't immediately answer, but when he did, his voice was low and careful and aimed at his coat collar. "I don't know. You tell me when I am."

Aziraphale wasn't sure how he'd been able to keep walking. It was like all the sound in the world got sucked into a vacuum and Aziraphale got pulled right along with it. He heard nothing but the deafening sound of his heart in his ears as all the blood in his veins pooled into it in an attempt to keep it running at its frantic pace. His fingers went cold, his legs went numb, and Aziraphale vaguely recognized he was in some version of shock.

Did Crowley…No, it couldn't have been what he thought, right? Was Crowley admitting to pursuing him?

Mind frantically whirling yet blank at the same time, they arrived at Crowley's place before Aziraphale could find his bearings. He mindlessly followed Crowley up to the stoop of his flat, having enough functionality left in his brain to recognize the rain had stopped and closed his umbrella.

"You know," Crowley started speaking a little hesitantly, pulling Aziraphale out from his stupor, a deep frown on his face as he shuffled his weight between his feet. "I stand by what I said last week. About the whole name thing."

Aziraphale blinked, his brain not yet ready to take in and process speech. "How do you mean?"

"Pretty sure you’re the only one in your family that lives up to their name." Crowley swallowed, his voice taking on a gritty quality when he spoke again. "If anyone’s an angel, it’s you."

And for the second time that night, Aziraphale’s lungs no longer felt the need for air as it all escaped him in one breathless exhale like he'd just been hit by a second freight train.

Still not yet recovered by the potential that Crowley cared for him beyond a platonic level, Aziraphale recognized that Crowley was referring to what he had said earlier that night and was doing his best to comfort him. And that realization brought with it another sharp wave of emotion.

It wasn't difficult to believe in Crowley’s words. The comforting, modest version of it, at least. Gone was the boy who didn’t know anything besides wanting the approval of the family he didn’t fit into. But he didn’t get to where he was today without painstakingly rebuilding his confidence from the scattered shards his family had left him with.

It had been a long, difficult, and lonely process. It was a lot of time spent surrounded by antiques, hoping he’d belong among them. Absorbing other portrayals of love to embody it. Staying up endless nights to stare blankly out his window because sometimes only the invisible stars could carry away the weight of his thoughts far enough to empty his mind.

To hear someone else say such things out loud…To hear Crowley repeatedly offer reassurance with strong and gentle conviction that rivalled the warmth of his fire, brought comfort to Aziraphale more certainly than a darkening sky brought summer rain. To know that Crowley was trying to offer what Aziraphale yearned for most…

For more than one reason, Aziraphale's heart hurt to the point where his eyes stung and he was overcome with the urge to kiss Crowley right there and then. There was so much all at once and Aziraphale's chest couldn't handle it all.

Taking a step closer until they were almost toe to toe, he dropped his gaze down from Crowley's hidden eyes to his lips, hearing Crowley take in a sharp breath in response. He saw the tip of Crowley's tongue swipe reflexively over his lips, turning them wet and soft and ready. Inviting.

But then a car alarm went off somewhere down the street and Aziraphale's courage flickered as all the sound in the world returned. So instead, without a word, Aziraphale untied his scarf and looped it around Crowley’s neck, carefully and meticulously smoothing out the creases before tying the ends.

A strangled laugh escaped Crowley’s throat, his stuttering breath warm on Aziraphale’s nose. "A bit late for this, don’t you think?"

"Something tells me there’s not a single warm accessory in your dresser," Aziraphale said softly, admiring his handiwork. He’d been right. Crowley did look ravishing in tartan.

"I have a hat somewhere," Crowley muttered, and when Aziraphale handed him his umbrella, he took it absent-mindedly, looking at it confused when he realized what his body did without him realizing. "What’s this for?"

"A loan," said Aziraphale simply. "It’s yours until you get your own."

A small smile pulled the corners of Crowley’s lips, dangerously alluring from this distance. "Mine to keep forever then," he teased, his voice matching Aziraphale’s low timbre.

Neither of them had taken a step back.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale gently placed his hand on Crowley’s chest, resting it on the ends of his scarf that now lay over the beautiful thing alive underneath. He felt its fluttering pace, drinking in the feeling to feed his greed and letting himself believe it had sped up for him.

He wasn't sure if he understood what Crowley had meant earlier, but he did feel more sure than he did before.

"Thank you, Crowley," he whispered after a moment's pause. "You have no idea how much it means for me to hear what you said to me tonight."

When Crowley laughed, the vibration tingled his palm as the sound reverberated low in his chest. "I might have an idea."

Letting his hand drop, Aziraphale took a step back. "I’ll stop by your office again on Friday?"

Crowley studied his face for a while before he confirmed with a small nod. "Friday."

Walking down the stairs and back the way he came, Aziraphale listened for the sound of a door closing that never came. He willed away his desire to look back, knowing that if he did, he’d never make it home.

Friday’s class had ended early to allow students ample time to prepare for next week’s assessments, his Intro to Recovery midterm scheduled to replace next Friday’s evening class. But unlike the majority of his classmates, Aziraphale wasn’t worried about the written portions. So instead of hurrying home to study, Aziraphale made his way up the stairs of the faculty wing, heart already pounding in anticipation.

But just when Aziraphale thought the world was rewarding him in every which way, he heard a voice behind him in the hall. A voice belonging to the last person he ever desired to see.

"Aziraphale?"

Closing his eyes with a soft groan, Aziraphale schooled his expression before turning around to face his brother.

Gabriel was walking towards him with a trained smile on his face that mirrored Aziraphale’s, his strong gait causing the hems of his long coat to dramatically whip around his knees like the man was on a catwalk. He was wearing a pink tie today, though, which added the barest of contrast from the rest of his silver two-piece suit.

"Gabriel. Lovely to see you," Aziraphale greeted politely. "I don’t believe I’ve seen you since the funeral."

"No, that’s not right. You saw my speech on the first day of Welcome Week, didn’t you?" Gabriel asked, fully hypothetical and slightly threatening while his smile stood, unwavering.

"Ah, yes, you’re right. My mistake," Aziraphale said. Follow the script. Go through the motions. "You’re here rather late. Are you still working?"

Gabriel pulled back his chin like Aziraphale was suggesting something just as ridiculous as the possibility of anyone forgetting his speech. "Just came back from a golf tournament to pick up a few things. You know, check the mail before the weekend." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at a door that Aziraphale assumed was the mailroom.

"Hardworking as ever," Aziraphale said through the teeth of his smile.

Even Gabriel’s laugh sounded like it was made of money and weaved from pride. "So what are you doing in the faculty wing?"

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. "I…have a meeting."

"With?"

"Crowley."

Gabriel wrinkled his nose up, his smile finally wavering. "Ah yes, the Pyromancy guy. What business do you have with him?"

Aziraphale resisted to tell him off by squeezing the handle of his briefcase a little tighter. He couldn’t feel it through the numbness of his hand, but he heard the leather groan as he lied. "He’s substituting for my Herbology class this term, so I was going to discuss my paper with him."

"Why him?" Gabriel's wrinkled nose turned into a full-faced grimace and Aziraphale abandoned keeping up facial pleasantries.

"What do you mean? I just told you. He’s substituting Herbology."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know that, but I mean why are you discussing your paper with someone like him? Why not just email Bee?"

Something began to twist in Aziraphale’s stomach. "I don’t understand what you’re suggesting."

Another lie. He always knew what that specific tone from Gabriel’s mouth meant.

"Of course you don’t," Gabriel said, looking almost genuinely sorry that Aziraphale didn’t. "What I mean is that Crowley’s not even your professor. He’s not even a professor in the literal sense of the word. What good could he do for you?"

The twisting feeling in Aziraphale's stomach turned repulsively sour, beginning to burn. "I don’t believe you’re understanding the word correctly, Gabriel," he said cooly.

"Of course I am, Aziraphale, the guy’s just a lecturer," he replied, missing Aziraphale’s intent completely. "Couldn’t even get his PhD after seven years of work, can you believe it? Not surprised though, considering how his ideas would’ve scared off all our sponsors."

Aziraphale frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Hasn’t he told you about his thesis? Or maybe not. He’s probably too ashamed of it now, looking back." Gabriel laughed like they were sharing a joke. Aziraphale wasn’t laughing. "He was trying to medicalize the weather or something. Get Weather Proxies and Healers to work together to literally universalize healthcare. Crazy, right? Seems like a smart guy, but as if anyone would fund that. My buddies back in America would’ve had a huge laugh."

He shook his head, still chuckling like he found the whole thing so ludicrous it was funny. "I heard the committee tried to reason with him too. Offered to approve his research if he found a way to privatize it, but nope. He refused point blank and stormed out. The only reason I agreed to hire him in the first place was because Bee asked me to do them a favour and I kind of felt bad for the guy. His Attribute grades weren’t bad either and there was an opening in the Elemental Department, so I agreed."

"I don’t see how any of this is relevant," Aziraphale bit out, decidedly not hiding the warning in his voice as other warning bells sounded in his head. He told himself to stay calm. To stay on script. Otherwise, he’d just be walking right into where Gabriel wanted him.

But his head was reeling from the information, feeling disgusted that he was having information so obviously sensitive being forced on him. Information that Gabriel had absolutely no right to share. Information about a reality so biased and corrupted and unfair that Aziraphale prayed wasn't true about the school he'd worked so hard to be admitted to.

"Irrelevant?" Gabriel exclaimed, a face so astonished that the burn in Aziraphale’s stomach roared into an acidic blaze in his chest. "My dear little brother, of course it’s relevant. How could you ever hope your paper will be up to Eden’s standard when you’re discussing it with Crowley of all people?"

Aziraphale decided the script could screw itself.

"Don’t use that tone with me, Gabriel," Aziraphale replied sharply, "I know you’re perfectly capable of using my name."

His whole body locked up as he stood taller. Defiant. Challenging. But Gabriel was unphased, raising his hands in mock surrender like Aziraphale was just a child complaining that his candy had been stolen.

"I’m just looking out for you," Gabriel reasoned. "I don’t trust that a guy who can’t even successfully defend his PhD can help you with your paper. Well, it might be okay if you’re not using it for your thesis. You’re not, right? Tell me you’re not."

"I haven’t decided yet," Aziraphale said curtly. "I believe that’s a discussion I need to have with Professor Zebub."

"Excellent choice," Gabriel said with finality, smiling like Aziraphale was finally making sense.

"However," Aziraphale continued, "I intend to continue meeting with Crowley."

Gabriel frowned. "Why, what's the point? You’re not in a rush to get the paper done, are you? Just give Bee an email."

Aziraphale was desperately holding on to what mere scraps were left of his patience, but Gabriel was always one to take anything he could get. "If you must know, Gabriel, it’s because I believe Crowley is a very capable and intelligent individual regardless of whether or not he has a PhD. I can name several people with that degree who lack so greatly in other areas, a PhD is nothing more than physical proof of their idiocy."

Gabriel looked appalled. "So, you’re doing it as a matter of principle? Your flawed perspective doesn’t change the reality, Aziraphale."

"Yes, I’m doing it as a matter of principle and it’s precisely because I believe in it," Aziraphale firmly replied. "I don’t trust people based on some preconceived notion about their degrees. I trust Crowley as an individual. And whether Professor Zebub or you had a hand in hiring Crowley or not, the reality is that he teaches at Eden and deserves the respect that comes with it."

Then he hesitated.

Gabriel was always the same, and there was nothing to suggest he'd ever change. Part of Aziraphale knew he could’ve just ended things there and be done with it, knowing that challenging his brother’s pride was only going to stretch out the argument.

But by insulting Crowley, Gabriel had poured fuel into the fire. Like hell Aziraphale was going to add anything to it but oxygen.

He gathered himself. "That is, unless the Dean wishes to convince me that Eden’s standards aren’t where they used to be."

A dark expression passed over Gabriel’s face and he took a step closer, his violet eyes glowing slightly from the restraint over his Attribute slipping. But Aziraphale could care less. Gabriel’s Persuasion had no power over blood relatives.

"There’s nothing wrong with Eden," Gabriel growled lowly.

"Just as I thought," Aziraphale said, trying not to sneer. "Then I don’t see an issue."

But Gabriel had no qualms about openly sneering. "Of course you don’t. You never do. I don’t even know why I bother to care."

"Because you care about yourself."

"I care about the family name," Gabriel countered like he always did, pushing a finger into Aziraphale’s face. "Which is something I wished you cared about more."

So Aziraphale said what he always said as he swatted away Gabriel’s finger. "The family name is what I make of it."

Gabriel barked a sharp laugh. "Is that what you tell yourself when you walk through Eden? When you walk through this Faculty? When you sit in the lecture rooms named after our parents even though they specifically told you to not come here? Don’t forget that you’re only here because I helped you get here. That I was generous enough to help."

"Don’t flatter yourself, you didn’t help me with anything," Aziraphale glowered. "I earned my place here. I deserve to be here." 

"Then if anyone’s flattering themselves, it’s you," Gabriel gritted out. "Don’t think I’m not keeping tabs on you, Aziraphale. Your written marks may be top of your class, but I know what’s going on with your Attribute. I warned you from the beginning that if your marks don't keep up, you'll be promptly removed from Eden and there'll be nothing I can do to prevent it. You reassured me you'd perform well, and yet, you haven’t made a single bit of progress with your Healing."

"I have and I’ll continue to," Aziraphale said before bitterly adding, "Don’t worry, Gabriel, I can assure you I’m putting in more effort into progressing with my Attribute than you are trying to come up with ways to defend me in front of your colleagues. The Attribute, I might add, which you and the rest of the family prevented me from practicing for years."

"Oh sure, play the blame game, little brother," Gabriel scoffed. "We all did what we knew was best for you, even if you still don't agree with it. If you just stuck to doing what you were told to do, we wouldn’t even be here gambling with all of this."

"Yes, you’re right," Aziraphale answered curtly. "I wouldn’t be here if I did."

Gabriel threw up his arms. "God, why are you so annoying?"

"A genetic fault, I’m afraid," he replied, earning himself a scathing look of electric purple that he ignored. "Now, if you’re quite done, I believe I have a meeting to attend, and you were on your way home. This is hardly a conversation that’s appropriate to have in school."

Gabriel fixed him with a hard look. "Just remember what I said, Aziraphale. Don’t screw up your degree like Crowley did and don’t come crying to me if you do. I convinced the admissions council to give you a chance. Don't you dare waste it."

"Wouldn’t even dream of it," Aziraphale said cooly. "Mind how you go."

And go Gabriel did, surprisingly. But he still did so proudly, shoulders back and head held high like it was an argument he won. Aziraphale watched his retreating back and heard the resonant taps of his dress shoes on the stone steps before the metallic clank of the door. Only then did he take in a deep breath and exhale purposefully and slowly, forcing out the remaining thorns of irritation still clinging to his skin.

Aziraphale finally loosened his grip around his briefcase and switched it over to his other hand, looking down at the deep red marks carved into his palm. He still couldn’t feel much of anything beyond an insistent stinging, but at least it distracted him from the inferno in his chest.

He glanced over at Crowley’s door. He couldn’t see Crowley now, not feeling like this. Crowley deserved his best foot forward, not the aftermath of a storm.

Sighing heavily, Aziraphale tucked his free hand into his coat and began to walk to the stairs. As he reached the bottom, Aziraphale started mentally drafting an apology email he’d send to Crowley the moment he got home, and he was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the sound of a door closing on the floor above him.

Crowley’s email reply came almost instantly after Aziraphale sent it the moment he walked through the door to his flat. He quickly puttered back over to his open laptop and put his reading glasses back on.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Apology for Missing Today’s Meet-Up

No probs, things happen. Feeling alright? Can’t join you at the pub this weekend though, sry. Need to prep.

Aziraphale smiled and typed his reply, heart already feeling soothed to the point of feeling slightly regretful for deciding on not seeing Crowley.

No, coming home was for the best. Gabriel had cut his patience to shreds and he didn’t want to explain to Crowley why that was completely just yet.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Apology for Missing Today’s Meet-Up

Hello Crowley,

Thank you for being so understanding. I’m feeling relatively fine, but as you know, Gabriel has his trying ways. It’s unfortunate that I can’t make tonight up to you this weekend, but perhaps we could arrange something for next weekend? I’ll explain myself properly then.

Aziraphale

The inbox ping came barely ten seconds later.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Apology for Missing Today’s Meet-Up

Drop by my office next Friday after your assessment if you’re feeling up to it. Think you’ll be OK?

A little unwillingly, Aziraphale thought back to Gabriel’s scathing words. It wasn’t his favourite way of doing so, but spite had proven to be a powerful motivator in his life. With Crowley being the other, Aziraphale was determined to sharpen the two into a weapon he could wield in next week’s challenges.

He’s proved his family wrong before. He could do it again.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Apology for Missing Today’s Meet-Up

Hello Crowley,

Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be just fine. I wish you a wonderful night.

Aziraphale

One of the assessment supervisors cleared their throat at the front of the lecture hall.

"Time’s up students!" they yelled. "Please stop your work and return your examination cards up at the front for a final signature."

With a deep and ragged sigh, Aziraphale cut off his Attribute and slumped back into his seat, his whole body, shivering. He looked at the slab of flesh in front of him, hoping he had managed to adequately Heal the bone-deep gash. It looked fine on the surface, but he wasn’t sure he had been able to properly tend to the tissues deeper in.

He did it. He made it through two hours. But now he felt like hurling.

When one of the other supervisors came down the stairs, he got their attention with a little wave.

"Would you mind if I stayed in my seat for a few more moments?" he asked weakly, the effort to smile feeling too much to handle. "I’m afraid I won’t be able to walk down the stairs in my condition."

They gave him a sympathetic look. "Sure, but you have less than ten minutes until the next class comes in. You’ll have to be out of here by the time they do. If you feel like you need more time, I'm sure the infirmary's still open."

"Right, yes. Thank you."

Sinking further down his seat, Aziraphale shoved his hands under his armpits and closed his eyes to stop his vision from swimming. He pressed his lips together hard, trying to muffle his throat's attempt at gagging. He focused on listening to the other students shuffle around his seat to get to the stairs and the relieved sighs they carried with them as they lined up at the front to return their numbered cards and deliver their second signature.

When the initial rush grew quiet, Aziraphale took in a few more breaths before he opened his eyes, blinking at the bright lights in pain as they flared back at him. The nausea was somewhat controlled, but he felt more than lightheaded. Maybe lying down at the infirmary was a good idea.

Gathering himself and his things as best he could with numb hands, he heaved himself up to standing, bearing all of his weight down on the desk when he couldn’t feel his legs.

He exhaled in a half groan. It’s fine. His legs still knew how to move. It wasn’t like they had stopped working. He just wouldn't be able to feel it, that's all.

But moving his body felt strange. It was like watching someone else control his movements as he gingerly moved one foot after another on the steps, putting most of his weight on his hands as he shifted down the rows. The lack of feedback felt disturbing and the migraine pounding at his temples was utterly distracting.

With all of his focus on his feet, Aziraphale’s hand missed the next table completely, and before he knew it, he was falling. His vision went dark before he felt the impact.

He could hear shouting.

Aziraphale’s eyes momentarily dragged themselves open just a crack and even that felt draining. Everything was still ridiculously bright. And blurry. He seemed to be staring up at the ceiling. Was he lying down?

He couldn't hear very well, but there were several voices loudly speaking all at once. His head throbbed in response, and he closed his eyes again with a groan.

Then Aziraphale heard his name being called. Or at least, it sounded something like his name.

Must they really be so loud?

He pried his eyes open again, squinting. He was too tired to move his head and he saw a blur of red hair come into view above him.

Crowley?

"Hang on, angel, I got you," he heard Crowley say.

At least, that’s what it sounded like. But everything was still too loud and still too bright.

"I got you."

So Aziraphale closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

When Aziraphale came to, everything was significantly quieter, silent even, save for the horrendous pounding at his temples. Despite this, he felt strangely relaxed. Rejuvenated, even. His body felt lighter than it had been in ages. Noticing that his vision wasn't swirling, he took stock of his surroundings, and judging by the familiar high ceilings and the wall of curtains drawn up around him, he was still at school in a bed in the infirmary.

Again.

Aziraphale tried to turn his head, wincing at the movement. Then he heard a voice come from the foot of his bed.

"I wouldn't move too much if I were you."

Too relaxed to even feel startled, Aziraphale tried to look down to where the voice was coming from, wriggling around when he couldn't.

There came an exasperated sigh. A tingling feeling that Aziraphale just noticed at his right ankle disappeared.

"I said not to move, you idiot."

There was a click and a soft whirring noise as the top half of the bed started to incline him into a sitting position. Crowley came into view, his sunglasses tucked onto the v-neck collar of his black cable knit sweater as he sat by Aziraphale’s exposed foot. He looked terribly handsome.

And terribly haggard.

"Crow—" Aziraphale’s throat felt like it seized around sandpaper and he started to cough, turning into the crook of his arm as his lungs hacked up what felt like all of his internal organs.

He heard the scraping of a chair, and the next thing he knew, Crowley had walked over to sit next to him on the bed, pouring some water from the carafe into a glass to give to him. Taking it with trembling hands, Aziraphale desperately chugged.

"When was the last time you drank water today?" Crowley asked with a deep frown on his face.

"You know," Aziraphale croaked after emptying the glass, "I'm not sure I remember. I think I had a cuppa this morning." He handed the glass back into Crowley's open hand and tried not to stare at how the cut of Crowley's sweater exposed the dip at the bottom of his throat.

Crowley passed the water back. "And did you eat anything today?"

Aziraphale took more generous gulps before answering. "Breakfast?"

Making a sound that wasn't unlike a growl, Crowley rubbed a hand roughly over his face. The slight pink of his skin suggested that this wasn't the first time he'd done this.

"Of course. No wonder you passed out. What were you thinking?"

"Of my assessment, of course," Aziraphale answered, not quite understanding why Crowley seemed so unhappy.

He knew Crowley wasn't exactly a picture of sunshine even on the best of days, but he felt a deeply rooted…irritation that was being kept underneath his skin, barely contained. It was a somewhat familiar sight, but Aziraphale was starting to get the sense that he was somehow the cause. And that wasn't familiar at all.

Crowley grumbled something mockingly under his breath before he grabbed some items off the desk and tossed them onto Aziraphale's lap. "Tracy said you have a mild concussion from the fall. She did her best but didn’t want to rummage around your brain too much. You’re probably feeling the worst of it now. Eat and drink those before you take any painkillers. Otherwise, you might get an awful stomachache."

"Tracy?" Aziraphale asked, glancing down at the juice box and banana greeting him. He set aside his water. "Nurse Potts?"

"The one and only," Crowley dryly answered before standing to walk back over to the foot of the bed. Aziraphale instantly missed the warm heat of him, even if a soft tenderness refilled in his heart as he watched Crowley gently place his hands back onto his ankle. "Sent her home after she finished Healing most of this. Just tidying things up now while I waited for you to wake up."

"No flames," Aziraphale dumbly noted through his sips of juice before frowning at his words. The migraine was making it awfully difficult to think straight. But so was the unhindered feeling of Crowley’s skin directly on his.

Crowley’s frown only deepened, directed at his ankle like he was silently scolding it even though Aziraphale knew it was probably meant for him. "The last thing your ankle needs right now is heat. What exactly are they teaching you in class?"

"Just an observation," Aziraphale said weakly in his defence, fully aware of how ridiculous that comment was. He was about to reach for the painkillers when Crowley made a sharp noise.

He turned to see Crowley glaring at him, the way the glow of his Attribute reflected off his golden eyes made Aziraphale feel pinned down at the unfamiliar sight. Even if Crowley was staring daggers at him, Aziraphale found it almost unfair how attractive he found Crowley to be.

"Don't you dare," Crowley warned. "Not until you finish eating."

"But—"

"No."

"I’m sure my stomach can—"

"No."

Huffing a little, Aziraphale surrendered and peeled the banana, taking a few reluctant bites while staring pointedly at Crowley until the man went back to Healing with an obvious roll of his eyes.

As homely as Crowley looked, Aziraphale could tell he was far from happy, his body practically the image of stress with his shoulders hunched up and one irritably bouncing leg. Every fibre of him looked like it was about to snap, too much energy for his thin frame. A vein graced down the centre of his forehead, twitching whenever his eyebrows did. The muscles of his jaws occasionally flexed around clenched teeth.

Although still uncertain as to why, Aziraphale was positive Crowley was irritated at him.

Yet, Crowley's touch stayed soft. Soothing at his ankle. The last time Aziraphale saw him like this was back on the beach all those years ago when Crowley knelt in front of him and had his injured foot nestled between his thighs. Even as the guilt pooled in Aziraphale’s stomach at the sight, all he wanted to do was reach out and take those wonderful, gentle hands into his without the pretense of needing them to be Healed. And after the way things unfurled that night on Crowley's doorstep, he was almost sure Crowley would let him if he tried.

Finishing his banana and throwing the peel into the bin underneath the table, Aziraphale gratefully swallowed down the medication with some water. Then he cleared his throat. "How long was I out for?"

"You were in and out for about ten minutes before we got you here," Crowley answered back briskly.

Aziraphale tried not to wince at the snappy tone. He looked above the curtains and saw a darkened sky through stained-glass windows.

"Seems like a lot more time than ten minutes have passed," he commented instead.

