Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Gravity!” The loud bang of a heavy book hitting the floor startled the class. “It’s a thing that happens when objects are pulled together” 

Professor Crowley, from the botany department, was known for his vibrant personality and flashy appearance. He frequently changed his clothes and hairstyles; one day he might teach in a tailored suit, the next in ripped jeans and a henley, and sometimes even in a long skirt and lace blouse.

“In this case, they’re all pulled downwards because the Earth is the largest thing around.” He continued speaking to the still-paralyzed class. “It seemed like a good idea when we talked about it, right? So things will stay where you put them? Not just drift off?” He addressed the students, gesturing wildly with his arms and hands.

At first glance, the professor wore an unapproachable facade. However, it was a tactic to deter interruptions during his lectures. Terrified students concentrated much harder than relaxed ones. Once they realized the professor wasn't a threat, they were already captivated by the subject and his teaching style.

Given time, the students always discovered that he also enjoyed keeping office hours, engaging with the young ones about their dreams and aspirations. Crowley spoke to them as equals, discarding the traditional teacher-student rules and distance. He discussed life, dreams, love, and even safe sex. His conversations spanned everything and a bit more. Interacting with the young invigorated him, making him feel youthful himself, but also incredibly old.

He spoke to his students as if they were the same age, adapting to new slang and even citing memes and trending internet topics. He never recommended any books, but he would talk about his favorite series and where to watch them. Don’t let him start discussing Doctor Who, or he would likely never stop.

One thing he loathed about his profession was keeping up with emails. He hated email talk. It was the worst. He could push away the task of sitting in front of the computer and reading all the politely written academic bullshit. People who wrote emails always wanted something from him. It was exhausting.

Crowley detested doing favors for others. His experiences had taught him that when he needed help, no one was there for him. So, he refused to assist those who would never lift a finger for him. He was better off alone, thank you very much.

He got through all the usual stuff: students asking for more time on projects, students justifying their absence from class, and other teachers forwarding articles that could be interesting for his area (seriously, why did people keep doing that? If it was a good article, he probably had already seen it. He kept up with the world, thank you very much). Then there were the superiors requesting that he write paperwork for some magazine or paper, etc.

Among these, one email wasn't particularly out of the ordinary, but he found himself needing to read it twice to fully understand. It read as follows:

Subject: Request for Joint Supervision

Dear Dr. Crowley,

I hope this email finds you well.

As I approach the final year of my undergraduate studies, I am eager to embark on my dissertation project.

For my project, I aim to write a book about medicinal plants historically used by witches.

My research interests lie at the intersection of botany, technical illustration, and textbook writing.

I would be honored if you would co-mentor me throughout this process. Your expertise in botany would provide invaluable guidance and support.

Dr. Fell, my mentor who is guiding me through technical illustration and textbook writing, suggested I reach out to you. I believe that combining our fields of expertise would greatly benefit the project.

Would you be willing to help me navigate the complexities of this interdisciplinary project? I have attached a brief proposal outlining my research question, objectives, and expected outcomes.

Thank you for considering my request. I look forward to discussing this further.

Best regards, Anathema Device

"No," Crowley directed his fierce glare at the innocent screen of his computer.  

He wouldn't do it.  

He outright refused. That was final. No one could force him to do it. 

He sent the email back with his refusal, copying only Anathema and excluding the other colleague involved in the project.

Deciding his office hours were over for the day, he headed home to console himself with a nap on his sofa while rewatching Golden Girls.

Chapter Text

Anathema Device sipped her latte, the warm, comforting aroma blending with the ambient sounds of the café. Nestled just outside the sprawling campus, although a considerable distance from the literature department, the café "Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death," affectionately known as Nina's Café due to its lengthy name, was a usual meeting spot for her and her professor, now mentor, Dr. Fell.

As a literature student, she was always observing the people around her, imagining the stories behind each character she encountered, even if only for a brief moment. There were the usual students buried in their laptops, some friends engaged in animated conversations, and the occasional solitary figure lost in thought. She glanced at her watch, a sense of amusement rather than irritation bubbling up. Her mentor was late. As usual.

Having a knack for predicting things—especially her mentor's tardiness—she wasn’t concerned. With a knowing smile, she settled back in her chair, her mind drifting to the exact thing she had come here to talk with him about. 

It was still early in her dissertation project, but she had known instantly she wanted Professor Fell to mentor her, what with his exceptional verbal skills and always optimistic mindset. However, she also needed Professor Crowley's help with the botanical segment. Anathema could have chosen another teacher from the botany study, but she’s the closest with Dr. Crowley, and wouldn’t be able to work—wouldn’t want, really—sufficiently with anybody else. Usually, there was some drama when a student asked for joint supervision on a dissertation, but she expected no trouble. After all, Professor Fell was agreeable and easy-going, and Professor Crowley was always willing to help his students. Admittedly, they were both strict in their teaching methods, but they were also soft-hearted and excellent in their respective fields.

But when she mentioned Dr. Crowley possibly joining, she was surprised to see Professor Fell expressing his reluctance about the botanical professor. Anathema furrows her brows thinking about it now. She was relentless and had carefully argued her points to convince her mentor to agree to the joint supervision, giving him viable reason after reason why Dr. Crowley should join. And he still didn’t budge.

Despite Professor Fell’s disapproval, she had managed to get permission to email the botany professor. Just twenty-four hours ago, he had responded with a resounding ‘no’. She couldn't help but feel a pang of betrayal.

It was odd. Very odd . Professor Crowley was usually so helpful. Anathema herself was among the students who would occasionally visit his office to chat about her personal life. He had helped her figure out her own bisexuality without a hint of judgment, guiding her through the awkward feelings and thoughts of the discovery process.

Dr. Fell’s reluctance to have him in the project was also odd . There was something in this whole scenario that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Regardless, Anathema was determined to uncover whatever was happening that she didn't have enough knowledge to understand at the moment. Her instincts told her she would.

She allows herself to scan Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death once more. The café, with its cozy atmosphere and delicious coffee, had become a regular meeting spot for her mentor, when she found that he avoided his office because students are constantly interrupting his personal readings. It was here, amidst the warm ambiance, that they discussed everything from the mundane to the arcane, fueling their shared passion for the mystical, the mysterious. 

Pulling out her laptop, she began working on a text she intended to add to her dissertation. Her research was more than academic, it was a personal journey, a quest to uncover the tales that had been shrouded in mystery for centuries.

She took another sip of her latte, her eyes flickering to the door as it opened, only to reveal another stranger. She chuckled softly to herself. Professor. Fell's lateness was as predictable as the phases of the moon. Honestly, she wondered what he was doing that made him so consistently late. Reading, most likely. Even Anathema herself enjoys reading, but this Professor takes it to a whole new level. She could almost set her watch by his tardiness, and in a way, she did. Exactly at the time she had predicted, her mentor arrived. Anathema looked up at the opening café door and smiled at the beige-clad figure entering. The light around his silhouette made him shine for a moment, like he was an angelic apparition.

"Good day, Miss Device," Said the man, adjusting his waistcoat and sitting in front of her. His speech pattern was measured, comforting, and slightly archaic like a grandfather. 

She smiled at the sight of him. He had long since stopped apologizing for his tardiness. Or maybe he never did. She certainly couldn’t remember nor care, as long as he eventually showed up, open to conversation.

She began by announcing the refusal of the joint supervision by Dr. Crowley, expecting Dr. Fell to be pleased. She had thought she would need to prod and persuade him even more to welcome Professor Crowley's participation. However, she underestimated the power of Dr. Fell’s impetuous righteousness when he put his mind to something he believed was wrong.

"He did not!" Dr. Fell exclaimed furiously when she announced the dismissal.

"He did! I can show you his email denying my request," She responded, a little amused by the forcefulness of his engagement with the subject.

Professor Fell fell silent for a moment, his brows tensed and his expression angry. It was almost cute, like a plush duck trying to look murderous—it didn’t convince anyone. Sensing he was on the verge of a tailspin, Anathema decided to call over the server to get a to-go cup and the check. 

Just as she finished paying and getting her cup, Professor Fell stood up with a newfound sense of purpose.

"Where are you going?" Anathema asked, hastily putting the wallet back and rushing to follow the determined professor.

"We, my dear, are going to his office," he said firmly.

Chapter Text

Anathema followed her mentor down the university corridor, her mind racing to keep up with his unusually brisk pace. It was a rare sight to see him moving with such urgency. Usually, Professor Aziraphale was a serene type of guy. You could see him wearing almost the same clothes every day: impeccably clean shirts and pressed formal trousers, a well-used vest, and a tan coat. The most change he could endure in his attire was the subtle color variation between his collection of bow ties, all of which reside in a tartan pattern. 

Anathema had never seen the professor doing anything other than walking slowly in and out of classes or Nina’s. What he was doing right now could be described as a tad slower than running, possibly even full on jogging , which was the most vigorous movement she had ever seen by this professor in the hall. She was half-running to keep up, clutching her bag and trying not to spill her latte.

She had expected to attempt to gather the aid of his mentor, but not this level of determination. She marvelled at how a simple disagreement over joint supervision had transformed her mild-mannered mentor into a man on a mission.

He strode into the botany department, which was even further from Nina’s café than the literature department, without even glancing at the names on the doors. With purposeful strides, he headed straight for a specific door with a plant sticker next to the gold name tag, ‘Professor Anthony J. Crowley’, and knocked with determination. The brisk walk had left him slightly winded, but his resolve was clear.

A voice inside responded with a grunt, which Professor Fell took as an invitation in. He let himself inside, holding the door open for Anathema to follow.

Anathema was always struck by how neatly organized and minimally decorated the office appeared. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with volumes primarily on botany and ecology. Each book was meticulously arranged in alphabetical order, showing no signs of clutter or disarray. A large desk dominated the center of the room, its surface almost immaculately clean, save for a few neatly stacked papers and a single, thriving potted plant exuding a comforting earthy fragrance.

The contrast between Crowley's chameleon-like visual style and the stark simplicity of his office always surprised her. One might expect a reflection of his chaotic energy in his personal space, but instead, it was a sanctuary of order and calm. Maybe he needed that way to keep himself as focused as possible.

Crowley was seated behind the desk in a dark shirt with a limp gray scarf and jeans. His clothes might seem tamed enough, but his hair still maintained that rebellious flair. He looked up, a mixture of curiosity and mild irritation flickering across his features as he saw Anathema, but growing from mild to bursting when he laid eyes on the Professor next to her.

“Ah, Crowley, still a professor, I see," Professor Fell remarked from the doorway. 

"What kind of stupid question is that? 'Still a professor?' What else am I supposed to be, an aardvark?" Crowley retorted.

Professor Fell took a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to speak without shouting. “Miss Anathema and I are here to discuss her dissertation with you,” He stated, his voice firm and unwavering.

Crowley's eyebrow arched. “I already discussed it with her via email,” he countered with voice straining.

“No, you dismissed her project without reason. Her dissertation is regarding plants, and only you can help her with that section.” His brief, indifferent summary of the dissertation subject made it clear he had no interest in extending the conversation.

“Ask another teacher in my department!” Crowley said, leaning back in his chair.

“She prefers you, and frankly, with her theme, you are the best option. Your expertise and welcoming of less traditional themes would greatly enhance her research. I agree that you would be a great help.”

“You’re asking me to help you ?” Professor Crowley looked in disbelief, nearly amusement. 

“Well, yes ,” Professor Fell adjusted his waistcoat, a repetitive action shown in the worn fabric where his fingers brushed the garment. “Technically, helping her is helping me.”

Anathema observed the interaction, understanding that there was more at play than just a disagreement over a research project.

“We are going to kill ourselves in the process,” Dr. Crowley said, his voice losing some of its earlier edge and revealing a hint of vulnerability.

“You can’t kill us! There will be paperwork,” Professor Fell said in an exaggerated tone, his attempt at a joke marred by the anxious edge in his voice.

There was a hint of a smile in Professor Crowley’s eyes at that, as if he were letting his softer side show—a side usually only ever seen in the confines of his office, without Dr. Fell, apparently. 

A long silence followed. Shocked by the tension between the usually collected Dr. Fell and the outgoing Dr. Crowley, Anathema found herself unable to speak a word.

After a long while, Professor Fell said in a pleading voice, “ We need you.

“ She needs me,” Crowley pointed at Anathema. She flinches slightly, on edge with the stones that have been newly turned by these conversations.

Aziraphale scrunches his eyes closed, then opens them hesitantly. “I… I need you. I could not make heads or tails of those ancient medicinal plants, as you are well aware. I am unable to mentor Miss Device alone on this project, and I believe she is a person who is well worth making an effort to put differences aside to assist her.”

Professor Crowley looked at Professor Fell for a long moment, his expression unreadable. After a while, he simply said, “Right.”

Professor Fell took the short sentence as sufficient and guided Anathema outside, carefully closing the door behind them.

“He’ll do it,” he said resolutely, though there was a faint tremor in his voice that Anathema didn't miss.

“What was that about?” Anathema asked, reassessing her mentor. He seemed unusually pale, his breath coming in short bursts as if he had just exited a particularly stressful situation.

“Nothing, dear girl, just old acquaintances catching up,” he said, attempting and failing to appear nonchalant. There was a tightness around his eyes and a tension in his posture that spoke volumes.

Anathema frowned, not entirely convinced. She had never seen Professor Fell so rattled. His demeanor was akin to a stormy sea rather than his usual serene pond, the waves crashing violently instead of producing light ripples. This crack in his composed façade made her insides ache with a mixture of empathy and curiosity.

As she exited the university that day, she couldn’t shake the intrigue sparked by the tension between the two professors. What has she gotten herself into? She was certain there was something deeper at play between them than her academic pursuits. She was determined to complete her dissertation, yes, but she was also resolved to uncover the truth behind the mysterious relationship of the professors. She would get to the bottom of this.

Chapter Text

Professor Gabriel, the director of the college literature department, sat behind his white desk, his expression a blend of disdain and disapproval. 