Crowley's frown drew deeper lines between his brows, looking far from impressed at Aziraphale's attempts to be nonchalant. "Yeah, that’s ‘cause you were out like a light right after we got you into bed. You were out for half an hour."

"Ah," Aziraphale said sheepishly, and Crowley sharply looked up, catching the unspoken guilt that seeped out in his tone.

"What?" he asked harshly. "Spit it out."

Aziraphale deflated, finding it hard to keep eye contact even though so much of him wanted to spend forever getting lost in them. "I haven't been sleeping well this week and may have…missed out on some sleep last night."

Crowley’s look could've burned through concrete. He wasn't just unhappy. He looked angry. Cutting off his Attribute, he fisted his hands at his thighs, tilting his back to take several, long, deep breaths. When his eyes snapped back down, Aziraphale tried not to flinch from how unfiltered the rage was without the sunglasses.

"You told me you were going to be fine, Aziraphale. This isn't fine," Crowley seethed, leaning forward menacingly with an accusatory finger pointed right at him. "You're not some resilient teenager who can easily get away with an all-nighter or two like you used to. You're past fucking forty and need to take care of yourself. You should know better!"

Aziraphale opened his mouth, scrambling his brain for something to say to defuse the situation, but Crowley blazed on like a burst pipe.

"And to top it all off, you didn't drink or eat anything before a two-hour Attribute assessment that you knew was going to be physically difficult for you. Were you trying to make things worse for yourself?"

"Crowley—"

"You're lucky I was supervising the assessment next door. Do you have any idea how I felt when I heard—When I saw you just lying there—" Another growl ripped from Crowley's throat and he roughly carded a hand through his hair, his breaths heavy and fast. "And then I found out you've injured yourself. That you were hurt. Not just with a concussion, but you’ve also sprained your ankle. And it's the same. Fucking. Ankle—"

Crowley's mouth snapped shut.

Too caught up in the whirlwind he had suddenly found himself in, Aziraphale hadn't even processed what Crowley had said until he saw a wave of fear pass on Crowley's face, the emotion shockingly clear without the protection of his sunglasses.

Then Aziraphale froze too.

It was Crowley on the beach all those years ago. And Crowley had recognized him.

They stared at each other in tense silence, and almost half a minute ticked by before Crowley broke it with a strangled noise in his throat. He hurriedly lowered his gaze back to Aziraphale’s ankle, resuming his Healing and saying nothing, his mouth set in a tight line.

Aziraphale took in a shuddering breath and held it. He suddenly felt like he was balancing on a very thin line hovering above a massive crevice, confusion and elated anticipation mixing inside him. The strange brew of revelation.

But something told him that Crowley clearly wasn’t feeling the same excitement he was.

Aziraphale let the stale air out. Silently. Slowly.

"It is you," he whispered. "The boy who Healed me twenty years ago at Botany Bay."

A muscle in Crowley's jaw twitched and another minute passed in silence before he spoke. "That boy isn't me."

It was a poor, tender, painful attempt at a lie and Aziraphale knew it.

"Crowley," he replied with a low and careful tone, worried that anything louder would scare Crowley off. He was actually half-expecting Crowley to have bolted by now with the way he was barely sitting on the edge of the chair. "I know that’s not true. I had doubts, but after what you said just now—"

"It’s not a lie," Crowley said, sounding pained and frustrated. "The boy you knew isn't me. Not anymore."

Aziraphale tried searching through Crowley’s complicated expression like it’d give him something closer to an answer. Why was Crowley so adamantly denying the truth? But Crowley was ever diligent, ever gentle, as he continued to Heal Aziraphale’s ankle, his expressions melting into one another past anything recognizable.

"I...don't understand," Aziraphale said.

"It’s not something you need to," Crowley grumbled.

"But I want to," Aziraphale insisted. "I want to understand."

"Why?" Crowley asked a bit harshly, exasperatedly throwing his hands up and finally meeting Aziraphale’s eyes, a concoction of raw confusion and barely concealed defensiveness swirling over his face.  

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, feeling like he was confronting a snake waiting to strike. He was used to seeing Crowley’s sharp edges, but not when they were turned on him.

"Because I care about you," he said. "I want to know more about you. And…I admit, for one other reason."

Crowley appeared to struggle between curiosity and slamming the door on this conversation before looking away, not taking the bait. "What if I told you to just forget what I said and move on?"

"Then I'll respect it," Aziraphale answered honestly. "If you truly do not wish to talk about it, I promise I'll never ask again."

But something told Aziraphale that some part of Crowley did want to talk about it because, through the fog of silence that followed, he could see that Crowley was weighing his options, different emotions taking turns flickering across his face while his foot tapped incessantly. His fingers drummed on his knees, matching his leg's rhythm. If Crowley truly didn’t want to share, he wouldn’t look so conflicted.

Aziraphale had no idea what was holding Crowley back, but whatever the reason, all Aziraphale wanted to do was reassure him that they’d be okay. That he was there to listen and held only complete, genuine curiosity for Crowley and all the brilliance he was.

So Aziraphale decided that maybe he needed to be honest too. A heart for a heart. Then he’ll leave the choice up to Crowley.

"Crowley, do you remember when you asked me about why I came back to school?" The slight tangent in topic made Crowley blink back up at him, brought out from his internal turmoil.

"At the coffee shop?"

"That’s right," Aziraphale said, smiling in what he hoped was encouragement. "Do you remember my answer?"

"Becoming a licenced Healer’s your life goal," Crowley answered without missing a beat.

Aziraphale nodded, looking down at his hands. For once, they were calm, and he attributed that to Crowley's nervous energy balancing him out.

"That’s part of the whole truth. It wasn’t just about me coming back to school. It was about me coming to Eden. I wanted to come to Eden because you inspired me that day at the beach, all those years ago. I never dared to hope to ever see you again considering how many years had passed, but somewhere, deep down inside, I thought that coming here might offer me a clue as to your whereabouts."

He glanced up and saw that Crowley looked stunned. So utterly lost with so much hesitant vulnerability behind those uncovered eyes that Aziraphale ached to hold him. It was almost jarring, seeing that much emotion after getting used to the dark shield of shades. At least Crowley's leg had stopped bouncing. Aziraphale just hoped his words would reach him.

"I wanted to thank you, Crowley," Aziraphale continued softly. "To thank the boy who so kindly Healed me back then. The boy who spent several hours of his day excitedly talking to me about his aspirations for the future and all the dreams he wanted to fulfill with his Attributes."

Aziraphale huffed out a soft laugh, letting his thoughts regather while he gazed over the knit of Crowley's sweater. "It might not have seemed like much to you at the time, but to me, it changed everything. I’ve told you about my family. The emotions that festered inside of me growing up. I had been convinced that my Healing amounted to nothing. Convinced of my worthlessness and that there was nothing I could do to be anything but if I didn't heed the advice from my parents."

He gestured at Crowley almost helplessly. It had been so easy to fall into Crowley's orbit back then. Even more so now.

"But within a few hours, you gave me hope. Motivation. I felt excited at my prospects because suddenly, I could see I had them. It was you who helped me see parts of myself that my family tried very hard to lock away from view. You saw it so easily."

Aziraphale allowed himself another shaky breath, breaking eye contact to grip at the sheets and steady the lump growing in his throat. Over time, it had gotten much easier to remember the sterility of his upbringing. Any punishment he had ever received never left any marks. But sometimes, the phantom pain of his piecemeal childhood memories was just as visceral.  

He looked back into Crowley's wide eyes. "I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, Crowley. And I’m not talking about Eden."

He meant to be reassuring. For all of this to be reassuring. But Crowley suddenly paled, appearing visibly distressed at Aziraphale's words.

"I—" Crowley’s eyes darted away, his shallow breathing making his chest rise and fall in a quickened pace. "I don’t— You— I’m not—"

Aziraphale's heart dropped like lead and took his smile along with it. He called Crowley's name, but it was obvious his mind had gone elsewhere.

Throwing off the covers, Aziraphale swung his legs over the side of the bed and shuffled over to Crowley’s side, careful not to put too much weight on his injured ankle. By the time he sat at the end of the bed, Crowley’s eyes were wide and unfocused as they homed in at the ground somewhere off to the side.

Worries of overstepping completely overshadowed by sheer concern, Aziraphale placed a hand over one of Crowley’s which was clenched together so hard his knuckles were stone white at his knees. Aziraphale willed himself not to react to how bone cold they were. After all, Crowley never reacted to his anymore.

"Crowley, what’s wrong?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm despite the urgency in his heart. "Is it something I said?"

Harshly breathing through his nose, Crowley worked his throat, eyes flickering between Aziraphale’s and the safe spot on the floor. Then he looked down at their hands, causing Aziraphale to almost pull away until Crowley hastily turned his hand upwards to clasp their hands together. An anchor, perhaps.

Aziraphale returned the tight grip, trying not to get too distracted at Crowley's hand in his and refusing to feel any sort of elation at the touch when Crowley was so obviously in distress. Not knowing what else to do, he continued to murmur words of encouragement as Crowley's throat continued to strain itself around the words that seemed stuck inside it. When they eventually did come out, they were choked and miserable.

"The boy you met isn’t me anymore. It was me, okay?" Crowley breathed out, broken and thin. "I’m not some doe-eyed, naïve little kid anymore. I don’t inspire or motivate anyone. I’m not ambitious. I’m certainly not kind. I…I’m not…"

He swallowed and ground his teeth together, jaw impossibly tight. Aziraphale was about to reach out to soothe the muscle when Crowley's eyes finally refocused on Aziraphale's, causing his heart to lurch. For all the sunshine the freckled gold contained, Crowley’s eyes looked so impossibly sad.

"I’m not that kid anymore, Aziraphale. I can’t be him." He paused, eyes tracing Aziraphale's face like he was trying to memorize it. "Not even for you."

When realization finally dawned on him, the air left Aziraphale’s lungs, everything making terrible sense.

"Oh, my dear," he breathed, feeling both mortified at what Crowley was insinuating and relief that he could comfort Crowley it wasn't. "That’s not what I’m asking at all."

Unable to help himself, Aziraphale lightly tucked some of Crowley’s hair behind his ear, aware that Crowley was staring at him like he'd suddenly disappear if he blinked. His breathing had evened out, but it almost looked like Crowley was starting to forget how to breathe in the first place.

"I know perfectly well how you’ve changed," Aziraphale said, now cradling Crowley's hand in both of his. His thumb brushed over the delicate hairs there. Traced the patterned veins. "It has been twenty years after all. I’ve changed quite a bit myself. But I’m not asking you to change back to how you were. Nor am I implying that you’re any less than who you were. I quite like who you are right now. Very much so. And I’d hate for you to think otherwise."

Crowley said nothing but the frantic look in his eyes was starting to slowly fade, replaced by disbelief and confusion. Aziraphale continued to fiddle with the fist in his hands, silently encouraging Crowley to release it from its death grip.

"I’m not sure of the exact feelings you have towards your younger self, but to me, you’re still just as brilliant as the day we first met. All I want to do is to thank you," Aziraphale explained. "Does that…make some sort of sense?"

Crowley's disbelieving eyes continued to search through his for a long while after, carefully taking in the details of Aziraphale's face like he was trying to find any sort of sign he was being disingenuous. With nothing else to do and having laid everything bare at Crowley's feet already, Aziraphale just let him.

Then Crowley's hands slowly began to relax, the stretched silence finally ending when a weak hint of an uncertain smile pulled the corners of Crowley's lips.

"Consider your thanks received, I guess," he said with exhausted humour. But it allowed Aziraphale to sigh into an easier smile, feeling boneless as the tension gradually left his body.

There was no more need for doubt. No need to keep guessing. His twenty years of hoping and dreaming had finally reunited him with the one who gave those to him and Aziraphale couldn’t be more grateful. He felt like he had finally crossed over the chasm.

Crowley turned his gaze back to their hands, pensive. "I…never thought it’d mean so much to you. The stuff that happened that day, I mean. The stuff we talked about."

"Which only further accentuates your good character," Aziraphale gently interjected, noticing Crowley’s subtle roll of his eyes.

"I never forgot it either, you know," Crowley said, looking almost shy. "I actually recognized you on the first day of class. Not like you changed much."

Aziraphale blinked, trying not to gape. "If you recognized me that early on, why didn’t you say anything?"

"To be honest, I was hoping you’d forgotten the whole thing," Crowley admitted with some guilt. "Or that you’d never realize. I thought you’d be better off not knowing about who I was."

"So I’ve noticed," Aziraphale murmured, squeezing Crowley’s hands sympathetically. "Would you…like to tell me about why that is?"

Crowley absent-mindedly grazed his thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckles, mirroring Aziraphale's previous actions. His eyes followed the movement in a thoughtful silence, a nervous haze still tugging at his features.

"I do," he said softly, and Aziraphale felt his heart open wider in response to the certainty in Crowley's voice. It was more than Aziraphale could ever ask for from a tentative heart. As if he needed any more reasons to give Crowley more of what was already his anyway.

"But not here," Crowley continued with finality, carefully slipping their hands free to stand. "We should get you home. I'll go call us a cab."

And before Aziraphale had the time to agree, Crowley had slipped out past the curtains, mumbling something about crutches.

A little over an hour later, Crowley opened the cab door to help Aziraphale out onto the street just outside his flat.

Taking the hand Crowley offered without a second delay, Aziraphale suspiciously eyed the crutches in Crowley's other hand. "I really don’t see why you’re being so insistent on all this. I’m sure I’ll be just fine."

Crowley scoffed at Aziraphale’s audacity, passing him the crutches before paying the driver with the hand that wasn't holding Aziraphale's briefcase. "The last time you said that, you fell down the stairs and ended up with a sprained ankle and a concussion."

He stayed close to Aziraphale, an arm hovering protectively behind him as Aziraphale tucked the crutches under his armpits. "You’re only most of the way Healed and Tracy told you not to put any weight on it for at least another week."

"A week," Aziraphale sighed as he wobbled over to the building’s main door. "I suppose I’ll have to let my workplaces know. I do hope I won’t miss too much schoolwork."

"It’s the week after assessments. There won’t be too much," reassured Crowley, keeping pace beside him. "You can just borrow notes from people."

They stopped in front of the door and Aziraphale dug around his coat pocket for his keys. "I thought you said I’m not allowed to look at any screens."

"For two days," Crowley scoffed. "Quite the workaholic, you are. Don’t tell me you were expecting notes for next week’s classes this weekend."

"I’ll have you know, I— oh, bollocks," Aziraphale dropped his keys. Attempting to insert the correct one with crutches shoved under his armpits all while being slightly too far away from the door had proved to be too much for him to handle all at once.  

Without hesitation, Crowley bent to pick them up and unlocked the door for him in one swift motion, stepping over the threshold to hold the door open for Aziraphale to follow.  

"Thank you," Aziraphale said as he shuffled inside and continued on towards the lift. "But as I was saying, I’m hardly a workaholic. I work a completely ordinary amount. I just like to be prepared ahead of time, that's all." 

"Spoken like a true workaholic," Crowley said teasingly as closed the door. "I don’t understand how you have time for anything else when you’re working at two libraries and a museum on top of all your classes."

"It’s called prioritizing, Crowley. Life for someone my age doesn’t just stop simply because I’ve returned to school."

He could practically hear Crowley rolling his eyes at him.

Aziraphale pressed the button to call the lift, the old machine making quite a ruckus as it clanked down to meet them.

"I’m surprised the lift’s vintage considering the rest of this place," Crowley commented as walked up to wait beside Aziraphale.

As if he hadn’t memorized what the ground floor and the stairs looked like, Aziraphale looked around them as well, briefly observing the polished tiles and modern light fixtures.  "They wanted to replace the lift with something more modern a few years ago, but all the residents didn’t want to deal with the construction, so they’ve left it as is."

Crowley grunted an acknowledgement, and when the lift arrived, took the initiative to open both sets of doors for them. Only when Aziraphale saw Crowley step inside did he realize the trouble he was getting himself into.

The lift had a very small space, barely enough for two. Definitely not enough space for two fully grown men.

It had never occurred to Aziraphale before, but now, seeing Crowley in all his long, sinuous limbs and broad shoulders, and at just how little space there was left for him to fit into, Aziraphale could feel his cheeks starting to colour despite himself.

Probably mistaking his hesitation for absent-mindedness, Crowley cocked his head to the side in question. "Coming?"

Oh lord, like that question helped anything, phrased the way it was.

Not wanting to keep Crowley waiting, but also very aware of his increasingly sporadic heartbeat, Aziraphale carried himself and his crutches forward, making a very strong effort to keep a respectable distance between them as one could in a sardine can.

Being the last one to enter, Aziraphale turned himself around to try and close the doors. Trying, being the key word, because his brain lacked both the blood and oxygen to realize he could’ve set a crutch aside to fully stretch his arm out instead of squeezing his elbows in to prevent them from falling and batting his forearm around like a t-rex.

Just when the ridiculousness of his own actions finally reached a point where it overshadowed his panic at the paper-thin space between Crowley’s body and his, he heard a soft "I’ll get that" right before Crowley just wedged himself in between him and the wall, his long arm reaching past to pull both sets of doors shut. 

In that split moment, Aziraphale felt the entirety of Crowley’s body press up against his, with only his crutch in the way. The familiar scent of aftershave and something that smelled distinctly of Crowley flooded Aziraphale’s nose when he unwittingly took in a surprised breath. He had to force himself not to chase after the scent when Crowley squeezed the rest of him over and switched their positions.

He’d never been so grateful for falling down some stairs.

"Sorry," Crowley said with a small croak in his voice as Aziraphale wiggled back to give him more room. "I should’ve let you in first so I could maneuver the doors."

"Nothing to it," Aziraphale replied, just as raspy because Crowley’s face was right there. Memories of last week's near kiss flooded his mind. "You’ve already been very kind."

All it would’ve taken was a slight lift of his toes to press their lips together. To close the tantalizing sliver of space that remained.

"Not kind," Crowley grumbled as sharp as a spoon.

"Just as you say," Aziraphale hummed reflexively, a hint of nervousness pitching his voice up.

The two of them stared at each other for another five seconds before Crowley spoke again. "Aren’t you…going to press the button?"

Aziraphale blinked. "Oh!" He wrapped around himself to hit the button for the top floor. "Right, sorry, silly me."

Crowley’s deep chuckle could be heard over the loud clank of the lift jolting back to life. "You must’ve hit your head harder than I thought."

Aziraphale kept his head ducked and couldn’t find it in himself to bother with a reply, feeling his face grow hot and knowing that at this distance, it would be impossible to hide. He could feel Crowley’s breaths lightly stirring his hair as he kept his eyes firmly on their shoes…which didn’t help much either because that only meant he had a generous view straight down the center of Crowley’s hips.

Aziraphale had felt those hips brush by his hand earlier, the rough drag of his jeans.

The warmth of their bodies, barely centimetres away from each other, was intoxicating. Aziraphale’s need to drag Crowley over and smother the last bit of space between them rapidly spiked to the point where it was almost alarming. He could easily grip Crowley’s hips with a mere lift of his hands or slide them further back to knead the soft flesh…

Gritting his teeth down hard enough to almost bring back his headache, Aziraphale silently counted four beats per breath. He needed to calm down. The last thing he needed was for Crowley’s sharp hips to feel something hard against them.

But as dangerous of a position he was in, Aziraphale couldn't help but feel disappointed when they arrived at the penthouse and slipped out of the lift. Cursed with the knowledge of Crowley’s body pressed against his, Crowley will forever feel too far from him now.

Aziraphale had almost forgotten that Crowley still had his keys until he went ahead and unlocked his flat for them, holding open the door once again.

"How did you know which key to use?" Aziraphale asked when they entered. He paused briefly to flip on the hallway lights.

"Process of elimination," Crowley shrugged as he closed the door behind them. "You only have three keys on here and I’d bet the little one isn’t meant for a door."

"Well, when you put it that way…"

Setting his crutches against the wall, Aziraphale carefully sat down on the entryway bench and shrugged off his coat, bending down to remove his shoes. Without a word, Crowley was by his side, taking his coat to slide it over a hanger in the cupboard.

And the man said he wasn’t kind. Aziraphale wanted to throw a pillow at him. Or himself at him. The latter of the two being the more preferable option.

"Shall I put on the kettle?" Aziraphale asked while he stood and re-equipped his crutches. But then he backpeddled when he saw how high Crowley's eyebrows had raised at his question. "I-I mean, if you'd like to stay."

He hadn't meant to assume. He thought Crowley's "Not here" had meant somewhere like Aziraphale's flat since Crowley had offered to send him home. But in hindsight, Crowley also could've meant "Not today," which really made more sense than his overly proactive assumptions.

But just as he was about to apologize, Crowley's mouth ghosted over some consonants before he nodded. "Yeah, sure. Sounds nice."

Relieved, Aziraphale smiled. "I'll go put on some tea."

"Or you could pull out some of that wine you’ve been telling me about," Crowley answered, smirking as he shrugged off his coat and toed off his boots.

Aziraphale gave an affectionate shake of his head. "Ever the opportunist. Yes, alright. I suppose tonight’s a good night for a bottle as any."

Crowley raised his hands up in mock innocence. "Just didn't think it'd be safe for you to bother with scalding water in your condition."

"Yes, well, I'm not sure wine would be a good idea in my condition regardless." Aziraphale pointed at the key tray on top of his console table before rowing along on his crutches to the left of the hall. "You can put the keys in there."

"I'll help," Crowley said before he made a surprised noise. "Are these keys to a Bentley?"

After reaching the doorway to the living room, Aziraphale flipped on the lights and turned around to see Crowley’s incredulous expression. His sunglasses now rested beside the key console he was pointing at on top of Aziraphale’s briefcase.

What a lovely picture that made.

"Yes, a 1933, I believe," Aziraphale supplied proudly. "It was something I received as part of my inheritance. It belonged to my parents, although they never took to driving it. None of my siblings wanted it and I couldn’t bear to see it get auctioned off, so I claimed it for myself."

Crowley gasped as if scandalized. "This just proves none of your siblings have any taste. Where’s the car now?"

"In the underground garage. I don’t drive around much unless I need to leave the city, so it’s usually kept under a sheet." Aziraphale smiled, amused at the childlike excitement shining in Crowley’s eyes. The last time he saw him with this face was when they talked about ducks. "Would you like to see it sometime?"

"Would I," Crowley exclaimed. "I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this sooner. I would’ve visited much earlier if you did."

With a chuckle, Aziraphale opened the door to the kitchen from the hallway and turned on the light there too. "Is my company not enough of an incentive?"

He meant the question as a tease, but Crowley surprised him by answering with a surprising amount of honesty in his voice. "Of course it is. But I never received an invitation."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. "I distinctly remember offering you to visit."

"For the wine," Crowley corrected, a strange, playful look in his eyes. "Not for the pleasure of your company."

Aziraphale felt his mouth run dry and he quickly turned away, suddenly feeling flustered. "I thought they were inclusive to one another," he mumbled, trying to ignore Crowley's snickering as the man walked up beside him and grabbed the kettle from where it sat on the counter.

"Where's the tea?" Crowley asked, completely unperturbed.  

Aziraphale nodded his head over at one of the cabinet doors. "If I could trouble you to grab one of the peppermint teas, that would be lovely."

"No trouble at all, angel," Crowley mumbled as he moved to find what Aziraphale had gestured to.

The endearment caught him completely unaware, and Aziraphale felt his face flush as he tried to remember how an ordinary person functioned. He vaguely remembered Crowley calling him that in the whirl of panic he must've felt when Aziraphale slipped in and out of consciousness. In fact, he had convinced himself he had imagined it.

But here Crowley was, using it again, leaving Aziraphale unsure of what to do with himself.

So instead, he stammered, "I-I’m afraid I won’t be a very good host tonight with my hands otherwise occupied, but feel free to pick from any of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape on the top shelf from the cabinet there. I’ve yet to hear of a single person disliking those. Glasses and the opener are just in the cupboards above them."

"Got it. Why don’t you go sit down?" Crowley suggested with his back turned as he filled the kettle.

Aziraphale didn't need to be told twice. At the rate his heart was going, he wouldn't be surprised if he passed out for a second time that night.

He clumsily made it to the other end of the living room in one piece, turning on the electric fireplace before collapsing onto one of the couches. Fumbling with the crutches, he all but tossed them onto the ground next to him so his hands were free to reach behind the couch to flip on the floor lamp. He was debating whether it was worth turning off the overhead lights when Crowley walked out of the kitchen.

As if sensing Aziraphale’s intent, he asked, "Want me to turn off the overhead?"

"Please, if you don’t mind," Aziraphale said. "They don’t usually bother me, but it’s feeling particularly harsh tonight."

"It’s probably what’s left of your concussion," Crowley offered by way of explanation as he walked over, idly looking around and commenting on his flat and décor. Something about the way Crowley walked over with a bottle of expensive red and a mug held in those beautiful hands sent a spark of domestic bliss through Aziraphale’s chest.

After setting everything down on the coffee table, Crowley flipped off the overhead and, much to Aziraphale's surprise, sat down next to him on the couch.

Aziraphale stared. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d expected Crowley to sit across from him on the opposite couch. All his other guests did after all. Not to mention, he thought that after what had happened in the infirmary, Crowley would’ve liked some space, regardless of what had happened in the lift. And yet, despite the option for space, Crowley had chosen to share his with Aziraphale.