"Miss Device," He began, his voice dripping with condescension. "I've reviewed your dissertation proposal, and it is not only entirely outside the school's boundaries, but against God's rules as well. I expect you to heed my voice of reason and abandon your current topic.” 

What God had to do with whether she would be able to complete her dissertation or not, Anathema didn’t know. She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her expression calm and composed. "I followed the school’s guidelines, Professor. There's nothing in the rules that explicitly states my topic is inappropriate."

Just like his words, Professor Gabriel’s office was cold and uninviting. There was no decoration whatsoever. IKEA had more personality than this office. Given that the room belonged to a specialist in religious literature and devoted catholic, Anathema had expected at least one religious icon, a wooden cross or something. However, he was one of those classical scholars who were opposed to any religious imagery.

Professor Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "Your work borders on heresy," He hissed, leaning forward as if to emphasize the gravity of his accusation.

Anathema's lips curled into a faint smile. "It's good enough that the church isn't threatening to burn me at the stake anymore. I suppose I'll take what I can get."

For a moment, a tense silence hung in the air. Professor Gabriel stared at her, mouth slightly parted and eyes painted with an offended shimmer. Anathema met his gaze steadily, refusing to be intimidated.

"This is a respected institution, Miss Device," He continued, his tone no less insistent. "We have standards to uphold."

"And I respect those standards," She replied smoothly. "However, my research falls within those boundaries, despite how unconventional it may appear. I assure you, my work is academically sound and contributes valuable insights to the field." 

Standing up with an air of finality, she added, "I appreciate your concern. I promise to uphold the integrity of my work and the institution."

Exiting Professor Gabriel's office, her mind was a whirlwind of frustration and stress. She could still hear his condescending tone echoing in her ears, his disapproval lingering like a bitter aftertaste.

The director didn’t pose a significant threat to her dissertation, yet his words still made her fume. She never attended any of the director's classes or seminars; they were always centered around ‘the high power of God’ or some other nonsense. However, she knew that Director Gabriel's followers on campus were mainly theology students who often barked about morals, principles, and traditionalism, yet rarely bit. They were ultimately a bunch of cowards. She assumed Gabriel to be no different, just older and more square.

The anger was clouding her judgment. She needed a place to safely vent her frustrations and seek solace. Dr. Crowley's office was always open to students, whether they needed academic advice, or unofficial therapy sessions. It was also reassuring to know he would likely be angry on her behalf. Sometimes, it was comforting to talk to someone who didn't try to calm her down, but instead validated her feelings. He had a unique way of channeling her anger into motivation, and that was the most comforting part of it all.

The door was slightly ajar, indicating that the botany Professor was open to receiving visits from students—and that none were inside at the moment. Good. She knocked on the door, and within moments, it floated open to reveal Professor Crowley, leaning against his chair in a position that could barely be described as sitting.

His eyes flicked to the door. "Anathema," He greeted, his eyes scanning her face. She was pleased to see that he looked like his old familiar self again, not the one consumed by inner turmoil from the conversation with Professor Fell last week in this very office.

She took a seat, dropping her bag to the floor with a sigh. Trying to steady her racing thoughts, she took a deep breath, but ultimately blurted out: "I just came from Professor Gabriel's office. He said my dissertation proposal is outside school boundaries and against God's rules,” She caught her breath and rolled her eyes. “He,” She inhaled deeply and then exhaled, “Basically told me to drop it."

Professor Crowley's eyes narrowed, a spark of anger flickering within them. "Typical Gabriel," He crossed his arms, jaw tightening. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him there's nothing in the college's guidelines that says my topic is inappropriate," Anathema replied, her voice still tinged with frustration, though talking about it was helping to tone it down.

The Professor nodded. "Good for you. If I was there, I would probably just tell him to fuck off."

Anathema chuckled, feeling a wave of gratitude. It was reassuring to hear those words from someone who truly understood her struggles. “I was doing so in my mind the entire time. I wish I told him where he could shove that holy attitude of his,” And just like that, she was smiling again—what a miracle!

Dr. Crowley chuckled, easing the last remnants of tension in the room. “That’s the spirit! I wish I was there to see it,” His expression then turned grave. “Seriously though, I’ll see what I can make about Gabriel’s threat. I won't let him do anything, okay?”

Anathema nodded, beginning to swallow the true influence that Director Gabriel holds. She believed in Professor Crowley. She was confident he would pull the strings needed to stop Director Gabriel. Every day, her decision to choose him as her co-mentor was reaffirmed, she felt a sense of relief knowing he had her back.

They spent the next hour discussing Anathema's dissertation earnestly, with a few unexpected breaks for jokes and off-topic tangents. Dr. Crowley recommended several books and articles he thought would be helpful, and by the time she left his office, she had a list of recommendations longer than her arm, and a smile on her face that was applied with super glue.

Crowley watched as Anathema left his office. He had humored her, offering words of encouragement, but inside he was seething. Gabriel's interference was not merely a nuisance, it was a threat to Anathema's academic future. As the director of the literature department, Gabriel had the power to hinder her dissertation. And yes, Crowley had initially been reluctant to participate, but now that he was involved, he was fully invested in the little witch’s project.

As much as he avoided talking to Aziraphale, he knew he needed to know. Anathema’s project would never get done if both him and Gabriel are acting bitchy. 

There was no chance of finding Aziraphale in his office, as he was never there. So Crowley decided to corner him as he exited a class, a serene smile on his face. It truly makes one question why he had an office in the first place.

Upon seeing Crowley, Aziraphale’s smile faded, his expression freezing somewhere between the previous smile, surprise, and fear. Crowley hopes he doesn’t comment on the fact that he had memorized exactly what class he was teaching, in what room, and at what time.

Crowley wasted no time. “We need to talk. It's about Anathema's dissertation. Gabriel doesn't approve. He called it ‘out of bounds’ and ‘ against God's rules ’. He's trying to dissuade her from continuing, and if we don’t do something about it, it’ll be a lot more harsh than just dissuade."

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. "What is it with him and his crusades against anything he deems unconventional?"

It seemed that Crowley wasn't the only one eager to gain the director’s support in this situation. But before Crowley could respond, Gabriel appeared, striding toward them with an air of self-righteousness. Crowley tenses up, and he can see that Aziraphale does as well. Perhaps even more than him. 

"Ah, Aziraphale," Gabriel greeted, his voice dripping with feigned happiness. "I didn't think you were associated with this department," he said, gesturing to Crowley.

Crowley was ready to lash out, but Aziraphale quickly looked at him and mouthed 'trust me.' Aziraphale then stepped forward, his voice now firm and resolute. "Gabriel! It's a surprise to see you here,” It was as much a greeting as an indication that he did not care for Gabriel's presence even near his room. “We are in the same institution—we are allowed to have goals in common.”

Gabriel huffed, clearly displeased. “Like Miss Device's heretical book.”

Aziraphale met his gaze steadily. “Miss Device's project is a paradigm shift , and that makes a good dissertation.”