In the swell of fondness that followed, Aziraphale reached for his tea and carefully cradled the mug on his lap. "I want to thank you again for your help tonight, and…I apologize for how the conversation turned out in the infirmary."

Crowley made a noncommittal grunt as he wrestled the wine cork free. "Nothing you need to apologize for. I was the one who freaked out."

Aziraphale shook his head, remembering Crowley's reaction. "I could've handled it more delicately," he insisted. But Crowley wasn't having it.

"Nothing you did is worth all this…" He waved a hand over Aziraphale's body as he searched for the word. "Self-blame. You couldn't have known."

Aziraphale begged to differ, but he smiled appreciatively at Crowley anyway and lifted his mug. "To unexpected reunions."

"To serendipity," Crowley drawled, joining glass to ceramic with a satisfying clang. After taking a sip of the wine, his face lit up. "Oh, wow. Yeah, okay. I see why you’re so fussy about it all now. The stuff I have isn’t nearly as good as this."

"Fussy," Aziraphale scoffed, unable to hide a proud smile. "Hardly."

Crowley took another long sip before giving Aziraphale a mischievous look. "Hope this wasn’t expensive. I’m going to end up finishing the bottle at this rate."

"Be my guest. You’re welcome to have as much as you’d like."

Crowley took him up on the offer and filled up his glass with more. "That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone who drinks like a fish."

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea and relished in the way it soothed his throat. "I’m perfectly aware of what I’m offering. Have as many bottles as you’d like."

Crowley swallowed another generous gulp and stared into his glass as he swirled it around, his body the very embodiment of relaxed and in stark contrast to the stone-stiff way he froze at the infirmary earlier that evening. If anything, the fireplace made him seem particularly soft around the edges as the light morphed his shadows like a cloud blurring the moonlight.

This is what Crowley was meant to be. Warm, comfortable, and relaxed. Despite happening just over an hour ago, the events that unfolded at Eden felt days old. If it wasn't for the crutches catching the light or the dull throb at his ankle, Aziraphale would've thought everything that happened was a dream. That Crowley never withdrew into a shell.

As he appreciated Crowley's dark shape against his cream-coloured furniture, Aziraphale hoped he'd never cause Crowley to feel such negative emotions again.

Crowley sat up straighter, as if remembering something. Setting down his wine glass, he got up to grab one of the pillows from the opposite couch.

"Almost forgot, we should elevate your foot while we’re here," he said, placing the pillow on the coffee table.

Aziraphale instinctively lifted his foot when Crowley reached down to help, trying not to swoon at how gently Crowley was lowering his leg back down. He was so distracted in admiring Crowley's features that he didn't realize Crowley was still speaking until halfway through a sentence.  

"—throw a bag of frozen peas on it or something if it does," Crowley was saying when Aziraphale dragged his mind away from the sight of Crowley’s lips. "And I’d avoid any hot baths, just in case."

That statement completely snapped Aziraphale out of his haze. "Are you saying I can only take showers now?"

Crowley smirked, enjoying the look of horror he was getting. "If you’re dying for one of your nice little bubble baths, you could just leave your ankle out of the water. I’m not about to deny you your simple pleasures."

"Good," Aziraphale sighed in relief. "I was about to start a riot."

"You looked like you were going to commit murder," Crowley amended with more glee than Aziraphale appreciated.

"Don’t tempt me, Crowley."

Crowley’s grin widened. "Actually, knowing you, you could probably do so much better than murder. Smite me with your angelic wrath and never speak to me again. That'll do it."

Aziraphale scoffed, failing to fight off a smile. The mere thought of never speaking to Crowley again after all this revelation felt utterly ridiculous.

"I highly doubt that. I was never one to hold grudges."

"I don’t believe that for a second," Crowley cackled. "Have you heard the way you talk about Gabriel? Almost every word is filled with enough bitterness to rival how I like my coffee. Very bitter, by the way."

Aziraphale pretended to be offended and sniffed. "I’m not sure I know what you mean. I speak about Gabriel with the utmost respect."

"Right, and apples grow on the moon."

"That reminds me," Aziraphale said after sipping his tea. "Speaking of Gabriel, I think I owe you an apology for last Friday. An explanation, at least."

"What's with all the apologies today?" Crowley asked teasingly. But then he saw the expression on Aziraphale's face and looked away, face falling into something close to embarrassment. "Look, uh, you don't owe me anything. I…have a pretty good idea about what happened."

Aziraphale frowned. "You do?"

And then realization dawned on him. He really shouldn’t have been too surprised. They’d been practically right outside Crowley's office. It should’ve been more surprising if Crowley didn’t hear them.

"Oh no, you don’t mean to say that you overheard our argument, do you?" Aziraphale asked in dread. Crowley’s expression was all the answer he needed, and he groaned. "Crowley, I’m so sorry you had to hear all that."

Crowley looked bewildered. "What, why? I’m glad I heard it."

Aziraphale took in the look of pride on Crowley’s face in surprise. "You are? But Gabriel said some awful things about you."

Crowley snorted, unimpressed. "I could care less about anything that comes out of his mouth. It was what you said."

Aziraphale worried. "Oh dear, I’ll be honest, I don’t quite remember what I said in the heat of the moment. I hope it wasn’t anything that offended you."

"Offended me?" Crowley repeated in disbelief. "Sealed the deal, more like. I’ve never heard anyone defend me like that before."

Aziraphale laughed airily, his nerves settling somewhat despite the confusion of what deal Crowley was possibly talking about. "It’s less than what you deserve, truly."

"More than, actually," Crowley said, unconvinced. There was something about the way he said it that made Aziraphale fall silent, left trying to put his finger on it as he watched Crowley down the rest of his wine.

Then Aziraphale remembered. It had been a reversal of words from their previous conversation, and judging by the way the air shifted, Crowley had said it intentionally. The ironic tone of his delivery paired with the way Crowley stared at the empty glass in his lap told Aziraphale he had more to say, so Aziraphale fiddled with the tag of his tea bag and let the gears in Crowley’s head turn.

Eventually, Crowley pushed out a strangled sigh as his head flopped back onto the couch. "You’ve probably realized I avoid talking about some stuff. The whole—" He waved his hand around aimlessly again. "Stupid PhD stuff. What I did before coming to London. Moving out. My parents. Childhood. It’s not that I don’t want to tell you but it’s just…"

"Difficult to talk about?" Aziraphale offered when he trailed off, and Crowley nodded.

"It’s all connected, really. Smart as you are, you probably have it all figured out by now."

Aziraphale shook his head, guilt slicking the walls of his stomach again. "Not well enough if we consider how I caused you to feel in the infirmary. I feel dreadful just remembering it."

"Nothing worth apologizing for, angel. I think that was just me with my head up my arse," Crowley laughed wryly, about to reach for the wine bottle again before Aziraphale beat him to it. Something about the way Crowley looked at him felt like he was being thanked for more than just the alcohol. "Honestly, I'm surprised you haven’t asked me about some stuff sooner."

Aziraphale wasn't sure if he wanted to admit how badly he had wanted to. "I didn’t want to pry."

"Why not? You pry all the time in class," Crowley asked, obviously teasing.

"Because that’s for academic purposes," Aziraphale replied with a small, helpless smile, placing the bottle back down to trade with his mug. "It’s different when we’re discussing personal matters."

"I thought you said friends should be curious about each other," Crowley said, the accusation sounding so wonderfully soft around the edges that Aziraphale felt his heart seize.

Is that what we are?

Aziraphale had to wonder. But he bit his tongue at the unnecessary question. Wherever his relationship with Crowley ended up, friendship was still a quality Aziraphale didn't want to lose.

"Yes, you’re right. It's awfully hypocritical of me." He released an airy laugh, more self-critical than anything as he settled back against the couch.

When Crowley chuckled, Aziraphale watched his chest rise and fall, truly appreciating the reality of Crowley sitting beside him. Knees touching. On his couch. In his flat. The small sparks of contact brought with them so much more heat than the fading warmth of his tea.

Then Crowley drew in a deeper breath as if to steady himself, his voice purposefully casual. "I wasn’t always a shapeshifter. Didn’t even know I was one until the year I moved out for Eden. Happened over the holidays."

Aziraphale considered his response. "I remember you mentioned something had happened between you and your parents. Was this what you were referring to?"

Crowley sardonically snapped his fingers into a point, evidently trying to keep the tone light despite the weight his words carried. "Spot on. Got it from my runaway dad’s side of the family, apparently. My mum couldn’t even bear to look at me after it kicked in ‘cause all she saw was the man who beat her up."

"Oh," Aziraphale exhaled, heart aching at how eerily calm Crowley sounded. "I’m terribly sorry you went through that."

Crowley paused for a drink and when he slung an arm over the back of the couch, Aziraphale could hear him fiddling with the fabric behind his head. "The day my parents and I went on that trip to Botany Bay was the last time we were all happy together. Then it all went to shit on my eighteenth birthday."

"Your birthday?" Aziraphale echoed, remembering their conversation about Christmas a few days prior with a start. The unspoken history in Crowley's words. He gasped. "Your birthday’s on Christmas?"

"And isn't that just the kicker?" Crowley sneered into his glass. "Last holiday I'd ever get after that. Mum went to the doctors and Eden was expensive. If I didn't get top marks, I would've been kicked out. And with the way my mum was, it wasn't like I could move back in with her either."

"Have you—" Aziraphale fought to suppress the crack in his voice, brittle with emotion, and tried again. "Have you been home ever since?"

Crowley fell eerily quiet, his voice a weak rasp when he eventually said, "Once."

Unable to hold himself back, Aziraphale put down his mug and placed a hand on Crowley’s knee, overwhelmed by the cracking he felt in his heart and the way the shards clawed around his chest.

The touch stirred a shaky breath from Crowley's body like a death rattle. Then he loudly cleared his throat and straightened his posture into something that wasn't shrinking into darkness.

"I tried going home a year after it all happened," Crowley said. "But then she hit me. Accidentally though. In what the doctors believed to be instinctive self-defence or whatever. But I stopped going home after that."

Aziraphale was glad Crowley wasn’t looking at him and was staring hard at the wine glass instead. He wasn’t sure he could stop himself from crying if he did.

"I got angry," Crowley strained on. "At the world. At myself. For years, I just…dedicated everything I had left to my degree. Into my PhD because I hoped that whatever I got at the end of it would make the pain I felt worth it. And, well…you know how that turned out."

Crowley's gaze swept over to Aziraphale's hand, still resting on his knee, and hesitantly wove their fingers together. "Then I went to therapy for a bit to get my shit sorted out, Bee helped me switch departments, and the rest is history. I thought I had everything under control. I did have it under control. But then I saw you on the first day of class and it all came rushing back. Then you said those things today and I panicked."

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand, no longer cold like it had been back at the infirmary. "I know you said not to apologize, but I truly am sorry for how it turned out."

Shaking his head, Crowley looked up at him, eyes a little pink around the edges as the light of the fire made them glisten. "I was hoping you wouldn't have remembered because the boy I was…He was someone I couldn’t go back to. Someone I failed. Someone whose dreams I let down. Someone I hate. Someone I envy. I didn’t want you to want that version of me because I could never be him again."

He paused his ramblings and the slight shift of the emotion in his eyes reminded Aziraphale of sunlight through storm clouds.  

"And I couldn’t stand the idea of losing you if you did."

A heart for a heart. And what a vulnerable, wounded, and beautiful heart it was.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale breathed, voice catching the lump in his throat. He raised his other hand to cup Crowley’s face, and when Crowley leaned into it, he couldn’t stop a small sob from tearing up his throat to echo behind closed lips. "I said it before, and I’ll say it again. I like who you are and as you are. All that you were and everything that you are now. I see you as someone who suffered through so much hardship, and yet, stayed resilient through it all."

He gently brushed his thumb by the corner of Crowley’s eye, relishing – finally, finally – the feeling of delicate skin under his fingertips without any hindrances of numbness.

"You may not have ended up where you wanted, but I don’t see that as a failure," Aziraphale said. "I’m sure you did the best you could in your circumstances, and what happened to you wasn’t fair. Frankly, none of what you went through was fair."

Crowley's lips worried themselves into a grim line, and Aziraphale refused to let those silent, obvious thoughts fester.

"None of it was your fault," Aziraphale gently asserted. "You had no choice over who your father was, nor could you control what horrible side agenda the committee was trying to fulfill. All things considered, I think you’ve done marvellously and should be quite proud of yourself."

Crowley’s soft laugh sounded garbled. "I think you’re strongly overestimating my abilities."

"And I think you’re severely underestimating them."

The smile Crowley returned was a tad uneven, but one Aziraphale found just as precious. They shared a few more soft seconds in silence together before Crowley straightened up and Aziraphale pulled back to make room for him. If he saw Crowley wipe his eyes, he respectfully made no note of it, appearing too distracted with rearranging himself into a different position.

"Were you able to achieve it?" Aziraphale asked quietly after a while longer. "Medicalize the weather, I mean."

"A lot of the results were simulated," answered Crowley after taking a long sip of his drink, sounding wistful and considerably lighter than before. "I couldn’t actually experiment with the sun and moon ‘cause that could’ve royally screwed things up, but I did figure out rain. Just for minor stuff, like cuts, but there was potential for more."

Aziraphale shook his head in awe. "You’re simply amazing, my dear."

Crowley made a sort of choking noise into his glass but said nothing to refute it, turning his face away.

Aziraphale just admired him, something simmering deep in his stomach and scaling his ribs as Crowley's story sank into the crevices of his mind and heart. It hurt to know someone as kind, honest, and caring as Crowley seemed to be consistently caught in cycles of misfortune. But it just went to show how resilient the man was despite it all. The stubborn optimism covered in a thick layer of cynicism. The gentleness incapable of being completely masked by sarcasm.

Heat and a million fluttering sensations overwhelmed Aziraphale's chest as he glanced down at the arm Crowley kept looped behind Aziraphale's shoulders, imagining leaning into that pocket of space before letting his eyes drift up the line of Crowley’s neck and jaw, settling at the auburn waves of his hair.

The light of galaxies and stars had made Crowley’s hair shine like silk. The neon lights of the pub had made it look like smoke. Now, under the haze of the fire and floor lamps, Crowley’s hair blazed warmer than sunrise. It had felt so soft when he tucked it behind Crowley’s ear earlier and Aziraphale yearned to feel it properly this time. Too much else had been going on before for him to enjoy it. He wondered if Crowley would let him.

As if feeling the heat of his gaze, Crowley turned his head back around to face him.

"If you’d like," he started hesitantly, "I can drop by next week after classes are over. Bring some notes. Talk about how class went so you’re caught up?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, surprised, finding himself so easily caught off guard by those piercing pools of gold a breath away. "That would be lovely. Perhaps you could send me an email before you arrive?"

Crowley’s eyes flickered off to the side, nervous again. "Um…I put my number in your phone back before you woke up at the infirmary. Thought it’d be easier than to just email back and forth."

Aziraphale stared.

"N-not that you should be looking at your phone much either," Crowley rushed to say, "but it’s quicker than booting up the laptop at least."

Aziraphale shook his head a little to rid himself of some of the haze, chuckling while he did. He hadn't consumed any alcohol, but it certainly felt like it. "I suppose it's a good thing I didn't have a password on it."

Crowley's next smile came easier.

While the air around them still carried the heavy weight of their hearts as their conversation settled back onto more solid ground, Aziraphale couldn’t have felt lighter. He and Crowley were reunited. Crowley had cared for him. And Crowley had allowed Aziraphale to care for him.

By the time Aziraphale noticed he couldn't stop yawning, his tea had been refilled to the point of tastelessness and Crowley had long finished the bottle of red. Crowley must've noticed too because he straightened up and began to pull his limbs back into him.

"I should leave you to rest," he said, causing Aziraphale to glance at his wall clock.

"Oh dear, I didn’t notice how late it’s gotten." He took in Crowley's languid posture and the slight flush of his cheeks. "I’d hate to send you home in this condition. Would you...perhaps like to stay the night? I have a guest bedroom you could use."

With the way Crowley’s cheeks coloured darker and eyes brightened, Aziraphale was hopeful. But when Crowley shook his head, his hope dropped back down into his stomach.

"Not sure it’d be a good idea tonight," Crowley answered softly. Oddly enough, his words seemed to contradict the intent look in his eyes. "Next time though."

Aziraphale smiled. That didn't sound too bad at all. "Next time then."

When he reached for his crutches, Crowley waved his hands to stop him.

"No, no, you should rest. Don’t bother with me," Crowley insisted as he stood. "I can see myself out."

Aziraphale ignored him and gathered himself onto the crutches regardless. "The door’s on the way to the bedroom anyway, Crowley, let me see you out. Really, you’d think I’m no better than a child. I’m quite getting the hang of these contraptions."

"Tell me that when you manage not to pass out from dehydration and hunger," Crowley grumbled, all previous signs of his fretting decidedly thrown out the window even as he gathered their drinks and dropped them off in the kitchen.

Aziraphale wistfully watched Crowley slip his sunglasses and coat back on, his unwillingness to part sitting heavily on his chest. After unceremoniously shoving his feet into his boots, Crowley opened the door to step out, turning back around to face Aziraphale who had followed a little after.

"Text me when you get home?" Aziraphale requested, trying not to visibly shiver from the draft of cold air circulating the hall. Crowley was only a foot away, but Aziraphale still thought it was too far.

Crowley sighed and Aziraphale just knew he was rolling his eyes behind his shades. "You know I don’t live that far away. Just go to bed. I've kept you up long enough."

Aziraphale tilted his head up defiantly. "If you don’t want me to stay up all night again, I insist that you send me a text so I know you’ve arrived home safely."

Crowley threw his hands up in mock exasperation, smirking too much for Aziraphale to feel bad for insisting. "Fine. I’ll text. And I’ll drop by Monday after my class, yeah?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Monday it is."

Crowley shuffled his feet. "I’ll, uh…text you when I’m on the way or something?"

"I would appreciate it," Aziraphale answered, expecting Crowley to head off.

But Crowley’s feet hadn’t moved. Rather, he wasn’t showing any indication that he wanted to leave.

Right before Aziraphale was about to ask, Crowley took a half step closer to him, swallowing so hard his throat flashed with movement. Any remnant of drowsiness Aziraphale had in his body suddenly drained out of his system as his mind flashed to every fantasy of a kiss he’d ever had, eyes widening at Crowley’s sudden proximity.

His eyes unhelpfully zeroed in on Crowley's lips before flitting back up to Crowley's eyes, trying desperately not to look back down to Crowley's lips regardless of how deer-in-the-headlights his reflection looked.

But there Crowley stood, motionless other than his mouth pressing into complicated lines.

Then, slowly, Crowley took one of Aziraphale’s hands into his, holding it between them.

"I’m glad you’re still here," Crowley eventually said in a low voice, a depth of meaning behind his words. His breath, sweet with wine, wafted in the air between them, turning Aziraphale’s heart warm and sticky. "And thanks for…you know, understanding and listening to me."

Aziraphale remembered nothing but to pour every ounce of his heart into returning Crowley's grip. The burn from the lack of air in his lungs was nothing compared to his urge to pull Crowley into him.

"Of course. Thank you for telling me," he managed to say.

The soft smile he loved to see appeared on Crowley’s face again. One that, if given the chance to bloom, could carry a joy as grand as the creation of the universe within it.

Crowley squeezed back. "Goodnight, angel."

Then he slowly, and almost reluctantly, slipped his hand away and disappeared down the stairs.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was in the middle of parsing through the assigned readings he had printed for the week when he heard his phone chime. It was Anathema.

(Anathema Device)
UM SIR???
Why did Crowley just ask me for notes???

A little confused himself, Aziraphale thought about the possibilities. Crowley did say he’d bring notes over when he visited later today, but had he meant that he’d bring his friends’ notes too?

I’m not quite sure, to be honest.
He’s coming over in the afternoon to catch me up on what I’ve missed.
Perhaps he thought it’d be easier to bring your notes along as well.

(Anathema Device)
I’m sorry, WHAT
Crowley’s coming over to your HOUSE????!!!
And you were going to tell me this WHEN????

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. Anathema’s texting habits were just as bad as Crowley’s but for completely different reasons.

He already visited my flat last Friday, remember?

(Anathema Device)
Yeah, to drop you off
NOT SPEND THE AFTERNOON WITH YOU

I’ll have you know, he stayed for a few drinks last time he visited.
I also have no idea how long Crowley intends to stay today so hush now.

He saw the typing animation pop up, but it lasted for so long that Aziraphale just sent off his next text without waiting for the inevitably outraged reply Anathema was drafting. He smiled coyly despite himself.

Did you give Crowley your notes?

(Anathema Device)
WHATDOYOUMEANHESTAYED FOR DRINKS
And obvsly not, I was going to stop by to check in on you anyway.
And definitely not now when you have TEA to spill!!!

Closing his eyes to briefly relieve himself from the dull pain he felt behind his eyes, Aziraphale left the screen on and didn’t hear the next message come through.

(Anathema Device)
I’m coming over for lunch. Send me your address.

Aziraphale tutted in mock disapproval. "Always so forceful."

Then he sent off the details, told her to bring him some sticky buns from the bakery a few blocks over, and hobbled off to put on the kettle.

Crowley was on his second glass of wine while he and Aziraphale shared a sticky bun for dessert on the dining table. It was more ‘Aziraphale taking six bites for every one bite of Crowley’s,’ but sharing, nonetheless.

"But it’s so awfully boring, Crowley," Aziraphale was complaining. "I can’t do any of the things I enjoy. Here I am, stuck at home with all the time in the world and I can’t even read properly."

By the time Crowley came by that same evening, it had already reached dinner time. By way of an apology for arriving late, which Aziraphale made sure to say was completely unnecessary, Crowley had brought them dinner. It wasn't like they had decided on a set time, nor did Crowley have a say about how many students would be visiting him during office hours. But it made Crowley's gesture all the more charming.

"Serves you right for not taking care of yourself," Crowley answered, half-jokingly but more than half-seriously.

Aziraphale huffed into his glass. "Yes, alright. Lesson learnt and all that."

It was hardly fair what Crowley’s smile lines did to his heart, especially now that Crowley had started taking off his sunglasses whenever the two of them were alone.

Neither of them had spoken anything more about what happened last Friday or about the intimacy of the words and gestures exchanged. But something had changed between them. Something thin and strong hung between them like silk, beginning to intertwine.

Crowley was far more relaxed than Aziraphale had ever seen him. Sure, the man was always loose-limbed, and while Aziraphale couldn't quite put his finger on how, it felt as if Crowley became less guarded around him now. His smiles came easier. His laughs came from deeper in his chest. His conversational tangents went on for longer and he no longer apologized for them as readily as he did before. This silent growth of trust and understanding between them made Aziraphale's heart feel like it had grown wings.

He, too, had opened up. He hadn't realized it was possible considering how much he felt his heart was already Crowley's to have, but the way he stopped hesitating and double-guessing his words and actions around Crowley was undeniable. A bone-deep comfort had nestled in between his heart and mind, and Aziraphale found it almost startling how easy it was to forget he and Crowley only experienced a few months with one another.

But the present circumstances were real. And it was lovely.

Aziraphale’s phone pinged for the seventh time in the past five minutes. He had successfully ignored the first few that came through, but now it was starting to grate on his nerves. Reaching to turn off the sound, Crowley seemed to have thought he was going to look at it because he moved faster, pulling the phone further out of reach.

"You’ve been texting far too much for someone recovering from a concussion," he said, lips pouting dramatically.

"And whose fault is that?" Aziraphale asked, giving up the fight that never started to settle back into his chair. "The only texts I’ve gotten this weekend were from you. Who was it that said I shouldn’t be looking at screens until today?"

"They were brief check-ins," Crowley rationalized, but with his hair tied back today, he couldn’t hide how his ears betrayed him.

Aziraphale took in their pink colour in silent glee. "I highly doubt asking me to help you choose between different coffee beans or sending me pictures of your plants can be considered check-ins."

He delighted in the way the colour of those ears darkened as Crowley sputtered out more discontented sounds. It all just fueled Aziraphale’s desire to continue to tease and it rewarded him with the feeling of getting his just desserts, in a way, when they were successful.

But he felt merciful and tipped his head at his phone instead. "Would you mind checking the texts for me then? It must be something urgent if I’m getting so many all at once."

Crowley looked a little surprised at the request before hesitantly reaching for Aziraphale’s phone, grunting when he unlocked it.

"Still no password?" His thumb swiped around. "It’s Maggie in your group chat. She’s…asking if bringing flowers to ask Nina out to the Ball would be too much. Then she’s sent a few pictures of different bouquets—" He looked up. "Are you sure I should be reading this? I mean, not that I didn't know she had a crush on Nina. Everyone knows about that. But still."

"Everyone?" Aziraphale asked.

"Most of the faculty and staff, at least," Crowley said. "She doesn’t exactly hide it well and rumours travel fast."

"They do indeed," Aziraphale commented dryly. "Glad to see the students and working professionals have something in common. Just tell her you’re replying on my behalf and that I’ll give her a call tomorrow."

When Crowley still looked unsure, Aziraphale smiled at him reassuringly. "They know you’re visiting me tonight, and I’m sure Maggie would appreciate a prompt reply."