“Don't let her stray off track, Aziraphale. We need you to keep her focused, especially with other influences around her,” He said, casting a disapproving glance at Crowley.

“I will guide her to the best of my ability.”

“Keep up the good work.” The department director said insincerely, slapping one large hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, causing him to flinch almost imperceptibly.

With that, Gabriel turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale standing together. Crowley let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

“Thank you for letting me handle it, Crowley,” Aziraphale's voice was strained and somewhat uncertain.

“You said trust me,” Crowley replied, trying to sound dismissive, not wanting to admit that he had been utterly useless and completely paralyzed by the situation.

“And you did,” Aziraphale's smile appeared pained, his eyes shining as if he were about to cry, but there was a hint of pride in his voice, tinged with relief. 

As Crowley watched the other professor, he was struck by a forgotten truth that had lingered in the recesses of his mind for years: Aziraphale had an extraordinary talent for conveying a world of emotions through his eyes. His eyes were truly the windows to his soul, rich with unspoken sentiments and depths of feeling. It was as if his entire essence was channeled through his gaze, making it impossible to mistake his genuine emotions.

Chapter Text

Anathema sat at her cluttered desk in her dorm room, surrounded by a teetering pile of books and articles that Professor Crowley had recommended. It was a strange gathering of reading materials. Some were easily accessible in the campus library, while others were only available online. There were some obscure texts only available in arcane forums that even she, a self-proclaimed witch, found strange.

The steady hum of the college life outside her window served as a comforting backdrop as she dived into her research. Anathema was still fuming over Professor Gabriel's attempt to make her back off her dissertation along with his threats. What better way to thwart him then by doubling her efforts on the very dissertation he sought to undermine? 

Her mind was deep in the intricate web of texts and articles when she was startled by her phone pinging an email alert.

From: Professor A. J. Crowley [[email protected]]

Subject: that problem we talked about earlier

Anathema, 

I believe that problem we talked about was already dealt with. No need to worry about it.

Focus on your writing, 

Professor A. J. Crowley

Hours flew by, and before she knew it, the clock read midnight. Anathema stretched her arms above her head, feeling the satisfying ache of productivity in her muscles. She had made significant progress, jotting down notes and outlining the structure of her dissertation, and desperately wanted to continue. But as her eyes began to droop with exhaustion, she knew she needed rest to keep her momentum going.

She began putting all her things away, checking her phone again once she was finished. There was another notification, this time, a text message.

From: Newt 

Hope your dissertation is going well

She didn’t reply, but a smile played on her lips as she climbed into bed and drifted off to sleep, her mind unconsciously lingering on thoughts of Newt.

Weeks turned into a blur as Anathema immersed herself in her dissertation. Her dorm room became a battlefield of notes, books, and empty coffee cups. The steady rhythm of her academic life continued, with the occasional text from Newt bringing moments of distraction.

One particular Tuesday morning, she grabbed her things and headed to the campus café, where she had a mentoring session with Professor Aziraphale scheduled. After that initial, strange confrontation between her two mentors, they didn't have to face each other again—at least, not that she knew of. They were working in tandem, but their mentoring sessions were carefully separated. Each advised her on different parts of her project. For Professor Aziraphale, the meetings were formally scheduled, whereas with Professor Crowley, she just headed to his office whenever and waited if there was another student there.

Today, however, she was not amused by her mentor's usual tardiness. Exhausted from all the writing and reading, she found herself with too much time to think and her mind began to wander into dangerous territory: Newt.

Newton Pulsifer was a fellow student with a passion for science and an awkwardness that she found oddly charming.They initially bonded over their shared fascination with witches, although Newton was more intrigued by witch hunters, while she was captivated by the witches themselves. Their text conversations had gradually grown more frequent and intimate, and both had made it clear that they wanted to start dating.

As her final year of college loomed large, she couldn't shake the nagging doubt about whether pursuing a relationship was the right decision at this moment. Her dissertation demanded her full attention. Anathema had always prided herself on her focus and determination, but now, she found herself increasingly distracted by thoughts of Newt.

As she waited for Professor Fell, she glanced at her phone, seeing another message from Newt:

From: Newt  

Good luck with your session with Professor Fell today!

A small smile tugged at her lips, but a shadow of uncertainty lingered.

“Something on your mind, my dear?” A gentle voice startled her.

Lost in thought, Anathema hadn't noticed her mentor, Professor Fell, had arrived and taken a seat across from her.

“Oh, good day, Professor. It’s nothing important,” She said dismissively, attempting to mask her troubled thoughts.

“I’ve been around for a long time, you know,” Professor Fell began, “And I’ve learned to believe that there is no such thing as unimportant. Especially when it occupies our mind to such an extent.”

Professor Fell looked like he was one hundred years old when he talked like that. Perhaps he was. Who would know? His aura surely exuded both kindness and a mysterious depth.

Maybe she could open herself to him. Professor Fell didn’t inspire the same level of openness as Professor Crowley, but he was a gentle and caring mentor in his own way, and he seemed to be open to listen to her. She decided to give it a try.

She told him about Newt, and to her surprise, found herself revealing her fears and uncertainties about pursuing a relationship. She even confessed that her usual methods of divination—cards and tea leaves—were failing her, as she couldn't maintain focus long enough for the answers to become clear.

The professor listened intently, his eyes never leaving hers, offering silent encouragement. After she finished telling everything she was capable of—and some things even she didn’t know herself before talking out loud—he was silent for a moment, thoughtfully tapping his fingers on the table.

"Love is a powerful force, Anathema," He began gently. "It can inspire and motivate us in ways we never imagined. But it can also be distracting, especially when we have important goals to achieve."

“What if I can't balance both?” That little voice in her head seemed to have gained access to use her vocal chords without her permission. She didn’t like how small and vulnerable she sounded.

Aziraphale's smile was strangely sad. "Finding balance isn't always easy," He murmured softly. Then, as if grappling with his own inner conflict, he added, “But let me share something important with you. You must not take love for granted. It's a rare and precious gift. One day, you might look around and find it gone, and then you'll realize how much it meant to you."

Huh, what a cryptic sentence. "So, you're saying I should hold on to Newton?”

"I'm saying you should treasure love. Life is about balance, and sometimes, we have to make difficult choices. But don't make the mistake of sacrificing one important thing for another."

Anathema sighed inwardly. This wasn't the clear guidance she had hoped for. This was making her more confused. Professor Fell was always good at being metaphorical, not very good at giving straight answers. She should have talked to Crowley after all.

As they discussed her dissertation progress, she couldn’t help but compare her two mentors. Crowley, with his sharp wit and straightforward advice, always seemed to cut through the fog of uncertainty with a clarity that was both refreshing and disconcerting. And Professor Fell provided wisdom wrapped in layers of ambiguity, leaving her to unravel the deeper meaning on her own.

The ‘need for balance’ Professor Fell talked about made sense, but at times, it felt like juggling too many things at once, constantly worrying that dropping something important could cause it to break and become irreparable.

Never before had Anathema felt this overwhelmed by a decision. Trusting herself, her leaves, and her cards had always been enough to guide her. Without them, she's second-guessing every choice, haunted by the fear of facing terrible consequences if she made the wrong move. The whole process was becoming exhausting. Thinking was becoming exhausting.

As she left the café, a heavy weight settled on her shoulders. She needed to find a way to navigate through this maze of uncertainty. The thought of disappointing those she cared about, including Newt, gnawed at her.

Later that evening, back in her dorm room, Anathema sat at her desk, staring at the flickering candle beside her. She picked up her tarot cards, shuffling them absentmindedly.  She no longer feels confident in her abilities.

She spread the cards out in front of her, their familiar symbols offering little comfort. The answers seemed elusive, as if Dr. Fell told the universe something, and it began to withhold its wisdom.

Her phone buzzed, breaking her reverie. It was another message from Newt:

From: Newt Thinking of you. Hope you're doing okay.

Anathema’s heart ached with a mixture of longing and frustration. She wished she could silence the whirlwind of thoughts in her mind and just focus on the feelings in her heart. 

Taking a deep breath, she resolved to speak with Crowley the next day. 

As she finally crawled into bed, Anathema knew that finding the balance between her academic goals and her personal life would be an ongoing challenge. But she also realized that seeking help from those around her, even if their guidance was sometimes unclear, was a step in the right direction.

With that thought, she drifted off to sleep, determined to face the new day with renewed strength.

The early morning light filtered through the campus trees as Anathema made her way towards Professor Crowley's office. She hoped to find the straightforward advice that had eluded her during her conversation with Professor Fell.

Reaching the familiar door with Crowley's nameplate, she took a deep breath and knocked. A muffled voice from within called out, "Come in," and she pushed the door open, stepping into the organized strangeness and comfort of Crowley's office.

The air was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Professor Crowley sat at his desk, his eyes half-lidded and bleary with sleep. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, savoring the warmth as it coursed through him. Only then looking up and greeting her, his voice a lazy drawl. “Ah, Anathema. To what do I owe the pleasure this early in the day?” He leaned back in his chair, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"Good morning, Professor," She replied, closing the door behind her. "I need your advice. I'm feeling a bit... Oh! I don’t know!"

He raised an eyebrow, motioning for her to take a seat. “You don’t know? Oh, that’s not something I hear from you often!” 

For the second time, she poured out her fears, feeling a bit childish for making such a fuss about her feelings. Unlike Professor Fell, Professor Crowley didn’t listen quietly. He interrupted her many times, asking probing questions and steering the conversation to points he deemed important for her to analyze. He emphasized the importance of how she felt and reminded her that it was her life.

Strangely, only when they seemed to have exhausted the subject and a silence fell for a few minutes did he finally offered some advice:

“I think… well… you need to put yourself first. Be careful not to get lost in love and lose your identity you know,” Crowley leaned back in his chair. 

His eyes were distant and there was a long pause Anathema dared not to interrupt before he added, “Sometimes, we have to make difficult choices.” 

For the first time, it struck her that perhaps she was making the wrong move by trying to leave the decision in the biased hands of others. This was her life, and only she could make the final call. Her mentors could offer guidance, but they couldn't live her life for her. Anathema took a deep breath, feeling clarity wash over her.

Newt made her smile. He helped her relax when she was stressed about not just her dissertation, but everything. He was a good choice for her, she knew. She needed to think about herself, not just her studies and career.

“Thank you, Professor,” She said, standing up with renewed determination.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at the sudden dismissal. “Glad to be of service.”

She texted Newt the moment she left his office.

Café today?

The answer came almost immediately.

I’m free at five

A smile spread across her face, and she felt the weight of an unbalanced balance scale lift from her shoulders.

Chapter Text

The hot water beat down on Anathema's back, a soothing rhythm that often set her mind adrift. "Professor Fell, Professor Crowley, this is Newt, my boyfriend," She announced to the shampoo bottle, the words echoing slightly in the steamy enclosure.  

The shower was her personal portal to a world of mental meanderings and lately, Newt filled a significant portion of that space. He’d become an unexpected source of joy and comfort during the chaos of her dissertation.  

But even here, her professors lingered. That first awkward conversation at the start of the semester stubbornly refused to leave her thoughts. It was a recurring guest, popping up uninvited.

Maybe if I introduce Newt, she mused, I can have a good excuse to see them outside of the university. Not just in cafés for stilted conversations, but somewhere they could relax, somewhere they could lower their guards, somewhere casual. Maybe a bar? The idea sparked a flicker of excitement. That would require research, a carefully crafted plan. But Anathema was nothing if not persistent. She would find the perfect excuse to meddle in their...whatever it is they have.

After some dedicated research—a skill honed to perfection during her dissertation—she discovered The Bentley, a bar not far from campus. Its focus was 80s music and the décor was a charmingly over-the-top vintage disco. Mirrored balls, neon lights casting a pink and purple glow, and walls plastered with posters and murals of Duran Duran, Madonna, Prince, and many of Queen. The Bentley even hosted a small wine tasting event monthly, something that really caught Anathema’s eye. Perfect. Now, all she needed was to convince both professors to join her.

Newt would be the perfect, unwitting excuse. She’d ask them individually, of course, making it sound like a small, intimate gathering. The wine tasting was the perfect hook for Professor Fell, given his well-known fondness for a good Cabernet Sauvignon and his tendency to interrupt lectures to discuss wine preferences. Anathema broached the subject at the café, smoothly steering the conversation from coffee to wine. "There's a new place not far from campus," She mentioned casually, "The Bentley. They have a surprisingly decent wine selection, and they host tasting events." She then subtly shifted her approach, explaining that she was eager to introduce him to her boyfriend. A little emphasis on how important all his advice was for her relationship, combined with detailed descriptions of the wine quality, proved irresistible. After a bit of gentle persuasion, Professor Fell finally relented, "Well, I wouldn't be able to say no to a decent Merlot."

With Professor Crowley, she employed a different tactic. Anathema approached him with excitement, reminding him of a long-ago trip to a vineyard he had once mentioned to her. She also hadn't forgotten their passionate debate about the merits of Queen versus David Bowie. "I've discovered a hidden gem," She told him animatedly, "a total time warp back to the 80s – the music, the décor, the posters… the whole thing." She then, as she had with Fell, emphasized his importance in her life, mentioning their discussions about sexuality and, naturally, Newt. "Alright," Crowley said, a grin spreading across his face. "But if they don't play ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’, I'm holding you personally responsible."

And so, the stage was set. Anathema smiled to herself, pleased with how smoothly everything had gone. She arrived early at The Bentley, settling with Newt into a booth bathed in a dim light that cast a soft romantic glow. She signaled to a waiter, indicating that their table would have four people participating in the wine tasting event. It was a system where the wine flowed freely, new bottles and labels being introduced as soon as a glass was emptied. She'd also ordered a generous selection of snacks to complement the wines.

Hoping her carefully woven trap would work, she waited. As the air thrummed with classic rock songs, she noticed Dr. Crowley’s arrival. He cut a striking figure. A cropped t-shirt emblazoned with the Queen logo hugged his lean frame, paired with a long, flowing black skirt that accentuated his already impressive height. High-heeled boots added another couple of inches, making him seem to tower over the other patrons. There was also a touch of thin eyeliner framing his eyes.