"Nng, forget it, you can reply." Crowley slid the phone back over to him and started poking at the half-eaten sweet bun.

Aziraphale laughed, taking his phone into his hands. "Quite the righteous man you are after all."

"Just don’t want to step past anyone’s potential boundaries, s’all," Crowley grumbled around his fork. Aziraphale tried to ignore the urge to lick the smudge of sugar off the corner of his mouth.

"Awfully presumptive of you to put your number into my phone while I was unconscious then," he said. When Crowley choked on some wine, Aziraphale busied himself with replying to Maggie’s text, suggesting that perhaps a single flower stem might be more appropriate if she’s feeling unsure of Nina’s reaction. "There, I’ve replied and asked everyone if they’d be okay with you texting on my behalf throughout the week. Otherwise, she can give me a call if she needs any further opinions."

Crowley was trying to give him some version of a glare, but Aziraphale just smiled back, completely unphased and admiring how prettily Crowley's eyes shone under the golden light of sunset.

A few more pings came through and Aziraphale checked without any more complaints coming out of Crowley's mouth. "Everyone says it’s perfectly fine and says hello."

He chose not to tell Crowley about Anathema’s assortment of capitalized gibberish. He had enough of that over lunch already.

Tuesday afternoon, another text pinged for Aziraphale’s attention.

(Crowley)
can I come by in a few mins
flatmates will be back soon
dun wanna deal with the noise

After sending off his approval, Aziraphale hummed happily and stood to change out of his pyjamas to look at least slightly more presentable to host a guest. Although, he couldn't help but wonder whether Crowley would mind if he didn't.

No, that wasn't very proper of him, and Aziraphale chided himself for the thought. Crowley deserved the effort, and maybe one day, when he finally accepts Aziraphale's invitation to stay over, they can cross that bridge when they get there.

That didn't stop him from making a note to check the fridge to see if he still had enough ingredients left to pull something together for dinner. Perhaps Crowley would accept his offer to stay for dinner. Perhaps they’ll continue watching the BBC series of Pride and Prejudice tonight.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he got bullied into it Wednesday night, but when they sat on the couch that night, Crowley had ended up with Aziraphale's injured ankle on his lap, Healing it with one hand while the other scrolled through their group chat, updating Aziraphale as he read.

Crowley let out a sympathetic hiss at the contents, wincing. "Nina already has a partner. Apparently, they're accusing Nina of having an affair and now she's giving Maggie the cold shoulder."

Aziraphale knew that he should’ve been focused on Maggie and come up with ways to comfort the poor woman, but Crowley’s thumb was tracing lazy patterns over the tender skin of his ankle, distracting as all hell.

"But she didn’t do anything wrong," Crowley was saying with a frown, typing with one thumb and oblivious to the effect his touch was having on Aziraphale. "It’s not like she knew."

Preoccupied with typing, Crowley’s hand shifted slightly up to Aziraphale’s calf. If he noticed the full-body shiver Aziraphale couldn’t prevent wracking through his muscles, he didn’t mention it.

The touches were doing certain things to Aziraphale's heart for sure, but it was also starting to do things to his groin, much to Aziraphale's distress. Every brush of Crowley's fingers over his skin and the wide span of his palm had Aziraphale imagining what it would feel like to have that friction travel further up his leg and under the hem of his rolled-up trousers. How would Crowley's hands feel across the plush of his inner thighs and hips? Would he gently paint over them or kneed them with as much fervour as Aziraphale imagined himself delivering onto Crowley?

The imagery shot another shiver straight into Aziraphale's groin as he felt his arousal spike. He had to dig his nails into his legs to stop something embarrassing from happening, desperately trying to refocus on the conversation at hand.

Did Crowley know the effect he had? Was he doing this consciously, teasing so Aziraphale would be the first to break? Or was he unconsciously seeking out Aziraphale's warmth, wanting physical comfort now that they had opened their hearts to one another?

While their conversation last week had left no more doubt in Aziraphale's mind about Crowley's past, the unexpected touches Crowley's been gifting him with were starting to create fresh ones. While not obvious, it wasn't like Aziraphale hid much of his attraction to Crowley from him, and if Crowley's words and response to their proximity last week had meant anything, Aziraphale was sure Crowley was attracted to him as well.

And yet, Crowley had said nothing about it. Done nothing more than offer little glimpses of his affection for Aziraphale through these soft, mindless touches. But Aziraphale was just as guilty as he was greedy, afraid to say anything in case it broke whatever happy haze they had settled into.

He breathed out a soft sigh of relief when Crowley switched Aziraphale’s phone to the other hand, only to internally groan when Crowley's other hand came back down onto his ankle to resume his idle circles.

Aziraphale looked to the ceiling for whoever was listening to give him strength. Or some courage, at least.

As tempting as it was to order more take out for Thursday, Aziraphale had run out of far too many essentials to put off going to the shop or accept Crowley’s offer to pick some things up for him. So that afternoon, after he confirmed Crowley indeed had a valid driver’s licence, he pressed the car keys into Crowley’s hand the moment he opened the door.

Crowley looked down, stunned. "These are car keys."

"Lovely observation, my dear."

"For the Bentley."

"I do only have the one car," Aziraphale answered, amused. Nudging Crowley with a crutch for him to move back, he stepped out and locked the door.

Crowley was still confused. "Are we going for a drive?"

Aziraphale struggled with the lift doors and Crowley finally shook himself out of his initial shock to come over and help him. "Just to the grocers. I’m not letting you carry all the items I need on your own and I really can’t put off a visit any longer."

"Am I finally going to be able to see it?" Crowley asked once they started descending, excitement bright on his face.

Aziraphale smiled at him knowingly. "Not just that. You’re going to drive it."

Crowley’s smile fell as his jaw dropped. "You’re joking."

Aziraphale lifted his eyes back upwards from where they hovered over Crowley’s mouth. "I assure you, I’m not. I can’t exactly drive with this foot now, can I?"

"But…isn’t it expensive?"

"I trust you’ll take very good care of it."

And so, Crowley did. That was, until Aziraphale made a joke about how Crowley drove further under the speed limit than he usually did and Crowley showed him exactly just how fast he could go.

"Are you sure you don’t want to join your flatmates?" Aziraphale worried from the dining table as Crowley pulled the oven mitts back on. "I thought you all had a Friday night tradition to uphold."

"Don’t worry about it," Crowley called over his shoulder. "Besides, it’s Halloween. They’ve all gone out to other parties for the night."

"And you don’t want to go with them? Wouldn’t they be upset?"

"They stopped throwing a fit when I told them I was visiting you," Crowley snorted and opened the oven door to slide the tray of potatoes out. "Practically kicked me out of the house and told me to enjoy my date instead."

Aziraphale’s heart clambered up his throat and he tried to talk around it.

"I see," he said, uncertain if it meant Crowley was acknowledging it to be true or simply found the comment humorous.

He was trying to come to terms with the possibility that his relationship with Crowley would be perpetually stuck in this purgatory-like standstill, neither of them having said a thing to acknowledge this thing that was growing between them. In fact, Crowley seemed rather content with where they were, that knowledge causing Aziraphale more than several hours of internal conversation about whether he had read Crowley all wrong from the start. Just because Crowley seemed to show his affection through physical touch didn't mean the affection was romantic. Maybe this thing growing between them was nothing more than platonic, emotional safety.

Aziraphale knew Crowley didn't have many friends. He was proud that he seemed to be closest to Crowley despite spending the least amount of time with him compared to all the other potential contenders. But with that pride came worry because it brought along with it the possibility that this was just how Crowley acted around people he truly liked. It didn't necessarily mean Crowley was attracted to him.

But Aziraphale was attracted to Crowley. Frightfully so. And as a result, this past week has been trying. Watching how Crowley’s dark jeans stretched around his arse when he bent down in front of the oven wasn’t exactly helping either.

"Distracting," Aziraphale muttered under his breath.

"What’s that?" called Crowley from the kitchen.

"Nothing!"

Aziraphale wasn’t a teenager anymore, but his body was certainly acting like one, heart all aflutter and blood going south just because he had a nice view.

Eventually, the plates containing their dinners were set on top of the table. Crowley was still wearing the massive oven mitts and at some point, while Aziraphale was distracted, he had donned his tartan apron, a stark contrast against his black turtleneck.

It should’ve been a ridiculous compilation of accessories, but all it did was make Aziraphale want to eat Crowley out for dinner instead, laid out over the table with nothing but the apron to cover what little it could while Aziraphale’s mouth explored every crevice of Crowley’s body outside and in.

Then Aziraphale realized Crowley was staring at him. Something about the way his cheeks were turning red told Aziraphale that maybe his desires were much too evident on his face, and he quickly reigned it in.

"I’m sorry, did you say something?" Aziraphale asked, trying to give his most unsuspecting smile.

Crowley closed his mouth, which had parted slightly, and swallowed. "No, I…was just asking if you wanted water or wine."

"Water, if you please." Aziraphale was sure that alcohol was the last thing he needed right now before he got his hormones under control, trying not to let his lustful eyes travel over Crowley's backside as he ventured back into the kitchen.

And then there were moments like these where Aziraphale talked himself out of the possibility that Crowley wasn't attracted to him. After all, would someone who wasn't attracted to him react the way Crowley did with a flushed face and an intent, almost hungry, look in his eyes?

But if that was the case, why hadn't Crowley done anything? He must've realized Aziraphale's attraction to him by now, surely. Crowley's reciprocated looks were so rare that Aziraphale always felt like he had hallucinated them, the thought of it only serving to lower Aziraphale's small amount of courage even more.

"Tell me about this conference you’re going to next weekend," Aziraphale brought up near the end of dinner, refusing to let his inner thoughts ruin his being present for Crowley. "Why Estonia again?"

"One of the snowiest countries in Europe. Great place for Pyromancy Proxies like me to gather and wreak havoc." Crowley waggled his eyebrows, trying and failing to look so maniacal that all it did was make Aziraphale laugh.

"I wasn’t aware that’s what professors did during conferences," he teased, finishing up what remained of his meal. "Still, I can’t believe you’ve never been on a plane before. Haven’t you attended conferences in the past or travelled around for your research back then?"

"Couldn’t afford it before, and Eden doesn’t exactly make it a habit of sending minor instructors abroad. I got lucky this time because the professor that was supposed to go had a scheduling conflict." Crowley pushed the last of his potatoes around. "Why the need to go anywhere when Eden’s the centre of academia? People fight to come here, not the other way around. This conference is an exception because we don’t get enough snow here to adequately research on."

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. "Why not just make it snow yourself? I do sometimes wish it’d get a little colder here during the winters so there’d be more snow. Snow can be so lovely, especially during the holidays."

"Absolutely not. Nope," Crowley griped. "The last thing I need is colder temperatures during the winter. It’s bad enough the boys and I can’t afford to turn up the heating. I don’t need the weather to make it worse. Not to mention, the government's not going to allow that sort of thing. Can you imagine how hard it'll be to get a licence granted for that? It'll be like asking Weather Proxies to turn Canadian winters into tropical Hawaii."

Aziraphale felt genuinely bad then, remembering Crowley briefly mentioning earlier that week how his aversion to the cold worsened ever since his body first changed form. He’d tried to use his Pyromancy to light a fire once and almost burned the kitchen down.

"I suppose that's fair. Are four people sharing a flat not enough to make up for the price difference on heating?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked embarrassed. "The others aren’t around during the holidays ‘cause they all go home, so I feel sort of bad if I crank up the heating but have them pay for it."

"That’s very considerate of you," Aziraphale complimented before an idea popped up in his brain. "If you’re not opposed to it, why not stay here with me over the holidays?"

Clearly, Crowley hadn’t been expecting the suggestion because his fork fell out of his hands and onto his plate with a clatter. Aziraphale tried not to let that fluster him and pushed on.

"I like to run the flat on the warmer side during the winter myself, so I don’t see an issue with us both benefiting from it in the short term. I have that spare bedroom and bathroom you could use as well."

The way Crowley was staring at him finally started to take some effect because Aziraphale ducked his head and wrung his hands on the napkin in his lap, feeling his ears burn with a telling blush. There hadn’t been any ulterior motives when he made the offer, but with his desire for more domestic opportunities with Crowley always fresh on his mind, it suddenly felt like there was nothing but ulterior motives.

"Although, I understand if you’d like to take advantage of your flat regardless," Aziraphale rambled on because he wasn’t sure what else to do in the silence. "You are paying for it, after all, and it’d be a bit of a shame to leave it empty if it’s already paid for. I’m pretty sure I’ll be around for the entire holiday break this year too, now that there aren’t any more reasons to continue Christmas family dinners."

That seemed to shake Crowley out of wherever his mind had gone and Aziraphale realized why at the same time. He began to worry that mentioning the holiday that still haunted Crowley's emotions meant he had shoved a foot into his mouth, but Crowley just cocked his head to the side, an amused smirk revealing those lovely fine wrinkles fanning out from the corner of his eyes.

"You really like Christmas, don’t you?" Crowley asked without a trace of unease on his face. "You get this twinkle in your eyes whenever you talk about stuff you like. It’s a good look."

Aziraphale was relieved Crowley hadn't reacted badly, but now that he felt a little self-conscious, Aziraphale turned his gaze to his empty plate. He wondered if Crowley saw that twinkle he apparently had whenever Aziraphale looked at him.

"I do believe there’s just something magical about it, regardless of how my family used to celebrate it," he admitted. "The lights, the food, the festivities. The way people huddle against each other for warmth in the cold and give each other quaint and thoughtful gifts."

Crowley grunted softly, sounding agreeable but not quite taken by the sentiment. "Yeah, I guess those could be nice."

Aziraphale smiled sympathetically, knowing Crowley didn’t exactly share his sentiments, and moved the conversation towards something more solid for Crowley to stand on. "So how long’s your flight to Estonia?"

"Six hours," Crowley answered, not looking too pleased about it.

Aziraphale couldn’t fault him for it either. He didn’t hate flying, per se, but he didn’t enjoy it much either, especially if he couldn’t snag something in business class or higher. The one time he did sit economy, he swore he’d never do it again. The back pain he received haunted him for weeks afterward.

"Perhaps you’ll find that you enjoy it," Aziraphale tried to say comfortingly. "A new and exciting experience."

Crowley didn’t look convinced. "I’d much rather take the train if I had the option to."

"Oh, yes, I love trains," sighed Aziraphale happily. "The seats are much more comfortable there and the scenery’s always delightful to look at. Have you been on them much?"

"A handful of times," Crowly said. "Mostly when I visited my mum and step-dad, but nothing further out than Oxford, really."

"Not even to Bath?" Aziraphale gasped. "Or Wiltshire?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Those are ridiculously specific, why would I go there? Wait, don’t tell me," he said, raising a hand. "It’s something to do with Jane Austen, isn’t it?"

Aziraphale shut his mouth. "Am I really so obvious?" he asked, a little embarrassed. A little flattered.

"Like an open book, you are," Crowley laughed, baring his throat as his head tilted back. Most of the skin was covered by his turtleneck, and yet, it looked that much more enticing. Aziraphale wanted to slip his fingers in. Perhaps a tongue. He mentally shook himself out of his daze when Crowley tilted his head back down to smile at him. "You’re passionate about a lot of stuff, but the only things you get particularly fussy about are wine, food, and books. Especially Jane Austen books."

"They’re very good," Aziraphale said in his defence. "I’m astonished you haven’t read a single one yet."

Crowley gestured to the television above the fireplace. "We watched some of the movies together, isn’t that good enough?"

"It’s not the same!" Aziraphale urged. "It’s one thing to watch it all happening and something else entirely to read about it."

Crowley was shaking his head, but his smile seemed almost affectionate. "Yeah, alright, whatever you say, angel, but that doesn’t mean I have to go to the filming locations."

Aziraphale almost lost himself to the echo of being called angel again, but he stubbornly went on. He had a point to prove and would not get distracted by how much he wanted to kiss the man silly.

"But to stand where they stood! To feel the romance!" Crowley wasn’t buying it and Aziraphale pouted resignedly. "And I’m not just suggesting you visit only those places. Why not travel farther out? Visit the north?"

"I just never really considered it," Crowley explained plainly. "Had enough here to keep me preoccupied and I felt like I had other things to prioritize."

"Would you like to travel though?" Aziraphale asked. "You seemed thrilled about going to Estonia, except the cold weather, of course. There must be places you want to visit, surely."

"All the kingdoms of the world," Crowley smirked. But the way it didn’t quite stretch up as far as it usually did told Aziraphale that there was something genuine about his admission.

Well, that’s just something they’ll have to change.

"Let’s plan something then," Aziraphale suggested excitedly, determinedly punching the air a little with his fists. "I’m sure we can think of something to do, and the holidays might be the best time to do it since we both have time off. I usually go to Edinburgh for the August festival, but I hear it’s quite majestic in the winter. If that’s too far, we could always go to York. Oh! If we can afford to get away the weekend after you return from the conference, we could go to Baths for the Mozartfest!"

Aziraphale would’ve continued listing off several more ideas and places that he was sure Crowley would love to visit when he noticed that the smile on Crowley’s face had gone a little…strange. Like he was looking at something lovely and bright and beautiful.

Aziraphale’s voice drifted off into silence. Then he played back what he said in his head, desperately searching for what he could've possibly said to deserve such a look.

When he absolutely couldn't, he nervously pressed his lips together and turned to Crowley in question. "Why are you looking at me like that? Something I said?"

It was Crowley's turn to look a little bashful, like he hadn't anticipated getting caught.

"You said we," he said quietly after a moment.

Aziraphale went back to twisting the napkin in his hands, unsure of the emotions thickening the air as a blush rose to his cheeks. "Oh apologies, I was getting ahead of myself there, listing all these suggestions based on my own interests. You're welcome to travel where you'd like without me—"

"No!" Crowley rushed forward over the table, eyes growing wide, wincing when his voice came out too loud. He slouched back into his chair. "I mean, I don’t mind. Wouldn’t mind. Travelling to those places…With you."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, although it sounded more like the air was being punched out of him.

"We could organize something. A trip for us," Crowley continued. It was obvious he was trying to appear nonchalant, but Aziraphale didn't miss the nervous way his eyes darted to the side. His rambling was just as bad as Aziraphale's own tendencies. "Although, maybe I could leave the first one to you. Not sure I'd be any good at it. Planning, I mean. Not that I can't plan. I can conjure up a wicked spreadsheet for us if you'd like. But I think you'll be better at planning our trip since you're familiar with it all."

Romantic attraction or not, Aziraphale's heart felt full in moments like these. The momentary guilt he felt at indulging the thought that Crowley's words meant something deeper was something he could deal with later.

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale said, smiling widely. "I'd be more than happy to."

Our trip, Crowley had said. Aziraphale allowed himself to indulge a little longer.

As much as Aziraphale enjoyed being social, he enjoyed his alone time more. But when Monday came around and he rode the lift down, left the building, and walked to school with his crutches in one hand and his briefcase in another, Aziraphale felt lonely.

He realized it was because it was the first time he’d done it all without Crowley ever since the incident.

They didn't talk about what plans came next after Crowley left last night. While Crowley had made it a habit to visit Aziraphale's flat every day after work last week, Aziraphale realized an hour after Crowley had left with a sad, cold drop of his stomach that it was entirely possible Crowley only did so to take care of him post-injury. Before his realization, he had expected Crowley would pop by the next day like he'd done before. But now that he's fully recovered, what reason would Crowley have to continue dropping by now?

The thought made Aziraphale gloomy. It was like he had woken up from a dream he didn't have enough of a mind to properly savour. He must've been wearing his emotions too clearly on his face because when he sat himself down beside Anathema for Crowley's morning Herbology class, her expression immediately turned into one of concern.

"What happened?" she asked. "That face doesn't look like someone's who had the most wonderful week of his life."

Aziraphale smiled weakly at her. "That's because I've realized I can no longer experience that wonderful week again."

Anathema frowned. "Why not? Is Crowley not coming to see you anymore?"

"He didn't say, but why would he?" Aziraphale said, making sure to keep his voice low as more students walked past them and up the stairs of the lecture hall. "I'm fully recovered now, and I've troubled him enough with taking care of me for a week. He's probably glad to be able to return back home now."

The small frown on Anathema's face didn't relent. Rather, it turned a little incredulous as she processed Aziraphale's words.

"What makes you say that?" she asked, and to be honest, Aziraphale had a hard time answering her, thinking back to all the conversations he and Crowley had in the past week, certain there was something there that suggested Crowley's sense of obligation.

Before he could remember anything, however, Crowley strolled into class with his usual fanfare, snapping his fingers in a way to activate the spell enchanting the blinds that had them falling halfway down the windows. The lecture hall lights also dimmed after a few more snaps from Crowley's fingers.

"So, the lot of you came to me last week with concerns about your performance on your assessments," Crowley said, projecting his voice that was laced with a sharp edge of smarminess. "Some of that's warranted. Those who struggled know who they are. Others, not so much. In fact, I think those of you who should be worried aren't worried enough. Most of you who should be worried actually still haven't made the effort to come see me."

Anathema leaned over and whispered into Aziraphale's ear while Crowley chastised the masses. "I don't know if something's happened between you two, but I get the feeling he didn't spend hours with you last week just because he felt obligated to take care of you. Why not ask him about it?"

When he thought it was safe to do so, Aziraphale leaned over towards her. "I think it'd be rude to suggest he should continue coming over when it means the poor man would need to continue walking several blocks back home in the cold every night, wouldn't you say?"

Anathema turned to him, surprise evident on her face in the dim light. "You mean he hasn't slept over yet?"

Aziraphale didn't know whether to feel comforted or mortified that Anathema shared his exact sentiments and decided to shake his head instead, not trusting his voice to keep his thoughts secret.

Anathema quietly clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "I don't get it. The man clearly has a crush on you. So what's keeping him?" She paused. "Actually, what's keeping you? Have you not told him about your feelings yet?"

When Aziraphale ignored her, she shoved her thigh against his and hissed under her breath. "He knows who you are. You've been formally reunited. The attraction’s mutual. What's holding you back?"

"This is hardly the time for this conversation," he grumbled softly, not liking how they were whispering over Crowley's teaching but also in an excuse to avoid talking about this with her a little longer. Muttering some choice words, Anathema relented and sat back in her seat with an audible huff as she turned her attention back to class.

A conflicted mix of hope and anxiousness fought for dominance in Aziraphale's mind as he trained his eyes on Crowley's figure. If Anathema believed Crowley liked him, then there must've been enough signs for her to think that, right? It couldn't just be his wishful thinking, could it?

He thought about how wonderful it would be if Crowley returned his feelings. What it'd mean for them. Nothing would really change, per say. They could still have their movie nights in and go grocery shopping together. They could talk about Aziraphale's paper and Crowley's research over some bottles of wine and good food. Aziraphale just hoped reciprocated feelings meant the start of a relationship. That way, he wouldn't have to hold his affections back anymore.

While Crowley seemed to unconsciously want to be in contact with some part of him one way or another, be it a hand here or a lean there, the most Aziraphale had allowed himself was the occasional hand on Crowley's shoulder or arm whenever they shared a laugh or when Aziraphale had something exciting to share. And even then, Aziraphale's brain wouldn't allow those slips to go unnoticed, usually ending with him spiralling into doubt and giving himself harsh reminders to keep his hands to himself for next time.

It never worked, but he really did try. It was just so easy to get lost in the familiarity of Crowley's company.

Crowley was drawing some assortments of leaves with his Pyromancy now, talking about their anatomy and uses with enthusiastic waves of his arms.

Aziraphale felt himself smile. He hadn't realized how much he missed seeing Crowley teach. As much as he mourned being spoiled by Crowley's care last week, he was glad to be back where he had front row seats to Crowley thriving and wholly in his element.

But that strong feeling of admiration pulled along an ache of want and fear. The frustrating duality of wanting their relationship to change but not enough to risk what they already have was enough to make Aziraphale itch.

That feeling didn't go away even after Crowley directed the class to get into groups and work through a few problems together. Aziraphale was struggling to focus when he felt his phone vibrate. Relieved for an excuse to distract himself, he pulled it out, heart stuttering when he saw a text from Crowley.

(Crowley)
Thinkn of bringn Mediterranean tnight
Fine w u?

Aziraphale had to reread the text several times before it registered in his brain. He glanced up to where Crowley sat nonchalantly at a desk by the podium, his legs propped up while he looked down at the phone in his lap. A sweet relief washed over him as he texted a return reply, a giddy smile helplessly pulling at his lips.

That sounds wonderful.

He must not have been hiding his smile very well because Anathema nudged him with an elbow, giving him a questioning raise of her eyebrows. He pointedly ignored the unhindered "I told you so!" look she gave him when he silently answered her with a small grin of his own.

Even if Anathema was right, it was too soon to celebrate.

(Crowley)
I’ve decided.
I fckn hate planes.

Goodness, are those periods I see?
I think this is the most I’ve ever seen you punctuate properly in your texts.
The plane ride must’ve done quite the number on you.

(Crowley)
maybe I can take the train back
or drive

Crowley, that’ll take days.

(Crowley)
anything’s better than more plane hrs
just two ish days

You’ll miss Monday’s class.

(Crowley)
fine for an 8am class to get cancelled
evryone will be happy

I certainly won’t be.
I expect you there at 8:00 am sharp.
I have questions to ask you about the readings.

(Crowley)
ofc you do

Aziraphale heard his phone ping from his bedroom where he was charging it. Crowley had sent him a picture of some kind of porcelain ornament of a cherubic angel that looked like it'd been made out of rubber and someone had let it sit out in the sun for too long. Its corn-yellow hair had crayon-like texture, careless gaps between the strokes, and its soulless eyes and red cheeks shifted at an odd angle off its face. Aziraphale couldn’t tell if the angel was holding a stocking or a strawberry.

Overall, it was hilarious.

He turned to Crowley's text and scoffed at the message in reluctant amusement.

(Crowley)
reminded me of you

I’m flattered you think so highly of me.

(Crowley)
have you ever considered dyeing ur hair this colour

I’ll consider it for next year’s Halloween.

(Crowley)
you’ve alrdy got the eyes
stone cold and terrifying

I didn’t know you liked them so much. I guess I’ll use them on you more often.

(Crowley)
plz don’t
downright nightmare fuel that is
I prefer the usual way you look at me a lot more

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. Unsure of what Crowley was implying, he fell back on his newly developed skill of sarcasm like a safety net.

With exasperation and annoyance?

He worried the inside of his cheek as he watched the typing animation tick.

(Crowley)
like I’m the best thing since sliced bread

Aziraphale let out the air trapped in his lungs and giggled nervously. If it was one thing he never wanted to hide from Crowley, it was his adoration for the man.

He typed out a genuine answer. He could do genuine.

"Nina apologized to Maggie," Aziraphale told Crowley over the phone Saturday night. "She even agreed to go with Maggie to the Ball."

"As friends? As an apology?" Crowley asked, confusion obvious. His voice somehow sounded rougher over the phone, and it was doing things to Aziraphale’s body that made him very glad he lived alone.

Sitting on the couch with a hard-on wasn’t exactly flatmate material.

"I’m not sure, to be honest. Maggie didn't say," Aziraphale admitted, stuck between wanting to focus on what Crowley was saying but dreading how doing so was only going to drive his arousal through the roof even further. "She's just overjoyed they’re talking again and I didn't want to press her. Whatever happened between them, they must've worked it out amongst themselves."

Crowley grunted and it shouldn’t have sounded as erotic as it did, but the phone acted like some kind of filter of temptation, tampering with Crowley’s voice so it sounded so much closer and thicker than it did in person. Aziraphale had been the one to suggest calling in the first place, yet he couldn’t decide whether it’d turned out to be an awful idea or his best one yet.

With a silent apology, Aziraphale palmed his erection through his trousers and squeezed his eyes shut to focus on suppressing the moan that threatened to spill from his lips.

Crowley was still talking. Something about the Ball. Drinking competitions maybe?

"Some of the kids who haven’t graduated yet still try to challenge me," Crowley was saying boastfully. "I can take ‘em no problem."

Aziraphale slowly exhaled, trying to keep his voice steady as he slipped a hand past the waistband of his pants. Maybe denying himself this relief for the past few weeks to avoid the guilt that always followed had been a mistake.

"I fear for your liver. That poor thing’s probably going to suffer burnout eventually," he said as evenly as he could as he took his half-hard cock into his hand.

Crowley snorted. "It’s gotten me through almost forty years of my life and has successfully filtered through much worse toxins than a few cocktails. It’ll handle itself fine."

"I think the point is you have to be the one to handle it," Aziraphale chided, his brain unhelpfully honing in on the way the word cock rolled off Crowley's tongue.

He lazily stroked his own to relieve some more of the tension, occasionally thumbing the tip, testing out just how sensitive his phone’s microphone was and whether Crowley would be able to hear the slick, wet noises his cock was making.

But Crowley supposedly heard nothing and was now going on about how awful the alcohol being served at the networking events was. On the contrary, Crowley’s microphone seemed to be extremely sensitive because Aziraphale could hear every breath, sigh, and inner workings of Crowley’s mouth when he spoke. The dramatic drawn-out vowels. Crowley’s tendency to waffle around consonants. All Aziraphale had to do was close his eyes and let Crowley’s voice work its magic, surrendering his senses and letting go of his restraint as his hand moved faster.

The pressure quickly started to build around his groin and left Aziraphale chasing the feeling almost desperately, biting down on his lips to suppress his moans. He was so close now, the lack of attention he'd given himself lately only causing his sensitivity to jump. His attempts to keep his breathing even turned into him resorting to just holding his breath, which only made him lightheaded and heady with the need for release.

When a small part of him warned that he may have been silent for too long, Aziraphale cracked open his eyes in an attempt to regain his sense of reality. However, his vision was blurry from the lack of oxygen and it only served to grant him the blessed hallucination of Crowley straddling his hips and riding him out on the couch.

Aziraphale had seen those hips up close. On his couch. In the lift. In his car. He knew how his hands would fit around them and how easily his fingers could grip into the dips Crowley's sharp angles formed. It would be so easy to repeatedly lift them up before grinding them back down onto his cock, watching the way Crowley's beautiful hair bounced over his shoulders. Crowley's cock would probably move just as prettily, hard and leaking between them.

"I think you’ve spoiled me, angel," Crowley said, chuckling in that devastating way he does where it sounds like it came from deep within his chest. "Can’t go back to plain ol’ twist-cap wine now."

Angel.

Oh lord, to hear the endearment Crowley had taken to calling him now, of all times, was too much.

With a muffled, wretched moan, Aziraphale came into his hand, cum spilling over his shirt as his hips bucked with each stream of release. He panted away from the phone, struggling to catch his breath after holding it for so long, the greedy buzz of need still coursing through his limbs.

Still cognisant enough to realize he owed Crowley an answer, he returned the phone to his ear, trying to make his shortness of breath sound like he was sighing sarcastically. "You poor thing. We’ll be sure to cleanse your palate when you’re back."

But rather than sarcastic, the words, heavy with unintentional innuendo, came out more like a breathless growl, sounding far too close to the way someone's voice would rumble in the afterglow of sex instead of someone engaged in lighthearted conversation. He knew how he must've sounded at the same time he heard Crowley’s breath hitch, and he froze.

Desperate to salvage what dignity he had left, Aziraphale rushed to bridge the silence. "It's really not that surprising you've taken a liking to the bottles we've shared. Their prices adequately reflect the quality after all.

When the silence continued to stretch to devastating lengths, Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut and silently swore at himself. He tried to sound as collected as he could. Impassive, almost.

"Everything alright, Crowley?" he asked, pathetically congratulating himself for not sounding like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

There was another, shorter bit of silence before he heard Crowley clear his throat. "Y-yeah, I’m alright. Of course I’m alright, why wouldn’t I be alright?"

When Crowley spoke, it sounded just as strained as Aziraphale's heart felt. He wisely decided not to answer the question. Feeling cowardly and more than a bit ashamed, he took his hand off his softening cock, grimly wiped his hand on his soiled trousers, and asked about the details of Crowley’s flight tomorrow instead.

Even if Crowley was suspicious, Aziraphale doubted Crowley would call him out on it, sparing them both an embarrassing rest of the call. Neither of them had even breached the topic of their developing relationship, let alone sleeping with one another. To this day, and despite still visiting his flat every day after classes were over, Crowley had yet to accept the invitation to stay over.

Aziraphale found it quite maddening. He was sure Crowley was attracted to him on some level, but the level of reciprocation he's given so far was questionable at best. Was he perhaps waiting for Aziraphale to make the first move? Or maybe, judging by his reaction over the phone, perhaps he just wasn't attracted to Aziraphale the way Aziraphale was attracted to him.

Recognizing he was slipping back into his usual mental spiral downward, Aziraphale stopped himself before the wallowing worsened. At this rate, he was going to end up jeopardizing his friendship with Crowley before a proper chance at a romantic relationship could even begin. Anathema had been right. Why hadn't he done anything yet, besides make cowardly excuses and take advantage of Crowley's time and attention this way?

Turning to the wall calendar, Aziraphale stared at where he penned in the date of the Christmas Ball, two weeks from today. If he was going to do this, he'd do it the right way. A proper confession of sorts. Crowley had taken the choice Aziraphale gave him before about disclosing his past with appreciation, and Aziraphale was happy to give him another one.

He looked at the clouds through his windows and continued to pray for courage.

Chapter Text

Eden University clearly had the money for a ball. Well, perhaps the circumstances weren't so simply described as "had the money." It was more along the lines of being made of money. Aziraphale, of course, knew this fact better than anyone based on Gabriel’s long history of bragging.

But when limos were hired to individually pick each student up from the Faculty building and drive them to the venue just outside of the city, Aziraphale couldn't help but wonder how little he actually knew.

This was made especially clear when he stepped out of the limo and had to tilt his head up to follow the deep purple carpet connecting his feet to the concrete stairs, seeing it disappear into the massive building before him. The building's Roman columns were wrapped in strings of light that cascaded like waterfalls beside the carpet and to his feet, and any surrounding trees were coated with some kind of bioluminescent glitter, making the venue look like it'd been built out of otherworldly light rather than dark stone and flora.

Aziraphale wasn’t unfamiliar with grandeur. His parents’ wealth and lifestyle made sure of it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate magnificence when he saw it. Excitement tingling underneath his skin, he gathered up the skirt of his gown and carefully began to climb the stairs.

It had been an easy choice to buy the dress, instantly drawn to its layers of sheer white and stitched pearls and golden lace. He loved how the high wide neckline sat just beneath his clavicles and between his shoulders. How the draping sleeves had a subtle slit running from the edges of his shoulders down to the hem.

But it had been difficult to find the courage to wear it. It took ten minutes of staring at the thing before trying it on and another thirty minutes to actually walk out the door. Aziraphale could practically feel the stab of his parents' words in his lungs and the phantom sting of their hands on his skin when he finally did manage to lock his door even though it had happened over two decades ago and only ever once.

And his parents were gone now. Most of all, Aziraphale wanted to face Crowley as everything he was, which really, in hindsight, was quite simple.

He liked pretty things. And he wanted to feel just as deserving.

As Aziraphale reached the main doors, he had to gently poke an enchanted lantern shaped like a planet out of the way. He briefly stopped to watch it float back up like a balloon to join the others circling slowly above them between the building's delicately carved arches before pulling out his phone to give Anathema a text of his arrival.

He had just finished signing himself into the coat check when he heard her calling his name. She came out through one of the double doors to his right and ran down the hall to him with a brilliant smile. Her long dark skirt, encircled by cascading glowing rings that lit up the sequins of her dress, bounced around her wildly.

"You look simply marvelous," Aziraphale complimented as they broke from their hug and he took her hands into his, admiring the gems dotting a constellation over her nose and cheeks.

"And you! You look like a Greek goddess!" Anathema said as she took in his gown, letting out a loud laugh. "Glad to see you’re still the sensible one. After everything I said about crinolines, I ended up wearing one for tonight anyway."

"I think it works with your planetary petticoat perfectly," he replied, punctuating his P’s dramatically.

"Well, we both look like we could break multiple hearts and that's all that matters right now," Anathema said, grinning while giving him another once-over. "Bold lipstick choice though. Not worried it’ll smudge onto your dress?"

Aziraphale smiled, unable to stop himself from hovering his fingertips over his red lips shyly. "I have very good table manners."

"You certainly do." Anathema looped an arm around his elbow and started leading him towards the main hall. "Thanks again for covering my ticket for tonight. I'll pay you back the moment my funds are released."

Aziraphale patted her hand. "Nothing to it, my dear, I'm happy to help where needed."

Before they even stepped through the glass double doors, Aziraphale could hear orchestral music playing over the loudspeakers. The first thing he saw when they did was a giant replica of the solar system suspended up on the curved ceiling above them. It acted as the biggest source of light in the dimmed ballroom, otherwise illuminated by dark purple and blue spotlights. Six beaded chandeliers surrounded the display like a crown, turned off but glittering like fractured sunlight on water from the other light sources. Swirling projections of galaxies and stars rippled on the white walls around them.

From where they stood on the balcony, Aziraphale saw at least fifty round dinner tables stretched out in rows below them, accessorized with crystal wine glasses and sparkling silverware on crisp, white tablecloths. Lengthy candelabras that branched glowing solar system mobiles stood at the centre of each. To the room’s right was a stage where a chamber orchestra was warming up.

"We’re over here," Anathema said, pulling Aziraphale down the stairs and through the limited space between the tables. "Thank goodness they’ve assigned us to sit in a good spot."

Aziraphale noted that it was indeed a good spot. A centre table in the second row closest to the stage. Newt was already seated, waving happily when they got closer.

"Matching outfits, I see," Aziraphale commented when he sat down next to him, noting Newt’s dark suit and the Saturn rings that circled around his shoulders, neck and head like halos.

"Anathema’s idea," Newt acknowledged with a bashful smile, his own jewelled constellation freckling his nose, free of glasses.

Anathema sat down on Newt’s other side, leaning closer to speak over the music. "We were almost late because Newt couldn’t get his contacts in. I literally had to pry his eyes open for him because he wouldn’t stop blinking."

"It’s the first time I’m wearing them," Newt explained helplessly. "Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to literally put a finger on your eyeballs and see it all happen?"

The two continued to bicker and Aziraphale took another look around the room in awe. "I thought there was going to be dancing tonight, but I don’t see where we’ll have the room to do it."

"It’s going to happen in another ballroom next door apparently. We’re supposed to go in there after dinner," Anathema answered, pointing in its approximate direction. "There’s even a courtyard and some gardens out back that we’re allowed to explore too."

"Goodness, this place is certainly impressive."

"I can see why the tickets were so astronomical," Anathema agreed. "I just hope we get good food. I decided against a corset for that reason."

Aziraphale laughed. "As did I. I’m quite looking forward to this seven-course meal we were promised."

But first came the performances. After the chamber orchestra played three classical pieces, a theatre group acted out a few skits ranging across several genres before the first course was finally served. By the time they reached their third course, the background music had been replaced by a live jazz band, easing out relaxed melodies to set a calm ambiance.

But Aziraphale was feeling every which way but calm. The music and the distraction of his friends' company certainly helped, but there was only so much his surroundings could do to overshadow the daunting task of professing his feelings for Crowley later that night.

His thoughts flipped back and forth between bailing entirely and getting a grip to just do it. He had sent Crowley a somewhat vague invitation earlier that day to meet up with him later once the staff and Faculty members were allowed to mingle with the students after dinner. Crowley, of course, accepted easily without question.

If Aziraphale could help it, he never wanted to miss out on a chance to spend more time with Crowley, so cancelling was out of the question. Not to mention, it'd only serve to make Crowley grow suspicious as to why if he did. But maybe he could come up with another topic of discussion. Something else to make up for the "something I'd like to speak with you about" other than a confession.

But before he could come up with something he felt satisfied with, his phone vibrated in his pocket just as their table was polishing up dessert.

(Crowley)
just finishing up here hbu

It took a few seconds for Aziraphale to remember what hbu stood for, but he promptly sent a reply once he did, the nerves resurfacing like oil on water and escalating tenfold as he tucked his phone away.

What if he had read Crowley all wrong and the man wasn’t even remotely interested in pursuing a relationship with him? What if Crowley was put off by his admittance and never wanted to talk to him again? Aziraphale wasn't sure he'd be able to act like nothing had ever happened. It never worked well to avoid his emotions in the past.

But when Crowley got back after his flight and resumed their newly-established schedule together with unburdened smiles and acts of kindness like Aziraphale hadn't wanked to his voice over the phone, Aziraphale knew that putting this off any longer would be unfair to them both.

Chugging the rest of his wine, Aziraphale reapplied his lipstick, triple-checked the state of his outfit, and stood with the rest of his table to move into the other ballroom, hoping his legs wouldn't give out.

The music was loud and, much to Aziraphale’s disappointment, did not suggest there'd be any slow dancing whatsoever. A rock band was already hammering away on stage and the students, riled up at the sudden change of musical tone, wildly clamoured to fill the empty space, jumping to the beat with whooping cheers. Ties were discarded, heels were kicked off, and various kinds of alcohol were sloshed about from the gush of unhindered movement.

Stepping out of the way so his gown wouldn't be stepped on, Aziraphale turned to Maggie who instantly caught his gaze and acknowledged his look of betrayal with an apologetic one. She looked just as distraught as Aziraphale felt.

"I’m so sorry!" she shouted over the music. "I had no idea! I honestly thought there would be more formal dancing like there was in the past."

"It’s not your fault," Aziraphale assured her. "None of us could’ve known. We’ll just have to find other ways to entertain ourselves."

She was starting to smile when Nina leaned into her ear to say something, a look of surprise crossing her features right before she was dragged off into the raving crowd by the hand. Aziraphale watched them go, feeling both a little excited for her prospects and a little sympathetic she was just as out of her element as he was.

Then Anathema placed her hand on his shoulder to grab his attention.

"Are you going to join?" she asked with a look that fully knew what answer she was going to receive.

Aziraphale shook his head. "I’m going to find Crowley."

A knowing smile spread across her face and she squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. "I hear the gardens are pretty empty right now. Lots of space for privacy too."

Warmth blossomed in Aziraphale’s chest as he took the hint and he put a hand over hers to squeeze it back, overcome with gratitude for her friendship.

Anathema had been the one he had texted for advice when he desperately needed another source of confidence other than the voice in his head. Of course, he had minimized the extent to which he lusted after Crowley when he had explained the recent developments in their relationship, but she had heard most of the rest. As with everything else, it never took much for Anathema to understand.

"The least you could do," she had said, "is ask Crowley how he feels. Let him decide for himself."  

Aziraphale knew she was a fearless and blunt woman, but it was still rather impressive how quickly she processed what she had heard, took one look at him, and told him to suck it up and confess.

He knew she was right. It just took another person to outwardly tell him he was being a nitwit for it to really sink in.

After a bit of wandering around, Aziraphale found the doors that led to the back courtyard, the brush of mild winter air cooling his flushed skin. The sensible part of him knew he probably should've gotten his coat beforehand. But at the rate his heart pounded in his chest, he figured the cool air would do him some good. Regardless of the outcome, he wasn't sure they'd be out there for very long.

He sent off another text to Crowley to meet him outside and decided to explore while he waited.

A handful of students were already sitting on the benches or were idly walking through the trimmed hedges with their coats wrapped around their shoulders as they conversed, but it was overall quiet save for the deep thudding of the bass and drums seeping out through the windows and doors. After walking further away, the sounds of his dress shoes on cobblestone replaced the music and he could hear something like a fountain off in the distant.

Aziraphale breathed out a puff of air, watching how the light cloud faded into the night air. Something about the winter made the night sharper and further removed from reality, like it wasn't just the world freezing solid but time itself. It was hypnotic, almost, and he didn't realize he had started shivering until the increasingly loud sound of high heels on stone approaching him broke his reverie.

He turned and another breath left him in a cloud. Crowley had his coat in his arms.

"Angel, you’re going to freeze yourself to death," Crowley growled when he got closer, slinging the coat over Aziraphale's shoulders and pulling it tight.

Still feeling a little dazed and so very enamoured, Aziraphale only barely registered Crowley's ongoing scolding as he looked down at Crowley’s hands, watching those slim fingers work around his buttons. The hands he’d held multiple times now, always gentle and strong and warm, were now skillfully pushing and prodding just under his chin and making their way down his body. As the bones and muscles worked, the rings Crowley wore for the occasion glinted from the dim garden lamps.

How many times had Aziraphale imagined those hands on his body? How many times had he imagined those hands doing unspeakable things to him? He had honestly lost count.

"Thank you," he managed to murmur when he realized Crowley had finally stopped scolding him. They were so close their breaths mingled into a single cloud between them. The proximity caused Aziraphale's stomach to burn. Or maybe that was the wine.

And was Crowley…taller than usual?

Upon a closer look, Aziraphale saw that Crowley had on a pair of pointed black heels, hidden underneath the sweeping hem of some wide-legged silk trousers. As he dragged his eyes up those endless legs, the colour of the silk faded from red to black, ending just at the edge of a dark red corset vest with silver clasps accentuating Crowley’s waist in a way that made Aziraphale’s mouth run dry. He wondered if Crowley’s corset had lacing in the back, perhaps currently hidden by his familiar black peacoat. His hands itched to grab around those slim curves to find out.

"There," Crowley said, looking proud of his work until his expression faltered into something like shock when he saw Aziraphale’s face. "Is that…are you wearing lipstick?"

Aziraphale self-consciously brought his fingertips to his lips again, his previous confidence wavering under Crowley's gaze even if it was hidden behind the silver-framed shades he was wearing tonight.

"I-I thought it’d be a good occasion for it."

He almost missed how Crowley’s throat worked down a hard swallow. "Uh, y-yeah, s’a good occasion. Good for every occasion. It’s, uh…yeah, you look good."

With his coat secured around him, Aziraphale suddenly felt too hot and dropped his gaze. "Thank you, my dear."

They stood in silence and Aziraphale pressed his lips together a few times before finding his voice. After weeks of comfort and domesticity, this awkwardness was jarring. He wondered if Crowley already knew what was coming.

"So…what did you think of dinner?" he finally asked, willing himself to look up at Crowley who was still so close he saw his lips quiver before curling at one corner.

"Would’ve preferred the shawarma takeout we got last week instead."

Aziraphale had to laugh. Of course Crowley would say that despite eating some of the finest food Aziraphale's ever had since his parents' passing. "I admit, I was expecting bigger servings."

"Totally could’ve given you mine," Crowley said, sounding closer to his usual self now. "Barely finished any of them except dessert, but only because it was so tiny. Wine selection was pretty good though."

"Oysters were lovely too."

"Yeah, but I can’t believe they didn’t include any tabasco with them. Downright crime, that is."

They started to stroll aimlessly around the courtyard, falling into a slow pace alongside each other as they commented on the food they ate and the performances they watched. The venue was still too close to London for there to be any stars, but Aziraphale wanted to imagine that they were there. Maybe seeing them would've helped calm this insistent nervous clawing in his gut.

"Have any of the students challenge you to a drinking game yet?" Aziraphale asked, trying to compensate for his nerves by finding random tidbits of conversational threads.

"Nope, left too soon after the dancing started," Crowley said. "I’ll probably get dragged into a few once we get back though."

"Dancing," Aziraphale scoffed wryly. "I had hoped for proper dancing tonight but saw several different versions of hopscotch instead."

Crowley visibly looked amused, an eyebrow arching gracefully over his sunglasses as he looked over at Aziraphale. "It's new this year. I guess enough students complained that it had been a waste of time over the past few years for the Faculty to change things up."

"A waste of time," Aziraphale grumbled mockingly. "This is how traditions die."

Barking out a laugh, Crowley teasing bumped his shoulder into Aziraphale’s. "Not while we still have you around, old man."

Aziraphale smiled, focusing on the heat at his shoulder to quell his fluttering heart.

By the time they came across the fountain he had heard earlier, tucked behind some taller hedges and surprisingly still running at moderate flow, the building had shrunk at least three times smaller behind them. He had almost forgotten that he had called Crowley out for a purpose until Crowley made a comment about how far they had walked. Looking around, Aziraphale realized that indeed, not another soul was in sight.

His nerves began to sharpen once more. He could hear it in the laugh he gave in reply to Crowley's comment.  

He had wanted privacy for what he was preparing himself to do, but now that he had it, it was a struggle not to cave into his desire to flee. Still, the meagre remnants of his reasonableness forced him to keep them circling around the fountain rather than walk further into some unknown area of the gardens, aware that he couldn't leave his task unfinished. That part of his brain caused his responses to grow shorter. His attention wavered. And eventually, the idle conversation faded into another bout of weighty silence as they continued to circle around and around.  

Then Crowley cleared his throat.

Surprised the sound came from a few paces behind him, Aziraphale stopped and turned. It seemed Crowley had stopped walking some time ago and was currently rubbing a hand at his neck while his facial features pulled down into a conflicted frown.

The slight trembling at Aziraphale's fingers stilled as his curiosity overshadowed his nerves.

"Crowley?"

Crowley's scowl deepened and with one jerky motion, the hand at his neck extended out between them. Aziraphale stared, bewildered, experiencing flashbacks to the last time Crowley had extended out a hand in the hallway of Eden.

He looked up for answers. "What—"

"Wanna dance?" Crowley asked shortly, his face now turned to face somewhere off to the side.

Aziraphale knew it was rude to stare, but he couldn't help himself. His body didn't feel capable of doing anything else.

"W-what kind?" he managed to ask.

"Waltz," Crowley bit out before wincing, probably at his tone. "I-It’s not great though. I'll uh…probably step on your feet or something. So, uh…sorry. In case I do."

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Aziraphale found himself closing the distance before the rest of his brain caught up to him. He slid his hand into Crowley’s, unsure of whose hands were shaking after he did.

He looked back up to Crowley's face, knowing his own cheeks were probably flushed far deeper than what the cold could do.

"I would be honoured," he said softly. Any louder and his voice would've cracked.

The harsh lines on Crowley's face softened slightly, and to Aziraphale's continued astonishment, Crowley shifted their arms so that Aziraphale was leading. With one more shared look and acting purely from muscle memory, Aziraphale cued Crowley in with a gentle tug and they began to dance.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

For a while, Aziraphale was still at a loss at what was happening. All he knew was that he had Crowley in his arms and that the small of Crowley's back fit so well in his hand that it felt like it belonged there. Even with Crowley's thick coat and the stiff corset beneath his palm, he could feel the heat of Crowley's body warm it.