"Well, well, look at this place!" Professor Crowley moved with a sinuous grace to their table. "I must say, Anathema, I’m pleased you convinced me to abandon my flat for this!” He slid into the booth opposite her, the black fabric of his skirt cascading around him like a dark folded wing.

It was perhaps by a miracle of timing that, just as Anathema was rising to greet Crowley, she caught sight of familiar blond curls illuminated by the dim glow of the bar lights. Professor Fell was wearing the same clothes he always wore at university—a tweed jacket and bow tie—almost as if he didn’t know how to dress for a bar. Or perhaps, Anathema mused, he simply had a wardrobe full of nearly identical coats and bow ties.

The contrast between the two professors was impossible to miss: Crowley's rebellious, gender-nonconforming, rock-inspired attire against Fell's timeless, scholarly ensemble. It was as if they were on opposite sides.

Anathema watched as Professor Fell’s gaze landed on her, his eyes twinkling with recognition. A warm, genuine smile began to form on his face. But then, his gaze shifted, and he recognized the tall, dark-clad figure standing next to her. A myriad of emotions flickered across Fell’s face so quickly that Anathema struggled to decipher them all.

“Crowley,” Professor Fell said, a little breathless, his eyes fixed on Crowley. “You’re…” He motions around his own face, then gestures to Crowley’s body. “wearing a skirt.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous sparking within them. His voice, when he finally spoke, dripped with a chillingly polite crudeness. “I don’t believe I need your approval for anything I decide to wear, Professor,” He emphasized the last word with a subtle, yet unmistakable venom.

Professor Fell’s cheeks flushed a delicate shade of crimson, and he shifted uncomfortably. He looked down at the floor, his voice barely above a whisper as he replied, "I think it looks rather fetching, really.”

As fun as it was to watch both professors do…whatever it was they were doing, Anathema remembered her plan was to get them relaxed and open to talk to each other. Stepping forward with a welcoming smile, she addressed them both. "I’m glad you both could make it," Turning to Newt, she added, "These are my mentors."

“Oh, no no no.” Crowley drawled, his voice still laced with venom. “I’m just an advisor at best. Professor Fell here is the mentor.” Newt recoiled slightly in his chair, shrinking back as the remark was directed his way.

“We are co-mentoring,” Professor Fell corrected, his voice tinged with offense. “No one is better than anyone here.”

“Yeah,” Crowley scoffed. “That would be a first.”

Anathema couldn’t help but to agree with the botany professor, though she would never voice it aloud. She loved Professor Fell, but he sometimes had a holier-than-thou attitude—very common in the literature department now that she thought about it. She never heard him admit to being equal to anyone. He always had to be right about everything, all the time. 

Still trying to diffuse the tension, she quickly interjected. “Well, regardless of titles, I value both of your guidance immensely. Let's focus on enjoying the drinks, shall we?”

Crowley shrugged. “Fine by me. I could use a drink.”

As they settled into their seats, Anathema tried to distract Professor Fell by showing him the event wine tasting menu. Newt, clearly feeling nervous, made a tentative attempt to start a conversation. “It is a nice place, isn’t it?” He ventured, his voice slightly hesitant.

Professor Fell glanced around, his expression noncommittal. “I wouldn’t know. I feel I’m far too old to be at a young people’s establishment like this.”

“Oh, come on!” Anathema exclaimed, trying to inject some levity into the conversation. You’re not too old. You're like, what? forty? I bet you were into this kind of music and style when you were in your twenties!”

“I’m forty-three, thank you,” Professor Fell corrected, a touch of primness in his voice as he adjusted his bow tie. He very pointedly doesn’t answer her other question.

Professor Crowley, who had been observing the exchange with a growing frown, finally spoke, a clear note of offense in his voice. “ I’m not old!” he declared, his gaze fixed on Professor Fell. Turning to Anathema and Newt, he added, “We’re the same age!”

"Well," Professor Fell conceded, a hint of a smile softening his features, "though I may feel a tad ancient for this establishment, I must confess I am rather looking forward to the wine tasting. It's been... well, a rather long time since I last participated in one," He paused, a flicker of reminiscence in his eyes. "The last time was, in fact, during a delightful trip to a vineyard.”

As they sampled the third wine of the evening, a robust Merlot, Professor Crowley made a face of displeasure. Seemingly less restrained because of the wine, Professor Fell remarked looking at the other professor with a touch of smugness, “I knew you would dislike this one!”

“Why?” Anathema couldn’t resist asking.

With his gaze still fixed at Professor Crowley, Professor Fell simply stated, “I know you.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharp as he retorted, “You don’t know me.”

“I know the person you once were,” Professor Fell corrected himself, his voice defiant.

“The person you knew is not me ,” Crowley growled.

Anathema and Newt exchanged a quick glance. Anathema's eyes sparkled with amusement. She was fascinated by the undercurrents swirling between her two mentors, the unspoken history that seemed to hang heavy in the air. Newt, however, wore a look of quiet concern. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and made a blatant attempt to lighten the mood saying: “Well I don’t know anything about wine; wasn’t that the same as the first one they served?”

Professor Fell looked scandalized. He launched into a lengthy and detailed explanation of the subtle, yet crucial, differences between the two wines. He expounded on the nuances of the grape varietals, the intricacies of the winemaking process, and the resulting variations in flavor profiles. It was all spoken with an almost pedantic enthusiasm.

After the fifth wine, Newt's head had started to wobble precariously. By the sixth, his eyelids were drooping, his blinks growing ever slower. Anathema, noticing his valiant—but ultimately failing—struggle to stay alert, knew she had to act before her boyfriend succumbed to the combined effects of the wine and the late hour.

Gently, she placed a hand on his arm. "I think it's time we get you home."

Newt nodded, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. "Yeah, I think you're right.”

Turning to the professors, Anathema offered a warm smile. "Thank you both for coming. It was a lovely evening."

Professor Fell looked concerned but nodded in understanding. "It was a pleasure, my dear. Take care."

Crowley, still leaning back in his chair, gave a small nod. "Get him some water and rest."

With that, Anathema helped Newt to his feet, his movement resembling that of a newborn giraffe taking its first steps. Anathema herself felt a pleasant lightness in her head, a heady mix of the wine and the intriguing new dynamics she had witnessed. Her mind replayed the first scene: Crowley’s sharp, almost wounded reaction to Fell’s comments, the way he’d bristled at the mention of his skirt as if it were a raw nerve, Crowley snapping at Fell when he claimed he knew him. What was all that about?  

As they walked home, the cool night air doing little to dispel the fog in her brain, her mind buzzed with possibilities and unanswered questions. The parts of the puzzle were scattered before her, tantalizingly close to forming a coherent picture, yet just out of reach, missing pieces in the middle, and a few border ones as well. It was only when she was tucking Newt into his bed, his gentle snores instantly filling the room, that her addled brain caught up with a startling realization: she left them in the bar! Alone! Together!

"My point is... dolphins. That's my point," Aziraphale hiccuped, his words slurring slightly.

They were on their tenth glass of wine, or perhaps it was the eleventh. By now, the bar was nearly empty, the few remaining patrons huddled in quiet corners. The dim lighting casted a warm glow, creating a cozy atmosphere. Crowley's usual carefully constructed walls were crumbling under the influence of the wine, and he found himself admiring the rosy blush spreading across Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“Come on, Angel, you're drunk. Let's get you home,” Crowley sighed.

Aziraphale blinked owlishly at Crowley, his usually sharp gaze softened by the wine. “But… dolphins,” He insisted, as if the very word explained everything. He paused, struggling to articulate his profound, wine-fueled insight. “They have… big brains!” He beamed at Crowley, as if having delivered a devastatingly brilliant argument.

Crowley chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Right. Now, up you go.” He tugged gently on Aziraphale’s hand, pulling him to his feet.

He helped Aziraphale to his feet. While he signalled to a waiter and paid their bill, Aziraphale pouted and leaned heavily against him. “You don't know where I live,” Aziraphale protested, his tone petulant like a ten year old throwing a tantrum.

“Of course I fucking know where you live,” Crowley scoffed, too drunk himself to resist leaning into the contact.

“I could have moved out. Changed places,” Aziraphale insisted, stubborn as always, even in his drunken state.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “No, you couldn’t. Too many books to move.”

He guided them through the quiet streets, their steps slow and unsteady. Despite it having been ten years since he last saw it, Aziraphale’s door remained achingly familiar. “See? Told you I knew where you lived.”

“I suppose you did.” Aziraphale managed a small smile. 

Waiting until Aziraphale was inside, the click of the lock a violently sharp sound in the quiet night. Only then did he turn, beginning the long walk back to his own modern, open-concept flat, a stark contrast to the warm, antique book-filled world he had just left behind.

Chapter Text

On the following Monday morning, the plants in Dr. Crowley’s office were particularly verdant. Anathema was sitting across from him, notes sprawled out in front of her, as they discussed her dissertation for what feels like the billionth time. 

However, her true purpose for the visit was to uncover what had happened at the bar after she'd left with Newt. Determined to extract any information—however small—she seized the first opportunity to question one of the professors until she found out something, anything really! 

Had they stayed long? What had they talked about? The image of Professor Fell, usually so reserved, complimenting Crowley’s skirt with an almost flustered air kept replaying in her mind. Could the literature professor have been flirting? The idea was both intriguing and slightly absurd.

Her pen felt clumsy in her hand. She fidgeted with it, trying to gather the courage to broach the topic. She was struggling to follow the academic discussion. Crowley's insightful feedback, usually a source of fascination, was now a difficult thread to follow. Her curiosity coiled around her thoughts like a vine cutting off oxygen from her brain. Finally, she took a deep breath and decided to take the plunge. "Professor Fell said you and him were old acquaintances."

Crowley looked up from her notes, a slow, almost feline smile spreading across his lips. "Is that what he says?"

"...Yes,” The unfamiliar look on his face making her hesitate. “…and since you're both the same age and probably know each other for a long time, there's something I've wanted to ask." She paused, waiting for him to confirm or deny her statement.

Nothing. Not a nod, or a change of expression, not a single word or even one of his famous consonants. The silence stretched uncomfortably as the professor remained frozen, that strange, predatory smile fixed on his lips, eyebrows raised as if daring her to continue.

"There was something another student told me, a while back— a rumor really— that I dismissed at the time. You know how us kids can be." She tried to aim for a joke, a nervous laugh escaping her. 

She’d only remembered the rumor that morning. It was told to her during her first week of college, and there was a lot of chatter, older students spinning tall tales to test the gullibility of freshmen. The boy who’d told her was trying to turn her against Professor Fell, whom she’d already decided she liked, even with his odd style— because of his odd style! 

She’d never seen either professor display any romantic interest, towards anyone, let alone each other but after Saturday night, it was clear Professor Fell had at least attempted to flirt with Crowley. However, the botany professor had dismissed it. It was only after all that she remembered the odd statement from that annoying student. So much of what she’d heard that first semester was false; she didn’t know what to believe. But with the way they had acted that night, maybe the other student had a point.

Anathema breathed in and out to make her voice steady. "Did you know that there are rumors that he was once married?"

Crowley leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Are there rumors?" He drawled, the question laced with a playful challenge.

"Yes." She pressed, her gaze unwavering. "I heard he was married once, and that he loved his husband deeply, but the marriage ended badly. Some say it made him bitter, others that he was already bitter and the divorce just deepened it." Curiosity and nervousness led to rambling. She watched him closely, searching for any flicker of recognition in his expression. “It’s just a rumor though. I never really believed it. Always thought it was fabricated by people who didn’t like him, or the subject. It could all be falsehoods.” She still couldn’t bring herself to directly ask about the bar or their shared history. There was something between them. A disagreement, yet also a clear intimacy. They knew each other, whether they hated it or not.

"Hm. Never heard of such a thing." Crowley said, a touch too nonchalantly. He might not frequent the literature department, but as a professor, he clearly knew Fell and had spoken of Gabriel with familiarity. Fell even knew his wine preferences. He’d have to be oblivious to have never heard of this rumor. Or a flat out liar. 

"He sometimes talked like he had known great love once," Anathema pressed on, recalling her earlier conversation with the literature professor when she was starting to date Newt.

Crowley shrugged. "Hard to believe any of it."

But now she’d seen something in his eyes! A brief flash of…what? It was gone as quickly as it had appeared. It was as if his emotions had been washed away in the night tide. Proud of herself for finally making a breach in his strangely composed façade, she pressed on. "You don't believe in love." She watched him intently, searching for the slightest flinch. It was meant to be a question, but it sounded more like an accusation.

"I don't believe that love is the difficult part about a relationship," Crowley responded cryptically, his eyes holding hers, now with a knowing glint that sent a wave of frustration through Anathema. He knew. He knew she was probing, searching for cracks in his carefully constructed wall, and he was deliberately deflecting. He was toying with her, and she hated it. He saw through her, twisted her curiosity into a game, held all the cards. He wasn’t giving her anything, just watching, enjoying her discomfort. 

And what was even more infuriating was that his cryptic sentence seemed genuine. It was that whole “sometimes, we have to make difficult choices” all over again! 

"Are you not going to give me a straight answer today?" Anathema forced a laugh with a dash of frustration.

Professor Crowley winked. "Nothing straight about me, Anathema. You should have realized that by now."

Anathema glared at the botany professor. It was a familiar tactic, one she'd seen him use before. She knew her position as student didn't give her the right to demand he share something personal, but that didn't lessen the pull of her curiosity.

"Now, let's get back to your dissertation, shall we?" Crowley adopted a stern, almost comically formal, tone and posture.

Anathema forced herself to focus, pushing the questions about him and Professor Fell to the back of her mind. He wouldn’t budge. For now, at least, she had to play along and engage with the discussion, pretending like nothing happened. But even as she discussed the various methods of witch trials and executions—the gruesome specifics of the ducking stool, the chilling efficiency of the burning pyre—her thoughts kept drifting back to their conversation. 