They didn't speak for a long time. The sound of stone underneath their feet and the trickle of water was the only music that played as the garden spun around them. Occasionally, the hem of Aziraphale's gown swept at the gravel and grass, the soft whisper of fabric hushed against his ankles.

"I didn’t know you knew the waltz," Aziraphale said quietly, looking up at Crowley in wonder. The lamps were barely enough to see the pink and red blooming across Crowley’s cheekbones in answer.

"I didn't," Crowley mumbled, barely audible over the sound of the water.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

They glided around the fountain, Crowley's words suspended between them.

Only when Aziraphale paid closer attention did he notice Crowley's stiff posture and the slight stuttering of his steps, trailing after Aziraphale's in a manner not unlike a hesitant beginner. Sometimes, Crowley would glance down at their feet and say something under his breath that sounded vaguely like counting. Occasionally, he would readjust his arms like a mental reminder had gone off in his head to mind his posture.

Noticing all this, something sweet and sticky bloomed in Aziraphale's chest. "Don’t tell me you learned the waltz just for me."

It was just a guess. Half-teasing more than anything. He was prepared for Crowley to say something sarcastic in reply. To brush him off like he usually did whenever the man got flustered in any way. But when Crowley said nothing, the blush on his cheeks only growing darker as the muscle in his jaw tensed, Aziraphale's thoughts silenced.

"Oh..."

Unadulterated joy and gratitude easily overshadowed the memories of sparse happiness he experienced waltzing as a child. Feeling all of that and more burst open inside him, Aziraphale let out a shuddering breath and reluctantly slowed their dance to a halt.

"Crowley, there’s something I’d like to speak to you about," he said in a bit of a rush, unable to keep his eyes on Crowley's face. He immediately felt the air thicken, and when Crowley dropped his arms to take a step back, Aziraphale felt colder than ever.

"Okay?" Crowley answered in a thready voice.

"I…" Aziraphale nervously cleared his throat. "I believe I owe you an apology."

There came a heavy pause. "What for?"

"I’m afraid I haven’t been very honest in my…intentions towards you," Aziraphale said, anxiousness rising back up like bile. "I feel as if I have been taking unfair advantage of your kindness towards me."

"…Aziraphale, you’re not making any sense. What are you talking about?"

He didn’t need to see Crowley to know the man was frowning something fierce, and he twisted his hands together. He needed to get it out. To just keep talking.

Keep talking.

Talk.

"I mean that you’ve been a wonderful friend, Crowley," Aziraphale said, the words tripping over one another. "From the beginning, you’ve always been so supportive of me, encouraging me whenever I need it. You opened up to me about your past, which is a privilege I’m honoured to have, and when I got injured, you took such good care of me. I…I don’t believe there’s enough time in the world for me to show you just how indebted I am to you."

He heard Crowley step back towards him, and from his view of the ground, he saw Crowley’s hands lift towards him with the apparent need to soothe. They hovered hesitantly in the air.

Crowley sounded dismayed. "Indebted? The hell are you— angel, I did those things because I wanted to. You don’t owe me anything."

Aziraphale worried his bottom lip as he wrung his hands in the space between them, tasting lipstick on his tongue as his eyes sought solace from the fountain. "At times, I wish I did. Or at least, I wish that's what it meant. That you're expecting something in return from me. Because if you've done all of this out of the goodness in your heart, then I feel like I've just been taking advantage of it all. Fantasizing that it all means…something more when you're only being kind."

Crowley didn't respond for some time. "Something…more?"

"Yes, something more," Aziraphale repeated miserably, frustrated at his current ineloquence of words. "I treasure your friendship, Crowley, but what I feel for you is more than just that."

With a resigned sigh, he finally forced himself to look at Crowley, breath catching a little when he met the soft gold of Crowley’s eyes instead of the dark shades he'd been expecting. Sometime in the past few minutes, Crowley had removed his sunglasses and hooked them into the collar of his dress shirt. He now wore an unreadable expression on his face as he searched Aziraphale's eyes, and Aziraphale fought hard not to let the beauty of them distract him.

"Truth be told," Aziraphale said, his voice lacking any oxygen, "I don’t think I’ve seen you in that light for quite some time now. I don’t wish to keep it from you any longer. I actually think it’d be rather unfair to you if I did."

He watched Crowley's eyes flicker downwards a little before coming back up for their eyes to meet. Aziraphale distantly wondered if Crowley had glanced at his lips.

"Are you saying you want to sleep with me?" Crowley murmured, something shifting in his gaze.

Despite the circumstances they were in, the way Crowley's voice rumbled stirred the embers of Aziraphale’s arousal enough to briefly stifle his nerves, resulting in an indignant huff escaping his lips instead.

"No," Aziraphale scoffed before immediately righting himself, a familiar burn flooding his face. "I mean, yes, but it's…not just that."

Crowley stepped an extra half-step closer, the clouds of their breaths merging into one again. Aziraphale stared into Crowley's eyes, hearing the slight tremor in Crowley's breathing. Felt its warmth brushing his forehead.

Aziraphale's own intake of air trembled.

"I want to date you, Crowley. Have a romantic relationship with you. What I feel for you is more than just wanting to sleep with you. What I feel is…"

He hesitated, searching Crowley’s eyes for rejection or any sign that Crowley didn't want to hear the rest of his words. But his gaze was returned with so much tenderness and hope that he felt emboldened enough to finish and he did so breathlessly.

"Well, what I feel is something exceedingly akin to love."

And then his mind afforded him no more thoughts because Crowley’s warm hand came to cradle his cheek, their eyes locking.

Aziraphale stared, spellbound, as he felt Crowley's thumb lightly drag across his lips before lifting it to his own mouth, watching as he slowly, slowly, smeared the transferred rouge onto his slightly parted lips.

Purposefully. Intently.

Aziraphale's gaze focused on the way his red lipstick looked on Crowley's lips, feeling almost envious that he didn't put that mark there himself.  

When Crowley spoke, he did so through half-hooded eyes tinted with mischief and desire, stoking the embers in Aziraphale's stomach into a scorching blaze.

"I love you most ardently, huh?"

He immediately wanted to kiss that stupid smirk off of Crowley’s face. Of all the times to quote Jane Austen—

They both moved forward and spoke at the same time.

"I’m going to—"

"Stop me if you—"

Their lips met with a needy gasp and Aziraphale immediately scrambled for purchase, surging up onto his toes because Crowley was wearing goddamn heels that made his legs look infinite and his mouth too far away for Aziraphale’s liking. His hands flew to Crowley's waist, and he felt Crowley grab the lapels of his coat. When Aziraphale tugged him closer, closer, into him, Crowley easily followed, a whimper slipping out from him as their hips met just slightly skewed of one another.

The brisk air had turned the tips of their noses cold and Aziraphale delighted in feeling Crowley's nuzzle into his warm cheeks. But nothing delighted him more than Crowley's soft gasps that managed to escape from between the touch of their lips. The clouds of their hot breaths floated up around them, smelling lightly of wine.

Aziraphale let his hands drift behind and up Crowley’s back, pleased to feel that there actually was lacing tied on the back of Crowley's corset vest. Fingers fumbling wildly, he found what he thought was the knot. Maybe if he tugged at it…

He was rewarded with Crowley’s surprised noise when he did, and Aziraphale chased after it with a gentle lick of his tongue into Crowley’s mouth, tasting the brown sugar of dessert mixed with wine. With a moan, Crowley's lips relaxed to let him in deeper, tongue brushing back with so much heat that Aziraphale almost lost all the strength in his legs. They were already shaking from standing up on his toes for so long.

As if sensing his dilemma, Crowley released the lapels of his coat and draped his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders instead, locking him in while his hands ran through Aziraphale’s hair to slot their mouths closer. Aziraphale leaned into him, practically falling into the support he was so graciously being given.

"Crowley," Aziraphale panted into the kiss as he slid his hands underneath Crowley’s corset, finding the lower slope of his spine through the silk of his shirt to trace the notches there.

"Fuck, angel," Crowley choked out, shivering when Aziraphale’s fingers dragged up his shirt and sought the bare skin it covered. "Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?"

"No, actually," Aziraphale admitted through pressed lips, his fingertips drinking in the heat of Crowley’s back, feeling the muscles tense and shift. "From my clumsy speech tonight, I thought that much was obvious. You’ve clearly been very good at hiding it."

Crowley grunted into the kiss. Agreement, perhaps. Maybe disbelief.

"Since the crêpe shop," he answered through a hot breath. "Probably earlier. No, definitely earlier. But I figured it out then."

That had Aziraphale pulling back slightly, their noses still brushing as he searched Crowley’s face incredulously. "You’re not serious."

"Yes, I fucking am," Crowley growled as he pulled Aziraphale back in like he was outraged the kiss had broken in the first place. He had no qualms speaking through their tangled mess of lips and tongue. "Made a fool of myself watching you eat. Choked on coffee and all."

Aziraphale pulled back again. "That’s why you spilt your coffee?"

Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s hair. "I swear, if you pull back again until I'm done with you—"

Aziraphale kissed away the rest of that threat.

It was marvellous. Something like elation surged like fireworks in Aziraphale’s heart, dazzling and blinding behind his closed eyes. He took in the feel of Crowley's lips and body, the sounds their sighs and kisses made, and the smell of sweetness and everything that was Crowley. It was intoxicating. The mix of heat and lack of oxygen made him dizzy to the point where he almost had to check back in with the rest of his body to make sure he hadn’t slipped behind the veil without his knowledge.

But no, Crowley was there. A firm, sinuous, and gloriously euphoric presence beneath his hands.

"You're not real," Crowley breathed against his neck, an unnecessary hand in his curls to keep him pliant for him. "And this dress. You in this fucking dress."

A thrilled shiver wracked Aziraphale's body as he felt Crowley nip at where his neck and shoulders connected. "Do you like it?" he had to ask.

Crowley bunched up the fabric at Aziraphale's hips with an answering groan that made him giggle helplessly, his previous worries melting into the background like they'd never existed.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long they kissed, but by the time the initial urgency faded into just simple, soft presses of lips, Crowley’s shirt had been completely pulled out of his trousers, his corset was half-off his shoulders, and his face and neck were covered with smudges of lipstick.

Aziraphale probably looked just as debauched. He could feel the sting of Crowley's kisses on his clavicles, his coat had been pushed off him and to the ground, unbuttoned some unknown time ago, and he was sure his hair rivalled that of his bedhead based on how much Crowley had been running his hands through it.

They were still pressed tightly against each other, neither of them hiding their mirrored erections, when Aziraphale kissed those bruised lips sweetly. "As much as I would love to have you right here against the hedges, I don’t think that’d be very appropriate for a school event."

"Like that kiss was in any way appropriate," scoffed Crowley.

Aziraphale toyed with the hem of Crowley's shirt. "Do you…have any plans for after the party?"

Crowley almost looked offended. "No, do you?" he asked incredulously.

Aziraphale made a show of thinking hard about it. Then he nipped at Crowley’s tantalizingly long neck, drunk on the reality that he could. "Other than planning for the possibility of having you in my bed until morning, no."

Crowley shivered. "Fuck, is this what you’re like now that we’ve talked about feelings?"

"I don’t remember your feelings being talked about," Aziraphale said with a breathy laugh. Then Crowley grabbed his hips and ground the hard press of their cocks together, shooting Aziraphale a wicked smirk.

"What, is this not loud enough?"

"Not what I meant," Aziraphale huffed through a groan he couldn't hold back.

It took a bit of effort on both men's part, but they eventually stepped away from one another to put themselves back in order. Aziraphale picked up his coat, and Crowley briefly took his off to retie the knot on his corset. Watching how the corset retightened around Crowley's waist almost made Aziraphale abandon the whole idea of waiting until they were in his bed just so he could rip open those buttons here and now.

Crowley must’ve felt his gaze because he glanced up at Aziraphale, raising a sly eyebrow at the look on Aziraphale's face. "You sure you don’t want me against the hedges right now?"

Aziraphale bit his bottom lip and sighed with exaggerated distress. "It’s so very tempting, but I’d like our first time to be on a proper bed. A rain check on the hedges, perhaps?"

Crowley did his corset back up and slung his jacket over one shoulder, apparently too warm to need it. "Of course you do, you sap. Guess we’ll just have to find some hedges in the future then."

"Oh, that won’t be necessary," Aziraphale said with a haughty sniff. "Any wall will do."

He was rewarded with Crowley’s sputtering.

As they drew closer to the building, Aziraphale used the back of his hand to try and wipe away his lipstick, undoubtedly smudged to ruin on his face. But based on the never-ending colour that came away, he was probably making it look worse the more he tried. He just remembered about the handkerchief in his coat when Crowley paused to offer out his hand.

Aziraphale was about to take it, lost in the effortlessness of familiarity, when he realized how many students were now around them, inattentive but present. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, he looked up at Crowley, hesitant.

"Wouldn’t people get the wrong idea?" he asked.

They both knew how fast rumours spread, and while they weren't doing anything wrong, per se, Aziraphale wasn't sure if he wanted either of them to be the subject of the latest gossip, not until they'd had a proper talk about where this was all going.

But Crowley looked unperturbed. "Exams start next week. This term’s officially over if that’s what you’re worried about."

Aziraphale shook his head.

"There you go then," Crowley said easily. "No wrong ideas here. In fact, I thought we could give them the right idea."

Aziraphale took in the state of Crowley's face. It wouldn't be hard for anyone to figure out what they'd been up to if they were seen together, especially when the state of Aziraphale's face matched the countless lipstick smears on Crowley's lips and neck. There would definitely be talk if anyone saw them.

But Aziraphale didn't want to turn down Crowley's hand anymore. Not when Crowley was so sure of what it meant.

For the second time that night, Aziraphale slipped his hand into Crowley's, relishing the warmth and unhindered touch. No Attributes required.

Any wall really would do and Aziraphale was determined to show Crowley he meant it. What he didn't expect was for Crowley to get a head start on him.

The moment Aziraphale opened the door to his flat, Crowley crowded him back against the entryway table, hastily reconnecting their mouths while he ripped off his sunglasses and tossed them somewhere to the side. Not even the dull sting of the table colliding into his waist could pull him away from the taste of Crowley’s tongue as it encircled his, chasing after it like he was starving.

"Door," Aziraphale gasped with half a mind to notice the draft coming in, a stark contrast to the heat of Crowley's mouth, tongue, and body on him. He had turned up the heat the moment he got home because he wanted Crowley to be warm. Crowley adored being warm. And Aziraphale adored Crowley being warm.

But Crowley had the height advantage and seemed to be more concerned with using him for warmth instead, ignoring his attempts to push him back. It wasn't like Aziraphale wanted them to stop kissing, but he was hoping he could at least coax Crowley toward the door at the same time.

But with how Crowley seemed to be melting against him and making all those wonderful sighs and gasps between the delicious kisses they shared, Aziraphale was quickly distracted from minding the door. He temporarily lost himself to the haze of it, smelling soap and shampoo from where he kissed the base of Crowley's ear, categorizing how it made the other man shudder and curl in on the sensation.

He was so far gone, he almost didn't register Crowley's hands roughly wondering over his own body, nails pulling at the thin fabric of his shirt like he wanted to tear it off just as Aziraphale wanted to do to Crowley's shirt earlier that night.

But then a breeze blew into the flat and Aziraphale shivered out of his arousal. As weak at the knees as he felt, he wasn’t going to lose when it came to strength. Not against Crowley, at least. Aziraphale may have extra padding on him, but there was strength underneath, and if there was ever a time to use it, it’d be now.

Aziraphale clutched Crowley’s waist to secure him and pushed off the table, using it as leverage. In swift strides, he backed Crowley towards the door, slamming it shut with his free hand before slamming Crowley’s back into it with a thud without so much as a centimetre between them.

He almost apologized for his rough movements when a ragged moan spilled from Crowley’s mouth and he found himself getting kissed even harder, a sharp nip to his bottom lips before Crowley briefly pulled his face back to breathe out a shaky laugh.

"Fuck, you need to keep doing that." Crowley’s hands were roaming around under Aziraphale's shirt now, his cool hands and the friction of his nails pulling shivers up Aziraphale's spine.

Aziraphale made a mental note that perhaps Crowley enjoyed a bit of manhandling.

Generously exploring Crowley’s body now that he had it pinned against something solid, Aziraphale pushed Crowley’s coat off his shoulders, briefly mourning the loss of Crowley’s evening wear despite how much easier it was to slip his hands underneath the grey Henley. He kissed along Crowley’s jaw and nipped at his ear, boldly circling his tongue along the shape of it all.

"I wasn’t able to appreciate you earlier, but you looked positively delicious tonight."

"Yeah?" Crowley replied gruffly, the exhale of his next breath turning into a whine when Aziraphale tucked his thumbs into the hem of Crowley’s jeans and used that grip to grind their hips repeatedly into each together. "Should’ve kept it on then. Make you work for it."

Aziraphale still had enough blood in his brain to scoff. "I’ve been working at it for months now, mind you," and Crowley had the gall to smirk into his cheek, earning him a pinch to one bum cheek.

Crowley retaliated by biting Aziraphale’s bottom lip again. "Can’t wait to hear all about it."

"I’d like to hear you first if you don’t mind."

Whatever smart comeback Crowley had planned to say died on Aziraphale’s tongue as he explored the inside of Crowley’s mouth and started at Crowley’s belt. Crowley’s hips were trying to keep still to let him, but the twitch of them whenever Aziraphale’s hands brushed too close to the prominent bulge in his jeans didn’t go unnoticed.

"What happened to the bed? A proper first time?" panted Crowley sarcastically through another smirk. They both heard the sound of Crowley’s belt head hitting the door.

"The bed can wait," Aziraphale growled.

"Should've had me against the hedges then."

"I'm making up for it now, aren't I?" The way the smirk on Crowley's face faltered into a face of pleasure when Aziraphale promptly stuck his hand down his pants was satisfying, to say the least.  

If Crowley’s hands were a comfortable warmth, his cock was hot. In all meanings of the word. Slim and long like the rest of him, it made an obscene noise when Aziraphale started to stroke it. He could feel the precum starting to coat his hands as he kept his grip tight and pace steady. The dampness on Crowley's pants sticking to his fist told him Crowley had been leaking for some time now and Aziraphale's legs almost gave out at how turned on that made him feel.  

Crowley let out a string of curses and thumped his head back against the door, his breathing harsh and fast. "Fuck, Aziraphale, that feels— shit."

"Quite the filthy mouth," Aziraphale hummed into said mouth, his own lungs struggling to take in air from the way Crowley was stealing it from him. He knew Crowley wasn't quite as grounded in reality anymore when no smart comeback followed.

The knowledge that he was undoing Crowley with his hand spurred Aziraphale on and he quickened his pace, another string of curses flowing out in a whisper from Crowley in response. Aziraphale paid extra attention to the base, twisting his wrist slightly because it made Crowley's cock twitch with every pull.

"Angel, I’m not gonna last much longer if you—"

"That’s fine," Aziraphale said hotly into the shell of Crowley’s ear. "I have all night to pull more orgasms out of you."

Then Crowley clenched his fists into Aziraphale’s hair, biting out more curses through gritted teeth as he came with a breathless cry, his fingers digging into Aziraphale's back like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

The two of them stood there, panting with their foreheads rested against the other before Crowley sank a little into Aziraphale’s arms, boneless. With Aziraphale’s weight still pressed into him, he was rather secured against the door and seemed to happily be taking advantage of it.

"Fuckin’ hell," Crowley said, words mumbled with his mouth pressed into Aziraphale’s shoulder. "That was…Sorry, I’ll get off in a sec. Don’t think I can feel my legs."

"You're not the slightest bit heavy," Aziraphale assured.

"I resent that," Crowley slurred with no heat.

"And yet, you rarely eat." Aziraphale kissed Crowley's temple, pulling Crowley’s pants up with his clean hand so he wasn’t so out and about. "Think you can make it to the bedroom?"

Crowley grunted once and tried to stand. But with the one hand Aziraphale had on Crowley's hips, he knew from the shaking in Crowley's legs that he couldn't. So when Crowley sank back against the door, he wasn't at all surprised.

"Might need a while longer," Crowley chuckled.

"I could carry you?"

"Not with a hand full of my cum, thanks. I like these jeans."

"Nothing a good wash can’t solve," Aziraphale justified meaninglessly. He mentally did another once-over of Crowley’s body and how it felt. "I could carry you with one arm?"

Crowley withdrew his face and looked at him in disbelief. His eyes scanned down and up Aziraphale’s body, either debating whether Aziraphale was serious in offering or serious about being able to carry him with only one arm. Maybe both.

Then a look of intent flashed across Crowley's eyes and Aziraphale needed nothing more to be said. Bending slightly, he wrapped an arm around Crowley’s thighs and hauled him up against his one side, careful not to touch Crowley (or anything else, for that matter) with his soiled hand. Crowley clung to his shoulders with a yelp, his surprised laughter causing his stomach to flutter against Aziraphale’s chest as they walked into the bedroom.

It almost felt a bit like carrying a partner over the threshold.

The desk lamps by Aziraphale's bed were already switched on and he gently set Crowley down on the edge of his bed. They shared one more melted kiss before Aziraphale made his way to the ensuite to wash his hands. From the open bathroom door, he saw Crowley removing all of his clothing to toss them haphazardly onto a dresser.

"Never been in here before," Crowley commented, clearly amused that any wall space not being used by drawers was dominated by tightly packed bookshelves instead. "I expected the tartan sheets. But I definitely expected more books."

"There are more in the second bedroom," Aziraphale answered the tease with an equally playful tone. "A bedroom, I might add, you’ve refused to stay in despite my past offers."

"And for good reason." Crowley laid out flat on his back and turned to meet Aziraphale's gaze. The soft lamp light sculpted him like some kind of Renaissance painting. "Don’t think I would’ve gotten any rest knowing that you were sleeping right next door to me. Would’ve been too turned on to sleep."

Aziraphale felt himself flush, a buzz tingling all over. "Really, had I known, I would’ve confessed my feelings properly much sooner."

Bringing out a hand towel for later, Aziraphale sat bedside while he searched his drawers for rubber and lube. Then he paused, turning to look at Crowley who had his head propped up to watch him.

"Hang on, how come you never said anything if you were attracted to me so early on?"

Crowley shrank back with enough awareness to look like he’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. "Uh, w-well. Y’know. Not great at the whole. Feelings. Thing. I told you I was terrible at romance. A-and I didn’t know how you felt either, so the last thing I wanted to do was mess things up…"

The more Crowley continued to ramble off excuses, the more Aziraphale felt so very foolish. They’d apparently both been tiptoeing around each other for weeks.

"But that night I dropped you off at home!" Aziraphale insisted, fully sitting himself on the bed to face Crowley. "The number of times I've flirted with you. Or when we were in the lift the day I got injured. Or the week after my injury! Oh, Crowley, how was it possible you didn't know? I practically wore my desires for you on my face for all to see."

Crowley's face was flushed red now and he sputtered. "All I knew was that you were sometimes embarrassed about the lack of personal space and had picked up the habit of ruthlessly teasing me. I didn’t know whether it meant anything. Besides, it wasn't like you said anything whenever I hinted at how I felt about you."

"Because you said everything so…so vaguely!"

"I don't make a habit of just Healing students or letting them Heal me," Crowley said. "Or take care of injured students willy-nilly. Do you see me visiting anyone else's flats with takeout?"

Aziraphale refused to let Crowley outspeak him and stubbornly persisted. "Well, I didn't know. Despite how you portray yourself, I know for a fact that you're a very kind person, Crowley. How was I supposed to know whether your actions meant anything either?"

Crowley sat up and crawled over to straddle Aziraphale's lap. "I'm going to stop you right there. I'm not kind. Even if I am, I'm not that to just anyone."

"But—"

"Now, unless you haven’t noticed," Crowley interrupted while he combed a distracting hand through Aziraphale's hair, "we’re finally on a bed and I’m one orgasm ahead of you. Are you going to fuck me or not?"

Aziraphale made a show of frowning disapprovingly, but his hands came up to grip Crowley's waist and shifted them both backwards so they weren’t so close to the edge of the bed.

"Eager for someone who’s already come once," he huffed.

"Mouthy for someone still sporting a hard-on."

"This conversation isn't over." Then Aziraphale cupped Crowley's face and kissed him solidly over that smart mouth of his.

Aziraphale had already come to terms with his gluttonous addition to Crowley a long while ago. The list of reasons only seemed to grow, and kissing the living daylights out of each other was rapidly climbing to the top of that list. Crowley didn’t seem averse to it either as he settled his weight onto Aziraphale’s thighs, doing the opposite of what he did earlier that night by unbuttoning the pyjama shirt.

Allowing the shirt to slip off somewhere behind him, Aziraphale wasted no time reuniting his hands with Crowley’s hips, kneading the small pudge of flesh there and feeling the bone underneath. Their hands explored each other unhurriedly this time, softly relishing the experience and the simmering need from them both.

Then Aziraphale's tongue licked up inside Crowley's mouth and with a sudden loud moan, Crowley pulled away with a gasp.