It was a strange way of thinking, that love itself wasn't difficult, suggesting that there were other aspects that were. And yet, she understood him, perhaps too well. 

Crowley watched Anathema return to her notes. He'd usually enjoyed their little dance, the subtle probing and him being, quite frankly, a bit of a brat. He knew she was curious, and he knew she wouldn't give up easily. But her questions touched a raw nerve. He didn't want to discuss Aziraphale, for fuck's sake! It was hard enough that she had managed to entangle them again, forcing them into each other's presence. There was no reason to talk about the past; so much has changed since then. 

After Anathema left, Crowley slammed the door shut, the bang a minor release for his building frustration. He muttered a string of curses under his breath. His shoulders slumped. He felt the weight of the week already pressing down on him. It wasn't even noon on a Monday, and he was ready to collapse, to sleep for a month and forget everything. 

The hours crawled by, each tick of the clock a torment, another grain of salt on an open wound. When a knock echoed through the room, he flinched in surprise, then deliberately ignored it. Whichever student it was could wait. He didn't care who was on the other side. He wasn't in the mood. 

He closed his eyes, willing it to stop. Seconds later, another knock came, followed by a familiar voice—soft yet insistent—pleading through the door: "Crowley, I know you're in there."

Crowley froze. 

Speaking of the devil…or rather, the Angel.

On the other side of the door, Aziraphale stood, ramrod straight, his form even more upright than usual, as if he was conducting a formal inspection. "Crowley," Aziraphale repeated, his voice strained, yet determined.

With a reluctant sigh, Crowley fully opened the door. "What do you want, Aziraphale?"

“I want to…to thank you.” It seemed the words were hard for him to say. 

Crowley remembered well that for someone so steeped in rigid formality, expressions of gratitude were a rare and arduous undertaking, not to mention apologizing. He didn’t know what he was thanking him for. And quite frankly, he didn’t want to, for fear that he would stop. 

"The other night, you… looked after me… and ensured I made it home safely." Then, he started talking fast like he did when he was nervous, explaining everything in a rush. "You could've walked away. If you truly hated me as you like to paint it."

"Nah." Crowley tried for a dismissive tone. But he knew the word was laced with weariness. Hate him? He couldn't. Not Aziraphale. Not after everything. He avoided him for years, yes, but it was not hatred, it was self-preservation. He couldn’t hate Aziraphale. He was Aziraphale . He would always act in his own peculiar, Aziraphale-like manner. And he would always be annoyed with Crowley for not following the unspoken and unshared rules that existed inside his head and his head only.

Crowley found it easier to pretend indifference, to accept the simple truth: sometimes, things just don't work, people just don’t work, that’s all there is. And yet, he heard himself continuing, explaining, even needling at Aziraphale's infuriatingly unbendable adherence to his own rules. "That’s the trouble with you. You tend to see things black and white. Sometimes, you just gotta… blur the edges." 

It was all a long time ago, a time when things between them mattered, things that held no weight now. He was tired of everything, of dredging up the past with Anathema and then now with Aziraphale, and he was utterly bewildered by the memory of the night in the bar. For a fleeting moment, it had been like nothing had ever gone wrong, like it was just the two of them again. The two of them against the world.

They looked at each other for a moment, realizing it was the second time in less than a week that they were alone after years apart. Suddenly feeling trapped, Crowley cleared his throat. "Right. Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got… things.” He gestured vaguely towards the desk behind him.

Aziraphale gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Of course.” He turned to walk away, probably to return to his part of the campus, off to the land of the righteous literature professors. The greater doings of Tadifield University.

A strange tightness gripped Crowley's chest as he watched him go. He hesitated, a sudden, inexplicable urge to call him back, to bridge the years of silence. A thousand unspoken things battled for release, but he clenched his jaw tight and forced himself to turn back to his desk.

Trying to make himself useful, he attempted to read his emails, but they all blurred before his eyes, words scanned but devoid of meaning. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, the office's silence a suffocating weight. Restless, agitated—he felt like a caged animal.

Impulsively, he stood, snatching his sunglasses and Bentley keys. The chaos within him, a swirling vortex, made the organized space of his office seem almost alien. Fuck the classes he had later that day, and fuck the man who made him feel this way.

The Bentley surged through the city streets, the engine's thunder a symphony against the music blasting from the speakers. He couldn't even recall the song, only the reflexive skip whenever Freddie Mercury spoke of love. He leaned into the speed. Wind whipped through the open windows, a raw, exhilarating force. Paradoxically, the chaos of speed and sound brought a surprising calm, the feeling of this powerful machine under his firm control.

Yet, the route couldn't help but echo the night before, when he'd walked Aziraphale to his door, then made the return journey alone.

They didn't live far from one another, of course; they both worked at the same university. But Crowley had chosen a neighbourhood of sleek, modern buildings, tall glass and concrete monoliths. Solid, minimalist buildings with open-plan flats. It was a stark contrast to the quiet tree-lined street with the warm glow windows and small cozy houses he left behind.

The choice was deliberate: away from the quaint charm of Aziraphale's street. Stark lines, impersonal architecture, and the feeling of being in a safe made out of concrete. Physical reminders that he was building himself a new life.

Crowley liked his life. It was a solitary life, yes, but he'd chosen it to be that way, and it was exactly how he preferred it.

He liked his sleek, modern, open-concept flat. The décor—with its clean lines and dark tones accented by silver details—was his sanctuary of order and simplicity. He liked the large, comfortable sofa and the tall windows that provided a gray-toned skylight view.

He liked his collections of plants. Each one carefully chosen for its unique character, thriving under his meticulous care. The verdant greenery he yells daily to, forces them to grow better and sometimes pour his soul to. They stick out like a sore thumb in the gray, but so does he. And he likes it best that way.

He liked his nights at home, rewatching The Golden Girls . Each episode was like a cozy blanket, wrapping him in nostalgia and comfort as he let his mind relax after an eventful day.

He liked his job, sharing his knowledge in the classroom every day and inspiring students to delve in the beautiful nature of the world. He liked mentoring the younglings. Their vibrant energy and questioning minds were infectious, and he delighted in guiding them through their academic years. Watching them grow, overcome challenges, and achieve their goals.

He liked living for himself, dressing for himself, and not caring what people thought about him, about the way he presented, or the way he took off his shoes when he got home.

This was a sanctuary he had built, a life that followed his rules only.

He who once constantly clamored for attention and validation now found solace in the shadows of his own making. There was a freedom in not seeking the approval of others, in being true to his own desires and interests. His solitary lifestyle allowed him to cultivate a deep understanding of himself, to explore his passions without having to compromise. He savored the quiet moments of introspection, the serene hum of his own thoughts.

Solitude was not a cage, but a refuge. It wasn't a barren wasteland, but a fertile garden where he could cultivate his own unique plants. It was a choice that allowed him to live authentically. It provided him with the space to grow, to think, and to simply be. It was his, entirely and unapologetically.