"Whoa, sorry, hang on." Aziraphale watched a harsh shiver ripple through Crowley’s body while his eyes tightly shut in concentration. "Roof of the mouth’s a bit, uh…sensitive."

Aziraphale felt his cock twitch in response to the news, seeing the effect of that sensitivity showing very visibly at the centre of Crowley's hips.

"Good sensitive or bad sensitive?" he asked anyway.

"Good. Very good. But maybe don’t abuse it too much, yeah?" Crowley answered with a soft laugh, his eyes cracking open.

Aziraphale gasped before he had a chance to decide whether it’d be rude or not. The yellow colour of Crowley’s eyes had completely covered over any remaining white space, shining gold from the warm lighting. Crowley laughed a little self-deprecatingly after realizing what Aziraphale was staring at.

"Yeah, m’bad, my features get a little snake-ish when I’m turned on," he said, smirking all the while. But then the smirk dropped a little into something more nervous. "Hope that’s not a turn-off or something."

Aziraphale shook himself out of it and snapped his mouth close. That expression won’t do.

Surging forward, he reconnected their mouths and passionately kissed Crowley until he laid the man flat onto his back. Crowley looked up at him in a confused but heated daze, panting when they separated.

"Everything about you is the very opposite of a turn-off, my dear," Aziraphale said, aware of how heavily he was breathing as well. His eyes travelled down the blush that stained Crowley’s chest, lingering over the dusting of hair and how it tapered and nestled at the base of Crowley's fully erect cock. "I look forward to discovering the other things your body can do."

Dipping his head down, he kissed Crowley’s chest, thumbing and gently rolling the nipples between his fingertips as his mouth continued to travel further down. Crowley’s breath came out in delightful sighs and groans, punctuated by sharp hitches and shudders, all going straight into Aziraphale’s already straining cock.

"Be a dear and flip over for me," he instructed, pausing his worship of Crowley’s body to reach for the lube, pouring a generous amount onto his hand. Turning back, he sucked in a breath when he was rewarded with Crowley’s completely naked backside as he lay on his stomach, the sight shattering whatever fantasy his mind had previously conjured up.

Freckling around the nape of Crowley’s neck and in patches across his back were the same black iridescent scales he saw when Crowley had been in his snake form. Aziraphale had only seen that form once, but it was burned into his memory like the rest of him. To see it resurfacing while Crowley was still human, knowing what it meant, felt like a blessing.

Aziraphale climbed back onto the bed, settling by Crowley's hips and feeling so very glad his flat could be warm enough for him to be gifted this sight. He ducked down to plant a kiss at the base of Crowley's spine, making his way up by delivering several more.

"You’re simply gorgeous," he murmured, pausing to brush his lips over every span of scales, relishing how they ever so slightly shifted whenever Crowley’s muscles tensed. When Aziraphale finished kissing the scales near the neck, Crowley propped up onto his elbows and tilted his head up to meet him for another sloppy kiss.

God, the man’s tongue was sinful. Must be the reptile in Crowley and heavens bless that wonderful addition if that was it.

While Crowley was distracted, Aziraphale slowly traced his lubed fingers down Crowley’s tailbone, pausing slightly at the tight rim of muscle before slowly pushing one finger inside. Crowley broke away from the kiss with a throaty groan, fists clenching the sheets from the intrusion. His responsive body flexed and bent as Aziraphale slowly helped him adjust by pumping his finger, giving Aziraphale a wonderful show of the exact build of his spine.

Every hill. Every valley.

Aziraphale tongued a kiss at the skin by Crowley’s shoulder blades. "Ready for another?"

"Yes," Crowley replied eagerly, his hips already pushing back. Aziraphale wholeheartedly complied.

Working Crowley open with two, and eventually, three fingers, was causing Aziraphale’s mind to feel hazier with every passing second. Delirious, even. The sound of wetness and stuttering moans filling the air like steam. All of his blood had been pooled at his crotch for so long that he was starting to forget he needed air to breathe. The glorious feeling of Crowley clenching repeatedly around his fingers was intoxicating, and if he wasn’t forgetting to breathe, he was breathing erratically.

Somehow, despite his brain losing much of its functionality, Aziraphale’s fingers hit a spot that resulted in a loud curse erupting from Crowley’s wicked mouth. Aziraphale watched, slightly stunned but so wretchedly turned on, as Crowley came a second time from his hands. The sight of a ripple running through Crowley’s scales was mesmerizing, the rainbow sheen glistening the same way the sweat on Crowley's back did as his back bent and arched.   

Gently removing his fingers and briefly palming his own cock to relieve some of the pressure, Aziraphale turned his attention back to Crowley and delivered a soft kiss to Crowley’s shoulder.

"Still doing alright?"

"Mmph."

Crowley was face-down on the bed, so his response was muffled, but of course he’d get his point across by showing Aziraphale a lazy thumbs up. Scoffing lovingly at the ridiculous gesture, Aziraphale moved to rid himself of his remaining layers and gave himself a few merciful strokes. He felt almost embarrassed for how much precum had spilled into his pants, but at least it lessened any need for lube to soften the glide of his hand.

The wet, lewd sounds reached Crowley’s ears because he immediately propped himself back onto his elbows to watch. Aziraphale almost came when he saw the dark pink of Crowley’s tongue poking out to wet his lips at the sight.

Crowley crawled over, eyes trained on Aziraphale’s cock like all of his energy had returned. The hungry look Crowley was giving him did nothing to taper the spike in his arousal.

"Do you want…I can use my mouth."

Aziraphale had to squeeze the base of his cock to prevent his release and groaned. He had already gotten himself off to the sound of Crowley’s voice alone in the past, so to hear such gestures being offered felt like a wet dream come true. He'd never survive it.

Aziraphale used his clean hand to cup Crowley’s eager face. "As much as I’d like that, I'd like the first to be inside you if you don't mind."

Crowley’s flushed lips fell open. "Oh." He swallowed thickly. "Yeah, that’s— Sounds great."

Trying not to smile too widely, Aziraphale leaned towards Crowley to appreciate the mouth that allowed Crowley to articulate so elegantly. The man was just too charming for his own good and Aziraphale seeped every ounce of adoration he had for Crowley into his kiss.

"Does that mean there'll be a second?" Crowley asked, so innocently hopeful it felt almost out of place. 

"Maybe not tonight," Aziraphale answered. But before Crowley had a chance to look disappointed, he gave the man a filthy kiss. "But in the future, most definitely."

The more Aziraphale pressed forward, the more Crowley accepted the weight on his lips, a small game of cat and mouse as Crowley silently beckoned Aziraphale forward with every tiny retreat of his tongue. Avoiding the drying puddle of cum already on the sheets, Crowley eventually fell onto his back, dragging Aziraphale down with him with increasingly urgent hands in his hair and nails along his shoulders.

"Inside me. Now," Crowley groaned in their exchange of breaths.

Somehow, Aziraphale efficiently opened the rubber package he took along with him in their descent and slipped it on without ever leaving their mouths lonely. Something that, in hindsight, Aziraphale would find quite miraculous considering how his hands were shaking from how badly he just wanted to bury himself into Crowley. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this highly strung and briefly worried it’d all be over the moment he entered Crowley’s tight, wanting hole.

But even that thought took up too much oxygen. Oxygen that Aziraphale didn’t have from his ragged breathing. So, he just positioned himself between Crowley’s sprawled-out legs, held his breath to use whatever air he had remembered to take in, and guided himself into that delicious heat.

Crowley threw his head back and hissed, both of them guttering out groans as Aziraphale buried himself to the hilt.

"Sorry," Aziraphale gasped as his hands flew to Crowley’s hips, unsure if he did it to keep Crowley still or to keep himself grounded to prevent an embarrassingly quick finish.

"Fuck, you're thick," Crowley moaned, clenching around Aziraphale's cock in an attempt to adjust.

Aziraphale's grip on Crowley's hips turned bruising at the sensation. "Crowley, I don’t think I can hold back. Not if you continue to do that."

Crowley glared up at him with his eyes glazed over. Challenging. Inviting.

"Then don’t."

So Aziraphale didn’t.

He quickly set a punishing pace, thrusting into Crowley with enough force to repeatedly knock the headboard against the wall. Another benefit to having a penthouse, Aziraphale supposed, was the lack of neighbours to complain about any noises, and he’d happily take advantage.

Crowley seemed to be taking advantage of it too because he was crying out in pleasured abandon, grasping at the sheets as his cock, only half hard, spilled more precum onto his stomach, generously coating the delicate hairs there. The soft lighting made the area gleam and blend in with the shine of sweat.

"Fuck," Crowley choked out, throwing his head to the side, words getting punched out of him with every thrust. "So. Thick. It feels— fuck, it feels so good, angel."

"And you feel amazing, darling. Taking me so well," Aziraphale said, lifting one of Crowley’s legs to plant a kiss on his ankle, leaving it over his shoulder. "So beautiful. I’ve thought about this for so long and I finally get to have you."

Crowley shivered and gasped at the way the new position had Aziraphale nuzzling deeper inside him. "Yes. Have me, angel, I’m all yours."

Something hot and possessive flared inside Aziraphale, and the next thing he knew, he had brought Crowley’s other leg to join the one on his shoulder, dragging him closer. Arms wrapping around Crowley’s legs, Aziraphale flexed his feet for purchase and brutally fucked into him.

The strength of his thrusts had Crowley arching his back off the bed, his hands clawing at Aziraphale’s thighs as high-pitched cries tumbled from his throat.

Through all the roughness, Aziraphale tried to angle his hips to find Crowley’s prostate, a loud shout and the heady sight of Crowley’s writhing body rewarded him when he did. The chorus of moans and the slapping of skin on skin was quickly building that coil of heat inside Aziraphale, tighter and tighter as he lost himself to the feeling of Crowley clenching around his cock.

"Crowley, I’m— I’m going to—" he tried to warn.

Crowley’s hand scrambled to wrap around his own leaking cock, a series of breathless "yes, yes, yes" the only thing Aziraphale’s mind registered before coming so violently, he swore his vision blacked out. Crowley followed soon after with a strangled moan that sounded something like Aziraphale’s name, his body pulled tight as his head tilted back. Both groaned in overlapping unison, suspended in bliss, everything still and throbbing before their muscles eventually laxed.

Crowley slumped back onto the bed, still twitching in the aftermath, and Aziraphale pressed one more feathered kiss on his ankle before gently setting his legs back down as well. He sat there, breathing hard and ready to topple over himself before remembering about the towel he'd brought out earlier.

He tried to reach back over to the bedside table when Crowley dug his heels into the small of his back and kept him there.

"Where ar’you going?" Crowley asked, slurring.

"To clean us up," Aziraphale replied, his voice hoarse.

"Later," Crowley complained, opening his arms and gesturing for Aziraphale to lay down with him. "Still want to feel you inside me."

If Aziraphale had been twenty years younger, he’d be raring to go for another round almost immediately from that. It was a near thing this time too because Crowley looked positively enticing on his tartan bedsheets when he said those tempting words. But instead, Aziraphale carefully laid himself down and just to the side so he wasn't entirely on top of Crowley, worried he'd crush the thin man.

"Just for a little bit," Aziraphale relented, carefully brushing away the sweaty red strands of hair plastered to Crowley's neck and face while the other man sighed happily into the touch.

They shared a few minutes of comfortable silence, Aziraphale tracing his fingers along Crowley's arm and Crowley fiddling with the hair at the back of Aziraphale's head, before the feeling of drying sweat grew too sticky for Aziraphale to bear. With a lot of complaining from Crowley, Aziraphale managed to tear himself away from bed to clean up, disposing of the rubber in the bathroom before wiping himself down. When Crowley turned out the opportunity to shower, Aziraphale wetted another towel.

When he returned to Crowley's side, he was fully aware that Crowley was curiously observing him, his eyes now back to their usual form.

"What's that for?" Crowley asked, eyeing the towel.

Aziraphale opened his hand, gesturing for Crowley to give him his arm, which the other man did without hesitation. The questions didn't leave his face, however, and Aziraphale had to ask in return.

"Have you not heard of aftercare? I'm wiping you down, of course," he said as he gently ran the towel down Crowley's arm. "Especially since you don't feel like showering. I'm assuming you don't enjoy the feeling of your own dried spend on your skin."

Crowley seemed to consider this, frowning as he let Aziraphale take his other arm. "I've heard of it. Just nothing like this. Usually, it's just a tissue wipe and a bugger off."

Aziraphale slowed his movements upon hearing this, the towel pausing momentarily over Crowley's abdomen. He never stopped to consider Crowley's previous sexual encounters, only knowing that they existed ever since their first night at the pub. But based on what Crowley just said, it suggested they were very different from what Aziraphale considered to be proper love-making. 

He glanced over at Crowley. "Is this…making you uncomfortable?"

To his relief, Crowley shook his head, but he took the towel from Aziraphale's hand with a lopsided smile.

"It's nice. But, uh…let me take it from here." Seeing the confusion in Aziraphale's eyes, Crowley looked away, a little pink returning to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the vigorous sex they just had. "Just a bit embarrassing. Not used to it."

Then before Aziraphale could say anything in response, Crowley got up from the bed and went to the bathroom, hiding behind the half-closed door.

"Odd time to be embarrassed after what we've done already," Aziraphale mumbled. He hadn't meant for Crowley to hear it, but the grumbling he heard in the bathroom meant Crowley did, and that brought a pleased smile to his lips. 

He pushed away the residual stings that came from imagining Crowley being intimate with other people. It didn't matter now. Not when he'll be able to care for Crowley in the way he deserved, both in and out of bed. 

By the time Crowley came out of the bathroom, Aziraphale had already changed the sheets and donned his pyjama shirt back on alongside a new pair of pants, checking his phone for any last-minute messages he might have missed as he sat in bed and under the blankets. There weren't any messages in the first place, but all interest in his phone was lost the moment Crowley walked out of the bathroom, clean and naked.

Crowley took in Aziraphale's expression and quirked a corner of his lips up. "You look like you're ready for another round."

Aziraphale bit his bottom lip. "If I was any younger, I would be." He opened a corner of the blankets for Crowley to slip in, a shiver running through his body when Crowley's slightly cooled skin slid up against his side. "But I'm happy to fulfill my promise of pulling more orgasms out of you, if you'd like."

He felt Crowley's hip give an interested twitch in response, but a breathy laugh left Crowley's mouth as he snuggled further into Aziraphale's side. "How young do you think I am? Three's plenty. Besides, this week's been brutal with all the exam preparations and meetings. I'm ready to pass out."

Aziraphale turned off the desk lamps and slid down to join Crowley in the dark, remembering the late nights Crowley had to spend at the Faculty building before dropping by the flat for a quick drink or two. "Then I'll make a note to try for more once exams are done."

Crowley snorted. "Insatiable bastard."

Their hands found each other under the covers, and it almost felt alien to Aziraphale, this soft tenderness of sharing warmth in bed. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so…safe. The fact that he was sharing this with Crowley meant that much more to him considering all it took for them to finally be here.

"You're going to take care of yourself properly this time, alright?" Crowley said into the darkness, his breath warm by Aziraphale's ear. "No more falling down the stairs on me, you hear?"

Aziraphale puffed a laugh through his nose, but Crowley pressed on seriously.

"I'm not joking. I can't…" Crowley gave a short huff of air. "If you're feeling sick during the exam, you stop. Understand?"

Considering how Crowley practically dropped by Aziraphale's flat almost every day now, he was sure Crowley would hold him accountable for his health regardless of whether he promised or not. But as for his performance on the day of his Healing exam…

He needed to perform exceptionally well if he wanted his grades to be enough to appease Gabriel's expectations by the end of the first term. He barely managed to scrape past the middle rankings on his midterm assessments. Despite improving significantly since then, there was never any certainty that it'd be enough to get him to the top of his class. Considering how Gabriel, and in turn, the admissions council, was breathing down his neck, he wasn't sure if he could agree to Crowley's request.

So Aziraphale nodded, glad there wasn't any light to give away his guilt, and lifted Crowley's hand up to plant a soft kiss on his knuckles. "I'll take care of myself."

It wasn't exactly what Crowley had asked for, but his answer seemed to satisfy Crowley enough for him to hum in acknowledgement and fall silent. Not one to fall asleep easily, Aziraphale enjoyed the sound of Crowley's breathing evening out, taking his time to register the feeling of having someone else beside him in bed while he ignored the looming threat of his upcoming exams.

Refusing to let the stress take over, Aziraphale turned his head, gently nuzzling it into Crowley's hair, and breathed in the scent of him, allowing himself to enjoy the unfamiliar and overwhelming feelings that came with happiness.

He'll deal with the rest in the morning.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale registered the heat of another body beside him before he opened his eyes. Something completely foreign after so many years of sleeping alone, but so familiar in his fantasies. A slow bliss washed through his body and he slowly shifted his head towards the heat, inhaling.

The scent was familiar too. It reminded him of encounters at Purgatory and being pushed up against the bar. Of bumping shoulders in crêpe shops, offices, and cabs. Of shared air in a lift. The way it was thicker from hours of sleep pulled at something inside of Aziraphale's stomach, making him feel drowsy despite how it made his heart race.

He slowly opened his eyes, lethargically blinking a few times, and smiled.

There Crowley was, half of his face pressed into the pillow, still asleep. From the way his hair lay tousled around his head, it was obvious he'd turned a few times throughout the night, and Aziraphale, who was usually a light sleeper, was surprised he had slept deep enough not to have been remotely disturbed. One of Crowley's legs was straddled over the top of the covers, a pale streak of dawn painted across his ankle from the gap in the curtains. It lay over Aziraphale's thigh, a soothing weight.

Aziraphale felt his mouth stretch into a wider smile as he became more awake.

Crowley. In his bed.

How long had he fantasized about this? About furthering the domesticity between them? To be as close as he was now, with Crowley's still-naked form pressed into his side?

But now that it'd actually happened, Aziraphale struggled to come to terms with the fact that he wasn't dreaming.

If he really thought about it, it'd been several years since his last attempt at a relationship, and even longer since he'd been involved in one that got remotely close to this point. He'd thought that the desire to have another presence in his bed, and in his life in general, had slowly puttered out into nothingness. Yes, the occasional ache of wanting to love and be loved, and of wanting to feel like he belonged amongst the things he collected resurfaced at times, but overall, the yearning had become nothing more than dust in a corner.

That was, until he reunited with Crowley.

Aziraphale scanned his eyes over Crowley's sleeping face, so relaxed it made him look ten years younger.  Unable to help himself, he lifted an arm out from under the covers and ghosted his fingertips down Crowley's jaw, amazed at the privilege he'd been given. He traced over Crowley's lips, resting on his cupid's bow before travelling up to Crowley's cheekbones.

He no longer had to yearn for the man. He could openly love him now. The thought of it had something surge up inside him, not quite bringing him to tears, but close enough. He breathed in with a shudder and let the feeling dissipate. It was easy to be at the mercy of his emotions in the stillness of dawn.

As if instinctively reacting to the touch, Crowley let out a soft sigh and chased after Aziraphale's touch even after he had withdrawn his hand. Nuzzling closer into Aziraphale’s side, he curled tighter around him, his exposed leg locked around Aziraphale's, causing him to stiffen.

Crowley was hard.

While Crowley eased back into deep sleep, Aziraphale found himself drawn to the feeling of hardness at his hip like he was under some kind of hypnosis. His racing heart kicked up a notch and his blood had turned to liquid heat, singing in his veins as memories of last night popped back into his head like air bubbles.

He had held that hardness in his hands. Felt its warmth. He had felt Crowley on his fingers, on his cock. His eyes had taken in the look of Crowley's body spread open for him, wanting to be filled. Wanting him.

Squeezing his eyes tight like it'd prevent his brain from reminding him what Crowley sounded like when he came, Aziraphale took in several deep breaths, counting the seconds of each inhale and exhale as he tried to calm down. His body wasn't reacting like a twenty-year-old, but his libido certainly wasn't having any issues. When was the last time he'd lusted for someone like this? Had he ever?

But then again, there hadn't been anyone else quite like Crowley.

By some kind of act of God and many minutes of conjuring awful thoughts into his head to will away the start of an erection, Aziraphale somehow dragged himself out of bed to freshen up, taking care not to make too much noise in case Crowley was also a light sleeper. But judging from how the man didn't move so much as an inch after Aziraphale accidentally dropped his razor into his sink, Aziraphale was pretty sure he was safe to go about his day as usual.

Never one to sleep in and far too accustomed to waking up early to do so, Aziraphale finished a cold breakfast and did some exam studying to pass the time, enjoying the quiet his flat allowed him and the knowledge that someone precious to him was sleeping soundly in his bedroom.

It was almost funny how a small thought changed the silence around him. How he perceived it. He usually liked it for the peace it brought. But it felt a little warmer now, knowing that, although he couldn't see him, Crowley was there with him.

But then as the next hour or so ticked by and the streets of London began to stir outside, the anticipation that Crowley would probably be up soon brought Aziraphale's thoughts toward a more panicked direction.

Last night's development definitely changed things between them. But in what way? Now that they had passed this point and slept together, did this mean they were headed in the same direction? Landed in the same area?

Aziraphale knew he and Crowley would need to talk today. As in sync as their bodies were last night, too much was left unsaid for Aziraphale to be comfortable with nothing being said at all. He recalled Crowley's response to his confession, slightly blurred by the intensity of the kiss.

How did Crowley actually feel about his confession? How mutual were his feelings for him? There was enough for Aziraphale to assume Crowley also wanted to date him, but what did that mean?

With how much time Aziraphale spent in his head, it had always been easy to map out a future for himself. Now that it involved someone else, he didn't want to continue mapping things out without knowing what Crowley wanted.

Aziraphale knew what he wanted. He wanted Crowley. A life with him as a lover and a partner. But did Crowley?

Realizing that he was shivering, Aziraphale turned on the electric fireplace and went to make himself a cup of tea. Perhaps a can of soup would be nice too. Nothing good could come from his thoughts spiralling like this and he needed a distraction. Even though he knew this gnawing feeling wouldn't be so easily forgotten until all his concerns were addressed, Aziraphale didn't exactly want to jump Crowley the moment he woke up. He trusted Crowley would be just as amicable to having a discussion as he was, and rushing into it wouldn't be doing anyone any favours.

Besides, it was at least confirmed that Crowley was physically attracted to him, and it wasn't like Crowley rejected the idea of dating when Aziraphale brought it up last night.

Oh lord, he hoped Crowley wasn't looking for some kind of…arrangement. Aziraphale never really liked the whole friends-with-benefits situation.

The kettle began to sing and startled Aziraphale out of his thoughts. Right. For now, tea it was. Maybe some soup later if he felt peckish.

It took a bit of effort, but Aziraphale's thoughts eventually quieted when he dove back into research and writing his paper. Using his Attribute on a plant Crowley had been kind enough to lend him for this purpose, Aziraphale focused on stretching his Empathy into its leaves, burrowing deep into its roots in search of any emotions outside of his own.  

"Keep it," Crowley had said. "It's been behaving like an absolute knob ever since I rescued it from a department store. Ungrateful brat, that's what it is. Don't feel bad if you end up killing it."

Coming out of his trance, Aziraphale touched one of its striped leaves, appreciating the heart shape. It was lovely to confirm that plants were able to feel emotions on some level or another. He often found himself exchanging his worries with their contentedness and calmness whenever he practiced his Empathy. He just had to make sure the plant didn't receive too much of his nervous disposition in return.

He combed through the plant a little and found a previously injured leaf. A spot he'd found last week had completely disappeared now.

"You're doing marvellously," he praised it, smiling from how he could practically hear Crowley chastising him for being too soft again. "Just needed a bit of positive reinforcement, didn't you?"

The rest of the morning passed by calmly, and by the time Crowley woke up, Aziraphale was back in the kitchen, contemplating what they could eat for lunch while he warmed up some soup.

Aziraphale heard him first, although just barely when his back was turned to the kitchen's hallway entrance. But he didn't start when Crowley's arms wrapped around his middle from behind, having already sensed the warmth of Crowley's body drawing close to him.

"Mornin', angel," Crowley grumbled into Aziraphale's neck as he nuzzled into him. "Thanks for the toothbrush. And razor."

Aziraphale laughed softly, leaning some of his weight back so he was pressed against Crowley's chest. He could smell his shaving cream on Crowley's skin and it stirred something greedy in his stomach.

"My dear, it's a quarter to eleven. It's practically the afternoon."

"Still mornin' though." Crowley began to nose his way up the side of Aziraphale's neck and into the spot behind his ear, making Aziraphale shiver. "What time did you get up?"

"Around five, I believe." Lifting a hand up, Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley's hair, carefully avoiding the knots that were yet to be brushed out.

Crowley made a noise like he had stepped into a puddle with socks on. "That early? After last night?"

"I never needed much sleep," Aziraphale mused.

"No wonder you're always so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in class."

"And I assume you always sleep in this late?" Aziraphale asked back teasingly. He felt Crowley smile against his neck.

"Nah, it's not every day I get shagged within an inch of my life." Crowley's voice was a hot breath against his ear and he felt his hands creep down to rest solidly on his hips. "Had to remember how to walk this morning."

Then Crowley's grip tightened and Aziraphale felt him grind their hips together. With a start, he realized Crowley was still completely naked. He immediately turned around, and despite expecting it, felt his jaw drop slightly at the wide expanse of Crowley's skin just out in the open, warmed by the late morning sun.

As much as he tried to prevent it, Aziraphale's eyes dropped down for a quick second before flitting back up, his cheeks growing warm as his brain unhelpfully confirmed that Crowley had indeed rubbed his fully hard cock against his arse. He had felt it already that morning, and now, Crowley was purposefully letting him feel it again.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said harshly under his breath, sounding caught between scolding and worshipping. His hands automatically went to Crowley's hips, retaking their place from where they were last night to pull Crowley close to him. "The curtains are open. What if someone sees you?"

"Then they're perverts for watching," Crowley replied, slinging his arms over Aziraphale's shoulders and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Besides, I believe someone caused me to spoil my pants last night, leaving me with nothing to wear."

"You still have your shirt," Aziraphale retorted half-heartedly, relishing the dig of Crowley's hip bones and the slight give of his waist under his fingers.

Crowley smirked as he quickly pressed his lips into Aziraphale for a short kiss. "A bit kinky, that."

Then before Aziraphale could reply, Crowley gave him a second kiss. Then a third. And then a fourth. And by the fifth kiss, Crowley had slid his tongue into Aziraphale's mouth and was cradling his head like he was holding something precious and fragile, his entire body fitting over every inch of Aziraphale's like he was just another layer of air.

Their mouths moved against each other languidly, tasting tea and toothpaste mint. Aziraphale could feel a thirst underneath their unhurried movements. Something simmering and electric just beneath the surface of their patience.

Or maybe it was just him. The incessant way his hands moved over Crowley's skin, playing with the softness and firmness of his sides and back like an instrument. The strong press of his tongue against Crowley's, unyielding because he wanted Crowley to.

Crowley, on the other hand, seemed to be lost in carding his long fingers through Aziraphale's hair. Sometimes he would twirl the curls with his fingers almost absent-mindedly. Other times, usually because of something Aziraphale did to make him gasp or twitch or moan, his grip would tighten into a firm tug like he wanted to consume Aziraphale whole.

As if Crowley read his mind, he started trailing his kisses down the front of Aziraphale's neck, sucking light marks into the small folds of his pale skin while his hands slid themselves under Aziraphale's shirt. Crowley's long fingers alternated between tugging at the thin fabric and pressing into Aziraphale’s waist, uncertain where to settle.

"I don't think I've ever seen you in a t-shirt," Crowley mused as he decided to push it off Aziraphale. Aziraphale lifted his arms to let him. "It's always a collared dress shirt at least."

"I dress to impress, darling," Aziraphale said, his voice lighter than air despite the flamboyant lilt he tried to add. It was getting harder to breathe with his brain registering the feeling of Crowley's hands over his chest. "You're not the only one with a reputation to uphold. But seeing how it's the weekend, I hope you forgive my neglectfulness."

Crowley's deep chuckle vibrated from his lips to Aziraphale's Adam's apple, and he could taste it on his tongue. "You could be in joggers for all I care. Better yet, naked."

Aziraphale couldn't hold back a giggle, but it quickly fell away into a sigh when Crowley replaced the hands that were on Aziraphale's chest with his mouth. He gave special attention to Aziraphale's nipples, which had already hardened from the loss of his shirt, switching between using the flat of his tongue and sucking on them to send quick pangs of pleasure to spike through Aziraphale's body.

Aziraphale keened into the feeling, his head tilting back, eyes closed. Then Crowley's fingers slipped under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, panting "I want to taste you," breaking Aziraphale's trance as he reached out his hands to stop him, eyes flying back open.

"Wait, I—" The words were difficult to form in his lust-addled mind. "I should get tested before you grant me such a gift."

Crowley looked far from concerned, moving to tug Aziraphale's bottoms down again. "I trust you, angel, don't worry."

"No, my dear, I—" Aziraphale gripped Crowley's hands tighter, stilling the other man's movements and making Crowley look up at him. He didn't think he'd be able to keep himself from accepting Crowley's request to blow him a second time, but here he was. "This is for my own sake as well. It's been a while since I've had a partner, but it's also been a long while since I've been tested."

He wanted them to be safe. Even if every cell in his body screamed at him to just let Crowley have his way with him. To let Crowley take him in his mouth so he could claim it over and over again.

He wanted Crowley to be safe.

Some clarity registered in Crowley's expression, no longer so inebriated with lust. It was so easy to read his expression whenever he wasn't wearing his sunglasses, and Aziraphale felt a sharp sting of regret seeing the disappointment flash across Crowley's face. But before he could say anything more, the look was replaced with something softer, and Aziraphale felt his legs go weak when Crowley planted a light kiss on one of Aziraphale's hands instead.

"Alright," Crowley said simply, smiling when he stood to reconnect their lips with a small, gentle thing. It felt like reassurance and Aziraphale gathered him into his arms, trying to smother the wave of relief and appreciation rush through him with Crowley's body. "Never liked tasting a rubber anyway."

Aziraphale's brief laugh ungracefully squeezed out between their lips, carrying whatever was left of his nerves out with it as he relaxed into Crowley's touch. He was falling for the man all over again.

The earlier heat had reduced to a simmer as they continued to press their lips together, no longer as urgent but just as deep. Their hips, slotting offside each other, were a constant pressure, and other than the occasional twitch of the sensitive muscles there when their hands drifted to and from the area, neither of them moved towards relief.

With a contented sigh, Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's back before encircling his arms around the man's slimmer form, pulling him in so tightly he lost track of where his heartbeat started and where Crowley's echoed. He nipped at Crowley's earlobe and found where the heartbeat was mirrored on Crowley's neck, causing the other man to grunt out a sigh of his own.

"God, the things you do to me," Crowley said, tilting his head back to allow Aziraphale more real estate to explore.

"Not sure that she has anything to do with this," Aziraphale said, chuckling, and Crowley gave him a withering glare. Unphased, Aziraphale lightly squeezed Crowley's arse before coyly kissing the man's nose, pretending to ignore the look. "Would you like a shower before lunch? I was thinking we could try that new Italian restaurant that opened a few blocks down."

"Only if you join me," Crowley said, a glint in his eyes that gave Aziraphale the feeling that they wouldn't be doing much cleaning if he did.

But then again, did he care? Even if he did, he clearly didn't care enough because his feet were following after Crowley before his brain registered that he was even doing it.

When his brain did eventually pull itself out of his cock, Aziraphale realized that this gave him another opportunity to care for Crowley, and when they stepped into the tub together, Aziraphale was more than happy to lather his hands up with shampoo first.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him and Aziraphale smiled, glancing up at Crowley's wet hair and admiring how the red strands darkened into a coppery brown. "If I may?"

"Oh," Crowley said, strangely looking like he had been hit over the head. His eyes flickered down at Aziraphale's hands before coming back up to meet his eyes. Then they flipped down and up again. "Yeah, sure. Uh, have at it, I guess."

The constant confirmation that Crowley took such small and intimate gestures to be so inconceivable only made Aziraphale want to do more things for Crowley. It left a strange, bittersweet tang in his mouth at the thought, and he put as much effort into making sure Crowley was enjoying his ministrations as much as possible.

Keeping the pressure of his fingertips firm, Aziraphale rubbed the shampoo into those silky locks of hair, humming appreciatively when Crowley tilted his head back to make it easier for Aziraphale to access. The smell of mint and citrus wafted in the steam around them.

"Reminds me of the time you Healed my head back at the office," Crowley said. "It took a lot not to just lean into your hands at the time."

Aziraphale knew the heat on his cheeks wasn't from the shower. "I think I would've liked that very much, actually. Although I felt so nervous, it probably would've just caused me to have a heart attack."

When Crowley laughed, Aziraphale enjoyed how the rich sound reverberated off the tiles.

Little by little, Aziraphale watched Crowley's muscles relax in minute movements, his broad shoulders heaving a little whenever he sighed, as if unfamiliar with the feeling. Just like last night, Aziraphale found himself entranced at the sight.

The way their bodies were built was very different. Crowley's skin seemed to cling to everything he was made of while Aziraphale's fluffed outwards. Both of them were similarly pale, but Crowley's skin was just a tad tanner and more prone to freckles, it seemed. After the shampoo was rinsed off and Aziraphale began to use the body wash, he realized that while his own body gave in to accommodate other's touches, pliable and welcoming to the press and pull of hands and fingers, it was like Crowley's body pushed back, firm and resistant. He studiously examined every expanse of Crowley's shoulders, back, and arms, hypnotized by how the suds ran through the creases of muscle and bone.

Then Aziraphale saw the dark smudges on Crowley's hips and ghosted over them fondly with soap. "Seems I was a bit too rough with you last night."

"I liked it," Crowley said. "You can be rougher next time if you want."

Considering how his arousal never quite dissipated after they fooled around in the kitchen, those words immediately sent a spark through Aziraphale's stomach and he bit his lips to avoid a groan spilling through his teeth. "I'll make a note of that."

As if Crowley felt that same spark course through his body, dark patches of scales began to show up on Crowley's back before long. They weren't as prominent as they were last night, but rather, they blended into Crowley's light skin like a faded ink stamp, the outline of them just visible enough for Aziraphale to trace the shape of each one, no larger than a thumbprint.

"S-sorry," Crowley bit out, his shoulder blades twitching. "Your hands…" And it was all the explanation he seemed to be able to give, the rest of his words unable to come out, if they existed at all.

Stilling, Aziraphale thought about how to go about the situation when he saw a trail of soap run down Crowley's spine to disappear between his cheeks. And then an idea hit him.

"Nothing to apologize for," Aziraphale murmured before stepping in closer, a plan silently forming in his head.

He went back to palming wide strokes over Crowley's sides, drawing a deliberate pattern up and down the sides before venturing to Crowley's front where he felt the muscles jump at the unexpected change of course. He heard Crowley let out a shuddering breath, and then let his hands return to the back like nothing had happened.  

This continued for a few more minutes, with Aziraphale focusing most of his touches on Crowley's lower back and abdomen, lingering on the hips and applying slight pressure on the dimples at the base of his spine. Forward and back, circling and inching tantalizingly closer.

Aziraphale watched in pure, heady delight at the sight of Crowley's scales darkening into their opaque, iridescent shapes. It was obvious how heavily Crowley was breathing now based on how his back expanded and shivered.

Then Crowley suddenly braced a hand on the wall in front of him as he fell forward, the sound, a resounding, wet slap before he turned to shoot Aziraphale an attempt at a heated glare over his shoulder.

"You're an absolute bastard, you know that?" Crowley growled weakly. There was desperation in his eyes, now fully yellow and practically glowing through the steam.

Aziraphale tried to hide his smirk and put on a face of innocence. "Whatever do you mean, darling?"

"Don't give me that. You're doing this on purpose." With a groan, Crowley reached down with his free hand to give himself some much-needed relief, but Aziraphale took his wrist and placed it on the wall to join the other, holding it there.

He fully bracketed Crowley's body from behind, mirroring what Crowley had done to him this morning. There was no hiding his erection now and he let it nestle in between Crowley's arse, allowing himself a few, slow rubs. Crowley whined in response, his hips steadily rocking back to match his pace.

Aziraphale took in a few deep breaths, steadying himself to prevent his body from completely throwing caution to the wind and taking Crowley raw right there and then. It would be so easy right now. With how slippery the soap was, it wouldn't take much to press the tip of his cock in and fill Crowley up again. His gut burned with the desire to do it, practically screaming at him to feel Crowley around every inch of him.

He knew he was clean. He'd gotten checked just over a year ago and hadn't taken anyone to bed for several years before that.

But he treasured certainty, especially when there was little in life that offered it. And he wanted him and Crowley to have it.

"You know," Crowley choked out, his hips pressing back into Aziraphale's cock like he was purposefully sent on earth to drag Aziraphale's restraint through hell and back. "Clean bill of health, me. Checked a few months back." His hips started swaying temptingly before they stopped on their own like Crowley was holding on to his own fracturing restraint. "I can't do it for you but…Do you think you can…You don't have to but…"

Aziraphale didn't need a complete sentence to know what Crowley wanted, but he had a plan to execute. He drew in close and suckled a mark behind Crowley's ear, whispering, "I have something else I'd like to try if you don't mind, darling."

"Anything," Crowley answered breathlessly.

Guiding Crowley's hips to take a few steps back, Aziraphale splashed some water over Crowley's hips so they were rinsed of soap, knelt, spread Crowley's arse open, and fervently licked from Crowley's balls to the tight ring of muscle of his arsehole in one long, harsh stripe.  

With a yelp, Crowley collapsed into the wall on his elbows and swore. Loudly.

Aziraphale would've been worried if it hadn't been for how Crowley shoved his hips back for more purchase, seeking out his pleasure, which was something Aziraphale was more than happy to give. Determined and spurred on by the steady string of profanity spilling out of Crowley's mouth along with his throaty moans, Aziraphale stretched Crowley's cheeks wider and ate him out in abandon.

He repeatedly swiped his tongue around Crowley's entrance, sucking gently at his perineum and nuzzling into the heavy weight of Crowley's balls, the hot, musky scent of Crowley mixed with citrus sending shocks right into Aziraphale's cock. But he ignored his own arousal, focused solely on feeding Crowley's.

He thought the sounds Crowley made last night were wonderful, but the noises the man made now were pure wanton. Closing his eyes against the scattering of water, Aziraphale used Crowley's whines to guide him along, homing in on the way there were sharp intakes of breath whenever he used the flat of his tongue or the breathlessness that escaped Crowley's chest like it had been pushed out of him when Aziraphale's tongue breached him.

"F'ckin' Christ, angel. Shit!"

Crowley's legs were trembling now and Aziraphale placed a steading hand there, not that it did much other than to silently encourage Crowley to let go. Aziraphale's other hand reached up and around to grasp Crowley's cock, matching it with the steady press of his tongue as he delved further inside.

Aziraphale ignored the ache of his jaw. The strain of his tongue. He let his mind get swallowed up by Crowley's groans, his own getting lost in the mix. But judging by the way Crowley's voice pitched up whenever he groaned, he had a feeling Crowley appreciated the extra stimulation.

Crowley was close and Aziraphale could feel it. A tightening of a coil before it burst as Crowley's muscles tensed and breathing grew sporadic. With his face so intimately close to the most sensitive parts of Crowley's body, Aziraphale could feel every twitch against his face. His tongue. His hands.

He quickened his pace on Crowley's cock and took his own into his other hand, finally allowing himself to let go and catch up after Crowley's pleasure. It didn't take much, and within seconds, a wretched shout tore out of Crowley as he came, Aziraphale following quickly after with a low groan of his own. Their bodies jolted together, a spasm of muscles as their spend mixed in the water at their feet.

For a while, only the sounds of their panting echoed around them. Crowley looked like he was clinging to the wall for dear life, his legs quivering, and Aziraphale couldn't find it in himself to bother standing either, giving himself several long seconds on the bathtub floor before attempting it. Even when he was successfully upright, he had to lean against the wall as his vision swam a little. At least it gave him multiple beautiful copies of Crowley's backside.

With a shaky laugh, Crowley straightened momentarily to turn around and face Aziraphale, leaning into the same wall. His entire body was flushed a rosy pink, making his toothy grin that much brighter. "I knew that smart mouth of yours was something else."

Aziraphale snorted and wiped some of the water from his eyes. "If that's how we're measuring things, I'm sure mine pales in comparison to yours."

Wobbling closer, Crowley planted a wet kiss on Aziraphale's mouth, eyes bright and still fully golden. "Then you better hurry up and get those test results so I can beat you at your own game."

"It's not a competition," Aziraphale scoffed, failing to hide a smile. Then it was his turn to give Crowley a wet kiss and he teasingly pinched at his bum. "Now, to the side with you. I believe it's my turn under the spray."

They eventually got around to getting themselves clean, even if it did involve far more kissing than strictly necessary. All Aziraphale could do was thank the heavens his flat was unmetered.

With how wonderful things were turning out, Aziraphale was on his own special high. This sort of weightless happiness was new to him, and he could feel it beaming off him like a halo. He didn't realize how quickly things could change in the opposite direction.

Crowley had agreed to Aziraphale's idea of that new Italian restaurant for lunch, and in hindsight, perhaps discussing the details of their relationship in public over fettuccine and bolognese hadn't been the brightest idea. But the moment Aziraphale saw an elderly couple a few tables over exchanging loving looks over a shared bowl of pasta, his mood suddenly dropped back into familiar, anxious territory.

Right. They needed to talk. Things weren't quite as certain just yet. But Aziraphale wasn't sure how to tastefully bring this topic up.

Caught up in his worrying, Crowley was bound to notice eventually. And notice he did, calling Aziraphale out for the distant look on his face. Aziraphale had tried to mask it, focusing on his conversation with Crowley about exam preparations and how much it'd been raining recently. But it was getting progressively harder to hide things from Crowley. Not that he was particularly any good at hiding his emotions around him in the first place.

"You looked so happy earlier with your…warm olives and bread dipped in vinegar," Crowley said, a bit of teasing humour in his voice. But he was frowning across the table, his gaze piercing despite the sunglasses. "Then your brain went and did something, didn't it?"

Aziraphale smiled wryly in response. "Just some silly thoughts. Nothing you need to worry about."

Crowley sat up straighter. "But enough for you to worry about, clearly.” He leaned forward and folded his arms on the table when Aziraphale tried to avert his eyes back to his food. "What is it?"

The words were hushed. Tender. And it tugged on Aziraphale's heart to open itself up. "They really are just some silly thoughts," he insisted softly, abandoning his fork to wring his hands in his lap. "But...well, I suppose I'd been wondering about your feelings towards our relationship.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

Aziraphale swallowed, fighting against the urge to look away. "As I said last night, I'd like very much to date you, Crowley. I'm serious with my intentions towards you…but I've yet to hear your reply."

Crowley actually looked bewildered. "Was last night and this morning not an obvious enough reply?"

Aziraphale worried the inside of his cheek, guilt flickering against his ribcage. He had spent a good majority of that morning trying to convince himself of the same thing. He wondered if Crowley was accusing him and tried to tell himself there was nothing in Crowley's voice to suggest that.

"As lovely as they were, I'm afraid not," Aziraphale admitted, barely audible over the noise of the restaurant. "And I was hoping we could have a talk about it."

Crowley's face pulled back into a frown like he was uncomfortable with the idea. At least, that's what Aziraphale thought he looked like. He really hoped he was wrong.

"I told you it was silly," Aziraphale hurriedly added, trying for a lighthearted chuckle, only for it to come out shrill. “Let’s not fret about it now. We have such a delicious lunch to enjoy."

But Crowley shook his head a little insistently, his frown deepening. "No, don't do that. Don't just take things back like you don't mean them. It's not silly." He let out an uncertain groan and rubbed a hand across his jaw, pensive. "Right, okay. Well, talks are good. I just…don't know what's left to talk about."

"Your reply to my confession last night for starters," Aziraphale said, testing out the words. "You never told me how you felt. Do you…wish to date me as well?"

Crowley huffed the way he did when a student asked a ridiculous question in class, his head tilting slightly like he was rolling his eyes. "Yes, angel, of course I want to date you too. I thought that much was obvious."

A sudden pang of exasperation sparked out of his guilt and Aziraphale frowned. "No, Crowley, I'm afraid it wasn't. Not in the way I mean, at least."

Crowley caught the seriousness in Aziraphale's tone, all signs of nonchalance disappearing from his posture as his shoulders and jaw tensed. "Then what do you mean?"

Aziraphale hadn't meant to be so curt. To be honest, he wasn't quite sure why he had been. Maybe it was because he didn't want to make light of the subject matter. Maybe it was because a part of him felt like he wasn't being understood. Or maybe it was because it felt like the way Crowley was acting made it feel like he was being accused of not understanding him.

"It's not that I doubt your feelings," Aziraphale said, trying to relax his voice into something lighter. "It's just, from what you've told me, it's my understanding that you're accustomed to more…casual relationships."

"…And what does that mean?"

Aziraphale clenched his hands together when he heard the edge of insult in Crowley's voice. The accusation was there now, and it was hard not to feel regretful when he knew he had put it there.

"I suppose it means I'm unsure about what this means for us," Aziraphale said, ignoring how his words wavered. "Now that we've…shared a bed."

"It means we're dating, Aziraphale," Crowley said with a hardness in his voice that almost made Aziraphale wince. "It means I also want a relationship with you. A serious one."

"Do you?" Aziraphale asked, and the question made the corners of Crowley's mouth twitch further downwards. Aziraphale had meant it as a request for confirmation, but he realized too late that it might've sounded much more accusatory than he would've liked.

"Yes. I do." The words were almost bit out. Incredulous. "Did you expect me to treat what we did like some kind of random hookup? That I would think so little of you? Of us?"

Aziraphale saw the buried hurt on Crowley's face and frantically shook his head, caught not knowing how to respond to the sudden hostility and feeling taken aback that it was directed at him in the first place. He'd only ever experienced Crowley being angry at him once before back in the University's infirmary, and that had felt different. Crowley's anger had come from worry then. Now it was just anger.

"No, I— You wouldn't. I know you wouldn't, but…"

Aziraphale drifted off, uncertain of how to finish that sentence without adding fuel to the fire.

But he was still worried regardless? But he wanted verbal confirmation because Crowley's actions hadn't been enough for him?

"But what?" Crowley pressed, words low and hard like he was trying to hold back something from bursting. "I told you last night that I don't just…do things that I've done for you with anyone else."

"I know that," Aziraphale said miserably, willing his eyes to show Crowley that he truly did. "I know that. But I just wanted to be sure. I wanted to hear it from you, that's all."

Crowley began to draw into himself and all it did was make Aziraphale want to pull him back towards him, to undo what was happening. He wasn't even sure he knew what was happening anymore. Had he truly said something wrong for Crowley to react this way? His thoughts raced and his mind struggled to process over the sound of his panicked heartbeat in his ears.  

Crowley wasn't looking at Aziraphale anymore as he pressed back into his chair, arms crossed over his chest like a protective barrier.

"That means you doubted me," he said.

The hardness in his voice was gone, but something bitter had replaced it. Aziraphale wasn't sure which was worse. However, being unable to deny what Crowley said significantly dwarfed the two.

"It's…not quite that," Aziraphale tried, but he wasn't sure how to explain. He hadn't expected their conversation to spiral into something so confrontational and cold. For Crowley to react so defensively. He struggled to find the words, knotted uselessly in his stomach and in his throat.

"But you wanted reassurance that I was serious about us," Crowley stated flatly.

"In a way? Yes, I suppose, and I don't see the problem with that," Aziraphale said, his previous exasperation seeping out with his desperation to make Crowley understand. "I'm not trying to attack your character, Crowley, and I apologize if I'm coming across that way. I simply wanted to make sure we're on the right page. With your history—"

"My history?" Crowley repeated, his words turning acidic. "You say you're not attacking my character, but I feel like you're making a lot of fucking assumptions here, Aziraphale. What casual relationships? What history?"

Aziraphale felt like something was slipping through his fingers again. "Your flatmates, they— That first night at the pub, Eric was offering…"

Aziraphale tried thinking back to several months ago but came up empty. Where had these assumptions come from? What had caused him to feel like Crowley wouldn't date him seriously?

"Last night," Aziraphale tried again. "During aftercare, you said…usually you wouldn't get towelled off."

"And what, you assumed it means I've slept with a bunch of people and I'm treating you like one of them?"

"It's not that, Crowley, really," Aziraphale urged. "I really wish you wouldn't be so accusatory, I just—"

"Oh, I'm being accusatory?" Crowley seethed. "It certainly feels like I'm the one being accused of being something I'm not."

"Crowley—"

The waitress decided this was a good time to waltz by, cutting off their view of each other as she refilled their waters. "And how are we doing over here, gentlemen? Everything still tasting to your liking?"

Seeing how Crowley wasn't going to bother acknowledging her, Aziraphale forced a smile and gritted his teeth together so hard his jaw hurt. "Yes, everything's wonderful here, thank you."

"Give me a shout if you need something," she replied cheerily, strolling off and leaving the two of them wallowing in a thick blanket of silence.

Crowley still wasn't looking at him, his breathing hard as his folded arms rose and fell with his heaving chest. Aziraphale tried to recalibrate their conversation, the previous heat of their argument plummeting into something mellow and sad.

"My dear, I think there's…been a misunderstanding," he said, putting a hand on the table in an attempt to seek out Crowley's hand. "Can we talk about this when we go back…"

On any other day, the word home would've come out naturally and willingly. But now, it just felt like yet another false assumption to have and it dug itself into Aziraphale's throat, refusing to come out.

Crowley's voice sounded hollow when he spoke, staring at Aziraphale's hand. "No, I…think I'm going to go home. Back to my place."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, the sound strained. "Of course, I understand. Perhaps…we can talk tomorrow?"

Crowley's lips pressed into a line. "Don't know. I'll text you later tonight after I've thought about it." Without waiting for anything more to be said, he muttered, "Don't worry 'bout the bill, I'll get it," and stood up to pay. With a loud scrape of his chair and the rough flap of his coat, Crowley left.

Aziraphale stared down at his unfinished pasta, trying to keep his tears at bay, unable to bear the sight of Crowley walking out of the restaurant as his hand, still left rejected on the table, grew cold.